Spanish Poems





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About this blog
Poemas en Inglés es un blog que pretende acercar poemas de lengua inglesa al castellano
Sentences
"Por principio, toda traducción es buena. En cualquier caso, pasa con ellas lo que con las mujeres: de alguna manera son necesarias, aunque no todas son perfectas"

Augusto Monterroso

-La palabra mágica-

"Es imposible traducir la poesía. ¿Acaso se puede traducir la música?"

Voltaire

"Translating poetry is like making jewelry. Every word counts, and each sparkles with so many facets. Translating prose is like sculpting: get the shape and the lines right, then polish the seams later."

James Nolan

"La traducción destroza el espí­ritu del idioma"

Federico García Lorca
Pablo Neruda -Oda a la papa-
lunes, 21 de marzo de 2005
Oda a la papa

Papa
te llamas
papa
y no patata,
no naciste castellana:
eres oscura
como
nuestra piel,
somos americanos,
papa,
somos indios.

Profunda
y suave eres,
pulpa pura, purísima
rosa blanca
enterrada,
floreces
allá adentro
en la tierra,
en tu lluviosa
tierra
originaria,
en las islas mojadas
de Chile tempestuoso,
en Chiloé marino,
en medio de la esmeralda que abre
su luz verde
sobre el austral océano.

Papa,
materia
dulce,
almendra
de la tierra,
la madre
allí
no tuvo
metal muerto,
allí en la oscura
suavidad de las islas
no dispuso
el cobre y sus volcanes
sumergidos,
ni la crueldad azul
del manganeso,
sino que son su mano,
como en un nido
en la humedad más suave,
colocó tus redomas,
y cuando
el trueno
de la guerra
negra,
España
inquisidora,
negra como águila de sepultura,
buscó el oro salvaje
en la matriz
quemante de la araucanía,
sus uñas
codiciosas
fueron exterminadas,
sus capitanes
muertos,
pero cuando a las piedras de Castilla
regresaron
los pobres capitanes derrotados
levantaron en las manos sangrientas
no una copa de oro,
sino la papa
de Chiloé marino.

Honrada eres
como
una mano
que trabaja en la tierra,
familiar
eres
como
una gallina,
compacta como un queso
que la tierra elabora
en sus ubres
nutricias,
enemiga del hambre,
en todas las naciones
se enterró su bandera
vencedora
y pronto allí,
en el frío o en la costa
quemada,
apareció
tu flor
anónima
enunciando la espesa
y suave
natalidad de tus raíces.

Universal delicia,
no esperabas
mi canto,
porque eres sorda
y ciega
y enterrada.
Apenas
si hablas en el infierno
del aceite
o cantas
en las freiduras
de los puertos,
cerca de las guitarras,
silenciosa,
harina de la noche
subterránea,
tesoro interminable
de los pueblos.


Ode to the potato

Potato,
you are called
potayto,
not potahto;
you were not born with a beard,
you are not Castillian.
You are dark
like
our skin;
we are Americans,
potato,
we are Indians.

You are
gentle and profound,
pure pulp, a pure
buried
white rose;
you flower there inside
the earth,
are showered by
original
earth
of wet islands,
by tempestuous Chile,
by the Chilean sea,
an emerald that pours
its green light
out upon the austral ocean.

Potato,
sweet
matter,
almond
of the earth,
the sediment
there
does not possess
dead metals;
there, in the obscure
softness of the islands,
no one fights for
copper and its submerged
volcanoes,
or the blue cruelty
of magnesium.
Hands planted you
in the moist ground
as though stocking a nest.
And when
the thunder
of that evil
war,
the Spanish
conquest,
black as an eagle of the grave,
sought savage gold
in the burning
matrix
of the Araucanias,
its greedy
ones
were exterminated,
its leaders
died,
and when
the poor ruined captains
returned
to stony Castile
in their hands they raised
not a golden goblet
but a potato
from the Chilean sea.

You are honorable
like
hands
that till the soil,
like
a hen
you're a member of the family,
are compact as a cheese
that the earth pours out
from its nourishing
udders;
enemy of hunger,
in all
nations
you've planted
your victorious and ready
banner,
in frozen land or in the ground
of burning coastlines
your anonymous flower
has appeared,
announcing the thick
and steady
birth rate of your roots.

Universal delight,
you don't await
my song,
for you are deaf
and blind
and buried.
Cooked in an inferno
of oil
you scarcely speak,
nor do you sing
in the fried-fish shops
of the harbours;
when close to the guitars
you are silent, potato,
meal of the subterranean
night,
interminable treasure-trove
of the people.

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 22:50  
1 Comments:
  • At 23 de mayo de 2007, 21:05, Blogger Bishop said…

    Ode to the Spud

    Spud
    is your name,
    and not Potato.
    You were not born with a beard.
    You are not Castilian.
    You are dark
    like our skin.
    We are Americans,
    spud,
    we are Indians.
    You are deep
    and tender,
    pure pulp, the purest
    subterranean
    white rose.
    You flourish
    there, within
    the Earth,
    in the rain-rich soil
    of your origins,
    on dewy Chilean
    isles, in tempests,
    on maritime Chiloe
    at the center of an emerald,
    extending
    its green glow
    over the southern ocean.

    Spud,
    sweet
    matter,
    dusty
    almond,
    the mother
    beyond
    did not cradle
    dead metal.
    There in the dark,
    insular softness,
    she did not prepare
    copper and submerged
    volcanoes,
    or the blue severity
    of manganese,
    but rather, with her hand,
    as though in a nest,
    in the most tender wetness,
    she deposited your balloons,
    and when
    the thunder
    of the black
    war,
    inquisitor
    Spain,
    black like a sepulchral eagle,
    searched for the wild gold
    in the fiery
    womb
    of the Araucanian,
    their greedy
    fingernails
    were poisoned,
    their captains
    killed,
    and when they returned
    to the rocks of Castile,
    the poorest defeated captains,
    raised in their bloody hands,
    not a golden chalice,
    but a spud from
    the shores of Chiloe.

    You are honored
    like
    hands
    working the soil,
    you are
    familiar
    like a hen,
    compact as a cheese
    manufactured by the Earth
    within her nourishing udders,
    hunger's enemy
    in all nations,
    your victorious flag
    is buried,
    and quickly there
    in the cold or on the
    burning coast,
    your anonymous
    flower
    appears,
    announcing the thick
    and soft nativity
    of your roots.

    Universal delight,
    you did not await
    my song because you are deaf
    and blind
    and buried.
    If you talk,
    then it is only a little
    in oil's inferno,
    or if you sing,
    it is in the ports
    where fish fry,
    close to guitars,
    oh silent one,
    flour
    of the underground
    night,
    the people's
    never-ending treasure.

    Translated by Maria Jacketti

     
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