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 las cosas-
lunes, 21 de marzo de 2005
Oda a las cosas

Amo las cosas loca,
locamente.
Me gustan las tenazas,
las tijeras,
adoro
las tazas,
las argollas,
las soperas,
sin hablar, por supuesto,
del sombrero.
Amo
todas las cosas,
no sólo
las supremas,
sino
las
infinitamente
chicas,
el dedal,
las espuelas,
los platos,
los floreros.
Ay, alma mía,
hermoso
es el planeta,
lleno
de pipas
por la mano
conducidas
en el humo,
de llaves,
de saleros,
en fin,
todo
lo que se hizo
por la mano del hombre, toda cosa:
las curvas del zapato,
el tejido,
el nuevo nacimiento
del oro
sin la sangre,
los anteojos,
los clavos,
las escobas,
los relojes, las brújulas,
las monedas, la suave
suavidad de las sillas.
Ay cuántas
cosas
puras
ha construido
el hombre:
de lana,
de madera,
de cristal,
de cordeles,
mesas
maravillosas,
navíos, escaleras.
Amo
todas
las cosas,
no porque sean
ardientes
o fragantes,
sino porque
no sé,
porque
este océano es el tuyo,
es el mío:
los botones,
las ruedas,
los pequeños
tesoros
olvidados,
los abanicos en
cuyos plumajes
desvaneció el amor
sus azahares,
las copas, los cuchillos,
las tijeras,
todo tiene
en el mango, en el contorno,
la huella
de unos dedos,
de una remota mano
perdida
en lo más olvidado del olvido.
Yo voy por casas,
calles,
ascensores,
tocando cosas,
divisando objetos
que en secreto ambiciono:
uno porque repica,
otro porque
es tan suave
como la suavidad de una cadera,
otro por su color de agua profunda,
otro por su espesor de terciopelo.
Oh río
irrevocable
de las cosas,
no se dirá
que sólo
amé
los peces,
o las plantas de selva y de pradera,
que no sólo
amé
lo que salta, sube, sobrevive, suspira.
No es verdad:
muchas cosas
me lo dijeron todo.
No sólo me tocaron
o las tocó mi mano,
sino que acompañaron
de tal modo
mi existencia
que conmigo existieron
y fueron para mí tan existentes
que vivieron conmigo media vida
y morirán conmigo media muerte.


Ode to things

I have a crazy,
crazy love of things.
I like pliers,
and scissors.
I love
cups,
rings,
and bowls –
not to speak, or course,
of hats.
I love
all things,
not just
the grandest,
also
the
infinite-
ly
small –
thimbles,
spurs,
plates,
and flower vases.

Oh yes,
the planet
is sublime!
It’s full of pipes
weaving
hand-held
through tobacco smoke,
and keys
and salt shakers –
everything,
I mean,
that is made
by the hand of man, every little thing:
shapely shoes,
and fabric,
and each new
bloodless birth
of gold,
eyeglasses
carpenter’s nails,
brushes,
clocks, compasses,
coins, and the so-soft
softness of chairs.

Mankind has
built
oh so many
perfect
things!
Built them of wool
and of wood,
of glass and
of rope:
remarkable
tables,
ships, and stairways.

I love
all
things,
not because they are
passionate
or sweet-smelling
but because,
I don’t know,
because
this ocean is yours,
and mine;
these buttons
and wheels
and little
forgotten
treasures,
fans upon
whose feathers
love has scattered
its blossoms,
glasses, knives and
scissors –
all bear
the trace
of someone’s fingers
on their handle or surface,
the trace of a distant hand
lost
in the depths of forgetfulness.

I pause in houses,
streets and
elevators
touching things,
identifying objects
that I secretly covet;
this one because it rings,
that one because
it’s as soft
as the softness of a woman’s hip,
that one there for its deep-sea color,
and that one for its velvet feel.

O irrevocable
river
of things:
no one can say
that I loved
only
fish,
or the plants of the jungle and the field,
that I loved
only
those things that leap and climb, desire, and survive.
It’s not true:
many things conspired
to tell me the whole story.
Not only did they touch me,
or my hand touched them:
they were
so close
that they were a part
of my being,
they were so alive with me
that they lived half my life
and will die half my death.

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 21:55  
1 Comments:
  • At 23 de mayo de 2007, 21:18, Blogger Bishop said…

    Ode to things

    I love things with a wild passion,
    extravagantly.
    I cherish tongs,
    and scissors;
    I adore
    cups,
    hoops,
    soup tureens,
    not to mention
    of course — the hat.
    I love
    all things,
    not only the
    grand,
    but also
    the infinite-
    ly
    small:
    the thimble,
    spurs,
    dishes,
    vases.

    Oh, my soul,
    the planet
    is radiant,
    teeming with
    of pipes
    in hand,
    conductors
    of smoke;
    with keys,
    salt shakers and
    well,
    things crafted
    by the human hand, everything —
    the curves of a shoe,
    fabric,
    the new bloodless
    birth
    of gold,
    the eyeglasses,
    nails,
    brooms,
    watches, compasses,
    coins, the silken
    plushness of chairs.

    Oh
    humans
    have constructed
    a multitude of pure things:
    objects of wood,
    crystal
    cord,
    wondrous
    tables,
    ships, staircases.

    I love
    all
    things,
    not because they
    might be warm
    or fragrant,
    but rather because —
    I don't know why,
    because
    this ocean is yours,
    and mine:
    the buttons,
    the wheels,
    the little
    forgotten
    treasures,
    the fans
    of feathery
    love spreading
    orange blossoms,
    the cups, the knives,
    the shears,
    everything rests
    in the handle, the contour,
    the traces
    of fingers,
    of a remote hand
    lost
    in the most forgotten regions of the ordinary obscured.

    I pass through houses,
    streets,
    elevators,
    touching things;
    I glimpse objects
    and secretly desire
    something because it chimes,
    and something else because
    because it is as yielding
    as gentle hips,
    something else I adore for its deepwater hue,
    something else for its velvety depths.

    Oh irrevocable
    river
    of things.
    People will not
    say that I only
    loved
    fish
    or plants of the rainforest or meadow,
    that I only
    loved
    things that leap, rise, sigh and survive.
    It is not true:
    many things gave me completeness.
    They did not only touch me
    My hand did not merely touch them,
    but rather,
    they befriended
    my existence
    in such a way
    that with me, they indeed existed,
    and they were for me so full of life,
    that they lived with me half-alive,
    and they will die with me half-dead.

    Translated by Maria Jacketti

     
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