Spanish Poems





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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 -Walking around-
miércoles, 16 de febrero de 2005
Walking around

Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
Navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.

El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.

Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.

Sin Embargo seía delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería bello
ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío

No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tapias mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.

No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos
ateridos, muriéndome de pena.

Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.

Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapatería con olor a vinagre,
a calles espantosas como grietas...


Walking around

Comes a time I’m tired of being a man.
Comes a time I check out the tailor’s or the movies
shriveled, impenetrable, like a felt swan
wafted on waters of origin and ashes.

A whiff from the pubs has me sobbing my eyes out.
All I want is a break from rocks and wool,
all I want is to see neither buildings nor gardens,
no shopping centers no glasses no elevators.

Comes a time I’m tired of my feet and my fingernails
and my hair and my shadow.
Comes a time I’m tired of being a man.

Yet how delicious it would be
to shock a notary with a cut lily
or to kill off a nun with a blow to the ear.
How beautiful
to run through the streets with a green knife,
howling until I died of cold.

I don’t want to go on like a root in the shadows,
hesitating, pushing forward, trembling with dream,
down down into the dipped tripe of the earth,
soaking it up and thinking, eating every day.

I don’t want for myself so many misfortunes.
I don’t want to keep on as root and tomb,
alone, subterranean, in a vault stuffed with corpses,
frozen stiff, dying of grief.

That’s why Monday burns like kerosene
when it sees me show up with my mugshot face,
and it shrieks on its way like a wounded wheel,
trailing hot bloody footprints into the night.

And it shoves me into certain corners, certain damp houses,
into hospitals where bones sail out the window,
into certain shoestores reeking of vinegar,
into streets godawful as crevices.

There are brimstone-colored birds and horrible intestines
adorning the doors of houses I hate,
there are dentures dropped into a coffeepot,
mirrors
that must have bawled with shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, poisons and belly buttons.

I pass by with serenity, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury and forgetting,
I go cruising the offices and orthopedic stores,
and patios where clothes hang from a wire
where underwear, towels and blouses cry
drawn out, obscene tears.

Translated by Forrest Gander

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 18:30  
3 Comments:
  • At 14 de mayo de 2007, 21:44, Blogger Bishop said…

    Walking Around
    It so happens I'm tired of just being a man.
    I go to a movie, drop in at the tailor's--it so happens--
    feeling wizened and numbed, like a big, wooly swan,
    awash on an ocean of clinkers and causes.
    A whiff from a barbershop does it; I yell bloody murder.
    All I ask is a little vacation from things: from boulders and woolens,
    from gardens, institutional projects, merchandise,
    eyeglasses, elevators--I'd rather not look at them.
    It so happens I'm fed up--with my feet and my fingernails
    and my hair and my shadow.
    Being a man leaves me cold: that's how it is.
    Still--it would be lovely
    to wave a cut lily and panic a notary,
    or finish a nun with a left to the ear.
    It would be nice
    just to walk down the street with a green switchblade handy,
    whooping it up till I die of the shivers.
    I won't live like this--like a root in a shadow,
    wide-open and wondering, teeth chattering sleepily,
    going down to the dripping entrails of the universe
    absorbing things, talking things in, eating three squares a day.
    I've had all I'll take from catastrophe.
    I won't have it this way, muddling through like a root or a grave,
    all alone underground, in a morgue of cadavers,
    cold as a stiff, dying of misery.
    That's why Monday flares up like an oil-slick,
    when it sees me up close, with the face of a jailbird,
    or squeaks like a broken-down wheel as it goes,
    stepping hot-blooded into the night.
    Something shoves me toward certain damp houses, into certain dark corners,
    into hospitals, with bones flying out of the windows;
    into shoe stores and shoemakers smelling of vinegar,
    streets frightful as fissures laid open.
    There, trussed to the doors of the houses I loathe
    are the sulphurous birds, in a horror of tripes,
    dental plates lost in a coffeepot,
    mirrors
    that must surely have wept with the nightmare and shame of it all;
    and everywhere, poisons, umbrellas, and belly buttons.
    I stroll unabashed, in my eyes and my shoes
    and my rage and oblivion.
    I go on, crossing offices, retail orthopedics,
    courtyards with laundry hung out on a wire;
    the blouses and towels and the drawers newly washed,
    slowly dribbling a slovenly tear.

    Translated Ben Belitt

     
  • At 14 de mayo de 2007, 21:46, Blogger Bishop said…

    Walking Around

    It so happens I am sick of being a man.
    And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
    dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
    steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
    The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
    The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
    The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
    no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
    It so happens I am sick of my feet and my nails
    and my hair and my shadow.
    It so happens I am sick of being a man.
    Still it would be marvelous
    to terrify a law clerk with a cut lilly,
    or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
    It would be great
    to go through the streets with a green knife
    letting out yells until I died of the cold.
    I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
    insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
    going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
    taking in and thinking, eating every day.
    I don't want so much misery.
    I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
    alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
    half frozen, dying of grief.
    That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
    with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
    and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
    and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
    And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
    into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
    into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
    and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
    There are sulpher-colored birds, and hideous intestines
    hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
    and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
    there are mirrors
    that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
    there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.
    I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
    my rage, forgetting everything,
    I walk by, going through the office buildings and orthopedic shops,
    and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
    underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
    dirty tears are falling.

    Translated by Robert Bly

     
  • At 14 de mayo de 2007, 21:47, Blogger Bishop said…

    Walking Around

    It happens that I am tired of being a man.
    It happens that I go into the tailor's shops and the movies
    all shrivelled up, impenetrable, like a felt swan
    navigating on a water of origin and ash.
    The smell of barber shops makes me sob out loud.
    I want nothing but the repose either of stone or of wool.
    I want to see no more establishments, no more gardens,
    nor merchandise, nor glasses, nor elevators.
    It happens that I am tired of my feet and my nails
    and my hair and my shadow.
    It happens that I am tired of being a man.
    Just the same it would be delicious
    to scare a notary with a cut lily
    or knock a nun stone dead with one blow of an ear.
    It would be beautiful
    to go through the streets with a green knife
    shouting until I died of cold.
    I do not want to go on being a root in the dark,
    hesitating, stretched out, shivering with dreams,
    downwards, in the wet tripe of the earth,
    soaking it up and thinking, eating every day.
    I do not want to be the inheritor of so many misfortunes.
    I do not want to continue as a root and as a tomb,
    as a solitary tunnel, as a cellar full of corpses,
    stiff with cold, dying with pain.
    For this reason Monday burns like oil
    at the sight of me arriving with my jail-face,
    and it howls in passing like a wounded wheel,
    and its footsteps towards nightfall are filled with hot blood.
    And it shoves me along to certain corners, to certain damp houses,
    to hospitals where the bones come out of the windows,
    to certain cobbler's shops smelling of vinegar,
    to streets horrendous as crevices.
    There are birds the colour of sulphur, and horrible intestines
    hanging from the doors of the houses which I hate,
    there are forgotten sets of teeth in a coffee-pot,
    there are mirrors
    which should have wept with shame and horror,
    there are umbrellas all over the place, and poisons, and navels.
    I stride along with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
    with fury, with forgetfuless,
    I pass, I cross offices and stores full of orthopedic appliances,
    and courtyards hung with clothes on wires,
    underpants, towels and shirts which weep
    slow dirty tears.

    Translated by W.S. Merwin

     
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