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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 |
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| Pablo Neruda -Soneto IV- |
| domingo, 10 de abril de 2005 |
Soneto IV
Recordarás aquella quebrada caprichosa
a donde los aromas palpitantes treparon,
de cuando en cuando un pájaro vestido
con agua y lentitud: traje de invierno.
Recordarás los dones de la tierra:
irascible fragancia, barro de oro,
hierbas del matorral, locas raíces,
sortílegas espinas como espadas.
Recordarás el ramo que trajiste,
ramo de sombra y agua con silencio,
ramo como una piedra con espuma.
Y aquella vez fue como nunca y siempre:
vamos allí donde no espera nada
y hallamos todo lo que está esperando.
Sonnet 4
You will recall that whimsical gorge
where pulsating aromas climbed up,
an occasional bird cloaked in water
and slowness: its winter feathers.
You will recall those gifts from the earth;
irascible scents, earth made of gold,
weeds in the thicket and mad roots,
sorcerous sword-like thorns.
You will recall the bough you brought,
a bough of shadows and silent water,
a bough like a foam-covered stone.
That time was like never, and like always.
We go there, where nothing waits
and we find everything it is waiting for.Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda |
posted by Bishop @ 1:04  |
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| 2 Comments: |
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You will remember that leaping stream
where sweet aromas rose and trembled,
and sometimes a bird, wearing water
and slowness, its winter feathers.
You will remember those gifts from the earth:
indelible scents, gold clay,
weeds in the thicket and crazy roots,
magical thorns like swords.
You'll remember the bouquet you picked,
shadows and silent water,
bouquet like a foam-covered stone.
That time was like never, and like always.
So we go there, where nothing is waiting;
we find everything waiting there.
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You will recall the gorge of capricious waters
from which throbbing perfumes climbed,
and a bird, from time to time, clothed
with liquid slowness: winter plumage.
You will recall the gifts of the earth:
hot scents, clay of gold,
scrub grasses, mad roots,
bewitched thorns like swords.
You will recall the branch you bore,
branch of shadow and water of silence
branch like a stone of spume.
And that time was as never and always:
we go there where nothing does not await us,
and find all that is waiting there.
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You will remember that leaping stream
where sweet aromas rose and trembled,
and sometimes a bird, wearing water
and slowness, its winter feathers.
You will remember those gifts from the earth:
indelible scents, gold clay,
weeds in the thicket and crazy roots,
magical thorns like swords.
You'll remember the bouquet you picked,
shadows and silent water,
bouquet like a foam-covered stone.
That time was like never, and like always.
So we go there, where nothing is waiting;
we find everything waiting there.