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Poemas en Inglés es un blog que pretende acercar poemas de lengua inglesa al castellano |
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"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 -Abejas- |
viernes, 27 de mayo de 2005 |
Abejas
Que voy a hacerle, yo nací cuando habían muerto los dioses y mi insufrible juventud siguió buscando entre las grietas: ese fué mi oficio y por eso me sentí tan abandonado.
Una abeja más una abeja no suman dos abejas claras ni dos abejas oscuras: suman un sistema de sol, una habitación de topacio, una caricia peligrosa.
La primera inquietud del ambar son dos abejas amarillas y atado a las mismas abejas trabaja el sol de cada día: me da rabia enseñarles tanto de mis ridículos secretos.
Me van a seguir preguntando mis relaciones con los gatos, cómo descubrí el arco iris, por qué se vistieron de erizos las beneméritas castañas, y sobre todo que les diga lo que piensan de mí los sapos, los animales escondidos bajo la fragancia del bosque y en las pústulas del cemento.
Es la verdad que entre los sabios he sido el único ignorante y entre los que menos sabían yo siempre supe un poco menos y fué tan poco mi saber que aprendí la sabiduría.
Bees
What could I do? I was born when the gods had all died, and my incorrigible childhood was spent looking between all the crevices: that was my function: that's why I'm left out of it now.
One bee plus one bee does not make two light bees or two dark bees: they make up a cycle of sun, a mansion of topaz, a hazardous touching of hands.
The initial disturbance in amber requires two yellow bees: around them the quotidian sun toils in its orbit: I'm wild to explain my ridiculous secrets.
But they keep after me with their questions: what are my relations with cats, how I discovered the rainbow, why the worth of the chestnut is contained in its burr; they want, of all things, to know the bullfrog's opinions: what do animals under their burrows in the fragrance of forests or in pustules of asphalt, make of my life?
The truth of it is: of all extant sages, I alone remained ignorant, and among those who have learned less and less I was always a jot less in the know- till my learning has come to so little I know how to be wise in the end.Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda |
posted by Bishop @ 8:00 |
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1 Comments: |
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Bees
What was I to do, I, born when the gods were dead, and my insufferable youth spent searching between cracks? It was my role, and because of it I felt so desolate. One bee plus one bee does not make two bees of light or two bees of darkness: it makes a solar system, a house of topaz, a dangerous caress. The first concern of amber is two golden bees and tied to those same bees each day’s sun travels: I rage at revealing so many of my ridiculous secrets. They go on chasing me questioning my relationship with cats, how I found the rainbow’s arc, why the worthy chestnuts show themselves as hedgehogs, and above all for me to say what the toads think of me, the creatures hidden beneath the wood’s fragrance or in the bubbles of concrete. The truth is that among the knowers I owned to a unique ignorance and among those who might know less I was always a little less knowing and so little was my knowledge that I learned wisdom.
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Bees
What was I to do, I, born
when the gods were dead,
and my insufferable youth
spent searching between cracks?
It was my role, and because of it
I felt so desolate.
One bee plus one bee
does not make two bees of light
or two bees of darkness:
it makes a solar system,
a house of topaz,
a dangerous caress.
The first concern of amber
is two golden bees
and tied to those same bees
each day’s sun travels:
I rage at revealing so many
of my ridiculous secrets.
They go on chasing me questioning
my relationship with cats,
how I found the rainbow’s arc,
why the worthy chestnuts
show themselves as hedgehogs,
and above all for me to say
what the toads think of me,
the creatures hidden
beneath the wood’s fragrance
or in the bubbles of concrete.
The truth is that among the knowers
I owned to a unique ignorance
and among those who might know less
I was always a little less knowing
and so little was my knowledge
that I learned wisdom.