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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 -El golpe- |
| miércoles, 25 de mayo de 2005 |
El golpe
Tinta que me entretienes
gota a gota
y vas guardando el rastro
de mi razón y de mi sinrazón
como una larga cicatriz que apenas
se verá, cuando el cuerpo esté dormido
en el discurso de sus destrucciones.
Tal vez mejor hubiera
volcado en una copa
toda tu esencia, y haberla arrojado
en una sola página, manchándola
con una sola estrella verde
y que sólo esa mancha
hubiera sido todo
lo que escribí a lo largo de mi vida,
sin alfabeto ni interpretaciones:
un solo golpe oscurosin palabras.
The stroke
Ink that entrances me
drop by drop
and goes guarding the trail
of my reason and unreason
like a large scar that’s barely
seen when the body’s asleep
in its discourse of dissolution.
Better perhaps if
all your essence
were to have emptied in one drop
and thrown itself on a single page
stained it with a single green star
and that only that stain
were to have been all
I had written in the whole of my life,
without alphabet or interpretations:
a single dark stroke
without words.Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda |
posted by Bishop @ 8:50  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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The Blow
Ink, how you hold me
drop by drop
guarding the face
of my reason and my unreason
like a long scar, barely
visible while the body sleeps
in the discourse of its destructions.
Better, maybe,
if all your essence
had erupted in a cup, and spent itself
on one single page, staining it
with a single green star:
and if only this stain
had been everything
I wrote in my entire life,
without alphabet or interpretations:
a single dark blow
without words.
Translation by Diana Guillermo
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The Blow
Ink, how you hold me
drop by drop
guarding the face
of my reason and my unreason
like a long scar, barely
visible while the body sleeps
in the discourse of its destructions.
Better, maybe,
if all your essence
had erupted in a cup, and spent itself
on one single page, staining it
with a single green star:
and if only this stain
had been everything
I wrote in my entire life,
without alphabet or interpretations:
a single dark blow
without words.
Translation by Diana Guillermo