| Pablo Neruda -Explico algunas cosas-
| miércoles, 25 de mayo de 2005
|Explico algunas cosas
Preguntaréis: Y dónde están las lilas?
Y la metafísica cubierta de amapolas?
Y la lluvia que a menudo golpeaba
sus palabras llenándolas
de agujeros y pájaros?
Os voy a contar todo lo que me pasa.
Yo vivía en un barrio
de Madrid, con campanas,
con relojes, con árboles.
Desde allí se veía
el rostro seco de Castilla
como un océano de cuero.
Mi casa era llamada
la casa de las flores, porque por todas partes
estallaban geranios: era
una bella casa
con perros y chiquillos.
Raúl, te acuerdas?
Te acuerdas, Rafael?
Federico, te acuerdas
debajo de la tierra,
te acuerdas de mi casa con balcones en donde
la luz de junio ahogaba flores en tu boca?
eran grandes voces, sal de mercaderías,
aglomeraciones de pan palpitante,
mercados de mi barrio de Argüelles con su estatua
como un tintero pálido entre las merluzas:
el aceite llegaba a las cucharas,
un profundo latido
de pies y manos llenaba las calles,
metros, litros, esencia
aguda de la vida,
contextura de techos con sol frío en el cual
la flecha se fatiga,
delirante marfil fino de las patatas,
tomates repetidos hasta el mar.
Y una mañana todo estaba ardiendo
y una mañana las hogueras
salían de la tierra
y desde entonces fuego,
pólvora desde entonces,
y desde entonces sangre.
Bandidos con aviones y con moros,
bandidos con sortijas y duquesas,
bandidos con frailes negros bendiciendo
venían por el cielo a matar niños,
y por las calles la sangre de los niños
corría simplemente, como sangre de niños.
Chacales que el chacal rechazaría,
piedras que el cardo seco mordería escupiendo,
víboras que las víboras odiaran!
Frente a vosotros he visto la sangre
de España levantarse
para ahogaros en una sola ola
de orgullo y de cuchillos!
mirad mi casa muerta,
mirad España rota:
pero de cada casa muerta sale metal ardiendo
en vez de flores,
pero de cada hueco de España
pero de cada niño muerto sale un fusil con ojos,
pero de cada crimen nacen balas
que os hallarán un día el sitio
Preguntaréis por qué su poesía
no nos habla del sueño, de las hojas,
de los grandes volcanes de su país natal?
Venid a ver la sangre por las calles,
venid a ver la sangre por las calles,
venid a ver la sangre por las calles!
I explain a few things
You will ask: ‘And where are the lilacs?
And the metaphysics covered with poppies?
And the rain that often beat down
filling its words
with holes and birds.’
To you I am going to tell all that happened to me.
I lived in a quarter
in Madrid, with bells
with clocks, with trees.
From there could be seen
the dry face of Castille
like a sea of leather.
My house was named
the house of the flowers, because everywhere
geraniums exploded: it was
a beautiful house
with dogs and little children.
Raúl, you agree?
You agree, Rafael?
Federico, you agree
beneath the earth,
you agree about my house with balconies where
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
was loud voices, salt of wares,
agglomerations of pulsating bread,
the markets of my quarter of Argüelles with its statue
like a pallid inkwell amongst the hake:
the olive oil flowed into spoons
a deep pounding
of feet and hands filled the streets,
metres, litres, sharp
essence of life,
the build of roofs with a cold sun on which
the weathervane tires,
the fine frenzied ivory of potatoes,
tomatoes multiplied down to the sea.
And one morning all of that burned
and one morning the bonfires
leapt from the earth
and from that moment fire
gunpowder from that moment,
and from that moment blood.
Thugs with planes, and the Moors,
thugs with signet rings, and duchesses,
thugs with black friars blessing
came through the sky to slaughter children,
and through the streets the blood of the children
flowed easily, like the blood of children.
Jackals that the jackal would drive away,
stones that the dry thistle would bite and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would hate!
Opposed to you I have seen the blood
of Spain rise up
to drown you, in a single wave
of pride and knives!
consider my dead house,
consider Spain, broken:
but from every dead house burning metal flows
in place of flowers,
but from every hollow of Spain
but from every dead child rises a gun with eyes,
but from every crime are born bullets
that will find you one day in the house
of the heart.
You will ask why his poetry
has nothing of the earth, of the leaves,
of the grand volcanoes of his native country?
Come and see the blood through the streets,
come and see
the blood through the streets,
come and see the blood
through the streets!
Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda
|posted by Bishop @ 8:45
I am explaining a few things
You ask: And where are the lilacs?
Your metaphysical bed cloth of poppies?
And your rainfall that rattles
your words, filling them
with peepholes and birds?
I am now telling you all that has occurred to me.
I lived in a barrio
in Madrid, with bells,
with clocks, with trees.
From there we watched
the thirsty face of Spain
like an leathery ocean.
My house was called
"casa de las flores" because
it overflowed with geraniums: it was
a fine house
with dogs and children.
Raul, do you remember?
Do you remember, Rafael?
My Federico, do you recall
from under the ground,
do you recall my house, all its balconies where
the June light could actually drown flowers in your mouth?
Brother, O my brother!
was shouting voices, salty merchandise,
clusters of trembling bread,
market stalls of my Arguelles barrio with its statue
just like a pale inkwell among all the haddock:
a deep restlessness
of fine olive oil filled up all the spoons,
of feet and hands filling up all the streets,
meters, liters, that crisp
essence of this life,
all heaped up like fish,
the patterns of our rooftops under the cold sun
wore down even the weather vane,
it was a grand fever of ivory for the potatoes,
for the tomatoes stretching out to the sea.
And one morning all this on fire
and one morning the fires
rumbled out from the earth
and devoured everything,
and from then on these fires,
from then on this gunpowder,
and from then on, it was blood.
Thug with airplanes and the Moors,
thugs with golden rings and duchesses,
thugs with the blessings of black hooded friars
tumbled out of the sky to kill our children,
and through the streets the blood of our children
ran in the way children's blood runs, simply.
Ai, jackals that even jackals would despise,
stones that the thirsty thistle would spit out,
ai, vipers that even vipers would turn on.
I face you. I have seen the blood
of Spain rise up
to drown you in a single wave
of knives and pride!
look at my dead house,
look at my broken Spain:
from every dead house flows festering metal
instead of flowers,
and yet from every crater shell in Spain
bursts forth Spain,
and from every dead child rises a gun with eyes,
and from every crime generates bullets
that one day will feed
on your beating heart.
You ask: why doesn't your poetry
talk to us about daydreams, about leaves,
about the grand volcanoes in your native land?
You, come and see the blood in the streets,
you come and see
the blood in the streets,
you come and see the blood
in the streets!
Translated by ZJC
I’ll explain some things
You’ll ask, Where are the lilacs?
And the philosophy dreamy with poppies?
And the rain which kept beating out
Your words, filling them
With water-specks and birds??
I’m going to tell you everything that happened to me.
I lived in a neighborhood
In Madrid with church bells
And clock towers and trees.
From there you could see
The dry face of Castille
Like a sea of leather
My house was called
“The house with the flowers” because around it
Geraniums exploded. It was
A beautiful house
With dogs and kids.
Raúl, do you remember?
Frederico, do you still remember
Under the ground?
Do you remember my house with the balconies
Where the June light soaked your mouth with
The taste of flowers?
The market place of Arguelles, my neighborhood
With its statue like a pale inkwell among
The fish stalls.
It was all
Loud voices, salty commerce,
A deep rumble
Of feet and hands filled the streets,
Meters and liters,
The sharp essence of life,
Fish stacked up,
The texture of roofs in the cold sun in which
The weather-vane grows tired.
Fine, crazily carved ivory of potatoes
Lines of tomatoes to the sea.
Then one morning flames
Came out of the ground
Devouring human beings.
From then on fire,
Gunpowder from then on,
From then on blood.
Bandits with airplanes and Moorish troops
Bandits with gold rings and duchesses
Bandits with black monks giving their blessing
Came across the sky to kill children
And through the streets, the blood of children
Ran simply, like children’s blood does.
Jackals that a jackal would reject
Stones that a dry thistle would bite and spit out
Vipers that vipers would hate!
I have seen the blood
Of Spain rise up against you
To drown you in a single wave
Of pride and knives!
Look at my dead home
Look at broken Spain –
But from each dead house
Burning metal shoots out
Instead of flowers.
From every shell-hole in Spain
Spain will rise.
From every dead child a rifle with
Eyes will rise.
From every crime bullets will be born
Which will one day find a place
In your hearts.
You ask “Why doesn’t your poetry
Speak to us of dreams and leaves
Of the great volcanoes of your native land?”
See the blood along the streets
The blood along the streets
Come see the blood
Along the Streets!
Translated by Jodey Bateman