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? Hermano, hermano! Todo 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, pescados hacinados, 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 devorando seres, 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!
Generales traidores: 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 sale España, pero de cada niño muerto sale un fusil con ojos, pero de cada crimen nacen balas que os hallarán un día el sitio del corazón.
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? Brother, brother!
All 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, stacked fish, 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 devouring beings, 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!
Generals traitors: 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 Spain rises, 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 |
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2 Comments: |
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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! Everything 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! Miscreant generals: 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
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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? Brother! Brother! 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!
Generals Traitors 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?”
Come See the blood along the streets Come see The blood along the streets Come see the blood Along the Streets!
Translated by Jodey Bateman
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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!
Everything
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!
Miscreant
generals:
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