Spanish Poems





TRADUTTORE TRADITORE

About this blog
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
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:

posted by Bishop @ 8:45  
2 Comments:
  • At 31 de mayo de 2007, 20:41, Blogger Bishop said…

    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

     
  • At 2 de junio de 2007, 15:20, Blogger Bishop said…

    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

     
Publicar un comentario en la entrada
<< Home
 
About the author
  • Para localizar un poema determinado utilizar la secuencia Ctrl+F y escribir la palabra correspondiente.
  • Para ponerse en contacto con el autor del Blog

  • Los poemas de este blog pueden aumentar con tu colaboración, si tienes alguna traducción de algún poema de lengua inglesa que te guste y quieres enviárnosla, será bienvenida.
Poets
Previous Posts
Favorite blogs
Other cool blogs
Search
    Google
    Google Aquí­
Resources

Directorio Web - Directorio de Páginas Webs