| 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 |
|
|
| Antonio Machado -Retrato- |
| lunes, 8 de agosto de 2005 |
Retrato
Mi infancia son recuerdos de un patio de Sevilla,
y un huerto claro donde madura el limonero;
mi juventud, veinte años en tierras de Castilla;
mi historia, algunos casos que recordar no quiero.
Ni un seductor Mañara, ni un Bradomín he sido
—ya conocéis mi torpe aliño indumentario—,
más recibí la flecha que me asignó Cupido,
y amé cuanto ellas puedan tener de hospitalario.
Hay en mis venas gotas de sangre jacobina,
pero mi verso brota de manantial sereno;
y, más que un hombre al uso que sabe su doctrina,
soy, en el buen sentido de la palabra, bueno.
Adoro la hermosura, y en la moderna estética
corté las viejas rosas del huerto de Ronsard;
mas no amo los afeites de la actual cosmética,
ni soy un ave de esas del nuevo gay-trinar.
Desdeño las romanzas de los tenores huecos
y el coro de los grillos que cantan a la luna.
A distinguir me paro las voces de los ecos,
y escucho solamente, entre las voces, una.
¿Soy clásico o romántico? No sé. Dejar quisiera
mi verso, como deja el capitán su espada:
famosa por la mano viril que la blandiera,
no por el docto oficio del forjador preciada.
Converso con el hombre que siempre va conmigo
—quien habla solo espera hablar a Dios un día—;
mi soliloquio es plática con ese buen amigo
que me enseñó el secreto de la filantropía.
Y al cabo, nada os debo; debéisme cuanto he escrito.
A mi trabajo acudo, con mi dinero pago
el traje que me cubre y la mansión que habito,
el pan que me alimenta y el lecho en donde yago.
Y cuando llegue el día del último viaje,
y esté al partir la nave que nunca ha de tornar,
me encontraréis a bordo ligero de equipaje,
casi desnudo, como los hijos de la mar.
Portrait
My childhood is memories of a patio in Seville,
and a garden where sunlit lemons are growing yellow;
my youth twenty years on the earth of Castile;
what I lived a few things you'll forgive me for omitting.
A great seducer I was not, nor the lover of Juliet;
-the oafish way I dress is enough to say that-
but the arrow Cupid planned for me I got,
and I loved whenever women found a home in me.
A flow of leftist blood moves through my body,
but my poems rise from a calm and deep spring.
There is a man of rule who behaves as he should, but more
than him, I am, in the good sense of the word, good.
I adore beauty, and following contemporary thought
have cut some old roses from the garden of Ronsard;
but the new lotions and feathers are not for me;
I am not one of the blue jays who sing so well.
I dislike hollow tenors who warble of love,
and the chorus of crickets singing to the moon.
I fall silent so as to separate voices from echoes,
and I listen among the voices to one voice and only one.
Am I classic or romantic who knows. I want to leave
my poetry as a fighter leaves his sword, known
for the masculine hand that closed around it,
not for the coded mark of the proud forger.
I talk always to the man who walks along with me;
-men who talk to themselves hope to talk to God someday-
My soliloquies amount to discussions with this friend,
who taught me the secret of loving human beings.
In the end, I owe you nothing; you owe me what I've written.
I turn to my work; with what I've earned I pay
for my clothes and hat, the house in which I live,
the food that feeds my body, the bed on which I sleep.
And when the day arrives for the last leaving of all,
and the ship that never returns to port is ready to go,
you'll find me on board, light, with few belongings,
almost naked like the children of the sea.
Translated by Robert BlyEtiquetas: Antonio Machado |
posted by Bishop @ 14:40  |
|
| 1 Comments: |
-
PORTRAIT
My childhood is memories of a patio in Seville,
and a sunny orchard where lemons ripen;
my youth, twenty years on the soil of Castile;
my story, a few events just as well forgotten.
I was never a great seducer or Romeo
—that is apparent by my shabby dress—
but I was struck by the arrow Cupid aimed at me
and loved whenever I was welcomed.
Despite the rebel blood in my veins,
my poems bubble up from a calm spring;
and more than a man who lives by rules
I am, in the best sense of the word, good.
I adore beauty and following modern aesthetics,
I've cut old roses from Ronsard's garden;
but I hate being fashionable
and am no bird strutting the latest style.
I shun the shallow tenor's ballads,
and the chorus of crickets singing at the moon;
I stop to separate the voices from the echoes,
and I listen among the voices to only one.
Am I classical or romantic? I don't know?
I want to leave my poetry as the captain leaves his sword;
remembered for the virile hand that gripped it,
not for the hallmark of its maker.
I converse with the man who is always beside me,
—he who talks to himself hopes to talk to God someday—
my soliloquy is a discussion with this friend,
who taught me the secret of loving others.
In the end I owe you nothing; you owe me all I've written.
I work, paying with what I've earned
for the clothes on my back, the house I live in,
the bread that sustains me and the bed where I lie.
And when the day arrives for the final voyage
and the ship that never returns is set to sail,
you'll find me aboard, traveling light, with few possessions,
almost naked, like the children of the sea.
Translated by Willis Barnstone
|
| |
| << 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 |
|
| Resources |
|
|
PORTRAIT
My childhood is memories of a patio in Seville,
and a sunny orchard where lemons ripen;
my youth, twenty years on the soil of Castile;
my story, a few events just as well forgotten.
I was never a great seducer or Romeo
—that is apparent by my shabby dress—
but I was struck by the arrow Cupid aimed at me
and loved whenever I was welcomed.
Despite the rebel blood in my veins,
my poems bubble up from a calm spring;
and more than a man who lives by rules
I am, in the best sense of the word, good.
I adore beauty and following modern aesthetics,
I've cut old roses from Ronsard's garden;
but I hate being fashionable
and am no bird strutting the latest style.
I shun the shallow tenor's ballads,
and the chorus of crickets singing at the moon;
I stop to separate the voices from the echoes,
and I listen among the voices to only one.
Am I classical or romantic? I don't know?
I want to leave my poetry as the captain leaves his sword;
remembered for the virile hand that gripped it,
not for the hallmark of its maker.
I converse with the man who is always beside me,
—he who talks to himself hopes to talk to God someday—
my soliloquy is a discussion with this friend,
who taught me the secret of loving others.
In the end I owe you nothing; you owe me all I've written.
I work, paying with what I've earned
for the clothes on my back, the house I live in,
the bread that sustains me and the bed where I lie.
And when the day arrives for the final voyage
and the ship that never returns is set to sail,
you'll find me aboard, traveling light, with few possessions,
almost naked, like the children of the sea.
Translated by Willis Barnstone