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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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| Federico García Lorca -Gacela de la muerte oscura- |
| sábado, 10 de septiembre de 2005 |
Gacela de la muerte oscura
Quiero dormir el sueño de las manzanas
alejarme del tumulto de los cementerios.
Quiero dormir el sueño de aquel niño
que quería cortarse el corazón en alta mar.
No quiero que me repitan que los muertos no pierden la sangre;
que la boca podrida sigue pidiendo agua.
No quiero enterarme de los martirios que da la hierba,
ni de la luna con boca de serpiente
que trabaja antes del amanecer.
Quiero dormir un rato,
un rato, un minuto, un siglo;
pero que todos sepan que no he muerto;
que haya un establo de oro en mis labios;
que soy un pequeño amigo del viento Oeste;
que soy la sombra inmensa de mis lágrimas.
Cúbreme por la aurora con un velo,
porque me arrojará puñados de hormigas,
y moja con agua dura mis zapatos
para que resbale la pinza de su alacrán.
Porque quiero dormir el sueño de las manzanas
para aprender un llanto que me limpie de tierra;
porque quiero vivir con aquel niño oscuro
que quería cortarse el corazón en alta mar.
Gacela of the dark death
I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries.
I want to sleep the sleep of that child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.
I don't want them to tell me again how the corpse keeps all its blood,
how the decaying mouth goes on begging for water.
I'd rather not hear about the torture sessions the grass arranges for
nor about how the moon does all its work before dawn
with its snakelike nose.
I want to sleep for half a second,
a second, a minute, a century,
but I want everyone to know that I am still alive,
that I have a golden manger inside my lips,
that I am the little friend of the west wind,
that I am the elephantine shadow of my own tears.
When it's dawn just throw some sort of cloth over me
because I know dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me,
and pour a little hard water over my shoes
so that the scorpion claws of the dawn will slip off.
Because I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,
and learn a mournful song that will clean all earth away from me,
because I want to live with that shadowy child
who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.
Translated by Robert BlyEtiquetas: Federico García Lorca |
posted by Bishop @ 9:40  |
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| 4 Comments: |
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Gacela of the Dark Death
I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,
that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.
I don't want to learn of the tortures of the grass,
nor of the moon with a serpent's mouth
that labors before dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
awhile, a minute, a century;
but all must know that I have not died;
that there is a stable of gold in my lips;
that I am the small friend of the West wing;
that I am the intense shadows of my tears.
Cover me at dawn with a veil,
because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me,
and wet with hard water my shoes
so that the pincers of the scorpion slide.
For I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to learn a lament that will cleanse me to earth;
for I want to live with that dark child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.
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GACELA OF DARK DEATH
I want to sleep the dream of apples,
to remove myself from the tumult of cemeteries.
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wished to cut his heart on the high seas.
Do not tell me again that the dead do not lose their blood;
that the rotting mouth continues to ask for water.
I do not want to be told what martyrdom grass offers,
nor the moon with the mouth of a snake
which labours before daybreak.
I want to sleep a little while,
a little while, a minute, a century;
but all must know I have not died;
that there is a stable of gold on my lips;
that I am the little friend of the West wind;
that I am the boundless shadow of my tears.
Cover me by dawn with a veil,
because fistfuls of ants will be hurled at me,
and hard water will wet my shoes
so that the pincer of the scorpion may slide.
Because I want to sleep the dream of apples
to learn a lament to cleanse me of earth;
because I want to live with that dark child
who wished to cut his heart on the high seas.
Translated by Michelle Cliff
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GACELA OF THE DARK DEATH
I want to sleep the sleep of apples,
to leave behind the noise of cemeteries.
I want to sleep as did that child who wanted
to cut his heart on the high seas.
I do not want to hear again that corpses keep their blood,
nor of the thirst the rotting mouth can't slake.
I do not want to know of the torments grass gives,
nor of the moon with a snake's mouth
that toils before daybreak.
I want to sleep for a short time,
a short time, a minute, a hundred years;
but all should know that I have not died,
that there is a stable of gold on my lips,
that I am the friend of the west wind,
that I am the vast shadow of my tears.
Cover me with a veil,
throw fistfuls of ants at me at dawn,
and wet my shoes with hard water,
that it may slide on pincers like a scorpion.
Because I want to sleep the sleep of apples,
to learn a lament that will purify me;
because I want to stay with that dark child who wanted
to cut his heart on the high seas.
Translated by Merryn Williams
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GACELA OF DARK DEATH
I long to sleep the sleep of apples,
go far away from the turmoil of cemeteries.
I long to sleep the sleep of that child
who longed to cut his heart on the high sea.
I do not want to hear that the dead lose no blood,
that the putrid mouth goes on thirsting.
I do not want to know of torments grass produces,
nor of the moon with its serpent mouth
at work before dawn.
I long to sleep a little while,
a little while, a minute, a century,
yet all should know I have not died;
know there's a golden stable on my lips,
that I'm the West Wind's little friend,
the vast shadow of my tears.
Cover me with a veil at dawn,
for it will fling at me fistfuls of ants,
and wet my shoes with hard water
so that its scorpion's pincer may slip.
Because I long to sleep the sleep of apples
to learn a flood of tears cleansing me of earth;
because I long to live with that dark child
who longed to cut his heart on the high sea.
Translated by Michael Smith
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Gacela of the Dark Death
I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,
that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.
I don't want to learn of the tortures of the grass,
nor of the moon with a serpent's mouth
that labors before dawn.
I want to sleep awhile,
awhile, a minute, a century;
but all must know that I have not died;
that there is a stable of gold in my lips;
that I am the small friend of the West wing;
that I am the intense shadows of my tears.
Cover me at dawn with a veil,
because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me,
and wet with hard water my shoes
so that the pincers of the scorpion slide.
For I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to learn a lament that will cleanse me to earth;
for I want to live with that dark child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.