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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 -Intermedio- |
| lunes, 19 de septiembre de 2005 |
Intermedio
Aquellos ojos míos de mil novecientos diez
no vieron enterrar a los muertos,
ni la feria de ceniza del que llora por la madrugada,
ni el corazón que tiembla arrinconado como un caballito de mar.
Aquellos ojos míos de mil novecientos diez
vieron la blanca pared donde orinaban las niñas,
el hocico del toro, la seta venenosa
y una luna incomprensible que iluminaba por los rincones
los pedazos de limón seco bajo el negro duro de las botellas.
Aquellos ojos míos en el cuello de la jaca,
en el seno traspasado de Santa Rosa dormida,
en los tejados del amor, con gemidos y frescas manos,
en un jardín donde los gatos se comían a las ranas.
Desván donde el polvo viejo congrega estatuas y musgos,
cajas que guardan silencio de cangrejos devorados
en el sitio donde el sueño tropezaba con su realidad.
Allí mis pequeños ojos.
No preguntarme nada. He visto que las cosas
cuando buscan su curso encuentran su vacío.
Hay un dolor de huecos por el aire sin gente
y en mis ojos criaturas vestidas ¡sin desnudo!
Intermission
Those eyes of mine from 1910
saw no dead man buried,
no ashen fairs of mourners at dawn,
no heart quivering in its corner like a sea horse.
Those eyes of mine from 1910
saw only the pale wall where the girls tinkled,
the snout of the bull, the poisonous mushroom,
and the incomprehensible moon that illuminated dried lemon rinds
under the hard black bottles in the corners.
Those eyes of mine on the neck of the pony,
on the pierced breast of the sleeping Saint Rosa,
on the tiled rooftops of love, with moans and fresh hands,
on a garden where cats ate the frogs.
Attic where the ancient dust congregates statues and mosses,
boxes that keep the silence of devoured crabs
in the place where the dream squabbled with its reality.
My small eyes are there.
Don’t ask me any questions. I have seen how things
that seek their way find the void instead.
There are spaces that ache in the uninhabited air
and in my eyes only children dressed without their nakedness!
Translated by Jim Doss Etiquetas: Federico García Lorca |
posted by Bishop @ 15:10  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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1910(INTERMEZZO)
Those eyes of mine in 1910
did not see the burial of the dead.
Nor the ashen funfair of the man who wept before dawn
nor the heart trembling on one side like a sea-horse.
Those eyes of mine in 1910
saw the white wall where the little girls were pissing,
the bull's snout, the poisonous toadstool
and an unknowable moon that lit on the corners
dried lemon scraps beneath the bottles' hard black.
Those eyes of mine saw the neck of the mare,
the pierced bosom of the sleeping Saint Rosa,
on the rooftops of love, with moans and cool hands,
in a garden where cats ate frogs.
An attic where old dust piles up on statues and moss.
Chests hold the silence of crabs already eaten.
In the place where the dream stumbles over its reality.
My youthful eyes are there.
Don't ask me anything. I've seen that things
when they seek their way find only their vacuum.
There is an agony of holes in the air without people
and in my eyes clothed creatures - with no bodies!
Translated by Merryn Williams
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1910(INTERMEZZO)
Those eyes of mine in 1910
did not see the burial of the dead.
Nor the ashen funfair of the man who wept before dawn
nor the heart trembling on one side like a sea-horse.
Those eyes of mine in 1910
saw the white wall where the little girls were pissing,
the bull's snout, the poisonous toadstool
and an unknowable moon that lit on the corners
dried lemon scraps beneath the bottles' hard black.
Those eyes of mine saw the neck of the mare,
the pierced bosom of the sleeping Saint Rosa,
on the rooftops of love, with moans and cool hands,
in a garden where cats ate frogs.
An attic where old dust piles up on statues and moss.
Chests hold the silence of crabs already eaten.
In the place where the dream stumbles over its reality.
My youthful eyes are there.
Don't ask me anything. I've seen that things
when they seek their way find only their vacuum.
There is an agony of holes in the air without people
and in my eyes clothed creatures - with no bodies!
Translated by Merryn Williams