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Poemas en Inglés es un blog que pretende acercar poemas de lengua inglesa al castellano |
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"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 -La casada infiel- |
martes, 13 de septiembre de 2005 |
La casada infiel
Y que yo me la llevé al río creyendo que era mozuela, pero tenía marido. Fué la noche de Santiago y casi por compromiso. Se apagaron los faroles y se encendieron los grillos.
En las últimas esquinas toqué sus pechos dormidos, y se me abrieron de pronto como ramas de jacintos. El almidón de su enagua mi sonaba en el oído como una pieza de seda rasgada por diez cuchillos. Sin luz de plata en sus copas los árboles han crecido, y un horizonte de perros ladra muy lejos del río.
Pasadas las zarzamoras, los juncos y los espinos, bajo su mata de pelo hice un hoyo sobre el limo. Yo me quité la corbata. Ella se quitó el vestido. Yo, el cinturon con revólver. Ella, sus cuatro corpiños.
Ni nardo ni caracolas tienen el cutis tan fino, ni los cristales con luna relumbran con ese brillo.
Sus muslos se me escapaban como peces sorprendidos, la mitad llenos de lumbre, la mitad llenos de frío. Aquella noche corrí el mejor de los caminos, montado en potra de nácar sin bridas y sin estribos. No quiero decir, por hombre, las cosas que ella mi dijo. La luz del entendiemiento me hace ser muy comedido. Sucia de besos y arena, yo me la llevé del río. Con el aire se batían las espadas de los lirios.
Me porté como quien soy. Como un gitano legítimo. La regalé un costurero grande de raso pajizo, y no quise enamorarme porque teniendo marido me dijo que era mozuela cuando la llevaba del río.
The faithless wife
So I took her to the river believing she was a maiden, but she already had a husband. It was on St. James night and almost as if I was obliged to. The lanterns went out and the crickets lighted up.
In the farthest street corners I touched her sleeping breasts and they opened to me suddenly like spikes of hyacinth. The starch of her petticoat sounded in my ears like a piece of silk rent by ten knives. Without silver light on their foliage the trees had grown larger and a horizon of dogs barked very far from the river.
Past the blackberries, the reeds and the hawthorne underneath her cluster of hair I made a hollow in the earth I took off my tie, she too off her dress. I, my belt with the revolver, She, her four bodices. Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearl have skin so fine, nor does glass with silver shine with such brilliance. Her thighs slipped away from me like startled fish, half full of fire, half full of cold. That night I ran on the best of roads mounted on a nacre mare without bridle stirrups.
As a man, I won’t repeat the things she said to me. The light of understanding has made me more discreet. Smeared with sand and kisses I took her away from the river. The swords of the lilies battled with the air.
I behaved like what I am, like a proper gypsy. I gave her a large sewing basket, of straw-colored satin, but I did not fall in love for although she had a husband she told me she was a maiden when I took her to the river.Etiquetas: Federico García Lorca |
posted by Bishop @ 13:20 |
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4 Comments: |
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THE FAITHLESS WIFE
And I took her to the river believing her a maid, but she had a husband
It was on St James's night and almost as if in duty bound. The street-lights went out and the crickets flared up. By the last street corners I touched her sleeping breasts, and they opened to me suddenly like spikes of hyacinth. The starch of her petticoat sounded in my ear like a piece of silk rent by ten knives. The trees, without silver light on their tops, have grown larger, and a horizon of dogs barks very far from the river.
Past the blackberries, the reeds, and the hawthorn, underneath her cluster of hair I made a hollow in the fine sand. I took off my tie. She took off her dress. I, my belt with the revolver. She, her four bodices. Not tuberose nor shell have a skin so fine, nor do glass mirrors shine with such brilliance. Her thighs slipped from me like startled fish, one half full of fire, one half full of cold. That night I galloped on the best of roads, mounted on a mother-of-pearl mare, without bridle or stirrups. As a man, I won't repeat the things she said to me. The light of understanding has made me most discreet. Smeared with sand and kisses I took her away from the river. The swords of the lilies battled with the air.
I behaved like the person I am. Like a proper gipsy. I gave her a large sewing basket of straw-coloured satin, and I did not want to let myself fall in love because though she had a husband, she told me she was a maiden as I was taking her to the river.
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THE FAITHLESS WIFE
So I took her to the river. I thought she was a fledgling girl, but she had a husband.
It was on Saint James' Eve and almost as if prearranged, the street lamps went out. The crickets came on. At the far end of town I touched each sleeping breast. Like the shoots of hyacinth they opened suddenly under me. The starch of her petticoat sounded like cut silk to my ears, silk being cut by 10 knives. Without silver light on their leaves, the trees had grown bigger and a horizon of dogs barked from across the river.
Out beyond the burr and thistle, the hawthorn and reed, underneath her shag of hair I made a hollow in the clay. I took off my necktie. She took off her gown. I, my belt of pistols. She, her four bodices. Never has nard or Mother of Pearl seemed as fine as her skin then. Nor have the mirrors or the moons ever burned like that. Like little startled fish her thighs frustrated me, one half filled with fire, the other filled with cold. That night the road I galloped was the most splendid of them all, galloping without bridle or stirrup on such a fledgling made of pearl. I am a man, I won't repeat the things she said to me. Experience in such matters has made me discrete. At last, splattered with kisses and sand, I took her from the river. The swords of wild irises stabbed at the morning air.
I behaved as what I am. Like a true-blooded gypsy. I gave her a sewing basket made of straw-hued satin and forbid myself to fall in love. Though she had a husband, I thought she was a fledgling when I took her to the river.
Translated by Zachary Jean Chartkoff
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THE UNFAITHFUL WIFE
So I took her to the river thinking she was virgin, but it seems she had a husband. It was the night of Saint Iago, and it almost was a duty. The lamps went out, the crickets lit up. By the last street corners I touched her sleeping breasts, and they suddenly had opened like the hyacinth petals. The starch of her slip crackled in my ears like silk fragments ripped apart by ten daggers. The tree crowns free of silver light are larger, and a horizon, of dogs, howls far away from the river.
Past the hawthorns, the reeds, and the brambles, below her dome of hair I made a hollow in the sand. I took off my tie. She took of a garment. I my belt with my revolver. She four bodices. Creamy tuberoses or shells are not as smooth as her skin was, or, in the moonlight, crystals shining brilliantly.
Her thighs slipped from me like fish that are startled, one half full of fire, one half full of coldness. That night I galloped on the best of roadways, on a mare of nacre, without stirrups, without bridle. As a man I cannot tell you the things she said to me. The light of understanding has made me most discreet. Smeared with sand and kisses, I took her from the river. The blades of the lilies were fighting with the air.
I behaved as what I am, as a true gypsy. I gave her a sewing basket, big, with straw-coloured satin. I did not want to love her, for though she had a husband, she said she was a virgin when I took her to the river.
Translated by A.S.Kline
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THE UNFAITHFUL WIFE
... so I walked her down to the river. I was really the first, she said - forgetting the fact of a husband. On the night of the patron of Spain - I was merely trying to oblige. As the streetlamps all went black and crickets came afire. When we reached the end of the sidewalk I touched her breasts: sleeping. They blossomed for me promptly, no hyacinth so sweet. The slip she wore, starched cotton, hissed in my ear excitement. As a piece of silk would, ripped to ribbons by ten knives. No silver catching the branches, the trees loomed enormous. And a skyline of hounds yowling very far from the shore.
Passing the blackberry bushes, passing the reeds and the bracken, under her cover of hair I scooped a hole in the clay. I unfastened my necktie. She unfastened her skirt. I, my belt and revolver. She, her petticoats - four. Neither camellia, seashell such delight to the finger. Never a moon on water shone as she did then.
Her thighs in my clutch, elusive as bass you catch bare-handed. Half, they were fire and splendor; chilly as winter, half. That night I went riding the finest of all our journeys, fast on a filly of pearl, that never knew stirrup or curb! I'm man enough not to be breathing certain words she uttered. I'm a clean straight-thinking fellow with a decent tongue in love. She was slubbered with kisses and sand when I took her home from the river. The air was a melee of sabers: lilies raged at the wind.
I behaved like the man I am: hundred-percent gypsy. And presented her with a saffron satiny case, de luxe. But for falling in love? - not me! She with a husband, yet to say I was really the first as I walked her down to the river!
Translated by John Frederick Nims
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THE FAITHLESS WIFE
And I took her to the river believing her a maid,
but she had a husband
It was on St James's night and almost as if in duty bound.
The street-lights went out and the crickets flared up.
By the last street corners I touched her sleeping breasts,
and they opened to me suddenly like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat sounded in my ear
like a piece of silk rent by ten knives.
The trees, without silver light on their tops, have grown larger,
and a horizon of dogs barks very far from the river.
Past the blackberries, the reeds, and the hawthorn,
underneath her cluster of hair I made a hollow in the fine sand.
I took off my tie. She took off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver. She, her four bodices.
Not tuberose nor shell have a skin so fine,
nor do glass mirrors shine with such brilliance.
Her thighs slipped from me like startled fish,
one half full of fire, one half full of cold.
That night I galloped on the best of roads,
mounted on a mother-of-pearl mare, without bridle or stirrups.
As a man, I won't repeat the things she said to me.
The light of understanding has made me most discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses I took her away from the river.
The swords of the lilies battled with the air.
I behaved like the person I am. Like a proper gipsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket of straw-coloured satin,
and I did not want to let myself fall in love
because though she had a husband, she told me she was a maiden
as I was taking her to the river.