Spanish Poems





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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
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:

posted by Bishop @ 13:20  
4 Comments:
  • At 3 de junio de 2007, 18:23, Blogger Bishop said…

    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.

     
  • At 5 de junio de 2007, 11:36, Blogger Bishop said…

    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

     
  • At 5 de junio de 2007, 11:39, Blogger Bishop said…

    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

     
  • At 5 de junio de 2007, 11:48, Blogger Bishop said…

    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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