Spanish Poems


About this blog
Poemas en Inglés es un blog que pretende acercar poemas de lengua inglesa al castellano
"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?"


"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 -Llagas de amor-
sábado, 17 de septiembre de 2005
Llagas de amor

Esta luz, este fuego que devora.
Este paisaje gris que me rodea.
Este dolor por una sola idea.
Esta angustia de cielo, mundo y hora.

Este llanto de sangre que decora
lira sin pulso ya, lúbrica tea.
Este peso del mar que me golpea.
Este alacrán que por mi pecho mora.

Son guirnalda de amor, cama de herido,
donde sin sueño, sueño tu presencia
entre las ruinas de mi pecho hundido.

Y aunque busco la cumbre de prudencia
me da tu corazón valle tendido
con cicuta y pasión de amarga ciencia.

Wounds of love

This light, this flame that devours,
this grey country that surrounds me,
this pain from a sole idea,
this anguish of the sky, earth and hour,

this lament of blood that now adorns
a lyre with no pulse, lubricious torch,
this weight of sea that breaks on me,
this scorpion that lives inside my breast,

are a garland of love, bed of the wounded,
where dreamlessly, I dream of your presence
among the ruins of my sunken breast.

And though I seek the summit of discretion
your heart grants me a valley stretched below,
with hemlock and bitter wisdom’s passion.

Translated by A. S. Kline


posted by Bishop @ 10:00  
  • At 8 de junio de 2007, 8:58, Blogger Bishop said…


    This light, this devouring fire;
    this grey landscape that surrounds me;
    this grief for an obsessive idea;
    this anguish of heaven, world and time;

    this sorrowing blood that adorns
    the lyre now unplucked, lubricious torch;
    this weight of the sea that strikes me;
    this scorpion nesting in my heart;

    these are a garland of love, a bed for the wounded,
    where without sleeping I dream you are here
    among the ruins of my stricken breast.

    And although I look for total safety,
    your heart gives me a valley spread out
    with hemlock and passion for bitter knowledge.

    Translated by Brian Cole

  • At 8 de junio de 2007, 8:59, Blogger Bishop said…


    This light that consumes, this fire that devours,
    This land of grey surrounding me with fear,
    This sorrow fathered by a lone idea,
    This anguish of sky, world, and dwindling hours,

    This blood lament which graces, gives art
    To a pulseless lyre, a lusty firebrand,
    This heavy ocean pounding me to sand,
    This scorpion lurking deep within my heart

    Are all love's wreath, a wounded man's bed,
    Where without sleep's dreams, I dream your presence
    Amidst the ruins of my shattered head.

    And though I yearn for the peaks of prudence
    Your heart conjures for me a valley spread
    With hemlock and passion of harsh science.

    Translated by Sebastian Doggart

  • At 8 de junio de 2007, 9:01, Blogger Bishop said…


    This light, this fire, this quick devouring lime;
    This grey and empty landscape that surrounds me;
    This torment of one sole idea that hounds me;
    This anguish in the heavens, the world and time;

    These tears of blood that decorate the strings
    Of my mute lyre, bright torch whose flame should light me;
    These batterings of a heavy sea that smite me;
    This scorpion living in my breast that stings;

    These are love's garland, the wounded victim's bed
    Where sleepless I dream that with me you remain
    Among the ruins of the heart you bled.

    I seek the heights of wisdom, but in vain:
    Deep in the valley of your heart I'm fed
    On hemlock, bitter knowledge bought with pain.

    Translated by John Edmunds

  • At 8 de junio de 2007, 9:02, Blogger Bishop said…


    This light, this devouring fire.
    This landscape around me, grey forever.
    This pain on account of a single idea.
    This anguish of sky, of the world, the hour.

    This weeping of blood adorning
    A lyre now stilled, torch of longing.
    This weight of the sea's endless pounding.
    This scorpion which makes my heart its dwelling.

    They are love's wreaths, a sick man's bed,
    Where I, sleepless, dream of your presence
    Amongst the ruins of a heart half dead.

    And though I seek the heights of prudence,
    You offer me only the valley ahead,
    And hemlock and longing for bitter experience.

    Translated by Gwynne Edwards

  • At 9 de junio de 2007, 1:26, Blogger Bishop said…


    I'm swallowed by this light, by this fire,
    By this grey landscape that's my crime,
    By the endless pain of one idea,
    By this anguish that's heaven, earth and time,

    By the drip drip drip of blood's lament
    Across rhythmless strings, thus kindling a flame,
    By the maelstrom sea in its torment,
    By the scorpion that is my heart's game;

    These my garland of love, on which I lie wounded,
    And where without dreams, I dream of your presence
    Plumbing the depths that my lone heart has sounded.

    And though I might crave the summits of prudence
    In the vale of your passion such thoughts are dumbfounded
    Laid low by hemlock and a lust that's dark science.

    Translated by James Flint

  • At 9 de junio de 2007, 1:27, Blogger Bishop said…


    This light, this devouring fire,
    This grey landscape encaging me.
    This sorrow born of one idea.
    This anguished sky, world and hour.

    This grieving blood, this dandy art,
    Lyre without a pulse now, lascivious torch.
    This bull sea goring my flesh.
    This scorpion thriving in my heart.

    These are love's garland, bed of a wounded man
    Where I lie sleepless, dreaming of you
    In the ruins of my shattered soul.

    And though I'd climb a peak of wisdom
    Your heart's valley is a fearsome view
    Of hemlock, bitter passion encompassing all.

    Translated by Brendan Kennelly

  • At 9 de junio de 2007, 1:29, Blogger Bishop said…


    This brilliant light and fire which devour.
    This grey expanse by which I am surrounded.
    This sorrow which on one idea is founded.
    This agony of heaven, world and hour.

    These tears of blood with which is dressed
    a lyre silent still, a torch of lust.
    This sea of which I feel the thrust.
    This scorpion which in my heart makes its nest.

    They are love's garland, and the wounded's rest,
    where, sleepless, I create you in a dream
    amongst the ruins of my crushed-in breast;

    and though I seek discretion's height supreme
    your heart now gives me this vast vale oppressed
    by passion's bitter skill, where hemlocks teem.

    Translated by John Kerr

  • At 9 de junio de 2007, 1:30, Blogger Bishop said…


    This light, this fire that devours me,
    this landscape that surrounds me,
    this sorrow for one idea, and one idea only,
    this anguish of sky, world, and extinguishing hours,

    this cry of blood that adorns
    this dying lyre, this restless pyre,
    this ocean weight that sends me down,
    this scorpion that ravages my heart,
    seeking a place to rest,

    aching garland of love, bed of the wounded,
    where, sleepless, I dream of your presence
    among the ruins of a barren heart.

    And though I look for the height of prudence,
    your heart only offers
    a valley tendered with hemlock
    and the bitter passion of science.

    Translated by Caridad Svich

  • At 9 de junio de 2007, 1:32, Blogger Bishop said…


    This light, this unquenchable fire that consumes me,
    This scalded black and smoking wasteland all round me,
    This one burning obsession that confounds me,
    These limits of earth, sky and time which entomb me,

    These tears of molten blood which gild and untune me
    And my lubricious lyre, a useless tool compounding me
    To this barren shore where wave upon wave pounds me,
    This scorpion nurtured in my chest which dooms me,

    These are thorns in the crown of the love which in bed
    I wear through sleepless nights as I dream that you rest,
    Amidst the ruins of my heart, your lovely head,

    And though wisdom dictates that aloofness is best,
    The thought of you drags me down to the dark sea bed
    With the bittersweet hemlock of love in my breast.

    Translated by Colin Teevan

  • At 9 de junio de 2007, 1:33, Blogger Bishop said…


    This light, this fire that devours.
    This grey landscape that surrounds me.
    This obsession that torments me.
    Anguish of heaven, world and hours.

    This sobbing of the blood, draped round
    a broken lyre, a slippery brand.
    This sea which pounds me with its weight.
    This scorpion dwelling in my heart.

    Are all love's garland, and a bed,
    where, without sleep, I try to rally,
    and dream, amid the ruins, of your presence.

    And though I seek the height of prudence
    give me your heart, a spread-out valley
    of hemlock and desire for bitter fruit.

    Translated by Merryn Williams

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