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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 -Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías- 2. La sangre derramada- |
| lunes, 12 de septiembre de 2005 |
Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
2. La sangre derramada
¡Que no quiero verla!
Dile a la luna que venga, que no quiero
ver la sangre de Ignacio sobre la arena.
¡Que no quiero verla!
La luna de par en par.
Caballo de nubes quietas,
y la plaza gris del sueño
con sauces en las barreras.
¡Que no quiero verla!
Que mi recuerdo se quema.
¡Avisad a los jazmines
con su blancura pequeña!
¡Que no quiero verla!
La vaca del viejo mundo
pasaba su triste lengua
sobre un hocico de sangres
derramadas en la arena,
y los toros de Guisando,
casi muerte y casi piedra,
mugieron como dos siglos
hartos de pisar la tierra.
No.
¡Que no quiero verla!
Por las gradas sube Ignacio con
toda su muerte a cuestas.
Buscaba el amanecer,
y el amanecer no era.
Busca su perfil seguro,
y el sueño lo desorienta.
Buscaba su hermoso cuerpo
y encontró su sangre abierta.
¡No me digáis que la vea!
No quiero sentir el chorro
cada vez con menos fuerza;
ese chorro que ilumina
los tendidos y se vuelca
sobre la pana y el cuero
de muchedumbre sedienta.
¡Quién me grita que me asome!
¡No me digáis que la vea !
No se cerraron sus ojos
cuando vio los cuernos cerca,
pero las madres terribles
levantaron la cabeza.
Y a través de las ganaderías,
hubo un aire de voces secretas
que gritaban a toros celestes,
mayorales de pálida niebla.
No hubo príncipe en Sevilla
que comparársele pueda,
ni espada como su espada,
ni corazón tan de veras.
Como un río de leones
su maravillosa fuerza,
y como un torso de mármol
su dibujada prudencia.
Aire de Roma andaluza
le doraba la cabeza
donde su risa era un nardo
de sal y de inteligencia.
¡Qué gran torero en la plaza!
¡Qué gran serrano en la sierra!
¡Qué blando con las espigas!
¡Qué duro con las espuelas!
¡Qué tierno con el rocío!
¡Qué deslumbrante en la feria!
¡Qué tremendo con las últimas
banderillas de tiniebla!
Pero ya duerme sin fin.
Ya los musgos y la hierba
abren con dedos seguros
la flor de su calavera.
Y su sangre ya viene cantando:
cantando por marismas y praderas,
resbalando por cuernos ateridos,
vacilando sin alma por la niebla,
tropezando con miles de pezuñas
corno una larga, oscura, triste lengua,
para formar un charco de agonía
junto al Guadalquivir de las estrellas.
¡Oh blanco muro de España!
¡Oh negro toro de pena!
¡Oh sangre aura de Ignacio!
¡Oh ruiseñor de sus venas
No.
¡Que no quiero verla!
Que no hay cáliz que la contenga,
que no hay golondrinas que se la beban,
no hay escarcha de luz que la enfríe,
no hay canto ni diluvio de azucenas,
no hay cristal que la cubra de plata.
No.
¡¡Yo no quiero verla!!
Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
2. The spilled blood
I will not see it!
Tell the moon to come,
for I do not want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.
I will not see it!
The moon wide open.
Horse of still clouds,
and the grey bull ring of dreams
with willows in the barreras.
I will not see it!
Let my memory kindle!
Warm the jasmines
of such minute whiteness!
I will not see it!
The cow of the ancient world
passed har sad tongue
over a snout of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
partly death and partly stone,
bellowed like two centuries
sated with threading the earth.
No.
I will not see it!
Ignacio goes up the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He sought for the dawn
but the dawn was no more.
He seeks for his confident profile
and the dream bewilders him
He sought for his beautiful body
and encountered his opened blood
Do not ask me to see it!
I do not want to hear it spurt
each time with less strength:
that spurt that illuminates
the tiers of seats, and spills
over the cordury and the leather
of a thirsty multiude.
Who shouts that I should come near!
Do not ask me to see it!
His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the terrible mothers
lifted their heads.
And across the ranches,
an air of secret voices rose,
shouting to celestial bulls,
herdsmen of pale mist.
There was no prince in Sevilla
who could compare to him,
nor sword like his sword
nor heart so true.
Like a river of lions
was his marvellous strength,
and like a marble toroso
his firm drawn moderation.
The air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his smile was a spikenard
of wit and intelligence.
What a great torero in the ring!
What a good peasant in the sierra!
How gentle with the sheaves!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling the fiesta!
How tremendous with the final
banderillas of darkness!
But now he sleeps without end.
Now the moss and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood comes out singing;
singing along marshes and meadows,
sliden on frozen horns,
faltering soulles in the mist
stoumbling over a thousand hoofs
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
close to the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh, white wall of Spain!
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh, nightingale of his veins!
No.
I will not see it!
No chalice can contain it,
no swallows can drink it,
no frost of light can cool it,
nor song nor deluge og white lilies,
no glass can cover mit with silver.
No.
I will not see it!Etiquetas: Federico García Lorca |
posted by Bishop @ 11:20  |
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| 4 Comments: |
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Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
2. The Spilt Blood
I don’t want to see it!
Tell the moon to come,
I don’t want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.
I don’t want to see it!
The moon wide open,
mare of still clouds,
and the grey bullring of dream
with osiers in the barriers.
I don’t want to see it!
How the memory burns me.
Inform the jasmines
with their tiny whiteness!
I don’t want to see it!
The heifer of the ancient world
licked her saddened tongue
over a snout-full of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
part death, and part stone,
bellowed like two centuries
weary of pawing the ground.
No.
I don’t want to see it!
Ignacio climbs the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He was seeking the dawn,
and the dawn was not there.
He seeks his perfect profile
and sleep disorients him.
He was seeking his lovely body
and met his gushing blood.
Don’t ask me to look!
I don’t want to feel the flow
any more, its ebbing force:
the flow that illuminates
the front rows and spills
over the leather and corduroy
of the thirsty masses.
Who calls me to appear?
Don’t ask me to look!
His eyes did not shut
when he saw the horns nearby,
though the terrifying mothers
lifted up their heads.
And sweeping the herds
came a breeze of secret voices,
ranchers of the pale mist, calling
to the bulls of the sky.
There was never a prince of Seville
to compare with him,
nor a sword like his sword,
nor a heart so true.
His marvellous strength
like a river of lions
and like a marble torso
the profile of his judgment.
The air of an Andalusian Rome
gilded his head,
while his laughter was a tuberose
of wit and intellect.
How great a bullfighter in the arena!
How fine a mountaineer in the sierra!
How gentle with ears of wheat!
How fierce with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling at the fair!
How tremendous with the last
banderillas of darkness!
But now his sleep is endless.
Now the mosses and grass
open with skilled fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood goes singing:
singing through marsh and meadows,
sliding down numbed horns,
wandering soulless in mist
encountering a thousand hooves
like a long dark tongue of sadness
to form a pool of agony
near the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh white wall of Spain!
O black bull of sorrow!
Oh hardened blood of Ignacio!
Oh nightingale of his veins!
No.
I don’t want to see it!
There’s no cup to hold it,
no swallow to drink it,
no frost of light to cool it,
no song, no deluge of lilies,
no crystal to silver it.
No.
I don’t want to see it!!
Translated by A. S. Kline
-
Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
II
The spilt blood
I cannot bear to see it!
Go and tell the moon to come,
that I cannot bear to see the blood
of Ignacio staining the sand.
I cannot bear to see it!
The moon sheds light far and wide.
A horse of still clouds,
and the grey dream-arena
with willows in the barriers.
I cannot bear to see it!
How the memory burns.
Look out for the jasmine
with its small white beads!
I cannot bear to see it!
The cow of the old world
licked with her sad tongue
her muzzle stained with the blood
that was spilt all over the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
as if dead, as if carved in stone,
bellowed like two centuries,
tired of treading the earth.
No.
I cannot bear to see it!
Ignacio climbs the steps
with all his death on his back.
He was looking for the dawn,
and there was no dawn.
He seeks the certain outline,
and his dream confuses him.
He was looking for his splendid body
and he met his flowing blood.
Do not tell me to look at it!
I do not want to feel the gush
weakening at every pulse;
that gush which lightens up
the benches, and flows out
over the corduroy and the leather
of the seated crowds.
Who is shouting for me to appear?
Do not tell me to glance at it!
His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the dreadful Mothers
raised their heads.
And across the cattle-lands
was heard a song of secret voices
calling to the heavenly bulls,
herdsmen of the pale mist.
There was no prince in Seville
who could compare with him,
no sword like his sword
nor any heart so stout.
Like a river of lions
his wonderful strength,
and like a marble bust
his chiselled wisdom.
An air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his laugh was a lily
of intelligence and charm.
What a great torero in the ring!
A fine peak in the mountain range!
How gentle with ears of corn!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling in the carnival!
How dreadful with the last
barbed darts of darkness!
But now he sleeps in endless sleep.
Now the mosses and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And his blood now comes singing,
singing in the marshes and the meadows,
slipping on icy horns,
hesitating lifeless in the mist,
stumbling with thousands of hooves,
like a broad, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
flowing into the Guadalquivir of the stars.
Oh, that white wall of Spain!
Oh, that black bull of pain!
Oh, the tough blood of Ignacio!
Oh, the nightingale of his veins!
No.
I cannot bear to see it!
Why is there no chalice to hold it,
why no swallows to lap it up;
why no frost of light to freeze it,
no song, no flood of arum lilies,
no crystal overlaying it with silver?
No.
I cannot bear to see it!
Translated by Brian Cole
-
LAMENT FOR IGNACIO SANCHEZ MEJÍAS
II
The Spilled Blood
I do not want to see it!
Tell the moon to come,
I do not want to see
Ignacio's blood on the sand.
I do not want to see it!
The moon is open wide.
Horse of quiet clouds,
grey bull-ring of a dream
with willows on the barriers.
I do not want to see it!
Because my memory burns.
Give warning to the jasmines
with their little whiteness.
I do not want to see it!
The cow of the ancient world
passed her sorrowful tongue
over a snout of blood
spilled out upon the sand.
The bulls of Guisando,
almost death, almost stone,
roared like two centuries
weary with treading earth.
No.
I do not want to see it!
Ignacio mounts the steps
with all his death on his back.
He looked for the dawn
and the dawn was not there.
He seeks his confident profile,
the dream disorients it.
He sought his beautiful body
and found his opened blood.
Don't say that I should see it!
I don't want to feel the jet
grow weaker all the time;
that jet of blood which lights
the terraces, which spills
on corduroy and leather
of a thirsty crowd.
Who calls me to appear!
Don't say that I should see it!
He did not close his eyes
seeing the horns come near
but they lifted their heads,
the terrible mothers.
Across the ranches rose
a breath of secret voices
that foremen of pale mist
called to celestial bulls.
There was no prince in Sevilla
could be compared to him,
no sword like his sword
and no heart of such truth.
Like a river of lions
his marvellous strength,
and like a marble torso
his outstanding wisdom.
An air of Andalucian Rome
made his head appear golden,
and his laugh was a spikenard
of wit and intelligence.
How great a fighter of bulls!
How good a mountaineer!
How gentle with the corn
and how hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling in the fair!
How tremendous with the last
banderillas of darkness!
But now he sleeps without end.
Now the moss and the grass
with sure fingers unclose
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood comes singing
through marshes and through meadows,
sliding down stiffened horns,
wandering soulless through fog,
stumbling on thousands of hooves
like a long, dark, sad tongue
to form a pool of agony
by starry Guadalquivir.
Oh white wall of Spain!
Oh black bull of sorrow!
Oh hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh nightingale of his veins!
No.
I do not want to see it!
There is no cup to hold it,
no swallows that can drink it,
no frost of light to chill it,
no song nor flood of lilies,
no glass to make it silver.
No.
I do not want to see it!!
Translated by Merryn Williams
-
LAMENT FOR IGNACIO SANCHEZ MEJÍAS
II
The spilt blood
I will not see it.
Say to the coming moon
I will not see the blood
of Ignacio in the sand.
I will not see it.
The moon spreads wide,
steed of quiet clouds,
over the arena grey with dreams
with willows on the walls.
I will not see it.
My memory burns.
Warn the jasmine
with its little whiteness.
I will not see it.
The ox of the old world
passed her sad tongue
over the bloody face
cast into the sand,
and Guisando's bulls
part death and part stone
bellowed like two ages
weary of pacing the earth.
No.
I will not see it.
Ignacio climbs the steps
bearing all his death.
He sought the dawn
and the dawn was gone.
He sought his clear profile
and dreams plucked him.
He sought his perfect body
and found his spilled blood.
Don't tell me I must see it.
I don't want to feel the spurt
each time less strong;
the spurt that lights
rows of seats and loops
over the corduroy and leather
of seated crowds.
Who calls to show me this?
Don't tell me I must see it.
His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns press in
but the terrible mothers
raised their heads.
Across from the cattle dealers
came the rumble of secret voices
calling to celestial bulls,
the herdsmen in pale mist.
There was no prince in Seville
that could compare with him,
nor sword like his sword
nor heart so full of truth.
Like a river of lions
his marvellous strength,
and like a marble body
his artist's solidity.
Air of Roman Andalusia
gilded his head
where his smile was a bloom
of salt and wisdom.
How great a matador in the ring,
how great a highlander in the mountains,
how mild toward the corn,
how hard with his spurs,
how tender with the dew,
how glittering at the fiesta,
how great among the last
banners of night!
Now sleeping endlessly.
The mosses and the grass
open with their sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And his blood comes singing,
singing over the swamps and meadows
slipping down frozen horns
shaking soulless toward the fog
falling over a thousand hoofs,
like a slow, sad, dark tongue
to form a pool of agony
beside the star-laid Guadalquivir.
Oh white wall of Spain,
black bull of suffering,
hard blood of Ignacio,
nightingale of his veins -
No.
I will not see it.
No chalice can hold it.
No swallows can drink it.
No frost can freeze it.
No song, nor flood of lilies.
No crystal can cover it in silver.
No.
I will not see it.
Translated by Mark Leech
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Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
2. The Spilt Blood
I don’t want to see it!
Tell the moon to come,
I don’t want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.
I don’t want to see it!
The moon wide open,
mare of still clouds,
and the grey bullring of dream
with osiers in the barriers.
I don’t want to see it!
How the memory burns me.
Inform the jasmines
with their tiny whiteness!
I don’t want to see it!
The heifer of the ancient world
licked her saddened tongue
over a snout-full of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
part death, and part stone,
bellowed like two centuries
weary of pawing the ground.
No.
I don’t want to see it!
Ignacio climbs the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He was seeking the dawn,
and the dawn was not there.
He seeks his perfect profile
and sleep disorients him.
He was seeking his lovely body
and met his gushing blood.
Don’t ask me to look!
I don’t want to feel the flow
any more, its ebbing force:
the flow that illuminates
the front rows and spills
over the leather and corduroy
of the thirsty masses.
Who calls me to appear?
Don’t ask me to look!
His eyes did not shut
when he saw the horns nearby,
though the terrifying mothers
lifted up their heads.
And sweeping the herds
came a breeze of secret voices,
ranchers of the pale mist, calling
to the bulls of the sky.
There was never a prince of Seville
to compare with him,
nor a sword like his sword,
nor a heart so true.
His marvellous strength
like a river of lions
and like a marble torso
the profile of his judgment.
The air of an Andalusian Rome
gilded his head,
while his laughter was a tuberose
of wit and intellect.
How great a bullfighter in the arena!
How fine a mountaineer in the sierra!
How gentle with ears of wheat!
How fierce with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling at the fair!
How tremendous with the last
banderillas of darkness!
But now his sleep is endless.
Now the mosses and grass
open with skilled fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood goes singing:
singing through marsh and meadows,
sliding down numbed horns,
wandering soulless in mist
encountering a thousand hooves
like a long dark tongue of sadness
to form a pool of agony
near the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh white wall of Spain!
O black bull of sorrow!
Oh hardened blood of Ignacio!
Oh nightingale of his veins!
No.
I don’t want to see it!
There’s no cup to hold it,
no swallow to drink it,
no frost of light to cool it,
no song, no deluge of lilies,
no crystal to silver it.
No.
I don’t want to see it!!
Translated by A. S. Kline