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Poemas en Inglés es un blog que pretende acercar poemas de lengua inglesa al castellano
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Augusto Monterroso

-La palabra mágica-

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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 -Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías- 3. Cuerpo presente-
lunes, 12 de septiembre de 2005
Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

3. Cuerpo presente

La piedra es una frente donde los sueños gimen
sin tener agua curve ni cipreses helados.
La piedra es una espalda para llevar al tiempo
con árboles de lágrimas y cintas y planetas.

Yo he visto lluvias grises correr hacia las olas
levantando sus tiernos brazos acribillados,
para no ser cazadas por la piedra tendida
que desata sus miembros sin empapar la sangre.

Porque la piedra coge simientes y nublados,
esqueletos de alondras y lobos de penumbra;
pero no da sonidos, ni cristales, ni fuego,
sino plazas y plazas y otras plazas sin muros.

Ya esta sobre la piedra Ignacio el bien nacido.
Ya se acabó; ¿qué pasa? Contemplad su figura:
la muerte le ha cubierto de pálidos azufres
y le ha puesto cabeza de oscuro minotauro.

Ya se acabó. La lluvia penetra por su boca.
El aire como loco deja su pecho hundido,
y el Amor, empapado con lágrimas de nieve,
se calienta en la cumbre de las ganaderías.

¿Qué dicen? Un silencio con hedores reposa.
Estamos con un cuerpo presente que se esfuma,
con una forma clara que tuvo ruiseñores
y la vemos llenarse de agujeros sin fondo.

¿Quién arruga el sudario? ¡No es verdad lo que dice!
Aquí no canta nadie, ni flora en el rincón,
ni pica las espuelas, ni espanta la serpiente:
aquí no quiero mas que los ojos redondos
para ver ese cuerpo sin posible descanso.

Yo quiero ver aquí los hombres de voz dura.
Los que doman caballos y dominan los ríos:
los hombres que les suena el esqueleto y cantan
con una boca llena de sol y pedernales.

Aquí quiero yo verlos. Delante de la piedra.
Delante de este cuerpo con las riendas quebradas.
Yo quiero que me enseñen dónde está la salida
para este capitán atado por la muerte.

Yo quiero que me enseñen un llanto como un río
que tenga dulces nieblas y profundas orillas,
para llevar el cuerpo de Ignacio y que se pierda
sin escuchar el doble resuello de los toros.

Que se pierda en la plaza redonda de la luna
que finge cuando niña doliente res inmóvil;
que se pierda en la noche sin canto de los peces
y en la maleza blanca del humo congelado.

No quiero que le tapen la cara con pañuelos
para que se acostumbre con la muerte que lleva.
Vete, Ignacio: No sientas el caliente bramido.
Duerme, vuela, reposa: ¡También se muere el mar!


Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

3. The laid out body

Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve
without curving waters and frozen cypresses.
Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time
with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.

I have seen grey showers move towards the waves
raising their tender riddle arms,
to avoid being caught by lying stone
which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.

For stone gathers seed and clouds,
skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:
but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.

Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:
death has covered him with pale sulphur
and has place on him the head of dark minotaur.

All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth.
The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,
and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,
warms itself on the peak of the herd.

What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
We are here with a body laid out which fades away,
with a pure shape which had nightingales
and we see it being filled with depthless holes.

Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!
Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,
nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.
Here I want nothing else but the round eyes
to see his body without a chance of rest.

Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
with a mouth full of sun and flint.

Here I want to see them. Before the stone.
Before this body with broken reins.
I want to know from them the way out
for this captain stripped down by death.

I want them to show me a lament like a river
wich will have sweet mists and deep shores,
to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself
without hearing the double planting of the bulls.

Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon
which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,
loses itself in the night without song of fishes
and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.

I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs
that he may get used to the death he carries.
Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing
Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 11:10  
4 Comments:
  • At 5 de junio de 2007, 19:05, Blogger Bishop said…

    Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

    3. The Body Laid-Out

    The stone is a brow where dreams groan,
    holding no winding water or frozen cypress.
    The stone is a shoulder to bear time
    with trees of tears, ribbons, planets.

    I have watched grey rains running to the waves
    lifting their fragile, riddled arms,
    so as not to be caught by the outstretched stone
    that unties their limbs without drinking their blood.

    Because stone collects seeds and banks of cloud,
    skeletons of larks and twilight wolves,
    but gives up no sounds, crystals, fire, only bullrings
    and bullrings, and more bullrings with no walls.

    Now Ignacio the well-born lies on the stone.
    Now it’s done. What passes? Contemplate his form!
    Death has covered him with pale sulphur
    given him the head of a dark minotaur.

    Now it’s done! Rain penetrates his mouth.
    Air rises mad from his sunken chest,
    and love, soaked with tears of snow,
    warms himself on the heights among herds.

    What are they saying? A stinking silence settles.
    We are with a laid-out corpse that vanishes,
    with a clear form that held nightingales
    and we see it riddled with countless holes.

    Who disturbs the shroud? It’s not true what he says!
    No one’s singing here, or weeps in a corner,
    or pricks his spurs, or frightens off snakes:
    here I want nothing but open eyes
    to see that body that can’t rest.

    I want to see the men with harsh voices here.
    Those who tame horses and subdue rivers:
    the men who rattle their bones and sing
    with a mouth full of sun and flints.

    I want to see them here. In front of the stone.
    In front of this body with broken sinews.
    I want them to show me where there’s an exit
    for this captain bound by death.

    I want them to show me grief like a river
    that has sweet mists and steep banks
    to bear Ignacio’s body, and let him be lost
    without hearing the double snort of the bulls.

    Let him be lost in the moon’s round bullring
    that imitates, new, a bull stilled by pain.
    let him be lost in the night with no singing of fish
    and in the white weeds of congealed smoke.

    I don’t want them to cover his face with a cloth,
    so he can grow accustomed to death that he bears.
    Go, Ignacio: don’t feel the hot bellowing.
    Sleep, soar, rest: even the ocean dies!

    Translated by A. S. Kline

     
  • At 7 de junio de 2007, 20:44, Blogger Bishop said…

    Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

    III
    In the Body's Presence

    The stone is a brow where dreams mourn
    without curving water, nor frozen cypresses.
    The stone is a shoulder to lift the hour
    with trees of tears, ribbons and planets.

    I have seen grey rains run to the waves
    raising their tender, riddling arms
    so as not to be caught by stretched stone
    that loosens their limbs and leaves the blood.

    Stone gathers seed and clouds,
    lark skeletons, wolves of shadow,
    but never gives back sound, crystal or fire -
    only arenas, arenas, arenas unwalled.

    Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
    He is ended. What is happening? Regard his features:
    death has cloaked him in pale sulphur,
    left him a dark minotaur's head.

    He is ended. Rain penetrates his mouth.
    The maddened air rises from his sunken chest
    and Love, drenched in tears of snow
    warms itself among the mountain cattle.

    What do they say? A stinking silence settles,
    we are in a body's presence, which diminishes
    from a clear form that held nightingales;
    we see it pierced with infinite holes.

    Who crumples the shroud? It's not true what he says!
    Here no one sings, nor weeps in the corner,
    nor pricks the spurs, nor drives the serpent off:
    here I want no more than these round eyes
    to see this body that cannot rest.

    I want to see here the hard-voiced men,
    those that break horses, rule rivers:
    the men of well-tuned bones, who sing
    with mouths full of flint and sun.

    I want to see them here, before the stone,
    before this body of broken ties.
    I want them to show me the way out
    for this captain bound by death.

    I want them to teach me a river of mourning
    with soft mists and high banks
    to take Ignacio's body where it disappears,
    not hearing the bulls' rapid snorts,

    disappears, in the round arena of the moon
    that in its youth seems a still, wounded beast,
    disappears, in night beyond the fishes' unsung night,
    in the weed of frozen smoke.

    I don't want them to drape his face in cloth
    and accustom him to the death he bears.
    Go, Ignacio. Don't feel the beast's hot roar.
    Sleep. Fly. Rest. The sea also dies.

    Translated by Brian Cole

     
  • At 7 de junio de 2007, 20:56, Blogger Bishop said…

    LAMENT FOR IGNACIO SANCHEZ MEJÍAS

    III
    The Body Laid Out

    The stone is a forehead on which dreams are moaning,
    no winding water, no frozen evergreens.
    The stone is a shoulder to carry time
    with trees of tears, and ribbons, and planets.

    I have seen grey rain flow towards the waves,
    lifting its tender riddled arms,
    not to be caught by the outstretched stone
    which loosens limbs, and doesn't soak up the blood.

    For the stone gathers seeds and dark clouds,
    larks' skeletons, and wolves of shadow;
    but it gives no sound, neither crystals nor fire,
    only bull-rings, bull-rings, bull-rings without walls.

    Now the well-born Ignacio lies on the stone.
    It is finished; what is happening? Look at him:
    death has covered him with pale sulphurs,
    and placed on him a dark minotaur's head.

    It is finished. Rain penetrates his mouth.
    Air leaves his collapsed chest like a mad thing,
    and Love, sodden with tears of snow,
    warms itself above the herds of cattle.

    What are they saying? A bad-smelling silence.
    We are with a laid-out body that is fading,
    with a noble form once rich in nightingales,
    and we see it filled with bottomless holes.

    Who is wrinkling the shroud? What he says is not true!
    No one may sing here, or weep in a corner,
    or prick his spurs, or frighten the snake:
    here I want only wide-open eyes
    to see that body; rest is impossible.

    Here I want to see men with strong voices,
    who tame horses and change the course of rivers:
    men whose skeletons rattle and who sing
    with a mouth full of sun and flints.

    Here I want to see them. In front of the stone.
    In front of this broken-reined body.
    I want them to teach me where there is a way out
    for this captain bound by death.

    I want them to teach me a lament like a river
    which has sweet mists and deep banks,
    to bear Ignacio's body, and let him disappear
    without hearing the bulls' double panting.

    Let him disappear in the round bull-ring of the moon
    which feigns when young a sad, unmoving beast;
    let him disappear by night without the singing of fish
    and in the frozen smoke's white thicket.

    I do not want his face to be covered with handkerchieves,
    I want him to grow used to his death.
    Go, Ignacio. Do not feel the hot roaring.
    Sleep, soar, rest! The sea dies too!

    Translated by Merryn Williams

     
  • At 8 de junio de 2007, 6:56, Blogger Bishop said…

    LAMENT FOR IGNACIO SANCHEZ MEJÍAS

    III
    In the Body's Presence

    The stone is a brow where dreams mourn
    without curving water, nor frozen cypresses.
    The stone is a shoulder to lift the hour
    with trees of tears, ribbons and planets.

    I have seen grey rains run to the waves
    raising their tender, riddling arms
    so as not to be caught by stretched stone
    that loosens their limbs and leaves the blood.

    Stone gathers seed and clouds,
    lark skeletons, wolves of shadow,
    but never gives back sound, crystal or fire -
    only arenas, arenas, arenas unwalled.

    Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
    He is ended. What is happening? Regard his features:
    death has cloaked him in pale sulphur,
    left him a dark minotaur's head.

    He is ended. Rain penetrates his mouth.
    The maddened air rises from his sunken chest
    and Love, drenched in tears of snow
    warms itself among the mountain cattle.

    What do they say? A stinking silence settles,
    we are in a body's presence, which diminishes
    from a clear form that held nightingales;
    we see it pierced with infinite holes.

    Who crumples the shroud? It's not true what he says!
    Here no one sings, nor weeps in the corner,
    nor pricks the spurs, nor drives the serpent off:
    here I want no more than these round eyes
    to see this body that cannot rest.

    I want to see here the hard-voiced men,
    those that break horses, rule rivers:
    the men of well-tuned bones, who sing
    with mouths full of flint and sun.

    I want to see them here, before the stone,
    before this body of broken ties.
    I want them to show me the way out
    for this captain bound by death.

    I want them to teach me a river of mourning
    with soft mists and high banks
    to take Ignacio's body where it disappears,
    not hearing the bulls' rapid snorts,

    disappears, in the round arena of the moon
    that in its youth seems a still, wounded beast,
    disappears, in night beyond the fishes' unsung night,
    in the weed of frozen smoke.

    I don't want them to drape his face in cloth
    and accustom him to the death he bears.
    Go, Ignacio. Don't feel the beast's hot roar.
    Sleep. Fly. Rest. The sea also dies.

    Translated by Mark Leech

     
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