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 -Preciosa y el aire-
jueves, 15 de septiembre de 2005
Preciosa y el aire

A Dámaso Alonso

Su luna de pergamino
Preciosa tocando viene
por un anfibio sendero
de cristales y laureles.
El silencio sin estrellas,
huyendo del sonsonete,
cae donde el mar bate y canta
su noche llena de peces.
En los picos de la sierra
los carabineros duermen
guardando las blancas torres
donde viven los ingleses.
Y los gitanos del agua
levantan por distraerse,
glorietas de caracolas y
ramas de pino verde.

Su luna de pergamino
Preciosa tocando viene.
Al verla se ha levantado
el viento que nunca duerme.
San Cristobalón desnudo,
lleno de lenguas celestes,
mira a la niña tocando
una dulce gaita ausente.

Niña, deja que levante
tu vestido para verte.
Abre en mis dedos antiguos
la rosa azul de tu vientre.

Preciosa tira el pandero
y corre sin detenerse.
El viento-hombrón la persigue
con una espada caliente.

Frunce su rumor el mar.
Los olivos palidecen.
Cantan las flautas de umbría
y el liso gong de la nieve.

¡Preciosa, corre, Preciosa,
que te coge el viento verde!
¡Preciosa, corre, Preciosa!
¡Míralo por donde viene!
Sátiro de estrellas bajas
con sus lenguas relucientes.

Preciosa, llena de miedo,
entra en la casa que tiene,
más arriba de los pinos,
el cónsul de los ingleses.

Asustados por los gritos
tres carabineros vienen,
sus negras capas ceñidas
y los gorros en las sienes.

El inglés da a la gitana
un vaso de tibia leche,
y una copa de ginebra
que Preciosa no se bebe.

Y mientras cuenta, llorando,
su aventura a aquella gente,
en las tejas de pizarra el
viento, furioso, muerde.


Preciosa and the Breeze

Preciosa comes playing
her moon of parchment
on an amphibious path
of crystals and laurels.
The silence without stars
fleeing from the sound,
falls to the sea that pounds and sings,
its night filled with fish.
On the peaks of the sierra
the carabineers are sleeping
guarding the white turrets
where the English live.
And the gypsies of the water
build, to amuse themselves,
bowers, out of snails
and twigs of green pine.

Preciosa comes playing
her moon of parchment.
Seeing her, the wind rises,
the one that never sleeps.
Saint Christopher, naked
full of celestial tongues
gazes at the child playing
a sweet distracted piping.

- Child, let me lift your dress
so that I can see you.
Open the blue rose of your womb
with my ancient fingers.

Preciosa hurls her tambourine
and runs without stopping.
The man-in-the-wind pursues her
with a burning sword.

The sea gathers its murmurs.
The olive-trees whiten.
The flutes of the shadows sound,
and the smooth gong of the snow.

Run, Preciosa, run,
lest the green wind catch you!
Run, Preciosa, run!
See where he comes!
The satyr of pale stars
with his shining tongues.

Preciosa, full of fear,
way beyond the pines,
enters the house that belongs,
to the English Consul.

Alarmed at her cries
three carabineers come,
their black capes belted,
and their caps over their brows.

The Englishman gives the gypsy girl
a glass of lukewarm milk,
and a cup of gin that
Preciosa does not drink.

And while, with tears, she tells
those people of her ordeal,
the angry wind bites the air
above the roofs of slate.

Translated by A. S. Kline

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 17:00  
2 Comments:
  • At 5 de junio de 2007, 10:38, Blogger Bishop said…

    The gypsy and the wind

    Playing her parchment moon
    Preciosa comes
    along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
    The starless silence, fleeing
    from her rhythmic tambourine,
    falls where the sea whips and sings,
    his night filled with silvery swarms.
    High atop the mountain peaks
    the sentinels are weeping;
    they guard the tall white towers
    of the English consulate.
    And gypsies of the water
    for their pleasure erect
    little castles of conch shells
    and arbors of greening pine.

    Playing her parchment moon
    Preciosa comes.
    The wind sees her and rises,
    the wind that never slumbers.
    Naked Saint Christopher swells,
    watching the girl as he plays
    with tongues of celestial bells
    on an invisible bagpipe.

    Gypsy, let me lift your skirt
    and have a look at you.
    Open in my ancient fingers
    the blue rose of your womb.

    Preciosa throws the tambourine
    and runs away in terror.
    But the virile wind pursues her
    with his breathing and burning sword.

    The sea darkens and roars,
    while the olive trees turn pale.
    The flutes of darkness sound,
    and a muted gong of the snow.

    Preciosa, run, Preciosa!
    Or the green wind will catch you!
    Preciosa, run, Preciosa!
    And look how fast he comes!
    A satyr of low-born stars
    with their long and glistening tongues.

    Preciosa, filled with fear,
    now makes her way to that house
    beyond the tall green pines
    where the English consul lives.

    Alarmed by the anguished cries,
    three riflemen come running,
    their black capes tightly drawn,
    and berets down over their brow.

    The Englishman gives the gypsy
    a glass of tepid milk
    and a shot of Holland gin
    which Preciosa does not drink.

    And while she tells them, weeping,
    of her strange adventure,
    the wind furiously gnashes
    against the slate roof tiles.

    Translated by Michael Dewell

     
  • At 5 de junio de 2007, 10:47, Blogger Bishop said…

    Preciosa and the Wind

    Dallying with her parchment moon
    Preciosa meanders along
    an amphibious tidewater
    of laurel and glass.
    Silence without stars
    flees from her trembling noise,
    falling to where it is the Night
    of the Fish, to where the Ocean is singing.
    The Civil Guards drowse
    on mountain tops,
    watching the white towers
    where the Ingleses live.
    And the river-gypsies raise
    nurseries of water plants
    and branches of green pine
    trying to pass the time.

    Dallying with her parchment moon
    Preciosa meanders along.
    The somnolent wind,
    seeing her, starts to rise:
    rude, naked Saint Christopher
    awash with celestial tongues
    watches the child play
    a sweet, dreamy tune.

    "Let me see you, girl-child:
    let me lift up your frock.
    Let me open in my old fingers
    the blue rose below your belly."

    Preciosa flees, flinging away
    her tambourine. His hot
    sword swinging, the wind-
    ghast pursues her.

    The Ocean strangles its sound.
    The olive trees pale.
    Dim flutes sing out
    below the smooth gong of snow.
    Hurry, Preciosa, hurry!
    Or the dirty, green wind will get you.

    Run, Preciosa, run!
    The wind is close behind,
    the satyr of the setting stars
    with his shimmering tongues.

    Distressed Preciosa
    goes into the house
    of the Ingleses consul
    high above the pines.

    Frightened by her cries,
    the three Civil Guards arrive,
    black capes wrapped tight,
    their caps pulled low.

    The Inglés gives the gypsy girl
    a glass full of mild milk
    and a tumbler full of gin
    to which Preciosa refuses.

    And while she tells her story
    and cries to the Consul,
    along the slate tiles of the roof,
    the wind, furious, gnaws and bites.

    Translated by Zachary Jean Chartkoff

     
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