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 -Romance de la luna-
martes, 13 de septiembre de 2005
Romance de la luna

La luna vino a la fragua
con su polisón de nardos.
El niño la mira mira.
El niño la está mirando.

En el aire conmovido
mueve la luna sus brazos
y enseña, lúbrica y pura,
sus senos de duro estaño.

Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
harían con tu corazón
collares y anillos blancos.

Niño déjame que baile.
Cuando vengan los gitanos,
te encontrarán sobre el yunque
con los ojillos cerrados.

Huye luna, luna, luna,
que ya siento sus caballos.
Niño déjame, no pises,
mi blancor almidonado.

El jinete se acercaba
tocando el tambor del llano.
Dentro de la fragua el niño,
tiene los ojos cerrados.

Por el olivar venían,
bronce y sueño, los gitanos.
Las cabezas levantadas
y los ojos entornados.

¡Cómo canta la zumaya,
ay como canta en el árbol!
Por el cielo va la luna
con el niño de la mano.

Dentro de la fragua lloran,
dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
el aire la está velando.


Ballad of the moon

The moon came into the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.
The little boy stares at her, stares.
The boy is staring hard.

In the shaken air
the moon moves her amrs,
and shows lubricious and pure,
her breasts of hard tin.

"Moon, moon, moon, run!
If the gypsies come,
they will use your heart
to make white necklaces and rings."

"Let me dance, my little one.
When the gypsies come,
they'll find you on the anvil
with your lively eyes closed tight.

"Moon, moon, moon, run!
I can feelheir horses come."
"Let me be, my little one,
don't step on me, all starched and white!"

Closer comes the the horseman,
drumming on the plain.
The boy is in the forge;
his eyes are closed.

Through the olive grove
come the gypsies, dream and bronze,
their heads held high,
their hooded eyes.

Oh, how the night owl calls,
calling, calling from its tree!
The moon is climbing through the sky
with the child by the hand.

They are crying in the forge,
all the gypsies, shouting, crying.
The air is veiwing all, views all.
The air is at the viewing.

Translated by Will Kirkland

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 14:55  
3 Comments:
  • At 5 de junio de 2007, 0:45, Blogger Bishop said…

    Song of the Moon, Moon

    to Conchita García Lorca


    The moon came to the forge
    with her bustle of nards.
    The boy watches the sight.
    The boy is watching her.

    In the trembling air
    the moon moves her arm
    and lewd and pure shows
    her breasts of hard tin.

    "Run Moon, Moon, Moon.
    If the gypsies came
    they would twist your heart
    into chains and rings of white."

    "Boy, let me dance.
    When the gypsies come,
    they'll find you on the anvil,
    fast asleep."

    "Run Moon, Moon, Moon,
    because I hear their horses now."
    "Boy, leave my whiteness
    unmarred."

    The rider approached
    tapping his tamborine.
    Inside the forge was the boy,
    with his eyes closed.

    Through the olive grove they came,
    all bronze and dreams, the gypsies.
    Their heads lifted up,
    their eyes half-shut.

    "How the owl sings, Ay!
    how the tawny owl sings in the tree!"
    Through the sky the moon takes
    the boy by the hand.

    Inside the forge, the gypsies
    cry and give shouts.
    The wind guards, it guards.
    The wind is guarding it.

    Translated by Ben Harnett

     
  • At 5 de junio de 2007, 10:54, Blogger Bishop said…

    Ballad of the Moon

    The moon came to the forge
    in her bustle of spikenard.
    The boy stares at her.
    The boy is staring hard.

    In the feverish air
    the moon sways her arms,
    showing, lewd and spotless,
    her cruel, tin breasts.

    "Run away, moon, moon, moon.
    If the gypsies find us,
    they would cut out your heart
    to make necklaces, silvery rings."

    "Child, let me dance.
    When the gypsies come,
    they will find you on the anvil
    with your tiny eyes shut tight."

    "Run away, moon, moon, moon.
    I can hear their horses."
    "Child, let me be, don't tread
    on my shiny, starched white."

    The rider was galloping closer
    beating upon the drum of the plain.
    Inside the forge the boy
    had his eyes shut tight.

    Across the olive grove, bronze
    and dreams, the gypsies arrived.
    Their heads held high,
    their eyes half shut.

    Ai, how the night owl sings!
    How she sings on the night tree!
    The moon goes through the sky
    leading a boy by the hand.

    In the forge the gypsies
    weep and sob aloud.
    The breeze is watching, watching.
    The breeze keeps watch all night long.

    Translated by Zachary Jean Chartkoff

     
  • At 6 de junio de 2007, 5:07, Blogger Bishop said…

    Romance de la Luna, Luna

    The moon comes to the forge,
    in her creamy-white petticoat.
    The child stares, stares.
    The child is staring at her.

    In the breeze, stirred,
    the moon stirs her arms
    shows, pure, voluptuous,
    her breasts of hard tin.

    - ‘Away, luna, luna, luna.
    If the gypsies come here,
    they’ll take your heart for
    necklaces and white rings.’

    - ‘Child, let me dance now.
    When the gypsies come here,
    they’ll find you on the anvil,
    with your little eyes closed.’

    - ‘Away, luna, luna, luna,
    because I hear their horses.’
    - ‘Child, go, but do not tread
    on my starched whiteness.’

    The riders are coming nearer
    beating on the plain, drumming.
    Inside the forge, the child
    has both his eyes closed.

    Through the olive trees they come,
    bronze, and dream, the gypsies,
    their heads held upright,
    their eyes half-open.

    How the owl is calling.
    Ay, it calls in the branches!
    Through the sky goes the moon,
    gripping a child’s fingers.

    In the forge the gypsies
    are shouting and weeping.
    The breeze guards, guards.
    The breeze guards it.

    Translated by A. S. Kline

     
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