Spanish Poems





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About this blog
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 guardia civil española-
jueves, 15 de septiembre de 2005
Romance de la guardia civil española

Los caballos negros son.
Las herraduras son negras.
Sobre las capes relucen
manchas de tinta y de cera.
Tienen, por eso no lloran,
de plomo las calaveras.
Con el alma de charol
vienen por la carretera.
Jorobados y nocturnos,
por donde animan ordenan
silencios de goma oscura
y miedos de fina arena.
Pasan, si quieren pasar,
y ocultan en la cabeza
una vaga astronomía
de pistolas inconcretas.

¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
En las esquinas banderas.
La luna y la calabaza
con las guindas en conserva.
¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
¿Quién te vio y no te recuerda?
Ciudad de dolor y almizcle,
con las torres de canela.

Cuando llegaba la noche,
noche que noche nochera,
los gitanos en sus fraguas
forjaban soles y flechas.
Un caballo malherido,
llamaba a todas las puertas.
Gallos de vidrio cantaban
por Jerez de la Frontera.
El viento vuelve desnudo
la esquina de la sorpresa,
en la noche platinoche
noche, que noche nochera.

La Virgen y San José,
perdieron sus castañuelas,
y buscan a los gitanos
para ver si las encuentran.
La Virgen viene vestida
con un traje de alcaldesa
de papel de chocolate
con los collares de almendras.
San José mueve los brazos
bajo una capa de seda.
Detrás va Pedro Domecq
con tres sultanes de Persia.
La media luna soñaba
un éxtasis de cigüeña.
Estandartes y faroles
invaden las azoteas.
Por los espejos sollozan
bailarinas sin caderas.
Agua y sombra, sombra y agua
por Jerez de la Frontera.

¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
En las esquinas banderas.
Apaga tus verdes luces
que viene la benemérita.
¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
¿Quién te vio y no te recuerda?
Dejadla lejos del mar, sin
peines para sus crenchas.

Avanzan de dos en fondo
a la ciudad de la fiesta.
Un rumor de siemprevivas
invade las cartucheras.
Avanzan de dos en fondo.
Doble nocturno de tela.
El cielo, se les antoja,
una vitrina de espuelas.

La ciudad libre de miedo,
multiplicaba sus puertas.
Cuarenta guardias civiles
entran a saco por ellas.
Los relojes se pararon,
y el coñac de las botellas
se disfrazó de noviembre
para no infundir sospechas.
Un vuelo de gritos largos
se levantó en las veletas.
Los sables cortan las brisas
que los cascos atropellan.
Por las calles de penumbra
huyen las gitanas viejas
con los caballos dormidos
y las orzas de monedas.
Por las calles empinadas
suben las capas siniestras,
dejando atrás fugaces
remolinos de tijeras.
En el portal de Belén
los gitanos se congregan.
San José, lleno de heridas,
amortaja a una doncella.
Tercos fusiles agudos
por toda la noche suenan.
La Virgen cura a los niños
con salivilla de estrella.
Pero la Guardia Civil
avanza sembrando hogueras,
donde joven y desnuda
la imaginación se quema.
Rosa la de los Camborios,
gime sentada en su puerta
con sus dos pechos cortados
puestos en una bandeja.
Y otras muchachas corrían
perseguidas por sus trenzas,
en un aire donde estallan
rosas de pólvora negra.
Cuando todos los tejados
eran surcos en la sierra,
el alba meció sus hombros
en largo perfil de piedra.

¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
La Guardia Civil se aleja
por un túnel de silencio
mientras las llamas te cercan.
¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
¿Quién te vio y no te recuerda?
Que te busquen en mi frente.
Juego de luna y arena.


Ballad of the spanish civil guard

Black are the horses,
their horses are shod in black.
On their capes glitter
stains of ink and wax.
This is why they do not weep:
their skulls are cut in lead.
They ride the highways
with patent leather souls.
Hunchbacked and nocturnal,
they ride forth and command
the silences of dark rubber
and the fears like fine sand.
They go where they want,
and hide in their skulls
vague astronomical ideas,
amorphous pistols.

Ai, city of gypsies!
Corners hung with colors.
The moon and pumpkins
and cherries in sweet preserve.
Ai, city of gypsies!
Who could see you and not recall?
City of musks and agony,
city of cinnamon towers.

As the night was approaching
the night so deep, dark, nightish,
the gypsies at their forges
were hammering suns and arrows.
A deeply wounded stallion
knocked at each door.
Glass cocks were crowing
in Jerez de la Frontera.
The naked wind, turning
in the silver night, around
the corner with surprise,
in the night so deep, dark, nightish.

The Virgin and Saint Joseph
have lost their castanets.
They are looking for the gypsies
to see if they can help find them.
Here comes the Virgin, dressed
just like the mayor's wife
in silvery chocolate paper,
with a necklace of almonds.
Saint Joseph swings his arms
beneath a cloak of silk.
Behind comes Pedro Domecq
and three Persian sultans.
The half moon dreamed
out an ecstasy of the stork.
And ensigns and lanterns
stormed the roof tiles.
Hipless dancers sob
in every mirror.
Water and shadow, shadow and water
in Jerez de la Frontera.

Ai, city of gypsies!
Corners hung with colors.
Quell your green lights:
for here come the Civil Guard.
Ai, city of gypsies!
Who could see you and not recall?
Let her be, far from the sea,
with no combs to hold back her hair.

To the celebrated city
they ride two abreast.
The gossip of the everlasting
invades their cartridge belts.
They ride two abreast.
A night of twin shadows in cloth.
The sky, they conclude,
a window full of spurs.

The city, unsuspicious,
unfolding its doors.
40 Civil Guards, to sack
and burn, poured through.
The clocks stopped and the brandy
bottles impersonated November
so as not to stir any suspicion.
Up rose from the weathercocks
a series of long screams.
Sabers slashed the air,
trampling under black horse hoof.
Old gypsy women tried to flee
through the half-lit streets
with their benumbed horses
and enormous crocks of coins.
Up the palisade streets
climbed the sinister capes
leaving behind brief
whirlwinds of scissors.
In the gate of Bethlehem
all the gypsies gathered.
Saint Joseph, mortally wounded,
laid a shroud upon a girl.
Sharp and stubborn, rifle
bursts rang through the night.
The Virgin healed children
with spit from a fallen star.
But the Civil Guard advances,
starting cruel fires
where the naked hope of youth
burns. Rosa, the Comborio,
sits keening at her door
with her mutilated breasts
before her on a tray.
Other girls run in horror,
pursued by their trailing braids,
in a wind exploding
with the roses of black gunpowder.
When all the tiled roofs
have been laid as furrows in the earth,
dawn rocked its shoulders about
in a long silhouette of stone.

Ai, city of gypsies!
The Civil Guard saunters away
through a tunnel of silence
leaving you in flames.
Ai, city of gypsies!
Who could see you and not recall?
Let them find you on my deep brow:
blazon of sand and moon.

Translated by Zachary Jean Chartkoff

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 17:15  
1 Comments:
  • At 5 de junio de 2007, 18:02, Blogger Bishop said…

    Ballad of the Spanish Civil Guard

    The horses are black.
    The horseshoes are black.
    Stains of ink and wax
    shine on their capes.
    They have leaden skulls
    so they do not cry.
    With souls of leather
    they ride down the road.
    Hunchbacked and nocturnal
    wherever they move, they command
    silences of dark rubber
    and fears of fine sand.
    They pass, if they wish to pass,
    and hidden in their heads
    is a vague astronomy
    of indefinite pistols.

    Oh city of the gypsies!
    Banners on street-corners.
    The moon and the pumpkin
    with preserved cherries.
    Oh city of the gypsies!
    Who could see you and not remember?
    City of sorrow and musk,
    with towers of cinnamon.

    When night came near,
    night that night deepened,
    the gypsies at their forges
    beat out suns and arrows.
    A badly wounded stallion
    knocked against all the doors.
    Roosters of glass were crowing
    through Jerez de la Frontera.
    Naked the wind turns
    the corner of surprise,
    in the night silver-night
    night the night deepened.

    The Virgin and Saint Joseph
    have lost their castanets,
    and search for the gypsies
    to see if they can find them.
    The Virgin comes draped
    in the mayoress’s dress,
    of chocolate papers
    with necklaces of almonds.
    Saint Joseph swings his arms
    under a cloak of silk.
    Behind comes Pedro Domecq
    with three sultans of Persia.
    The half moon dreamed
    an ecstasy of storks.
    Banners and lanterns
    invaded the flat roofs.
    Through the mirrors wept
    ballerinas without hips.
    Water and shadow, shadow and water
    through Jerez de la Frontera.

    Oh city of the gypsies!
    Banners on street-corners.
    Quench your green lamps
    the worthies are coming.
    Oh city of the gypsies!
    Who could see you and not remember?
    Leave her far from the sea
    without combs in her hair.

    They ride two abreast
    towards the festive city.
    A murmur of immortelles
    invades the cartridge-belts.
    They ride two abreast.
    A doubled nocturne of cloth.
    They fancy the sky to be
    a showcase for spurs.

    The city, free from fear,
    multiplied its doors.
    Forty civil guards
    enter them to plunder.
    The clocks came to a halt,
    and the cognac in the bottles
    disguised itself as November
    so as not to raise suspicion.

    A flight of intense shrieks
    rose from the weathercocks.
    The sabres chopped at the breezes
    that the hooves trampled.
    Along the streets of shadow
    old gypsy women ran,
    with the drowsy horses,
    and the jars of coins.
    Through the steep streets
    sinister cloaks climb,
    leaving behind them
    whirlwinds of scissors.

    At a gate to Bethlehem
    the gypsies congregate.
    Saint Joseph, wounded everywhere,
    shrouds a young girl.
    Stubborn rifles crack
    sounding in the night.
    The Virgin heals children
    with spittle from a star.
    But the Civil Guard
    advance, sowing flames,
    where young and naked
    imagination is burnt out.
    Rosa of the Camborios
    moans in her doorway,
    with her two severed breasts
    lying on a tray.
    And other girls ran
    chased by their tresses
    through air where roses
    of black gunpowder burst.
    When all the roofs
    were furrows in the earth
    the dawn heaved its shoulders
    in a vast silhouette of stone.

    O city of the gypsies!
    The Civil Guard depart
    through a tunnel of silence
    while flames surround you.

    O city of the gypsies!
    Who could see you and not remember?
    Let them find you on my forehead:
    a play of moon and sand.

    Translated by A. S. Kline

     
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