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 sonámbulo-
martes, 13 de septiembre de 2005
Romance sonámbulo

Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en sus baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la están mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.

Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha,
vienen con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato garduño,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
¿Pero quién vendrá? ¿Y por dónde...?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
soñando en la mar amarga.

Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo por su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los puertos de Cabra.
Si yo pudiera, mocito,
este trato se cerraba.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
Ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
Compadre, quiero morir
decentemente en mi cama.
De acero, si puede ser,
con las sábanas de holanda.
¿No ves la herida que tengo
desde el pecho a la garganta?

Trescientas rosas morenas
lleva tu pechera blanca.
Tu sangre rezuma y huele
alrededor de tu faja.
Pero yo ya no soy yo.
Ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
Dejadme subir al menos
hasta las altas barandas,
¡dejadme subir!, dejadme
hasta las verdes barandas.
Barandales de la luna
por donde retumba el agua.

Ya suben los dos compadres
hacia las altas barandas.
Dejando un rastro de sangre.
Dejando un rastro de lágrimas.
Temblaban en los tejados
farolillos de hojalata.
Mil panderos de cristal,
herían la madrugada.

Verde que te quiero verde,
verde viento, verdes ramas.
Los dos compadres subieron.
El largo viento, dejaba
en la boca un raro gusto
de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
¡Compadre! ¿Dónde está, dime?
¿Dónde está tu niña amarga?
¡Cuántas veces te esperó!
¡Cuántas veces te esperara,
cara fresca, negro pelo,
en esta verde baranda!

Sobre el rostro del aljibe
se mecía la gitana.
Verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Un carábano de luna
la sostiene sobre el agua.
La noche se puso íntima
como una pequeña plaza.
Guardias civiles borrachos
en la puerta golpeaban.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar.
Y el caballo en la montaña.



Sleepwalker's song

Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.

Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.

--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?

--Your white shirt has grown.
thirsty dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees
around the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.

Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.

Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!

Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.


Translated by William Logan

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 13:10  
2 Comments:
  • At 3 de junio de 2007, 18:10, Blogger Bishop said…

    SLEEPWALKERS' BALLAD


    Green it's your green I love.
    Green of the wind. Green branches.
    The ship far out at sea.
    The horse above on the mountain.
    Shadows dark at her waist,
    she's dreaming there on her terrace,
    green of her cheek, green hair,
    with eyes like chilly silver.
    Green it's your green I love.
    Under that moon of the gypsies
    things are looking at her
    but she can't return their glances.

    Green it's your green I love.
    The stars are frost, enormous;
    a tuna cloud floats over
    nosing off to the dawn.
    The fig tree catches a wind
    to grate in its emery branches;
    the mountain's a wildcat, sly,
    bristling its acrid cactus.
    But - who's on the road? Which way?
    She's dreaming there on her terrace,
    green of her cheek, green hair,
    she dreams of the bitter sea.

    "Friend, what I want's to trade
    this horse of mine for your house here.
    this saddle of mine for your mirror,
    this knife of mine for your blanket.
    Friend, I come bleeding, see,
    from the mountain pass of Cabra."
    "I would if I could, young man;
    I'd have taken you up already.
    But I'm not myself any longer,
    nor my house my home any more."
    "Friend, what I want's to die
    in a bed of my own - die nicely.
    An iron bed, if there is one,
    between good linen sheets.
    I'm wounded, throat and breast,
    from here to here - you see it?"
    "You've a white shirt on; three hundred
    roses across - dark roses.
    There's a smell of blood about you:
    your sash, all round you, soaked.
    But I'm not myself any longer,
    nor my house my home any more."
    "Then let me go up, though; let me!
    at least to the terrace yonder.
    Let me go up then, let me!
    up to the high green roof.
    Terrace-rails of the moonlight,
    splash of the lapping tank.

    So they go up, companions,
    up to the high roof-terrace;
    a straggle of blood behind them,
    behind, a straggle of tears.
    Over the roofs, a shimmer
    like little tin lamps, and glassy
    tambourines by the thousand
    slitting the glitter of dawn.

    Green it's your green I love,
    green of the wind, green branches
    They're up there, two companions.
    A wind from the distance leaving
    its tang on the tongue, strange flavors
    of bile, of basil and mint.
    "Where is she, friend - that girl
    with the bitter heart, your daughter?"
    "How often she'd wait and wait,
    how often she'd be here waiting,
    fresh of face, hair black,
    here in green of the terrace."

    There in her terrace pool
    was the gypsy girl, in ripples.
    Green of her cheek, green hair,
    with eyes like chilly silver.
    Icicles from the moon
    held her afloat on the water.
    Night became intimate then -
    enclosed, like a little plaza.
    Drunken, the Civil Guard
    had been banging the door below them.
    Green it's your green I love.
    Green of the wind. Green branches.
    The ship far out at sea.
    The horse above on the mountain.

    Translated by John Frederick Nims

     
  • At 3 de junio de 2007, 18:14, Blogger Bishop said…

    ROMANCE OF THE SLEEPWALKER

    Green, as I love you, greenly.
    Green the wind, and green the branches.
    The dark ship on the sea
    and the horse on the mountain.
    With her waist that's made of shadow
    dreaming on the high veranda,
    green the flesh, and green the tresses,
    with eyes of frozen silver.
    Green, as I love you, greenly.
    Beneath the moon of the gypsies
    silent things are looking at her
    things she cannot see.

    Green, as I love you, greenly.
    Great stars of white hoarfrost
    come with the fish of shadow
    opening the road of morning.
    The fig tree's rubbing on the dawn wind
    with the rasping of its branches,
    and the mountain thieving-cat-like
    bristles with its sour agaves.
    Who is coming? And from where ...?
    She waits on the high veranda,
    green the flesh and green the tresses,
    dreaming of the bitter ocean.

    - 'Brother, friend, I want to barter
    your house for my stallion,
    sell my saddle for your mirror,
    change my dagger for your blanket.
    Brother mine, I come here bleeding
    from the mountain pass of Cabra.'
    - 'If I could, my young friend,
    then maybe we'd strike a bargain,
    but I am no longer I,
    nor is this house, of mine, mine.'
    - 'Brother, friend, I want to die now,
    in the fitness of my own bed,
    made of iron, if it can be,
    with its sheets of finest cambric.
    Can you see the wound I carry
    from my throat to my heart?'
    - 'Three hundred red roses
    your white shirt now carries.
    Your blood stinks and oozes,
    all around your scarlet sashes.
    But I am no longer I,
    nor is this house of mine, mine.'
    - 'Let me then, at least, climb up there,
    up towards the high verandas.
    Let me climb, let me climb there,
    up towards the green verandas.
    High verandas of the moonlight,
    where I hear the sound of waters.'

    Now they climb, the two companions,
    up there to the high veranda,
    letting fall a trail of blood drops,
    letting fall a trail of tears.
    On the morning rooftops,
    trembled, the small tin lanterns.
    A thousand tambourines of crystal
    wounded the light of daybreak.

    Green, as I love you, greenly.
    Green the wind, and green the branches.
    They climbed up, the two companions.
    In the mouth, the dark breezes
    left there a strange flavour,
    of gall, and mint, and sweet-basil.
    - 'Brother, friend! Where is she, tell me,
    where is she, your bitter beauty?
    How often, she waited for you!
    How often, she would have waited,
    cool the face, and dark the tresses,
    on this green veranda!'

    Over the cistern's surface
    the gypsy girl was rocking.
    Green the flesh is, green the tresses,
    with eyes of frozen silver.
    An ice-ray made of moonlight
    holding her above the water.
    How intimate the night became,
    like a little, hidden plaza.
    Drunken Civil Guards were beating,
    beating, beating on the door frame.
    Green, as I love you, greenly.
    Green the wind, and green the branches.
    The dark ship on the sea,
    and the horse on the mountain.

    Translated by A.S.Kline

     
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