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 -San Gabriel (Sevilla)-
martes, 13 de septiembre de 2005
San Gabriel (Sevilla)

I.
Un bello niño de junco,
anchos hombros, fino talle,
piel de nocturna manzana,
boca triste y ojos grandes,
nervio de plata caliente,
ronda la desierta calle.
Sus zapatos de charol
rompen las dalias del aire,
con los dos ritmos que cantan
breves lutos celestiales.
En la ribera del mar
no hay palma que se le iguale,
ni emperador coronado,
ni lucero caminante.
Cuando la cabeza inclina
sobre su pecho de jaspe,
la noche busca llanuras
porque quiere arrodillarse.
Las guitarras suenan solas
para San Gabriel Arcángel,
domador de palomillas
y enemigo de los sauces.
San Gabriel: El niño llora
en el vientre de su madre.
No olvides que los gitanos
te regalaron el traje.

II.
Anunciación de los Reyes,
bien lunada y mal vestida,
abre la puerta al lucero
que por la calle venía.
El Arcángel San Gabriel,
entre azucena y sonrisa,
biznieto de la Giralda,
se acercaba de visita.
En su chaleco bordado
grillos ocultos palpitan.
Las estrellas de la noche
se volvieron campanillas.
San Gabriel: Aquí me tienes
con tres clavos de alegría.
Tu fulgor abre jazmines
sobre mi cara encendida.
Dios te salve, Anunciación.
Morena de maravilla.
Tendrás un niño más bello
que los tallos de la brisa.
¡Ay, San Gabriel de mis ojos!
!Gabrielillo de mi vida!,
Para sentarte yo sueño
un sillón de clavellinas.
Dios te salve, Anunciación,
bien lunada y mal vestida.
Tu niño tendrá en el pecho
un lunar y tres heridas.
¡Ay, San Gabriel que reluces!
¡Gabrielillo de mi vidal!
En el fondo de mis pechos
ya nace la leche tibia.
Dios te salve, Anunciación.
Madre de cien dinastías.
Áridos lucen tus ojos,
paisajes de caballista.

El niño canta en el seno
de Anunciación sorprendida.
Tres balas de almendra verde
tiemblan en su vocecita.
Ya San Gabriel en el aire
por una escala subía.
Las estrellas de la noche
se volvieron siemprevivas.


Saint Gabriel (Sevilla)

I.
A beautiful child, lithe,
wide shoulders, slim hips,
skin of a nocturnal apple,
sad mouth and big eyes,
a nerve of hot silver,
searches the famished streets.
Breaking the writhing dahlias
with two measures, he sings
of a brief celestial grief
with his shoes of patent leather.
There no palm can be his equal
up and down the seashore;
no passing star,
nor crowned emperor.
When he bows his head
against his jacket breast
the night looks about for plains
where it might kneel down to rest.
Guitars play themselves
for Archangel Saint Gabriel,
tamer of dwarf doves,
envy of all the willows.
"Saint Gabriel: The baby is wailing
in his mother's womb.
Do not forget the suit
that the gypsies gave to you."

II.
Annunciatión de los Reyes,
full as a half-moon and poor in dress,
opens the door to the evening star
that shines down on the street.
Saint Gabriel, the Archangel,
great-grandson of the Giralda,
half a lily and half a smile,
returns on his visit.
Hidden crickets beat
in his embroidered waistcoat.
The stars of the night sky, turn
into tiny tolling flowers.
"Here I am, Saint Gabriel,
with the three nails of intoxication.
Your radiance makes jasmine
burn on my hot face."
"God save you, Annunciatión,
dark woman of wonder.
You will have a boy more beautiful
than all the new shoots in the breeze."
"Ai, Saint Gabriel, light of my eyes!
Dearest Gabrielillo, joy of my life!
I dream of giving you
a throne of raw carnations."
"God save you, Annunciatión,
full as a half-moon, poor in dress.
On his breast your child will bear
a blotch and three deep wounds."
"Ai, my radiant Saint Gabriel,
Dearest Gabrielillo, joy of my life!
Deep in my breasts the warm
milk is about to be born."
"God save you, Annunciatión,
mother of a hundred dynasties.
Your eyes gleam like the arid dunes
of my hopes and your highwaymen."

The child sings at the womb
of the fascinated Annunciatión.
Three green-almond bullets
shiver in his little voice.
Up a ladder through the sky
Saint Gabriel climbs.
And the night stars all
turned into everlastings.

Translated by Zachary Jean Chartkoff

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 13:40  
1 Comments:
  • At 5 de junio de 2007, 12:01, Blogger Bishop said…

    Saint Gabriel (Sevilla)

    1
    A lovely reed-like boy,
    wide shoulders, slim waist,
    skin of nocturnal apple-trees,
    sad mouth and large eyes,
    with nerves of hot silver,
    walks the empty street.
    His shoes of leather
    crush the dahlias of air,
    in a double-rhythm beating out
    quick celestial dirges.
    On the margins of the sea
    there’s no palm-tree his equal,
    no crowned emperor,
    no bright wandering star.
    When his head bends down
    over his breast of jasper,
    the night seeks out the plains,
    because it needs to kneel.
    The guitars sound only
    for Saint Gabriel the Archangel,
    tamer of pale moths,
    and enemy of willows.
    ‘Saint Gabriel: the child cries
    in his mother’s womb.
    Don’t forget the gypsies
    gifted you your costume.’

    2
    Royal Annunciation,
    sweetly moonlit and poorly clothed
    opens the door to the starlight
    that comes along the street.
    The Archangel Saint Gabriel
    scion of the Giralda tower,
    came to pay a visit,
    between a lily and a smile.
    In his embroidered waistcoat
    hidden crickets throbbed.
    The stars of the night
    turned into bells.
    ‘Saint Gabriel: Here am I
    with three nails of joy.
    Your jasmine radiance folds
    around my flushed cheeks.
    ‘God save you, Annunciation.
    Dark-haired girl of wonder.
    You’ll have a child more beautiful
    than the stems of the breeze.’
    ‘Ah, Saint Gabriel, joy of my eyes!
    Little Gabriel my darling!
    I dream a chair of carnations
    for you to sit on.’
    ‘God save you, Annunciation,
    sweetly moonlit and poorly clothed.
    Your child will have on his breast
    a mole and three scars.’
    ‘Ah, Saint Gabriel, how you shine!
    Little Gabriel my darling!
    In the depths of my breasts
    warm milk already wells.’
    God save you, Annunciation.
    Mother of a hundred houses.
    Your eyes shine with arid
    landscapes of horsemen.’

    In amazed Annunciation’s
    womb, the child sings.
    Three bunches of green almond
    quiver in his little voice.
    Now Saint Gabriel climbed
    a ladder through the air.
    The stars in the night
    turned to immortelles.

    Translated by A. S. Kline

     
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