| 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 |
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| Federico García Lorca -Soneto de la dulce queja- |
| martes, 13 de septiembre de 2005 |
Soneto de la dulce queja
Tengo miedo a perder la maravilla
de tus ojos de estatua y el acento
que de noche me pone en la mejilla
la solitaria rosa de tu aliento.
Tengo pena de ser en esta orilla
tronco sin ramas; y lo que más siento
es no tener la flor, pulpa o arcilla,
para el gusano de mi sufrimiento.
Si tú eres el tesoro oculto mío,
si eres mi cruz y mi dolor mojado,
si soy el perro de tu señorío,
no me dejes perder lo que he ganado
y decora las aguas de tu río
con hojas de mi otoño enajenado.
Sonnet of the sweet complaint
Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.
I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.
If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,
never let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.
Translated by John K. Walsh and Francisco AragonEtiquetas: Federico García Lorca |
posted by Bishop @ 14:30  |
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| 2 Comments: |
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Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint
Don’t let me ever lose the wonder
of your eyes like a statue’s, or the stress
placed on my cheek at night.
by the solitary rose of your breath.
I’m afraid of being on this shore
a branch-less trunk: this deepest feeling
of having no bloom, or pulp, or clay
for the worm of my suffering.
If you’re my hidden treasure,
if you’re my cross, and my moist pain,
if I’m a dog, of yours, my master,
never let me lose what I have gained,
and decorate the branches of your stream
with the leaves of my enraptured autumn.
Translated by A. S. Kline
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SONNET OF SWEET COMPLAINT
Let me not lose the wondrous delight
of your eyes - like a statue's - nor the tone
that strokes my cheek all through the night
with your breath, a solitary rose.
Being on this shore is my dismay,
a branchless trunk; what worries me
is lacking flower, pulp and clay
to feed the worm of my own misery.
If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my tearful pain,
if I'm the dog and you the master,
don't let me lose what I have gained,
and deck the branches of your river
with leaves of my autumn, estranged.
Translated by Brian Cole
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Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint
Don’t let me ever lose the wonder
of your eyes like a statue’s, or the stress
placed on my cheek at night.
by the solitary rose of your breath.
I’m afraid of being on this shore
a branch-less trunk: this deepest feeling
of having no bloom, or pulp, or clay
for the worm of my suffering.
If you’re my hidden treasure,
if you’re my cross, and my moist pain,
if I’m a dog, of yours, my master,
never let me lose what I have gained,
and decorate the branches of your stream
with the leaves of my enraptured autumn.
Translated by A. S. Kline