| 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 -Thamar y Amnón- |
| martes, 13 de septiembre de 2005 |
Thamar y Amnón
La luna gira en el cielo
sobre las sierras sin agua
mientras el verano siembra
rumores de tigre y llama.
Por encima de los techos
nervios de metal sonaban.
Aire rizado venía
con los balidos de lana.
La sierra se ofrece llena
de heridas cicatrizadas,
o estremecida de agudos
cauterios de luces blancas.
Thamár estaba soñando
pájaros en su garganta
al son de panderos fríos
y cítaras enlunadas.
Su desnudo en el alero,
agudo norte de palma,
pide copos a su vientre
y granizo a sus espaldas.
Thamár estaba cantando
desnuda por la terraza.
Alrededor de sus pies,
cinco palomas heladas.
Amnón, delgado y concreto,
en la torre la miraba,
llenas las ingles de espuma
y oscilaciones la barba.
Su desnudo iluminado
se tendía en la terraza,
con un rumor entre dientes
de flecha recién clavada.
Amnón estaba mirando
la luna redonda y baja,
y vio en la luna los pechos
durísimos de su hermana.
Amnón a las tres y media
se tendió sobre la cama.
Toda la alcoba sufría
con sus ojos llenos de alas.
La luz, maciza, sepulta
pueblos en la arena parda,
o descubre transitorio
coral de rosas y dalias.
Linfa de pozo oprimida
brota silencio en las jarras.
En el musgo de los troncos
la cobra tendida canta.
Amnón gime por la tela
fresquísima de la cama.
Yedra del escalofrío
cubre su carne quemada.
Thamár entró silenciosa
en la alcoba silenciada,
color de vena y Danubio,
turbia de huellas lejanas.
Thamár, bórrame los ojos
con tu fija madrugada.
Mis hilos de sangre tejen
volantes sobre tu falda.
Déjame tranquila, hermano.
Son tus besos en mi espalda
avispas y vientecillos
en doble enjambre de flautas.
Thamár, en tus pechos altos
hay dos peces que me llaman,
y en las yemas de tus dedos
rumor de rosa encerrada.
Los cien caballos del rey
en el patio relinchaban.
Sol en cubos resistía
la delgadez de la parra.
Ya la coge del cabello,
ya la camisa le rasga.
Corales tibios dibujan
arroyos en rubio mapa.
¡Oh, qué gritos se sentían
por encima de las casas!
Qué espesura de puñales
y túnicas desgarradas.
Por las escaleras tristes
esclavos suben y bajan.
Émbolos y muslos juegan
bajo las nubes paradas.
Alrededor de Thamár
gritan vírgenes gitanas
y otras recogen las gotas
de su flor martirizada.
Paños blancos enrojecen
en las alcobas cerradas.
Rumores de tibia aurora
pámpanos y peces cambian.
Violador enfurecido,
Amnón huye con su jaca.
Negros le dirigen flechas
en los muros y atalayas.
Y cuando los cuatro cascos
eran cuatro resonancias,
David con unas tijeras cortó
las cuerdas del arpa.
Thamar and Amnón
The moon, circling the sky
over arid wastelands,
while the summer sows
rumbling tigers of flame.
Above the housetop eaves
tinny nerves ring out.
A curling wind comes
bleating full of wool.
The earth offers itself
covered in scars,
or trembling from the sharp,
vulcanized light.
Thamar dreamed
of cold tambourines, a tune,
birds in her throat,
moonstruck lutes.
Her naked body on the edge
of the eaves,
the polestars of her palms,
crying for snowflakes for her belly
hailstones for her back.
Thamar sang
naked up on the veranda.
Spiraling around her feet
lay five frigid doves.
Lean, hard Amnón
watched her from his tower.
His groin was full of foam,
his beard shuddering.
Her nakedness gleamed,
stretched out on the veranda,
biting back the gasps
as an arrow quivering nearby.
Amnón watched the moon,
low, heavy and round,
in the moon he saw his
sister's hard breasts.
At half past 3, Amnón
lay down on his bed.
Suffering, the whole bed chamber
filled with his wing-shaped eyes.
The solid glare entombed
villages in sorrel sand,
revealing a straggling
coral of dahlias and roses.
Pent-up phlegm from the wells
spurt out silence into jars.
In the moss of tree trunks
the cobra uncurled and sang.
Amnón, softly moaning, lay
on the chill of his cool sheets.
The shiver of ivy
covered his burning flesh.
Thamar entered mutely
into the silence of the room,
colored vein and the Danube,
dark from distant implications.
"Cut out my eyes, Thamar,
with your dawn heavy glare.
The thread of my blood
weaves ruffles on your frock."
"Brother, please leave me be.
Your kisses are wasps
on my back, puffs of wind,
double flutes that swarm, sting."
"Thamar, from your arrogant breasts
two fish call out to me and on
your fingertips buzz
your locked up rose."
The king's hundred horses
whinnied in the courtyard.
On the thinness of the vine
bastions of sun pressed hard.
Now he seizes her by the hair,
now he tears her intimate things.
Warm corals pull down little creeks
across a map of cream.
Ai, what screaming is heard
all over the the housetop eaves!
What hassock of knives
and frocks torn to shreds.
On the stairwell, lamenting
slaves go up and down.
Thighs and pistons retaliate
beneath the emasculated clouds.
All around Thamar
virgin gypsies scream,
and others gather up drops
from her martyred flower.
White linen turns to red
underneath the bedroom doors.
Retaliated by fish and vine,
the warm sunrise is full of noises.
Raper enraged,
Amnón flees on his mule.
Black men shoot their arrows at him
from watchtowers and ramparts.
And when the four hooves
become four echoes,
King David takes up his harp
and cuts the strings with scissors.
Translated by Zachary Jean ChartkoffEtiquetas: Federico García Lorca |
posted by Bishop @ 14:15  |
|
| 1 Comments: |
-
Thamar and Amnon
The moon turns in the sky
over lands without water
while the summer sows
murmurs of tiger and flame.
Over the roofs
metal nerves jangled.
Rippling air stirred
with woolly bleatings.
The earth offered itself
full of scarred wounds,
or shuddering with the fierce
searings of white light.
Thamar was dreaming
of birds in her throat
to the sound of cold tambourines
and moonlit zithers.
Her nakedness in the eaves,
the sharp north of a palm-tree,
demands snowflakes on her belly,
and hailstones on her shoulders.
Thamar was singing
naked on the terrace.
Around her feet
five frozen pigeons.
Amnon, slim, precise,
watched her from the tower,
with thighs of foam,
and quivering beard.
Her bright nakedness
was stretched out on the terrace
with the murmur in her teeth
of a newly struck arrow.
Amnon was gazing
at the low, round moon,
and in the moon he saw
his sister’s hard breasts.
Amnon lay on his bed
at half past three.
The whole room suffered
from his eyes filled with wings.
The solid light buries
villages in brown sand,
or reveals the ephemeral
coral of roses and dahlias.
Pure captive well-water
gushes silence into jars.
The cobra stretches, sings
in the moss of tree-trunks.
Amnon moans among
the coolness of bed-sheets.
The ivy of a shiver
clothes his burning flesh.
Thamar enters silently
through the room’s silence,
the colour of vein and Danube,
troubled by distant footprints.
‘Thamar, erase my vision
with your certain dawn.
The threads of my blood weave
frills on your skirt.’
‘Let me be, brother,
Your kisses on my shoulder
are wasps and little breezes
in a double swarm of flutes.’
‘Thamar, you have in your high breasts
two fishes that call to me,
and in your fingertips
the murmur of a captive rose.’
The king’s hundred horses
neighed in the courtyard.
The slenderness of the vine
resisted buckets of sunlight.
Now he grasps her by the hair,
now he tears her under-things.
Warm corals drawing streams
on a light-coloured map.
Oh, what cries were heard
above the houses!
What a thicket of knives
and torn tunics.
Slaves go up and down
the saddened stairs.
Thighs and pistons play
under stationary clouds.
Gypsy virgins scream
around Thamar,
others gather drops
from her martyred flower.
White cloths redden
in the closed rooms.
Murmurs of warm daybreak
changing vines and fishes.
Amnon, angry violator,
flees on his pony.
Negroes loose arrows at him
from the walls and towers.
And when the four hooves
become four echoes,
King David cuts his harp-strings
with a pair of scissors.
Translated by A. S. Kline
|
| |
| << Home |
| |
|
|
|
| About the author |
- Para localizar un poema determinado utilizar la secuencia Ctrl+F y escribir la palabra correspondiente.
- Para ponerse en contacto con el autor del Blog
Los poemas de este blog pueden aumentar con tu colaboración, si tienes alguna traducción de algún poema de lengua inglesa que te guste y quieres enviárnosla, será bienvenida.
|
| Poets |
|
|
| Previous Posts |
|
| Favorite blogs |
|
| Other cool blogs |
|
| Search |
|
| Resources |
|
|
Thamar and Amnon
The moon turns in the sky
over lands without water
while the summer sows
murmurs of tiger and flame.
Over the roofs
metal nerves jangled.
Rippling air stirred
with woolly bleatings.
The earth offered itself
full of scarred wounds,
or shuddering with the fierce
searings of white light.
Thamar was dreaming
of birds in her throat
to the sound of cold tambourines
and moonlit zithers.
Her nakedness in the eaves,
the sharp north of a palm-tree,
demands snowflakes on her belly,
and hailstones on her shoulders.
Thamar was singing
naked on the terrace.
Around her feet
five frozen pigeons.
Amnon, slim, precise,
watched her from the tower,
with thighs of foam,
and quivering beard.
Her bright nakedness
was stretched out on the terrace
with the murmur in her teeth
of a newly struck arrow.
Amnon was gazing
at the low, round moon,
and in the moon he saw
his sister’s hard breasts.
Amnon lay on his bed
at half past three.
The whole room suffered
from his eyes filled with wings.
The solid light buries
villages in brown sand,
or reveals the ephemeral
coral of roses and dahlias.
Pure captive well-water
gushes silence into jars.
The cobra stretches, sings
in the moss of tree-trunks.
Amnon moans among
the coolness of bed-sheets.
The ivy of a shiver
clothes his burning flesh.
Thamar enters silently
through the room’s silence,
the colour of vein and Danube,
troubled by distant footprints.
‘Thamar, erase my vision
with your certain dawn.
The threads of my blood weave
frills on your skirt.’
‘Let me be, brother,
Your kisses on my shoulder
are wasps and little breezes
in a double swarm of flutes.’
‘Thamar, you have in your high breasts
two fishes that call to me,
and in your fingertips
the murmur of a captive rose.’
The king’s hundred horses
neighed in the courtyard.
The slenderness of the vine
resisted buckets of sunlight.
Now he grasps her by the hair,
now he tears her under-things.
Warm corals drawing streams
on a light-coloured map.
Oh, what cries were heard
above the houses!
What a thicket of knives
and torn tunics.
Slaves go up and down
the saddened stairs.
Thighs and pistons play
under stationary clouds.
Gypsy virgins scream
around Thamar,
others gather drops
from her martyred flower.
White cloths redden
in the closed rooms.
Murmurs of warm daybreak
changing vines and fishes.
Amnon, angry violator,
flees on his pony.
Negroes loose arrows at him
from the walls and towers.
And when the four hooves
become four echoes,
King David cuts his harp-strings
with a pair of scissors.
Translated by A. S. Kline