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Spanish Poems

TRADUTTORE TRADITORE

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

José Martí -Verso X. El alma trémula y sola... (La bailarina española)-

sábado, 9 de julio de 2005

Verso X. El alma trémula y sola

(La bailarina española)

El alma trémula y sola
Padece al anochecer:
Hay baile; vamos a ver
La bailarina española.

Han hecho bien en quitar
El banderón de la acera;
Porque si está la bandera,
No sé, yo no puedo entrar.

Ya llega la bailarina:
Soberbia y pálida llega:
¿Cómo dicen que es gallega?
Pues dicen mal: es divina.

Lleva un sombrero torero
Y una capa carmesí:
¡Lo mismo que un alelí
Que se pusiése un sombrero!

Se ve, de paso, la ceja,
Ceja de mora traidora:
Y la mirada, de mora:
Y como nieve la oreja.

Preludian, bajan la luz
Y sale en bata y mantón,
La virgen de la Asunción
Bailando un baile andaluz.

Alza, retando, la frente;
Crúzase al hombro la manta:
En arco el brazo levanta:
Mueve despacio el pie ardiente.

Repica con los tacones
El tablado zalamera,
Como si la tabla fuera
Tablado de corazones.

Y va el convite creciendo
En las llamas de los ojos,
Y el manto de flecos rojos
Se va en el aire meciendo.

Súbito de un salto arranca:
Húrtase, se quiebra, gira:
Abre en dos la cachemira,
Ofrece la bata blanca.

El cuerpo cede y ondea;
La boca abierta provoca;
Es una rosa la boca:
Lentamente taconea.

Recoge, de un débil giro,
El manto de flecos rojos:
Se va, cerrando los ojos,
Se va, como en un suspiro...

Baila muy bien la española;
Es blanco y rojo el mantón:
¡Vuelve, fosca a su rincón
El alma trémula y sola!

Verse X. My soul tremulous and forlorn...

(The spanish dancer)

My soul tremulous and forlorn
At nightfall will grow lonely:
There's a show, let us go see
The Spanish dancer perform.

It is well they've taken down
The flag that stood at the door;
For I had vowed that no more
Would I go where it was flown.

The Spanish dancer enters then,
Looking so proud and so pale:
"From Galicia does she hail?"
No, they are wrong: she's from heaven.

She wears the matador's tricorne
And also his crimson cape:
A gilliflower to drape
And with a great hat adorn!

On passing her eyebrows show,
Eyebrows of a traitorous Moor:
And the Moor's proud look she wore:
And her ear was white as snow.

The lights are dimmed, the music flares,
In shawl and gown makes her entrance
The Holy Virgin's own semblance
Dancing to Andalucian airs.

Her head raised in challenge, she
The cape o'er her shoulders spreads:
With her arched arms framing her head,
She taps her foot ardently.

Her studied taps tear the batten
As if each heel were a blade
And the stage had been inlaid
With the broken hearts of men.

The festive feeling is burning
In the fire of her eyes,
The red-speckled shawl now flies
In the air as she is turning.

With a sudden leap, she glides down,
Whirls round, falls back, and then darts:
Wide her cashmere shawl she parts
To offer us her white gown.

All her body yields and sways;
Her open mouth is enticing;
A rose is her mouth: while dancing
She's tapping her heels always.

Then turns she feebly to wind
The long and red-speckled shawl:
And shutting her eyes to all,
In a sigh leaves all behind…

The Spanish dancer has done well;
Red and white was her long shawl;
The tremulous, lonely soul
Withdraws again to its cell!

Etiquetas: José Martí