| Rubén Darío -A Roosevelt- |
| jueves, 14 de septiembre de 2006 |
A Roosevelt
Es con voz de la Biblia, o verso de Walt Whitman,
que habría que llegar hasta tí, Cazador!
Primitivo y moderno, sencillo y complicado,
con un algo de Washington y cuatro de Nemrod!
Eres los Estados Unidos,
eres el futuro invasor
de la América ingenua que tiene sangre indígena,
que aun reza a Jesucristo y aun habla en español.
Eres soberbio y fuerte ejemplar de tu raza;
eres culto, eres hábil; te opones a Tolstoy.
Y domando caballos, o asesinando tigres,
eres un Alejandro - Nabucodonosor.
(Eres un profesor de Energía,
como dicen los locos de hoy.)
Crees que la vida es incendio,
que el progreso es erupción,
que en donde pones la bala
el porvenir pones.
No.
Los Estados Unidos son potentes y grandes.
Cuando ellos se estremecen hay un hondo temblor
que pasa por las vértebras enormes de los Andes.
Si clamáis, se oye como el rugir del león.
Ya Hugo a Grant lo dijo: “Las estrellas son vuestras”.
(Apenas brilla, alzándose, el argentino sol
y la estrella chilena se levanta. . .) Sois ricos.
Juntáis al culto de Hércules el culto de Mammón;
y alumbrando el camino de la fácil conquista,
la Libertad levanta su antorcha en Nueva-York.
Mas la América nuestra, que tenía poetas
desde los viejos tiempos de Netzahualcoyotl,
que ha guardado las huellas de los pies del gran Baco,
que el alfabeto pánico en un tiempo aprendió;
que consultó los astros, que conoció la Atlántida,
cuyo nombre nos llega resonando en Platón,
que desde los remotos momentos de su vida
vive de luz, de fuego, de perfume, de amor,
la América del grande Moctezuma, del Inca,
la América fragante de Cristobal Colón,
la América católica, la América española,
la América en que dijo el noble Guatemoc:
“Yo no estoy en un lecho de rosas”; esa América
que tiembla de huracanes y que vive de Amor;
hombres de ojos sajones y alma bárbara, vive.
Y sueña. Y ama. Y vibra; y es la hija del Sol.
Tened cuidado. ¡Vive la América Española!
Hay mil cachorros sueltos del León Español.
Se necesitaría, Roosevelt, ser, por Dios mismo,
el Riflero terrible y el fuerte Cazador,
para poder tenernos en vuestras férreas garras.
Y, pues contáis con todo, falta una cosa: ¡Dios!
To Roosevelt
It is with the voice of the Bible, or the verse of Walt Whitman,
that I should come to you, Hunter,
primitive and modern, simple and complicated,
with something of Washington and more of Nimrod.
You are the United States,
you are the future invader
of the naive America that has Indian blood,
that still prays to Jesus Christ and still speaks Spanish.
You are the proud and strong exemplar of your race;
you are cultured, you are skillful; you oppose Tolstoy.
And breaking horses, or murdering tigers,
you are an Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar.
(You are a professor of Energy
as today's madmen say.)
You think that life is fire, t
hat progress is eruption,
that wherever you shoot
you hit the future.
No.
The United States is potent and great.
When you shake there is a deep tremblor
that passes through the enormous vertebrae of the Andes.
If you clamor, it is heard like the roaring of a lion.
Hugo already said it to Grant: The stars are yours.
(The Argentine sun, ascending, barely shines,
and the Chilean star rises...) You are rich.
You join the cult of Hercules to the cult of Mammon,
and illuminating the road of easy conquest,
Liberty raises its torch in New York.
But our America, that has had poets
since the ancient times of Netzahualcoyotl,
that has walked in the footprints of great Bacchus
who learned Pan's alphabet at once;
that consulted the stars, that knew Atlantis
whose resounding name comes to us from Plato,
that since the remote times of its life
has lived on light, on fire, on perfume, on love,
America of the great Montezuma, of the Inca,
the fragrant America of Christopher Columbus,
Catholic America, Spanish America,
the America in which noble Cuahtemoc said:
"I'm not in a bed of roses"; that America
that trembles in hurricanes and lives on love,
it lives, you men of Saxon eyes and barbarous soul.
And it dreams. And it loves, and it vibrates, and it is the daughter of the Sun.
Be careful. Viva Spanish America!
There are a thousand cubs loosed from the Spanish lion.
Roosevelt, one would have to be, through God himself,
the-fearful Rifleman and strong Hunter,
to manage to grab us in your iron claws.
And, although you count on everything, you lack one thing: God!
Translated by Bonnie FrederickEtiquetas: Rubén Darío |
posted by Bishop @ 11:20  |
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| 2 Comments: |
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TO ROOSEVELT
It is through the Bible’s voice, or Walt Whitman’s
Verse, that I should get to you, Hunter!
Primitive and modern, simple and complicated,
With a dash of Washington and four parts of Nemrod!
You are the United States,
You are the future invader
Of innocent America which has indigenous blood,
Which still prays to Jesus Christ and still speaks in Spanish.
You are an arrogant and strong exemplar of your race;
You are cultivated, you are skilled; you oppose Tolstoy.
And taming horses or killing tigers,
You are an Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar.
(You are a professor of energy,
As today’s crazies would say)
You believe that life is fire,
That progress is eruption;
Where you put a bullet
You put the future too.
No.
The United States are potent and great.
When they shudder there is a deep tremor
That runs through the enormous Andean vertebrae.
If you holler, it is like the roar of a lion.
Hugo already told Grant: “The stars are yours”.
(The Argentinean sun almost shines, rising
And the star of Chile ascends…) you are rich.
You add the cult of Hercules to that of Mammon;
And illuminating the way of easy conquests,
Liberty raises her torch in New York.
Yet our America, who had poets
Since the ancient times of Nezahualcotl,
And which has guarded the footprints of the great Bacchus,
And which has learned the Panic alphabet;
Which consulted the stars, and knew Atlantis,
Which name reaches us sounding in Plato,
Which since the most remote days in its life
Feeds on light, and fire, and perfume, and love,
The America of great Moctezuma, the Inca,
The fragrant America of Christopher Columbus,
Catholic America, Spanish America,
The America where the noble Cuatemoc said:
“I am not in bed of roses”; that America
Which trembles in hurricanes and lives on Love;
Oh men of Saxon eyes and barbarian soul, lives.
And dreams. And loves, and vibrates; and is the sun’s daughter.
Be careful. Spanish America lives!,
A thousand cubs of the Spaniard lion are roaming free.
You would have to be, Roosevelt, God Himself,
The terrible rifleman and the Great Hunter,
To ensnare us in your iron claws.
And, you may have it all, but you lack one thing: God!
Translated by Danilo López
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TO ROOSEVELT
The voice that would reach you, Hunter, must speak
in Biblical tones, or in the poetry of Walt Whitman.
You are primitive and modern, simple and complex;
you are one part George Washington and one part Nimrod.
You are the United States,
future invader of our naive America
with its Indian blood, an America
that still prays to Christ and still speaks Spanish.
You are strong, proud model of your race;
you are cultured and able; you oppose Tolstoy.
You are an Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar,
breaking horses and murdering tigers.
(You are a Professor of Energy,
as current lunatics say).
You think that life is a fire,
that progress is an irruption,
that the future is wherever
your bullet strikes.
No.
The United States is grand and powerful.
Whenever it trembles, a profound shudder
runs down the enormous backbone of the Andes.
If it shouts, the sound is like the roar of a lion.
And Hugo said to Grant: "The stars are yours."
(The dawning sun of the Argentine barely shines;
the star of Chile is rising..) A wealthy country,
joining the cult of Mammon to the cult of Hercules;
while Liberty, lighting the path
to easy conquest, raises her torch in New York.
But our own America, which has had poets
since the ancient times of Nezahualcóyolt;
which preserved the footprint of great Bacchus,
and learned the Panic alphabet once,
and consulted the stars; which also knew Atlantic
(whose name comes ringing down to us in Plato)
and has lived, since the earliest moments of its life,
in light, in fire, in fragrance, and in love--
the America of Moctezuma and Atahualpa,
the aromatic America of Columbus,
Catholic America, Spanish America,
the America where noble Cuauthémoc said:
"I am not in a bed of roses"--our America,
trembling with hurricanes, trembling with Love:
O men with Saxon eyes and barbarous souls,
our America lives. And dreams. And loves.
And it is the daughter of the Sun. Be careful.
Long live Spanish America!
A thousand cubs of the Spanish lion are roaming free.
Roosevelt, you must become, by God's own will,
the deadly Rifleman and the dreadful Hunter
before you can clutch us in your iron claws.
And though you have everything, you are lacking one thing:
God!
Translated by Lysander Kemp
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TO ROOSEVELT
It is through the Bible’s voice, or Walt Whitman’s
Verse, that I should get to you, Hunter!
Primitive and modern, simple and complicated,
With a dash of Washington and four parts of Nemrod!
You are the United States,
You are the future invader
Of innocent America which has indigenous blood,
Which still prays to Jesus Christ and still speaks in Spanish.
You are an arrogant and strong exemplar of your race;
You are cultivated, you are skilled; you oppose Tolstoy.
And taming horses or killing tigers,
You are an Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar.
(You are a professor of energy,
As today’s crazies would say)
You believe that life is fire,
That progress is eruption;
Where you put a bullet
You put the future too.
No.
The United States are potent and great.
When they shudder there is a deep tremor
That runs through the enormous Andean vertebrae.
If you holler, it is like the roar of a lion.
Hugo already told Grant: “The stars are yours”.
(The Argentinean sun almost shines, rising
And the star of Chile ascends…) you are rich.
You add the cult of Hercules to that of Mammon;
And illuminating the way of easy conquests,
Liberty raises her torch in New York.
Yet our America, who had poets
Since the ancient times of Nezahualcotl,
And which has guarded the footprints of the great Bacchus,
And which has learned the Panic alphabet;
Which consulted the stars, and knew Atlantis,
Which name reaches us sounding in Plato,
Which since the most remote days in its life
Feeds on light, and fire, and perfume, and love,
The America of great Moctezuma, the Inca,
The fragrant America of Christopher Columbus,
Catholic America, Spanish America,
The America where the noble Cuatemoc said:
“I am not in bed of roses”; that America
Which trembles in hurricanes and lives on Love;
Oh men of Saxon eyes and barbarian soul, lives.
And dreams. And loves, and vibrates; and is the sun’s daughter.
Be careful. Spanish America lives!,
A thousand cubs of the Spaniard lion are roaming free.
You would have to be, Roosevelt, God Himself,
The terrible rifleman and the Great Hunter,
To ensnare us in your iron claws.
And, you may have it all, but you lack one thing: God!
Translated by Danilo López