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
Rubén Darío -Sinfonía en gris mayor-
jueves, 14 de septiembre de 2006
Sinfonía en gris mayor

El mar como un vasto cristal azogado
refleja la lámina de un cielo de zinc;
lejanas bandadas de pájaros manchan
el fondo bruñido de pálido gris.

El sol como un vidrio redondo y opaco
con paso de enfermo camina al cenit;
el viento marino descansa en la sombra
teniendo de almohada su negro clarín.

Las ondas que mueven su vientre de plomo
debajo de muelle parecen gemir.
Sentando en un cable, fumando su pipa,
está un viejo marinero pensando en las playas
de un vago, lejano, brumoso país.

Es viejo ese lobo. Tostaron su cara
los rayos de fuego del sol del Brasil;
los recios tifones del mar de la China
le han visto bebiendo su fracaso de gin.

La espuma impregnada de yodo y salitre
ha tiempo conoce su roja nariz,
sus crespos cabellos, sus bíceps de atleta,
su gorra de lona, su blusa de dril.

En medio del humo que forma el tabaco
ve el viejo el lejano, brumoso país,
adonde una tarde caliente y dorada
tendidas las velas partío el bergantín…

La siesta del trópico. El lobo se aduerme.
Ya todo lo envuelve la gama del gris.
Parece que un suave y enorme esfumino
del curvo horizonte borrara el confín.

La siesta del trópico. La vieja cigarra
ensaya su ronca guitarra senil,
y el grillo preludia un solo monótono
en la única cuerda que está en su violín.


Symphony in gray major

The sea like a vast mirrored crystal
reflects the zinc sheet of the sky;
far away, flocks of birds stain
the burnished edge pale gray.

The round sun, an opaque pane of glass
passes with a limp toward its zenith;
the sea wind resting in the shade
holds a black bugle for a pillow.

The waves that move their leaden bellies
under the pier, they seem to howl.
Sitting on a cable, smoking his pipe,
is an old sailor, thinking of the beaches
of a vague, distant, foggy country.

He is old, this wolf. His face has been
toasted by the Brazilian sun’s rays;
the forceful typhoons of China he has seen
while drinking from his flask of gin.

The foam pregnant with salt and iodine
has known in its time his red nose,
his curled chess pieces, his athlete’s biceps,
his canvas cap, his drill sweater.

In the midst of the tobacco smoke
the old man goes to the distant, foggy
country, to a hot, golden afternoon where
the brigand quickly departs from the watch.

The tropical siesta. The wolf sleeps.
All now enveloped in the gamut of gray.
It seems that the boundaries are erased
by the smooth, enormous curve of the horizon.

The tropical siesta. The old cicada
practices her snoring, senile guitar,
and the cricket preludes a lone monotone
on the only string of his violin.

Translated by Brandon Holmquest

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 12:20  
1 Comments:
  • At 27 de junio de 2007, 12:02, Blogger Bishop said…

    SYMPHONY IN GREY MAJOR

    The sea like a vast silvered mirror
    reflects the sky like a sheet of zinc;
    distant flocks of birds make stains
    on the burnished pale grey background.

    The sun, like a round, opaque window
    with an invalid's steps climbs to the zenith;
    the sea wind relaxes in the shade
    using its black trumpet as a pillow.

    The waves that move their leaden bellies
    seem to moan beneath the pier.
    Sitting on a cable, smoking his pipe,
    is a sailor thinking of the beaches
    of a vague, distant, misty land.

    This sea-dog is old. The fiery beams
    of Brazilian sun have tanned his face;
    the wild typhoons of the China sea
    have seen him drinking his bottle of gin.

    The iodine and saltpetre foam
    long has known his ruddy nose,
    his curly hair, athletic biceps,
    his canvas cap, his blouse of drill.

    Surrounded by tobacco smoke
    the old man sees the far off misty land
    for which one hot and golden evening
    his brig set out with all sails set ...

    The siesta of the tropics. The sea-dog sleeps.
    Now the shades of grey enfold him.
    It is as if an enormous soft charcoal
    rubbed out the lines of the horizon's arc.

    The siesta of the tropics. The old cicada
    tries out his senile, raucous guitar
    and the cricket strikes up a monotonous solo
    on the single string of his violin.

    Translated by Brian Cole

     
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