Spanish Poems





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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
Jorge Luis Borges -Al ruiseñor-
miércoles, 13 de diciembre de 2006
Al ruiseñor

¿En qué noche secreta de Inglaterra
O del constante Rhin incalculable,
Perdida entre las noches de mis noches,
A mi ignorante oído habrá llegado
Tu voz cargada de mitologías,
Ruiseñor de Virgilio y de los persas?
Quizá nunca te oí, pero a mi vida
Se une tu vida, inseparablemente.
Un espíritu errante fue tu símbolo
En un libro de enigmas. El Marino
Te apodaba sirena de los bosques
Y cantas en la noche de Julieta
Y en la intrincada página latina
Y desde los pinares de aquel otro
Ruiseñor de Judea y Alemania,
Heine del burlón, el encendido, el triste.
Keats te oyó para todos, para siempre.
No habrá uno solo entre los claros nombres
Que los pueblos te dan sobre la tierra
Que no quiera ser digno de tu música,
Ruiseñor de la sombra. El agareno
Te soñó arrebatado por el éxtasis
El pecho traspasado por la espina
De la cantada rosa que enrojeces
Con tu sangre final. Asiduamente
Urdo en la hueca tarde este ejercicio,
Ruiseñor de la arena y de los mares,
Que en la memoria, exaltación y fábula,
Ardes de amor y mueres melodioso.


To the nightingale

Out of what secret English summer evening
or night on the incalculable Rhine,
lost among all the nights of my long night,
could it have come to my unknowing ear,
your song, encrusted with mythology,
nightingale of Virgil and the Persians?
Perhaps I never heard you, but my life
is bound up with your life, inseparably.
The symbol for you was a wandering spirit
in a book of enigmas. The poet, El Marino,
nicknamed you the “siren of the forest”;
you sing throughout the night of Juliet
and through the intricate pages of the Latin
and from his pinewoods, Heine, that other
nightingale of Germany and Judea,
called you mockingbird, firebird, bird of mourning.
Keats heard your song for everyone, forever.
There is not one among the shimmering names
people have given you across the earth
that does not seek to match your own music,
nightingale of the dark. The Muslim dreamed you
in the delirium of ecstasy,
his breast pierced by the thorn of the sung rose
you redden with your blood. Assiduously
in the black evening I contrive this poem,
nightingale of the sands and all the seas,
that in exultation, memory, and fable,
you burn with love and die in liquid song.

Translated by Alastair Reid

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posted by Bishop @ 11:50  
1 Comments:
  • At 13 de junio de 2007, 21:18, Blogger Bishop said…

    THE OTHER TIGER

    A tiger comes to mind. The twilight here
    Exalts the vast and busy Library
    And seems to set the bookshelves back in gloom;
    Innocent, ruthless, bloodstained, sleek
    It wanders through its forest and its day
    Printing a track along the muddy banks
    Of sluggish streams whose names it does not know
    (In its world there are no names or past
    Or time to come, only the vivid now)
    And makes its way across wild distances
    Sniffing the braided labyrinth of smells
    And in the wind picking the smell of dawn
    And tantalizing scent of grazing deer;
    Among the bamboo's slanting stripes I glimpse
    The tiger's stripes and sense the bony frame
    Under the splendid, quivering cover of skin.
    Curving oceans and the planet's wastes keep us
    Apart in vain; from here in a house far off
    In South America I dream of you,
    Track you, O tiger of the Ganges' banks.

    It strikes me now as evening fills my soul
    That the tiger addressed in my poem
    Is a shadowy beast, a tiger of symbols
    And scraps picked up at random out of books,
    A string of labored tropes that have no life,
    And not the fated tiger, the deadly jewel
    That under sun or stars or changing moon
    Goes on in Bengal or Sumatra fulfilling
    Its rounds of love and indolence and death.
    To the tiger of symbols I hold opposed
    The one that's real, the one whose blood runs hot
    As it cuts down a herd of buffaloes,
    And that today, this August third, nineteen
    Fifty-nine, throws its shadow on the grass;
    But by the act of giving it a name,
    By trying to fix the limits of its world,
    It becomes a fiction not a living beast,
    Not a tiger out roaming the wilds of earth.

    We'll hunt for a third tiger now, but like
    The others this one too will be a form
    Of what I dream, a structure of words, and not
    The flesh and one tiger that beyond all myths
    Paces the earth. I know these things quite well,
    Yet nonetheless some force keeps driving me
    In this vague, unreasonable, and ancient quest,
    And I go on pursuing through the hours
    Another tiger, the beast not found in verse.

     
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