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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 |
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| Jorge Luis Borges -Browning resuelve ser poeta- |
| miércoles, 13 de diciembre de 2006 |
Browning resuelve ser poeta
Por estos rojos laberintos de Londres
descubro que he elegido
la más curiosa de las profesiones humanas,
salvo que todas, a su modo, lo son.
Como los alquimistas
que buscaron la piedra filosofal
en el azogue fugitivo,
haré que las comunes palabras
-naipes marcados del tahúr, moneda de la plebe-
rindan la magia que fue suya
cuando Thor era el numen y el estrépito,
el trueno y la plegaria.
En el dialecto de hoy
diré a mi vez las cosas eternas;
trataré de no ser indigno
del gran eco de Byron.
Este polvo que soy será invulnerable.
Si una mujer comparte mi amor
mi verso rozará la décima esfera de los cielos concéntricos;
si una mujer desdeña mi amor
haré de mi tristeza una música,
un alto río que siga resonando en el tiempo.
Viviré de olvidarme.
Seré la cara que entreveo y que olvido,
seré Judas que acepta
la divina misión de ser traidor,
seré Calibán en la ciénaga,
seré un soldado mercenario que muere
sin temor y sin fe,
seré Polícrates que ve con espanto
el anillo devuelto por el destino,
seré el amigo que me odia.
El persa me dará el ruiseñor y Roma la espada.
Máscaras, agonías, resurrecciones,
destejerán y tejerán mi suerte
y alguna vez seré Robert Browning.
Browning decides to be a poet
In these red labyrinths of London
I find that I have chosen
the strangest of all callings,
save that, in its way, any calling is strange.
Like the alchemist
who sought the philosopher's stone
in quicksilver,
I shall make everyday words--
the gambler's marked cards, the common coin--
give off the magic that was their
when Thor was both the god and the din,
the thunderclap and the prayer.
In today's dialect
I shall say, in my fashion, eternal things:
I shall try to be worthy
of the great echo of Byron.
This dust that I am will be invulnerable.
If a woman shares my love
my verse will touch the tenth sphere of the concentric heavens;
if a woman turns my love aside
I will make of my sadness a music,
a full river to resound through time.
I shall live by forgetting myself.
I shall be the face I glimpse and forget,
I shall be Judas who takes on
the divine mission of being a betrayer,
I shall be Caliban in his bog,
I shall be a mercenary who dies
without fear and without faith,
I shall be Polycrates, who looks in awe
upon the seal returned by fate.
I will be the friend who hates me.
The persian will give me the nightingale, and Rome the sword.
Masks, agonies, resurrections
will weave and unweave my life,
and in time I shall be Robert Browning.Etiquetas: J. L. Borges |
posted by Bishop @ 10:40  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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BROWNING POET RESOLVES TO BE
By these red London labyrinths
I find I have
the strangest human profession,
but they all are, in a way.
Like alchemists
I'll seek the philosopher's stone
in fugitive quicksilver,
make common words—
the sharper's marked cards, plebeian money—
render the magic of
when Thor was numen and noise,
thunder and prayer.
In today's dialect
I'll say eternal things;
try not to be unworthy
of Byron's great echo.
I'm dust but invulnerable.
Let a woman love me
I'll write her up in the tenth sphere of heaven;
let her not
my sorrow will be music,
a high river of it throughout time.
I'll live forgetting.
A face forgotten once seen,
Judas on
a mission to betray,
swamp-bound Caliban,
a soldier of fortune dying
fear- and faithless,
Polukrates frightened to see
the ring returned by destiny,
the friend who hates me.
Persia'll give me nightingales and Rome the sword.
Masks deaths and resurrections
will make and mar my fate
and sometime I'll be Robert Browning.
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney
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BROWNING POET RESOLVES TO BE
By these red London labyrinths
I find I have
the strangest human profession,
but they all are, in a way.
Like alchemists
I'll seek the philosopher's stone
in fugitive quicksilver,
make common words—
the sharper's marked cards, plebeian money—
render the magic of
when Thor was numen and noise,
thunder and prayer.
In today's dialect
I'll say eternal things;
try not to be unworthy
of Byron's great echo.
I'm dust but invulnerable.
Let a woman love me
I'll write her up in the tenth sphere of heaven;
let her not
my sorrow will be music,
a high river of it throughout time.
I'll live forgetting.
A face forgotten once seen,
Judas on
a mission to betray,
swamp-bound Caliban,
a soldier of fortune dying
fear- and faithless,
Polukrates frightened to see
the ring returned by destiny,
the friend who hates me.
Persia'll give me nightingales and Rome the sword.
Masks deaths and resurrections
will make and mar my fate
and sometime I'll be Robert Browning.
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney