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Poemas en Inglés es un blog que pretende acercar poemas de lengua inglesa al castellano |
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"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 -Fundación mítica de Buenos Aires- |
| viernes, 15 de diciembre de 2006 |
Fundación mítica de Buenos Aires
¿Y fue por este río de sueñera y de barro
que las proas vinieron a fundarme la patria?
Irían a los tumbos los barquitos pintados
entre los camalotes de la corriente zaina.
Pensando bien la cosa, supondremos que el río
era azulejo entonces como oriundo del cielo
con su estrellita roja para marcar el sitio
en que ayunó Juan Díaz y los indios comieron.
Lo cierto es que mil hombres y otros mil arribaron
por un mar que tenía cinco lunas de anchura
y aún estaba poblado de sirenas y endriagos
y de piedras imanes que enloquecen la brújula.
Prendieron unos ranchos trémulos en la costa,
durmieron extrañados. Dicen que en el Riachuelo,
pero son embelecos fraguados en la Boca.
Fue una manzana entera y en mi barrio: en Palermo.
Una manzana entera pero en mitá del campo
expuesta a las auroras y lluvias y suestadas.
La manzana pareja que persiste en mi barrio:
Guatemala, Serrano, Paraguay, Gurruchaga.
Un almacén rosado como revés de naipe
brilló y en la trastienda conversaron un truco;
el almacén rosado floreció en un compadre,
ya patrón de la esquina, ya resentido y duro.
El primer organito salvaba el horizonte
con su achacoso porte, su habanera y su gringo.
El corralón seguro ya opinaba YRIGOYEN,
algún piano mandaba tangos de Saborido.
Una cigarrería sahumó como una rosa
el desierto. La tarde se había ahondado en ayeres,
los hombres compartieron un pasado ilusorio.
Sólo faltó una cosa: la vereda de enfrente.
A mí se me hace cuento que empezó Buenos Aires:
La juzgo tan eterna como el agua y el aire.
The mythical founding of Buenos Aires
And was it along this torpid muddy river
that the prows came to found my native city?
The little painted boats must have suffered the steep surf
among the root-clumps of the horse-brown current.
Pondering well, let us suppose that the river
was blue then like an extension of the sky,
with a small red star inset to mark the spot
where Juan Diaz* fasted and the Indians dined.
But for sure a thousand men and other thousands
arrived across a sea that was five moons wide,
still infested with mermaids and sea serpents
and magnetic boulders that sent the compass wild.
On the coast they put up a few ramshackle huts
and slept uneasily. This, they claim, in the Riachuelo,
but that is a story dreamed up in Boca.
It was really a city block in my district - Palermo.
A whole square block, but set down in open country,
attended by dawns and rains and hard southeasters,
identical to that block which still stands in my neighbourhood:
Guatemala, Serrano, Paraguay, Gurruchaga.
A general store pink as the back of a playing card
shone bright; in the back there was poker talk.
The corner bar flowered into life as a local bully,
already cock of his walk, resentful, tough.
The first barrel organ teetered over the horizon
with its clumsy progress, its habaneras, its wop.
The cart-shed wall was unanimous for YRIGOYEN.
Some piano was banging out tangos by Saborido.
A cigar store perfumed the desert like a rose.
The afternoon had established its yesterdays,
and men took on together an illusory past.
Only one thing was missing - the street had no other side.
Hard to believe Buenos Aires had any beginning.
I feel it to be as eternal as air and water.
Translated by Alastair ReidEtiquetas: J. L. Borges |
posted by Bishop @ 10:00  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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MYTHICAL FOUNDING OF BUENOS AIRES
Was this the sleepy muddy river
that led the prows to found a nation?
Up and down the little painted boats plied
amongst the clustered roots in the chestnut current.
Think about it, suppose the river
was blue-glazed like the sky's scion
with a little red star marking the spot
where Juan Díaz ate nothing but was eaten.
What's sure is a thousand men and thousands
traveled over the sea of five moons' width
inhabited by mermaids and sea monsters
and stones of magnetic force maddening the compass.
They built up tremulous ranches on the coast,
and slept a little. So they say on the Riachuelo,
but that's pure bunkum from the Boca.
It was one square city block where I've lived—in Palermo.
A square city block in the middle of nowhere
witnessed by sunups and rains and winds.
Like the block where I've lived:
Guatemala, Serrano, Paraguay, Gurruchaga.
A general store pink as the back of a card
shone and in the barroom talk of cards;
a pink general store become a blooming friend,
a streetcorner boss, hard and resented.
The first hurdy-gurdy cleared the horizon
looking frail with habanera and gringo.
A vacant lot decided for YRIGOYEN,
a piano demanded Sabarido's tangos.
A cigar store scented rosaceous
the desert. Evening deepened with yesterday,
everyone shared a past that was fiction.
One thing was missing: the other sidewalk.
It seems to me a fable that Buenos Aires was begun.
It is eternal like water and air I judge.
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney
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MYTHICAL FOUNDING OF BUENOS AIRES
Was this the sleepy muddy river
that led the prows to found a nation?
Up and down the little painted boats plied
amongst the clustered roots in the chestnut current.
Think about it, suppose the river
was blue-glazed like the sky's scion
with a little red star marking the spot
where Juan Díaz ate nothing but was eaten.
What's sure is a thousand men and thousands
traveled over the sea of five moons' width
inhabited by mermaids and sea monsters
and stones of magnetic force maddening the compass.
They built up tremulous ranches on the coast,
and slept a little. So they say on the Riachuelo,
but that's pure bunkum from the Boca.
It was one square city block where I've lived—in Palermo.
A square city block in the middle of nowhere
witnessed by sunups and rains and winds.
Like the block where I've lived:
Guatemala, Serrano, Paraguay, Gurruchaga.
A general store pink as the back of a card
shone and in the barroom talk of cards;
a pink general store become a blooming friend,
a streetcorner boss, hard and resented.
The first hurdy-gurdy cleared the horizon
looking frail with habanera and gringo.
A vacant lot decided for YRIGOYEN,
a piano demanded Sabarido's tangos.
A cigar store scented rosaceous
the desert. Evening deepened with yesterday,
everyone shared a past that was fiction.
One thing was missing: the other sidewalk.
It seems to me a fable that Buenos Aires was begun.
It is eternal like water and air I judge.
Translated by Christopher Mulrooney