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
Pablo Neruda -Oda al maíz-
lunes, 21 de marzo de 2005
Oda al maíz

América, de un grano
de maíz te elevaste
hasta llenar
de tierras espaciosas
el espumoso
océano.
Fue un grano de maíz
tu geografía.
El grano
adelantó una lanza
verde,
la lanza verde se cubrió
de oro
y engalanó la altura
del Perú con su
pámpano amarillo.

Pero, poeta, deja
la historia en su
mortaja
y alaba con tu lira
al grano en sus
graneros;
canta al simple maíz de
las cocinas.

Primero suave barba
agitada en el huerto
sobre los tiernos
dientes .
de la joven mazorca.

Luego se abrió el
estuche
y la fecundidad rompió
sus velos
de pálido papiro .
para que se desgrane
la risa del maíz sobre la
tierra.

A la piedra
en tu viaje, regresabas.
No a la piedra terrible,
al sanguinario
triángulo de la muerte
mexicana,
sino a la piedra de
moler,
sagrada
piedra de nuestras
cocinas.

Allí leche y materia,
poderosa y nutricia
pulpa de los pasteles
llegaste a ser movida
por milagrosas manos
de mujeres morenas.

Donde caigas, maíz,
en la olla ilustre

de las perdices o entre
los fréjoles
campestres, iluminas
la comida y le acercas
el virginal sabor de tu
substancia.

Morderte,
panocha de maíz, junco
al océano
de cantara remota y
vals profundo.
Hervirte
y que tu aroma
por las sierras azules
se despliegue.

Pero, dónde
no llega
tu tesoro?

En las tierras marinas
y calcáreas,
peladas, en las rocas
del litoral chileno,
a la mesa desnuda
del minero
a veces sólo llega
la claridad de tu
mercadería.

Puebla tu luz, tu harina,
tu esperanza
la soledad de América,
y el hambre
considera tus lanzas
legiones enemigas.

Entre tus hojas como
suave guiso
crecieron nuestros
graves corazones
de niños provincianos
y comenzó la vida


Ode to maize

America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
was covered with gold,
to grace the heights
of Peru with its yellow tassels.

But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.

First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above the tender teeth
of the young ear.
Then the husks parted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
that grains of laughter
might fall upon the earth.
To the stone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to the terrible stone,
the bloody
triangle of Mexican death,
but to the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.

Wherever you fall, maize,
whether into the
splendid pot of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
the meal and lend it
your virginal flavor.

Oh, to bite into
the steaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.

But is there
no end
to your treasure?

In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
the rocky Chilean coast,
at times
only your radiance
reaches the empty
table of the miner.

Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.

Within your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
children's hearts were nurtured,
until life began
to shuck us from the ear.

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 21:05  
1 Comments:
  • At 24 de mayo de 2007, 7:59, Blogger Bishop said…

    Ode to corn

    America, you grew
    from a kernel of corn
    until filling
    the foamy ocean
    with ample earth.
    Your geography was a kernel of corn.
    The kernel
    gave birth to a green lance;
    the green lance covered itself with gold
    and adorned the heights
    of Peru
    with honeyed tassels.

    But, poet, leave
    the story in its shroud,
    and with your lyre,
    praise the grain in silos:
    sing about the simple corn in kitchens.

    First, a soft beard
    trembles in the field
    over the tender teeth
    of the young tower of maize.
    Then the sheath opens,
    and fertility splits
    its pale papyrus
    sails
    corn's laughter
    shakes over the earth.

    In the course of your journey,
    you turned to stone,
    not the terrible,
    bloodthirsty
    triangle of Mexican death,
    but the grinding stone,
    sacred
    stone of our kitchens.
    There milk and raw matter,
    powerful and life-sustaining
    pulp of cakes,
    you arrived to be shaped
    by the miraculous hands
    of sun-golden women.

    Corn, wherever you may fall,
    into the patridge's stew-spot,
    or among rustic neans,
    you illuminate
    the feast, and the innocent savor
    of your essence unites us.

    Oh to bite into you,
    ear of corn, near the ocean
    of distant song and deep waltzes!
    To boil you,
    so that your aroma
    extends throughout
    in the blue sierras!

    Where
    does your treasure
    reach?

    Into oceanic and calcareous
    lands,
    along the rough and thorny rocks
    of the chilean coast,
    and on the miner's naked
    table mountain,
    sometimes only your bright
    abundance arrives.

    Increase your light, your cereal, your hope,
    America's solitude.
    Hunger considers
    our lances
    enemy battalions.

    Among your leaves,
    like tender spice,
    our hearts,
    the serious hearts
    of provincial children grew,
    and life began
    to shake us apart.

    Translated by Maria Jacketti

     
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