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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
Federico García Lorca -El rey de Harlem-
domingo, 9 de octubre de 2005
El rey de Harlem

Con una cuchara
arrancaba los ojos a los cocodrilos
y golpeaba el trasero de los monos.
Con una cuchara.

Fuego de siempre dormía en los pedernales,
y los escarabajos borrachos de anís
olvidaban el musgo de las aldeas.

Aquel viejo cubierto de setas
iba al sitio donde lloraban los negros
mientras crujía la cuchara del rey
y llegaban los tanques de agua podrida.

Las rosas huían por los filos
de las últimas curvas del aire,
y en los montones de azafrán
los niños machacaban pequeñas ardillas
con un rubor de frenesí manchado.

Es preciso cruzar los puentes
y llegar al rubor negro
para que el perfume de pulmón
nos golpee las sienes con su vestido
de caliente piña.

Es preciso matar al rubio vendedor de aguardiente
a todos los amigos de la manzana y de la arena,
y es necesario dar con los puños cerrados
a las pequeñas judías que tiemblan llenas de burbujas,
para que el rey de Harlem cante con su muchedumbre,
para que los cocodrilos duerman en largas filas
bajo el amianto de la luna,
y para que nadie dude de la infinita belleza
de los plumeros, los ralladores, los cobres y las cacerolas de las cocinas.

¡Ay, Harlem! ¡Ay, Harlem! ¡Ay, Harlem!
No hay angustia comparable a tus rojos oprimidos,
a tu sangre estremecida dentro del eclipse oscuro,
a tu violencia granate sordomuda en la penumbra,
a tu gran rey prisionero, con un traje de conserje.

*

Tenía la noche una hendidura
y quietas salamandras de marfil.
Las muchachas americanas
llevaban niños y monedas en el vientre,
y los muchachos se desmayaban
en la cruz del desperezo.

Ellos son.
Ellos son los que beben el whisky de plata
junto a los volcanes
y tragan pedacitos de corazón
por las heladas montañas del oso.

Aquella noche el rey de Harlem,
con una durísima cuchara
arrancaba los ojos a los cocodrilos
y golpeaba el trasero de los monos.
Con una cuchara.
Los negros lloraban confundidos
entre paraguas y soles de oro,
los mulatos estiraban gomas, ansiosos de llegar al torso blanco,
y el viento empañaba espejos
y quebraba las venas de los bailarines.

Negros, Negros, Negros, Negros.

La sangre no tiene puertas en vuestra noche boca arriba.
No hay rubor. Sangre furiosa por debajo de las pieles,
viva en la espina del puñal y en el pecho de los paisajes,
bajo las pinzas y las retamas de la celeste luna de cáncer.

Sangre que busca por mil caminos muertes enharinadas y ceniza de nardos,
cielos yertos, en declive, donde las colonias de planetas
rueden por las playas con los objetos abandonados.

Sangre que mira lenta con el rabo del ojo,
hecha de espartos exprimidos, néctares de subterráneos.
Sangre que oxida el alisio descuidado en una huella
y disuelve a las mariposas en los cristales de la ventana.

Es la sangre que viene, que vendrá
por los tejados y azoteas, por todas partes,
para quemar la clorofila de las mujeres rubias,
para gemir al pie de las camas ante el insomnio de los lavabos
y estrellarse en una aurora de tabaco y bajo amarillo.

Hay que huir,
huir por las esquinas y encerrarse en los últimos pisos,
porque el tuétano del bosque penetrará por las rendijas
para dejar en vuestra carne una leve huella de eclipse
y una falsa tristeza de guante desteñido y rosa química.

*

Es por el silencio sapientísimo
cuando los camareros y los cocineros y los que limpian con la lengua
las heridas de los millonarios
buscan al rey por las calles o en los ángulos del salitre.

Un viento sur de madera, oblicuo en el negro fango,
escupe a las barcas rotas y se clava puntillas en los hombros;
un viento sur que lleva
colmillos, girasoles, alfabetos
y una pila de Volta con avispas ahogadas.

El olvido estaba expresado por tres gotas de tinta sobre el monóculo,
el amor por un solo rostro invisible a flor de piedra.
Médulas y corolas componían sobre las nubes
un desierto de tallos sin una sola rosa.

*

A la izquierda, a la derecha, por el Sur y por el Norte,
se levanta el muro impasible
para el topo, la aguja del agua.
No busquéis, negros, su grieta
para hallar la máscara infinita.
Buscad el gran sol del centro
hechos una piña zumbadora.
El sol que se desliza por los bosques
seguro de no encontrar una ninfa,
el sol que destruye números y no ha cruzado nunca un sueño,
el tatuado sol que baja por el río
y muge seguido de caimanes.

Negros, Negros, Negros, Negros.

Jamás sierpe, ni cebra, ni mula
palidecieron al morir.
El leñador no sabe cuándo expiran
los clamorosos árboles que corta.
Aguardad bajo la sombra vegetal de vuestro rey
a que cicutas y cardos y ortigas tumben postreras azoteas.

Entonces, negros, entonces, entonces,
podréis besar con frenesí las ruedas de las bicicletas,
poner parejas de microscopios en las cuevas de las ardillas
y danzar al fin, sin duda, mientras las flores erizadas
asesinan a nuestro Moisés casi en los juncos del cielo.

¡Ay, Harlem, disfrazada!
¡Ay, Harlem, amenazada por un gentío de trajes sin cabeza!
Me llega tu rumor,
me llega tu rumor atravesando troncos y ascensores,
a través de láminas grises,
donde flotan sus automóviles cubiertos de dientes,
a través de los caballos muertos y los crímenes diminutos,
a través de tu gran rey desesperado
cuyas barbas llegan al mar.


The king of Harlem

With a spoon
he scooped out the eyes of crocodiles
and slapped monkeys' bottoms.
With a spoon.

Eternal fire slept in the flints
and beetles drunk on aniseed
forgot the villages' moss.

That old man covered with mushrooms was going
to the place where the negroes wept
meanwhile the king's spoon crackled
and the tanks of stinking water arrived.

The roses fled along the edge
of the last curves of air,
and on the piles of saffron
children squashed little squirrels
with a blush of evil frenzy.

You have to cross the bridges
to find the negro blush
so that the scent of the lung
may beat against our temples
with its dress of warm pineapples.

You must kill the fair-haired seller of brandy,
and all friends of the apple and the sand,
and you must beat with closed fists
the little French beans which tremble, full of bubbles,
so that the king of Harlem may sing with his multitude,
that crocodiles may sleep in long rows
under the asbestos of the moon,
and that no one may doubt the infinite beauty
of dusters, graters, coppers, kitchen saucepans.

Ah, Harlem, Harlem, Harlem!
There is no anguish to compare with your crushed reds,
your blood shuddering amid a dark eclipse,
your violence - garnet, deaf and dumb in the half-light,
your great king imprisoned in a janitor's uniform.

*

The night cracked open and held quiet salamanders of ivory.
American girls
carried children and coins in their stomachs
and boys fainted on the cross where they were stretched.

They exist.
They are those who drink silver whisky by volcanoes
and who swallow little pieces of heart
upon the icy mountains of the bear.

That night the king of Harlem
with a very hard spoon
scooped out the eyes of crocodiles
and slapped monkeys' bottoms.
With a spoon.
The negroes wept bewildered
between umbrellas and golden suns,
mulattos chewed gum, trying to get a white torso, and th
e wind clouded mirrors
and broke the dancers' veins.

Negroes, Negroes, Negroes, Negroes.

Blood has no doors in your overturned night.
There is no flush. Furious blood beneath the skin,
living in the thorn of the dagger
and in the heart of landscapes,
under the tweezers and the furze
of the celestial moon of cancer.

Blood that seeks, along a thousand routes,
deaths of flour, and ashes of roses,
rigid, slanting skies, where colonies of planets
can roll about the beaches with the flotsam.

Blood that gazes slowly, with the tail of the eye,
made of dried grasses, underground nectar.
Blood rusting the careless trade-wind in a footprint,
and dissolving butterflies against the window.

It is blood that comes, and will come
through the roofs and terraces, from all sides,
to burn the chlorophyll of fair-haired women,
to groan at the foot of beds before the basins' insomnia
to smash against a yellow and tobacco-coloured dawn.

One must flee,
flee round corners, lock oneself on top storeys,
because the marrow of the forest will penetrate through cracks
to leave in your flesh a faint print of eclipse
a false sadness of a discoloured glove and of a chemical rose.

It is in the wisest silence
that waiters and cooks and those who scour with their tongues
the wounds of millionaires
seek the king through streets, on saltpetre corners.

A south wind of wood, slanting through the black mud
spits at broken boats, drives nails into shoulders;
a south wind that carries
tusks, sunflowers, alphabets
and a battery full of drowned wasps.

Forgetfulness was expressed
by three drops of ink on a monocle,
and love by a single invisible face
on the surface of the stone.
Marrow and corollas formed on the clouds
a desert of stalks, and not one rose...


*

To the left, to the right, to south and north,
there rises a wall, impassable
to the mole, the needle of water.
Negroes, do not search for a crevice
to find the infinite mask.
Search for a great central sun
made into a buzzing pineapple.
The sun that slips through the woods
certain not to encounter a nymph,
the sun that destroys numbers and has never crossed a dream,
the tattooed sun that goes down river and bellows
with alligators in pursuit.

Negroes, Negroes, Negroes, Negroes.

Never did snake, zebra or mule
grow pale at death.
The woodcutter does not know
when the noisy trees he cuts, expire.
Wait beneath the vegetable shadow of your king
until hemlocks, thistles and nettles disturb the farthest rooftops.

Then, negroes, then, then,
you can frenziedly kiss bicycle wheels,
put pairs of microscopes in squirrels' nests
and dance at last, no doubt, while the bristling
our Moses almost in the reeds of heaven.

Ah, Harlem in disguise!
Ah, Harlem, threatened by a crowd of headless costumes!
Your murmur reaches me,
reaches me through trunks and elevators,
through grey metal sheets,
where your cars are floating, covered with teeth,
through dead horses and petty crimes,
through your great and desperate king
whose beard reaches the sea.

Translated by Merryn Williams

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 10:00  
2 Comments:
  • At 11 de junio de 2007, 14:13, Blogger Bishop said…

    THE KING OF HARLEM

    With a spoon
    he scooped out eyes of crocociles
    and banged on the monkey butts.
    With a spoon.

    The fire of time still slept in the flint
    and the scarabs drunk on anise
    forgot the moss of the villages.

    Theat old man covered with mushrooms
    moved to the corner where the black men were wailing
    and the tubs of rotting water went by
    while the spoon of the king crackled.

    The roses fled on the edges
    of the last curves of the wind,
    and on the heaps of saffron
    the small boys mauled the tiny squirrels
    flushed with a stained exaltation.

    The bridges must be crossed
    and the blackness reached
    so the perfume of our lungs
    may beat against our temples with the vestures
    of burning pine-cone.

    We must kill the blond huckster of whisky,
    and all of the friends of apple and sand,
    and we must smash with tight closed fists
    the small kidney-beans that tremble in the bubbles of air,
    so the king of Harlem may sing with his multitude,
    so the crocodiles may sleep in the long lines
    beneath the moon's amianthus,
    so that no one may doubt the undying beauty
    of the feather-dusters, the graters, the kitchen brass
    and the casseroles.

    Oh, Harlem! Oh, Harlem! Oh, Harlem!
    No sorrow to equal your crimsons enslaved,
    or the fierce blood of your dark eclipse,
    or the dea-mute violence preciousin your vague borders,
    or your mighty chained king, robed in janitor's cloth!

    *

    The night had cracks and quiet ivory salamanders,
    And the American girls
    carried children and money in their bellies
    and the boys, arms and legs stretched, passed out on the cross.

    They are the ones.
    They are the ones who drink silver whisky at the foot of volcanoes
    and gulp small pieces of heart on the frozen heights of the bear.

    On that night the king of Harlem with a hard, hard spoon
    scooped out the eyes of the crocodiles
    and banged on the monkey butts.
    With a spoon.
    The blacks, confused, cried out
    under parasols and suns of gold,
    the mulattoes pulled on condoms, anxious to fall upon a white body,
    and the wind spotted the mirrors
    and opened up the veins of the dancers.

    Blood has no exit in your night with its belly up to the sky.
    There is no blush. Raging blood hidden by black skin,
    lives in the thorn of the dagger and in the breast of the countryside,
    beneath the pincers and the brooms of Cancer's celestial moon.
    (...)

    Translated by Prospero Saiz

     
  • At 11 de junio de 2007, 14:22, Blogger Bishop said…

    THE KING OF HARLEM

    With a spoon
    he scooped out the eyes of crocodiles
    and spanked the monkeys on their bottoms.
    With a spoon.

    Fire of all times slept in the flints
    and the beetles drunk with anis
    forgot the moss of the villages.

    That old man covered with mushrooms
    went to the place where the Negroes were weeping
    while the spoon of the King crackled
    and the tanks of putrid water arrived.

    Roses escaped along the edge of the final curves of the air,
    and in the heaps of saffron
    the boys were mauling small squirrels
    with a flush of stained frenzy.

    It is necessary to cross the bridges
    and to reach the black murmur,
    so that the perfume of lungs strikes our temples
    with its suit of warm pineapple.

    Necessary to murder the blonde seller of brandy,
    and all the friends of the apple and sand,
    necessary to bang with closed fists
    the small Jewesses that tremble full of bubbles,
    so that the King of Harlem sings with his multitude,
    so that the crocodiles sleep in long rows
    under the asbestos of the moon
    so that nobody doubts the infinite beauty of funnels,
    graters, feather-dusters, and saucepans in kitchens.

    Ah Harlem! Ah Harlem! Ah Harlem!
    There is no anxiety comparable to your oppressed scarlets,
    to your blood shaken within your dark eclipse,
    to your garnet violence deaf and dumb in the penumbra,
    to your great King, a prisoner with a commissionaire's uniform.

    The night had a fissure and still ivory salamanders.

    The American girls
    arried babies and coins in their bellies
    and the boys fainted stretched on the cross of lassitude.

    They are.
    They are those who take silver whisky near the volcanoes

    and devour bits of heart through the frozen mountains of the bear.

    That night the King of Harlem with a very hard spoon
    scooped out the eyes of crocodiles
    and spanked the monkeys on their bottoms.
    With a spoon.
    The Negroes cried abased
    among umbrellas and golden suns,
    the mulattoes were stretching gum, anxious to reach the
    white torso,
    and the wind blurred mirrors
    and burst open the veins of the dancers.

    Negroes, Negroes, Negroes, Negroes.
    (...)

    Translated by Stephen Spender & J.L.Gili

     
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