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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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| Federico García Lorca -La monja gitana- |
| martes, 13 de septiembre de 2005 |
La monja gitana
Silencio de cal y mirto.
Malvas en las hierbas finas.
La monja borda alhelíes
sobre una tela pajiza.
Vuelan en la araña gris
siete pájaros del prisma.
La iglesia gruñe a lo lejos
como un oso panza arriba.
¡Que bien borda! ¡Con qué gracia!
Sobre la tela pajiza
ella quisiera bordar
flores de su fantasía.
¡Qué girasol! ¡Qué magnolia
de lentejuelas y cintas!
¡Qué azafranes y qué lunas,
en el mantel de la misa!
Cinco toronjas se endulzan
en la cercana cocina.
Las cinco llagas de Cristo
cortadas en Almería.
Por los ojos de la monja
galopan dos caballistas.
Un rumor último y sordo
le despega la camisa,
y al mirar nubes y montes
en las yertas lejanías,
se quiebra su corazón
de azúcar y yerbaluisa.
¡Oh, qué llanura empinada
con veinte soles arriba!
¡Qué ríos puestos de pie
vislumbra su fantasía!
Pero sigue con sus flores,
mientras que de pie, en la brisa,
la luz juega el ajedrez
alto de la celosía.
The gypsy nun
Silence of white lime and myrtle.
Mallows blooming among meadow grasses.
The gypsy nun embroidering gillyflowers
on a lemon cloth.
In the ashen chandelier
fly the seven prismatic birds.
A bear on its back; the church
growling in the distance.
How ingeniously she sews! And with such grace!
She is hungry to embroider on the lemon
cloth flowers of her pleasure.
What a sunflower! What magnolias
of filigrees and spangles!
Such saffron, such moonflower
across the hallowed cloth!
In the nearby kitchen,
five grapefruit ripening:
the five wounds of Christ,
cut in Almería.
Through the nun's eyes
two gypsy outlaws gallop.
A dull and forbidding sigh
loosens and lifts the chemise
from her body and seeing
clouds and mountains
across the inert distance,
her heart of lemon yerbaluisa
and sugar comes undone.
Ai, what a rising plateau
with twenty suns shining above!
And what rivers, rising on their feet,
has her fantasy has glimpsed!
But she endures with her flowers,
while, all around in the wind,
the light plays the high game of chess
across the latticework of the windows.
Translated by Zachary Jean ChartkoffEtiquetas: Federico García Lorca |
posted by Bishop @ 17:30  |
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| 2 Comments: |
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The gypsy nun
Silence of lime and myrtle.
Mallows in slenders grasses.
The nun embroiders wallflowers
on a straw-coloured cloth.
In the chandelier, fly
seven prismatic birds.
The church grunts in the distance
like a bear belly upwards.
How she sews! With what grace!
On the straw-coloured cloth
she wants to embroider
the flowers of her fantasy.
What sunflowers! What magnolias
of sequins and ribbons!
What crocuses and moons
on the cloth over the altar!
Five grapefruit sweeten
in the nearby kitchen.
The five wounds-of-Christ
cut in Almería.
Through the eyes of the nun
two horsemen gallop.
A last quiet murmur
takes off her camisole.
And gazing at clouds and hills
in the strict distance,
her heart of sugar
and verbena breaks.
Oh what a high plain
with twenty suns above it!
What standing rivers
her fantasy sees setting!
But she goes on with her flowers,
while standing, in the breeze,
the light plays chess
high in the lattice-window.
Translated by A. S. Kline
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GYPSY NUN
Silence of whitewash and myrtle.
Mallows among slender grasses.
The gypsy nun embroiders gillyflowers
on her straw-colored matting.
In the grey chandelier
fly seven birds of the prism;
like a bear belly-up
the church grumbles in the distance.
How well she sews,
with what flair she'd embroider
with her fantasy of flowers!
What sunflowers! What magnolias
of spangles and ribbons!
On the altar cloth for Mass,
what moons! What saffrons!
Five grapefruits ripen
in the nearby kitchen
the five wounds of Christ,
severed in Almeria.
Across the eyes of the nun
two horsemen gallop;
an ultimate and muffled murmur
lifts her light tunic.
Seeing the clouds and the mountains
in the motionless distance,
her cloistered heart breaks,
her heart of mint and sugar.
Oh, what rearing plains
with twenty suns above!
What glimpses of her fantasy,
what rivers set on foot!
But she continues with her flowers
while on tiptoe in the breeze,
light plays its game of chess,
tall shadows on the jalousies.
Translated by David Loughran
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The gypsy nun
Silence of lime and myrtle.
Mallows in slenders grasses.
The nun embroiders wallflowers
on a straw-coloured cloth.
In the chandelier, fly
seven prismatic birds.
The church grunts in the distance
like a bear belly upwards.
How she sews! With what grace!
On the straw-coloured cloth
she wants to embroider
the flowers of her fantasy.
What sunflowers! What magnolias
of sequins and ribbons!
What crocuses and moons
on the cloth over the altar!
Five grapefruit sweeten
in the nearby kitchen.
The five wounds-of-Christ
cut in Almería.
Through the eyes of the nun
two horsemen gallop.
A last quiet murmur
takes off her camisole.
And gazing at clouds and hills
in the strict distance,
her heart of sugar
and verbena breaks.
Oh what a high plain
with twenty suns above it!
What standing rivers
her fantasy sees setting!
But she goes on with her flowers,
while standing, in the breeze,
the light plays chess
high in the lattice-window.
Translated by A. S. Kline