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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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| César Vallejo -El pan nuestro- |
| sábado, 10 de enero de 2004 |
El pan nuestro
Para Alejandro Gamboa
Se bebe el desayuno... Húmeda tierra
de cementerio huele a sangre amada.
Ciudad de invierno... La mordaz cruzada
de una carreta que arrastrar parece
una emoción de ayuno encadenada!
Se quisiera tocar todas las puertas,
y preguntar por no sé quién; y luego
ver a los pobres, y, llorando quedos,
dar pedacitos de pan fresco a todos.
Y saquear a los ricos sus viñedos
con las dos manos santas
que a un golpe de luz
volaron desclavadas de la Cruz!
Pestaña matinal, no os levantéis!
¡El pan nuestro de cada día dánoslo,
Señor...!
Todos mis huesos son ajenos;
yo talvez los robé!
Yo vine a darme lo que acaso estuvo
asignado para otro;
y pienso que, si no hubiera nacido,
otro pobre tomara este café!
Yo soy un mal ladrón... A dónde iré!
Y en esta hora fría, en que la tierra
trasciende a polvo humano y es tan triste,
quisiera yo tocar todas las puertas,
y suplicar a no sé quién, perdón,
y hacerle pedacitos de pan fresco
aquí, en el horno de mi corazón...!
Our daily bread
for Alejandro Gamboa
Breakfast is drunk down … Damp earth
of the cemetery gives off the fragrance of the precious blood.
City of winter … the mordant crusade
of a cart that seems to pull behind it
an emotion of fasting that cannot get free!
1 wish I could beat on all the doors,
and ask for somebody; and then
look at the poor, and, while they wept softly,
give bits of fresh bread to them.
And plunder the rich of their vineyards
with those two blessed hands
which blasted the nails with one blow of light,
and flew away from the Cross!
Eyelash of morning, you cannot lift yourselves!
Give us our daily bread,
Lord … !
Every bone in me belongs to others;
and maybe I robbed them.
I came to take something for myself that maybe
was meant for some other man;
and I start thinking that, if I had not been born,
another poor man could have drunk this coffee.
I feel like a dirty thief … Where will I end?
And in this frigid hour, when the earth
has the odor of human dust and is so sad,
I wish I could beat on all the doors
and beg pardon from someone,
and make bits of fresh bread for him
here, in the oven of my heart … !
Translated by James WrightEtiquetas: César Vallejo |
posted by Bishop @ 11:40  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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OUR BREAD
For Alejandro Gamboa
You drink breakfast. The cemetery's damp earth
smells of beloved blood.
City of winter...The caustic crusade
of a cart that seems to drag
a feeling of fasting in chains!
You long to knock on every door,
and ask for I don't know whom; and then
seeing the poor and crying quietly,
to give everyone bits of fresh bread.
And to strip the rich of their vineyards
with your two blessed hands
that with a single blow of light
flew unnailed from the Cross!
Don't rise, matinal eyelash!
Give us our daily bread...
Lord!
All my bones are strangers;
perhaps I stole them!
I gave myself what was,by chance,
assigned to another;
and I think -- if I'd not been born,
another poor fellow would be drinking this coffee!
I'm a terrible thief...Wherever I go!
And in this frigid hour, when the earth
smells of human dust and is so sad,
I want to knock on every door
and beg forgiveness of I don't know whom,
and bake bits of fresh bread for him,
here, in the oven of my heart...!
Translated by Rebecca Seiferle
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OUR BREAD
For Alejandro Gamboa
You drink breakfast. The cemetery's damp earth
smells of beloved blood.
City of winter...The caustic crusade
of a cart that seems to drag
a feeling of fasting in chains!
You long to knock on every door,
and ask for I don't know whom; and then
seeing the poor and crying quietly,
to give everyone bits of fresh bread.
And to strip the rich of their vineyards
with your two blessed hands
that with a single blow of light
flew unnailed from the Cross!
Don't rise, matinal eyelash!
Give us our daily bread...
Lord!
All my bones are strangers;
perhaps I stole them!
I gave myself what was,by chance,
assigned to another;
and I think -- if I'd not been born,
another poor fellow would be drinking this coffee!
I'm a terrible thief...Wherever I go!
And in this frigid hour, when the earth
smells of human dust and is so sad,
I want to knock on every door
and beg forgiveness of I don't know whom,
and bake bits of fresh bread for him,
here, in the oven of my heart...!
Translated by Rebecca Seiferle