| Pablo Neruda -Oda a la papa- |
| lunes, 21 de marzo de 2005 |
Oda a la papa
Papa
te llamas
papa
y no patata,
no naciste castellana:
eres oscura
como
nuestra piel,
somos americanos,
papa,
somos indios.
Profunda
y suave eres,
pulpa pura, purísima
rosa blanca
enterrada,
floreces
allá adentro
en la tierra,
en tu lluviosa
tierra
originaria,
en las islas mojadas
de Chile tempestuoso,
en Chiloé marino,
en medio de la esmeralda que abre
su luz verde
sobre el austral océano.
Papa,
materia
dulce,
almendra
de la tierra,
la madre
allí
no tuvo
metal muerto,
allí en la oscura
suavidad de las islas
no dispuso
el cobre y sus volcanes
sumergidos,
ni la crueldad azul
del manganeso,
sino que son su mano,
como en un nido
en la humedad más suave,
colocó tus redomas,
y cuando
el trueno
de la guerra
negra,
España
inquisidora,
negra como águila de sepultura,
buscó el oro salvaje
en la matriz
quemante de la araucanía,
sus uñas
codiciosas
fueron exterminadas,
sus capitanes
muertos,
pero cuando a las piedras de Castilla
regresaron
los pobres capitanes derrotados
levantaron en las manos sangrientas
no una copa de oro,
sino la papa
de Chiloé marino.
Honrada eres
como
una mano
que trabaja en la tierra,
familiar
eres
como
una gallina,
compacta como un queso
que la tierra elabora
en sus ubres
nutricias,
enemiga del hambre,
en todas las naciones
se enterró su bandera
vencedora
y pronto allí,
en el frío o en la costa
quemada,
apareció
tu flor
anónima
enunciando la espesa
y suave
natalidad de tus raíces.
Universal delicia,
no esperabas
mi canto,
porque eres sorda
y ciega
y enterrada.
Apenas
si hablas en el infierno
del aceite
o cantas
en las freiduras
de los puertos,
cerca de las guitarras,
silenciosa,
harina de la noche
subterránea,
tesoro interminable
de los pueblos.
Ode to the potato
Potato,
you are called
potayto,
not potahto;
you were not born with a beard,
you are not Castillian.
You are dark
like
our skin;
we are Americans,
potato,
we are Indians.
You are
gentle and profound,
pure pulp, a pure
buried
white rose;
you flower there inside
the earth,
are showered by
original
earth
of wet islands,
by tempestuous Chile,
by the Chilean sea,
an emerald that pours
its green light
out upon the austral ocean.
Potato,
sweet
matter,
almond
of the earth,
the sediment
there
does not possess
dead metals;
there, in the obscure
softness of the islands,
no one fights for
copper and its submerged
volcanoes,
or the blue cruelty
of magnesium.
Hands planted you
in the moist ground
as though stocking a nest.
And when
the thunder
of that evil
war,
the Spanish
conquest,
black as an eagle of the grave,
sought savage gold
in the burning
matrix
of the Araucanias,
its greedy
ones
were exterminated,
its leaders
died,
and when
the poor ruined captains
returned
to stony Castile
in their hands they raised
not a golden goblet
but a potato
from the Chilean sea.
You are honorable
like
hands
that till the soil,
like
a hen
you're a member of the family,
are compact as a cheese
that the earth pours out
from its nourishing
udders;
enemy of hunger,
in all
nations
you've planted
your victorious and ready
banner,
in frozen land or in the ground
of burning coastlines
your anonymous flower
has appeared,
announcing the thick
and steady
birth rate of your roots.
Universal delight,
you don't await
my song,
for you are deaf
and blind
and buried.
Cooked in an inferno
of oil
you scarcely speak,
nor do you sing
in the fried-fish shops
of the harbours;
when close to the guitars
you are silent, potato,
meal of the subterranean
night,
interminable treasure-trove
of the people.Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda |
posted by Bishop @ 22:50  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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Ode to the Spud
Spud
is your name,
and not Potato.
You were not born with a beard.
You are not Castilian.
You are dark
like our skin.
We are Americans,
spud,
we are Indians.
You are deep
and tender,
pure pulp, the purest
subterranean
white rose.
You flourish
there, within
the Earth,
in the rain-rich soil
of your origins,
on dewy Chilean
isles, in tempests,
on maritime Chiloe
at the center of an emerald,
extending
its green glow
over the southern ocean.
Spud,
sweet
matter,
dusty
almond,
the mother
beyond
did not cradle
dead metal.
There in the dark,
insular softness,
she did not prepare
copper and submerged
volcanoes,
or the blue severity
of manganese,
but rather, with her hand,
as though in a nest,
in the most tender wetness,
she deposited your balloons,
and when
the thunder
of the black
war,
inquisitor
Spain,
black like a sepulchral eagle,
searched for the wild gold
in the fiery
womb
of the Araucanian,
their greedy
fingernails
were poisoned,
their captains
killed,
and when they returned
to the rocks of Castile,
the poorest defeated captains,
raised in their bloody hands,
not a golden chalice,
but a spud from
the shores of Chiloe.
You are honored
like
hands
working the soil,
you are
familiar
like a hen,
compact as a cheese
manufactured by the Earth
within her nourishing udders,
hunger's enemy
in all nations,
your victorious flag
is buried,
and quickly there
in the cold or on the
burning coast,
your anonymous
flower
appears,
announcing the thick
and soft nativity
of your roots.
Universal delight,
you did not await
my song because you are deaf
and blind
and buried.
If you talk,
then it is only a little
in oil's inferno,
or if you sing,
it is in the ports
where fish fry,
close to guitars,
oh silent one,
flour
of the underground
night,
the people's
never-ending treasure.
Translated by Maria Jacketti
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Ode to the Spud
Spud
is your name,
and not Potato.
You were not born with a beard.
You are not Castilian.
You are dark
like our skin.
We are Americans,
spud,
we are Indians.
You are deep
and tender,
pure pulp, the purest
subterranean
white rose.
You flourish
there, within
the Earth,
in the rain-rich soil
of your origins,
on dewy Chilean
isles, in tempests,
on maritime Chiloe
at the center of an emerald,
extending
its green glow
over the southern ocean.
Spud,
sweet
matter,
dusty
almond,
the mother
beyond
did not cradle
dead metal.
There in the dark,
insular softness,
she did not prepare
copper and submerged
volcanoes,
or the blue severity
of manganese,
but rather, with her hand,
as though in a nest,
in the most tender wetness,
she deposited your balloons,
and when
the thunder
of the black
war,
inquisitor
Spain,
black like a sepulchral eagle,
searched for the wild gold
in the fiery
womb
of the Araucanian,
their greedy
fingernails
were poisoned,
their captains
killed,
and when they returned
to the rocks of Castile,
the poorest defeated captains,
raised in their bloody hands,
not a golden chalice,
but a spud from
the shores of Chiloe.
You are honored
like
hands
working the soil,
you are
familiar
like a hen,
compact as a cheese
manufactured by the Earth
within her nourishing udders,
hunger's enemy
in all nations,
your victorious flag
is buried,
and quickly there
in the cold or on the
burning coast,
your anonymous
flower
appears,
announcing the thick
and soft nativity
of your roots.
Universal delight,
you did not await
my song because you are deaf
and blind
and buried.
If you talk,
then it is only a little
in oil's inferno,
or if you sing,
it is in the ports
where fish fry,
close to guitars,
oh silent one,
flour
of the underground
night,
the people's
never-ending treasure.
Translated by Maria Jacketti