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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 |
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| Federico García Lorca -Reyerta- |
| jueves, 15 de septiembre de 2005 |
Reyerta
A Rafael Méndez
En la mitad del barranco
las navajas de Albacete
bellas de sangre contraria,
relucen como los peces.
Una dura luz de naipe
recorta en el agrio verde
caballos enfurecidos
y perfiles de jinetes.
En la copa de un olivo
lloran dos viejas mujeres.
El toro de la reyerta
se sube por las paredes.
Ángeles negros traían
pañuelos y agua de nieve.
Ángeles con grandes alas
de navajas de Albacete.
Juan Antonio el de Montilla
rueda muerto la pendiente,
su cuerpo lleno de lirios
y una granada en las sienes.
Ahora monta cruz de fuego,
carretera de la muerte.
El juez, con guardia civil,
por los olivares viene.
Sangre resbalada gime
muda canción de serpiente.
Señores guardias civiles: aquí
pasó lo de siempre.
Han muerto cuatro romanos
y cinco cartagineses.
La tarde loca de higueras
y de rumores calientes
cae desmayada en los muslos
heridos de los jinetes.
Y ángeles negros volaban
por el aire del poniente.
Ángeles de largas trenzas
y corazones de aceite.
The quarrel
In mid-ravine
the Albacete knives
lovely with enemy blood
shine like fishes.
A hard light of playing-cards
silhouettes on the sharp green
angry horses
and profiles of riders.
In the heart of an olive-tree
two old women grieve.
The bull of the quarrel
climbs the walls.
Black angels bring
wet snow and handkerchiefs.
Angels with vast wings
like Albacete knives.
Juan Antonio of Montilla,
dead, rolls down the slope,
his corpse covered with lilies
and a pomegranate on his brow.
Now he mounts a cross of fire
on the roadway of death.
The judge, with the civil guard,
comes through the olives.
The slippery blood moans
a mute serpent song.
‘Gentlemen of the civil guard:
here it is as always.
We have four dead Romans
and five Carthaginians.’
The afternoon delerious
with figs and heated murmurs,
fainted on the horsemens’
wounded thighs.
And black angels flew
on the west wind.
Angels with long tresses
and hearts of oil.
Translated by A. S. KlineEtiquetas: Federico García Lorca |
posted by Bishop @ 17:25  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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Bad Blood
Halfway down the gully
knives of Albacete,
teasing with enemy blood,
blaze like fish.
In the bilious green
the light, hard from a deck of cards,
cuts out madden horses
and silhouettes of riders.
In an olive tree two
old women implore.
The bull of bad blood
mounts up the earthworks.
Black angels brought
handkerchiefs and snow water;
angels with swift, great wings
made of Albacete blades.
Juan Antonio de Montilla
slides down the slope, dead,
his body full of lilies,
a pomegranate in his forehead.
Now he rides down the crossroads
on a burning cross.
Through the olive copse
comes the judge and Civil Guard.
The voiceless song of a snake,
frothing blood, moaning.
Gentlemen, Civil Guards, Sirs,
it's always the same:
four dead Romans
and five Carthaginians.
The afternoon, grown wild
with fig trees and oppressive heat,
swoons and falls onto
the rider's wounded thighs.
And through the western skies
black angels toiled.
Angels with long olive tresses
and hearts from olive oil.
Translated by Zachary Jean Chartkoff
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Bad Blood
Halfway down the gully
knives of Albacete,
teasing with enemy blood,
blaze like fish.
In the bilious green
the light, hard from a deck of cards,
cuts out madden horses
and silhouettes of riders.
In an olive tree two
old women implore.
The bull of bad blood
mounts up the earthworks.
Black angels brought
handkerchiefs and snow water;
angels with swift, great wings
made of Albacete blades.
Juan Antonio de Montilla
slides down the slope, dead,
his body full of lilies,
a pomegranate in his forehead.
Now he rides down the crossroads
on a burning cross.
Through the olive copse
comes the judge and Civil Guard.
The voiceless song of a snake,
frothing blood, moaning.
Gentlemen, Civil Guards, Sirs,
it's always the same:
four dead Romans
and five Carthaginians.
The afternoon, grown wild
with fig trees and oppressive heat,
swoons and falls onto
the rider's wounded thighs.
And through the western skies
black angels toiled.
Angels with long olive tresses
and hearts from olive oil.
Translated by Zachary Jean Chartkoff