Spanish Poems


About this blog
Poemas en Inglés es un blog que pretende acercar poemas de lengua inglesa al castellano
"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?"


"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
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz -A su retrato-
viernes, 20 de octubre de 2006
A su retrato

Este, que ves, engaño colorido,
que del arte ostentando los primores,
con falsos silogismos de colores
es cauteloso engano del sentido;
este, en quien la lisonja ha pretendido
excusar de los anos los horrores,
y venciendo del tiempo los rigores
triunfar de la vejez y del olvido,

es un vano artificio del cuidado
es una flor al viento delicada,
es un resguardo inutil para el hado:
es una necia diligencia errada,
es un afan caduco y, bien mirado,
es cadaver, es polvo, es sombra, es nada.

To her portrait

These lying pigments facing you,
with every charm brush can supply,
set up false premises of color
to lead astray the unwary eye;
Here, against ghastly tolls of time,
bland flattery has staked a claim,
defying the power of passing years
to wipe out memory and name.

And here, in this hollow artifice,
frail blossom hanging on the wind,
vain pleading in a foolish cause:
poor shield against what fate has wrought,
all efforts fail and in the end,
a body goes to dust, to shade, to nought.

Translated by Alan S. Trueblood


posted by Bishop @ 14:40  
  • At 20 de julio de 2007, 9:59, Blogger Bishop said…


    This that you see, the false presentment planned
    With finest art and all the colored shows
    And reasonings of shade, doth but disclose
    The poor deceits by earthly senses fanned!
    Here where in constant flattery expand
    Excuses for the stains that old age knows,
    Pretexts against the years' advancing snows,
    The footprints of old seasons to withstand;

    'Tis but vain artifice of scheming minds;
    'Tis but a flower fading on the winds;
    'Tis but a useless protest against Fate;
    'Tis but stupidity without a thought,
    A lifeless shadow, if we meditate;
    'Tis death, tis dust, tis shadow, yea, 'tis nought.

    Translated by Roderick Gill

  • At 20 de julio de 2007, 10:02, Blogger Bishop said…


    This artifice of colors you perceive;
    The painter cunningly portrays his skill
    For synthesizing colors that will kill
    The very truths your senses once believed.
    In flattery this art has placed its bet
    That you'll excuse how horror stings the years,
    How time will stab with every step it nears,
    Dissecting time, your age, so you forget
    That this is all an imitated grace,

    Is just a flower lapping in the wind,
    Is just a vain facade disguising fate,
    Is now a labor foolishly misplaced,
    Is now an old obsession withered thin,
    Is dead, is dust, a shadow, all for naught!

    Translated by Jason L. Martin

  • At 21 de julio de 2007, 17:22, Blogger Bishop said…


    This that you gaze on, colorful deceit,
    that so immodestly displays art's favors,
    with its fallacious arguments of colors
    is to the senses cunning counterfeit,
    this on which kindness practiced to delete
    from cruel years accumulated horrors,
    constraining time to mitigate its rigors,
    and thus oblivion and age defeat,

    is but an artifice, a sop of vanity,
    is but a flower by the breezes bowed,
    is but a ploy to counter destiny,
    is but a foolish labor, ill-employed,
    is but a fancy, and, as all may see,
    is but cadaver, ashes, shadow, void.

  • At 21 de julio de 2007, 17:34, Blogger Bishop said…


    This, that you see, this colored treachery,
    which, by displaying all the charms of art,
    with those false syllogisms of its hues
    deceptively subverts the sense of sight;
    this, in which false praise has vainly sought
    to shun the horrors of the passing years,
    and conquering of time the cruelty,
    to overcome age and oblivion's might,

    is a vain artifice cautiously wrought,
    is a fragile bloom caught by the wind,
    is, to ward off fate, pure uselessness;
    is a foolish effort that's gone wrong,
    is a weakened zeal, and, rightly seen,
    is corpse, is dust, is gloom, is nothingness.

    Translated by Alix Ingber

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