Spanish Poems





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About this blog
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
Rosario Castellanos -Metamorfosis de la hechicera-
miércoles, 8 de noviembre de 2006
Metamorfosis de la hechicera

A Remedios Varo

Nacer, salir de madre como el río
que se despeña, arrastra materias extrañas, precipita
su caudal hasta el fin, sin ver el cielo
ni el árbol de las márgenes
ni pulir con amor la piedra de su entraña.

Así a nuestro vivir llamamos vértigo,
remolino que a veces devora, algo que enreda
lo que quiere ascender hasta la superficie.
Y no hay, entre el estruendo y su extinción,
más que la turbiedad
del limo, el pez oscuro y el pulso sin descanso.

Así todos los que desembocamos
en el mar antes de haber logrado un nombre.

Así todos. No ella. Hecha también de agua
se detuvo en remansos pensativos.

¡Qué figuras nos deja entrever su transparencia!
Galerías sin fin, palacios desolados,
complejas maquinarias
donde se transformaba el universo
en belleza y en orden y en ley resplandeciente.
Mujer, hilaba copos de luz; tejía redes
para apresar estrellas.

Mujer, tuvo sus máscaras y jugaba a engañarse
y a engañar a los otros
mas cuando contemplaba su rostro verdadero
era una flor de pétalos
pálidos y marchitos: amor, ausencia y muerte.
Y en su corola había
alguna cicatriz casi borrada.

Por todo lo que supo era obediente y triste
y cuando se marchó por esa calle
-que tan bien conocía- de los adioses,
fueron a despedirla criaturas de hermosura,
ésas que rescató del caos, de la sombra,
de la contradicción, y las hizo vivir
en la atmósfera mágica creada por su aliento.


Metamorphosis of the magical one

To Remedies Varo

Being born, to leave mother like the river
that is thrown down, drags strange matters, precipitates
its volume to the end, without seeing the sky
neither the tree of the margins
Nor to polish with love the stone of its heart.

Thus to ours to live we call vertigo,
eddy that at times devours, something that entangles
What wants to ascend to the surface.
And there is not, between the roar and its extinction,
more than the turbiedad
Of the slime, the dark fish and the pulse without rest.

Thus all the ones that we ended
In the sea before to have achieved a name.

Thus all. Not she. Done also of water
One stopped thoughtful in deep still pools .

¡What figures leaves us to make out its transparency!
Galleries without end, desolate palaces,
complex machineries
where the universe was transformed
In beauty and in order and in shining law.
Woman, spin flakes of light; she wove networks
In order to catch stars.

Woman, had her masks and played to be deceived
and to deceive the others
but when she contemplated his true face
it was a flower of petals
Pale and wilted: love, absence and death.
And in his corola there was
Some scar almost erased.

For everything that knew it was obedient and sad
and when left by that street
-that it so well knew- of the good-byes,
they went to say good-bye to creatures of beauty,
those that it rescued of the chaos, of the shadow,
of the contradiction, and made them live
In the magic atmosphere created by its breath.

Translated by Emilio Fischman & Robin Voigt

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 13:00  
1 Comments:
  • At 8 de julio de 2007, 1:44, Blogger Bishop said…

    METAMORPHOSIS OF THE SORCERESS

    Poem in memorium, for her friend, Remedios Varo

    Being born, issuing from the mother like the river
    that tumbling, thrusting foreign matter, propels
    its volume to the end without seeing the sky,
    the trees on the bank,
    or giving a loving polish to the pebble in its belly.

    we call our living vertigo,
    devouring whirlpool, algae that traps
    whatever tries to rise to the surface.
    between the roaring and its extinction
    there is only turbid mire, dark fish, and ceaseless pulse.

    so it is for all of us who flow
    into the sea before acheiving an identity.

    for all of us. not for her. she too was made of water
    and lingered in reflected eddies.

    what forms we glimpse through her transparency!
    endless corridors, desolate places,
    complex machinery
    transforming the universe
    into beauty, into order, into shining laws.
    woman, spinning bolls of light, weaving
    nets to catch the stars.

    woman, holding her masks, playing at self-deception
    and deceiving others,
    but when she saw her own true face
    it was a flower of pale
    withered petals; love, absence and death.
    on its corolla
    a faint scar.

    because of all she knew she was obedient and sad
    and when she departed down that street
    --the one she knew so well--of good-byes,
    beautiful creatures came out to bid her farewell,
    the ones she had rescued from chaos, shadow, and
    contradiction and made live
    in the magic atmosphere her spirit created.

     
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