Spanish Poems





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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
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer -Rima III. Sacudimiento extraño...-
domingo, 15 de abril de 2007
Rima III. Sacudimiento extraño...

Sacudimiento extraño
que agita las ideas,
como huracán que empuja
las olas en tropel.

Murmullo que en el alma
se eleva y va creciendo
como volcán que sordo
anuncia que va a arder.

Deformes siluetas
de seres imposibles;
paisajes que aparecen
como al través de un tul.

Colores que fundiéndose
remedan en el aire
los átomos del iris
que nadan en la luz.

Ideas sin palabras,
palabras sin sentido;
cadencias que no tienen
ni ritmo ni compás.

Memorias y deseos
de cosas que no existen;
accesos de alegría,
impulsos de llorar.

Actividad nerviosa
que no halla en qué emplearse;
sin riendas que le guíen,
caballo volador.

Locura que el espíritu
exalta y desfallece,
embriaguez divina
del genio creador...
Tal es la inspiración.

Gigante voz que el caos
ordena en el cerebro
y entre las sombras hace
la luz aparecer.

Brillante rienda de oro
que poderosa enfrena
de la exaltada mente
el volador corcel.

Hilo de luz que en haces
los pensamientos ata;
sol que las nubes rompe
y toca en el zenit.

Inteligente mano
que en un collar de perlas
consigue las indóciles
palabras reunir.

Armonioso ritmo
que con cadencia y número
las fugitivas notas
encierra en el compás.

Cincel que el bloque muerde
la estatua modelando,
y la belleza plástica
añade a la ideal.

Atmósfera en que giran
con orden las ideas,
cual átomos que agrupa
recóndita atracción.

Raudal en cuyas ondas
su sed la fiebre apaga,
oasis que al espíritu
devuelve su vigor...
Tal es nuestra razón.

Con ambas siempre en lucha
y de ambas vencedor,
tan sólo al genio es dado
a un yugo atar las dos.


Rhyme III. Strange jolt...

Strange jolt
that shakes up ideas,
like a hurricane that impels
the waves' mad rush;

murmur rising
in the soul and growing
like a volcano recklessly
announcing it will burn;

deformed silhouettes
of impossible beings;
landscapes that appear
like a curtain of tulle;

colors that fuse
in the air imitating
motes of rainbow
that swim in the light;

ideas without words
words without sense;
cadences that have
no rate or compass;

memories and desires
for things that don't exist;
upwellings of joy
surges of crying;

nervous activity
that finds no outlet;
flying horse
with no reins to guide it;

madness that exalts
and inflames the spirit;
divine intoxication
of the creative genius...
Such is inspiration!

giant voice that orders
the chaos in the brain,
and between the shadows
makes light appear;

brilliant gold rein
that forcefully controls
the soaring steed
of the exalted mind;

thread of light that
binds thoughts together;
sun that scatters the clouds
and touches the zenith;

clever hand
that is able to string
defiant words
into a necklace of pearls;

harmonious rhythm
that with cadence and count
imprisons fugitive notes
within its compass;

chisel that bites the block
to carve the statue
and the beauty of clay
going beyond the ideal;

atmosphere in which ideas
gyrate with order,
as atoms bind
by arcane attraction;

torrent in whose waves
the fever slakes its thirst;
oasis that revives
the vigor of the spirit ...
Such is our reason!

With both always struggling
and conquering both
only thus can genius
bind the two with one yoke.

Translated by Howard A. Landman

Etiquetas:

posted by Bishop @ 10:03  
2 Comments:
  • At 15 de julio de 2007, 10:50, Blogger Bishop said…

    Rhyme III. LIKE AN INDIAN HURRICANE...

    Like an Indian Hurricane
    Lending its impetus
    To lash the ocean main;
    Stirring the sluggish brain,
    - A quickening incubus.

    Murmurs, which in the soul
    Rise and increase in ire,
    With hoarse announcement roll
    Deep in the crater's bowl,
    - Like a volcano's fire.

    Mis-shapen sillhouettes
    Of non-existing things;
    Landscapes, that one forgets,
    Seen, as through gauzy nets
    - Or magic mirrorings.

    Colors, which blending glow
    Within the air; the bright
    Atoms to atoms grow
    Till the celestial bow
    - Swims in prismatic light.

    Words, of all meaning shorn,
    Sense, quite bereft of words;
    Cadences rudely torn
    From rhythm, measure, norm,
    - Like broken potter's sherds.

    Mem'ries and vain desires
    For things we ne'er have known;
    Joy, which the fancy fires,
    Tears that the heart requires
    - When we're alone.

    Nervous activity
    Seeking to find a mean
    For some utility;
    Steed of high quality
    - Without a guiding rein.

    Madness, that steeps the soul
    In fierce elation;
    Draughts from the celestial bowl,
    Creative genius as a whole, -
    - This is inspiration.

    Tremendous voice which regulates
    The chaos of the brain;
    Which lowering shadows dissipates,
    Restoring light again.

    Resplendent rein of gold, to curb
    With power the flying steed,
    When frantic fancies him disturb
    And he is deaf to heed.

    Refulgent thread of light, which binds
    In fagots our strewn thought;
    Sun, which in vaulted zenith shines,
    Breaking through clouds, as naught.

    Discerning hand, persisting e'er
    To re-unite and bring
    Our untamed words within a rare
    And richly jeweled ring.

    Harmonious rhythm, which confines
    Within a certain bound
    The fleeting notes and deftly twines
    A measured cadence round.

    Chisel, which bites the sculptor's block,
    Uniting in this duty
    Ideals, which our senses mock
    With perfect plastic beauty.

    The region, where in ordered troops
    Ideas may revolve;
    Where atoms form concentric groups
    From secret, joint resolve.

    Pellucid spring, whose balmy waves
    Assuage the thirst of fever;
    Oasis, which the spirit craves
    As vigor's best retriever.

    Such is our reason.

    Forever battling with them, stroke for stroke,
    Forever conqueror of both, - no one
    Can bring them both beneath a common yoke
    Except the force of genius alone.

    Translated by Jules Renard

     
  • At 15 de julio de 2007, 10:57, Blogger Bishop said…

    RHYME III. STRANGE AGITATION...

    Strange agitation
    That flings up ideas,
    As billows in tumult
    When hurricane blows;

    Murmur within the sould
    Rising and swelling,
    As a muffled foretelling
    Of volcanic throes;

    Silhouettes formless
    Of beings impossible;
    Scenes that, as through a veil
    Spectral beseem;

    Blending of colors,
    In the air mimicking
    Motes of the iris
    That swim in the beam;

    Thoughts without words,
    Words without reason;
    Harmonies rhythmless
    That measureless sweep;

    Memories and longings
    For things that never are;
    Kindlings of joyousness,
    Urgings to weep;

    Buoyant activity
    Lacking a goal to seek;
    Wing'd courser, guided
    To no destination;

    Madness exalting,
    Inflaming the spirit;
    Creator of genius,
    Divine ebriation ...
    Such is Inspiration!

    Great voice commanding
    The chaos of the brain;
    Voice that amidst the shades
    Ordains the light;

    Bright golden curb
    With power restraining
    Of the exalted mind
    The wing'd courser's flight;

    Threads of light binding
    The thoughts together;
    Sun that, dispelling clouds,
    To zenith whirls;

    Intelligent hand that
    succeeds in uniting
    Unruly words into
    A circlet of pearls;

    Harmonious rhythm that
    With number and measure
    Encloses the fugitive
    Notes in the scale;

    Chisel that bites the block
    Forming the statue,
    And weds plastic beauty
    Unto the ideal;

    Ether wherein ideas
    Swing in good order,
    As atoms that hidden
    Attraction doth bind;

    Torrent where fever
    Its hot thirst assuages;
    Oasis where the soul
    New strength doth find ...
    Such is the Mind!

    With both ever struggling,
    And victory over twain,
    Only genius to one yoke
    The two may enchain.

    Translated by Young Allison

     
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