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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 XII. Porque son niña, tus ojos...-
domingo, 15 de abril de 2007
Rima XII. Porque son niña, tus ojos...

Porque son niña, tus ojos
verdes como el mar, te quejas;
verdes los tienen las náyades,
verdes los tuvo Minerva,
y verdes son las pupilas
de las huris del profeta.
El verde es gala y ornato
del bosque en la primavera;
entre sus siete colores
brillante el Iris lo ostenta.
Las esmeraldas son verdes,
verde el color del que espera,
y las ondas del océano,
y el laurel de los poetas.

Es tu mejilla temprana
rosa de escarcha cubierta
en que el carmín de los pétalos
se ve a través de las perlas
Y, sin embargo,
sé que te quejas,
porque tus ojos
crees que la afean:
pues no lo creas;
que parecen tus pupilas,
húmedas, verdes e inquietas,
tempranas hojas de almendro,
que al soplo del aire tiemblan.

Es tu boca de rubíes
purpúrea granada abierta,
que en el estío convida
a apagar la sed en ella.
Y, sin embargo,
sé que te quejas,
porque tus ojos
crees que la afean:
pues, no lo creas
que parecen, si enojada
tus pupilas centellean,
las olas del mar que rompen
en las cantábricas peñas.

Es tu frente que corona
crespo el oro en ancha trenza,
nevada cumbre en que el día
su postrera luz refleja.
Y, sin embargo,
sé que te quejas,
porque tus ojos
crees que la afean:
pues, no lo creas
Que, entre las rubias pestañas,
junto a las sienes, semejan
broches de esmeralda y oro,
que un blanco armiño sujetan.


Rhyme XII. Because they are young...

Because they are young, your eyes
green like the sea, you despair;
green are the naiads',
green were Minerva's,
and green are the eyes
of the houris of the prophet.
Green is the finery and ornament
of the forest in spring;
the rainbow flaunts it
among its seven shining colors.
Emeralds are green,
green the color of hope,
and the waves of the ocean,
and the laurel of the poets.

Yours is a youthful pink
cheek covered with frost
in which the carmine of petals
is seen through diamonds
and, nevertheless,
I know that you despair,
because you believe
your eyes are ugly:
well, don't believe it;
they seem, your eyes,
moist, green and restless,
like young leaves of an almond tree
that tremble when the wind blows.

Yours is a mouth of rubies,
an open purple pomegranate
that in summer invites one
to quench their thirst in it.
And, nevertheless,
I know that you despair,
because you believe
your eyes are ugly:
well, don't believe it
your eyes, if angered,
seem to sparkle,
the waves of the sea that break
on the Cantabrian rocks.

You have a forehead with its curly
crown of gold in wide braids,
a snow-capped summit in which the day's
last light is reflected.
And, nevertheless,
I know that you despair,
because you believe
your eyes are ugly:
well, don't believe it
They, between blond eyelashes,
next to your temples,
resemble brooches of emerald and gold
that clasp white ermine.

Translated by Howard A. Landman

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posted by Bishop @ 10:12  
3 Comments:
  • At 15 de julio de 2007, 15:56, Blogger Bishop said…

    RHYME XII. WHY, MY CHILD, ARE THINE EYES GREEN...

    Why, my child, are thine eyes green?
    Green as the sea, thou complainest.
    Green are the eyes of the Naiads,
    Green are those of Minerva,
    And green, too, are the eyes
    of the houris of the prophet.

    Green is the gala garment
    Of the groves in Springtime;
    Among its seven colors,
    Brilliant, the rainbow shows it.
    Green are emeralds also;
    Who hopes has green for his color;
    And green are the waves of Ocean,
    And the laurel of the poets.

    Translated by Owen Innsly

     
  • At 15 de julio de 2007, 15:59, Blogger Bishop said…

    RHYME XII. BECAUSE YOUR EYES...

    Because your eyes are colored like the sea,
    Do not complain, my child!
    The naiads use such eyes in wanton glee
    And sportive gambols wild;
    Minerva's eye of green a source of power is
    Green are the pupils of the prophet's houris.

    Green is the color of the woods in spring;
    Among its other dyes
    It is displayed within the rainbow's ring,
    With it the emerald vies;
    Green are the ocean-billows, green the sorrel,
    Green are our hopes and green the poet's laurel.

    Your cheek is like the carmine of the rose,
    Sprinkled with pearls of frost,
    When it before its proper season glows
    To lead, at any cost.
    But do not fear! It is the merest fancy
    That your eyes mar it! Everybody can see
    That they are like the early almond leaves
    Humid and restless, when a zephyr breathes.

    Your mouth is like the ruby-purple tint
    Which we admire in burst
    And ripe pomegranates, with their luscious hint
    How well they quench our thirst.
    But, none the less, esteem it as a fancy
    That your eyes spoil it. Everybody can see,
    Angered, they sparkle like the waves, which roar
    Against the perilous Cantabrian shore.

    Your forehead, where the golden curls are massed,
    Is like a snowy peak
    Whereon the sun may linger, with its last
    Declining rays, oblique.
    Be not alarmed! It is an idle fancy
    That your eyes mar it! Everybody can see,
    That they are like a brooch of emerald rare
    Clasping the ermine of your skin and hair.

    Translated by Jules Renard

     
  • At 15 de julio de 2007, 16:00, Blogger Bishop said…

    RHYME XII. MOURN YOU, MAIDEN...

    Mourn you, maiden, that your eyes
    Green are as the seas?
    Green the eyes Minerva had
    And have the naiades;
    Amd also green the storied orbs
    Of the prophet's houris.

    Green the forest's finery
    In the springtime days;
    Brilliant mid its seven hues
    The rainbow green displays;
    Verdant is the hue of hope,
    And vert the emerald's rays;
    Green the billows of the seas,
    And green the poet's bays.

    Your cheek is an early rose
    O'erlain with frosty snow,
    Wherein the petals' carmine
    Through pearly hue doth show.
    And yet I know
    You mourn, because
    You think your eyes
    uncomely flaws;
    Then think not so:
    For, humid green and dancing,
    Your eyes resemble
    Young leaves of the almond-tree
    That in the breeze tremble.

    Your ruby mouth an open
    Crimson pomegranate,
    Enticing one in summer
    Therein the thirst to sate.
    And yet I know
    You mourn, because
    You think your eyes
    uncomely flaws;
    Then think not so:
    For, when you are stung to pique,
    Your eyes gleam, flashing
    Like waves upon the rocky shore
    Of Cantabria dashing.

    Your brow, with curling gold
    In a broad riband decked,
    Is a snowy peak whereon the day
    Its last gleam doth reflect. And yet I know
    You mourn, because
    You think your eyes
    uncomely flaws;
    Then think not so:
    For your eyes, 'neath your temples
    And ruddy lashes within,
    Seem gems of emerald and gold
    Upon white ermine skin.

    Translated by Young Allison

     
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