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
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer -Rima XVIII. Fatigada del baile...-
domingo, 15 de abril de 2007
Rima XVIII. Fatigada del baile...

Fatigada del baile,
encendido el color, breve el aliento,
apoyada en mi brazo,
del salón se detuvo en un extremo.

Entre la leve gasa
que levantaba el palpitante seno,
una flor se mecía
en compasado y dulce movimiento.

Como cuna de nácar
que empuja al mar y que acaricia el céfiro
tal vez allí dormía
al soplo de sus labios entreabiertos.

¡Oh! ¡Quién así, pensaba,
dejar pudiera deslizarse el tiempo!
¡Oh, si las flores duermen,
qué dulcísimo sueño!


Rhyme XVIII. Tired from dancing...

Tired from dancing,
flushed, short of breath,
leaning on my arm,
she stopped in the end of the hall.

In the thin gauze
pushed up by a panting bosom,
a flower rose and fell
in measured and sweet rhythm.

Like in a cradle of pearl
rocked by the sea and caressed by the wind
may have slept there
in the breath of her half-open lips.

Oh! Who, I wonder, would not be willing
to let time flow on like that forever!
Oh, if flowers sleep,
how sweet their dreams!

Translated by Howard A. Landman

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posted by Bishop @ 10:18  
2 Comments:
  • At 15 de julio de 2007, 19:45, Blogger Bishop said…

    RHYME XVIII. FATIGUED FROM THE EXCITEMENT OF THE BALL...

    Fatigued from the excitement of the ball,
    With hurried breath and flushed complexion, she,
    Sustained upon my arm, withdrew with me
    In the remotest corner of the hall.

    The light, diaphanous and silken tulle
    Beneath whose folds the restless bosom heaved,
    Sustained a flower, of its stalk bereaved,
    In measured movement and rhythmitic rule.

    As in an ivory cradle, which the sea
    Might gently rock, while zephyrs it caress,
    It slept in sweet, unconscious happiness,
    Fanned by her breathing's regularity.

    Immeasurable bliss! A joy supreme,
    Our whole existence in such task to steep!
    Ah, if the flowers have the power to sleep,
    How rarely exquisite must be their dream!

    Translated by Jules Renard

     
  • At 15 de julio de 2007, 19:47, Blogger Bishop said…

    RHYME XVIII. HER BREATH COMING SHORT...

    Her breath coming short,
    Cheeks glowing, fatigued with the ball,
    Leaning upon my arm
    She paused at the end of the hall.

    In the light gauze
    Stirred by her palpitant bosom
    Swayed there, in rhythm
    measured and sweet, a blossom.

    As in a pearly cradle
    That, wafted, through wavelets slips,
    Mayhap there it slumbered
    In the breath of her half-opened lips.

    Ah, who would not - I thought -
    Thus let time onward sweep?
    Ah, if the flow'rets slumber
    How sweet their sleep!

    Translated by Young Allison

     
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