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
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer -Rima II. Saeta que voladora...-
domingo, 15 de abril de 2007
Rima II. Saeta que voladora...

Saeta que voladora
cruza, arrojada al azar,
y que no se sabe dónde
temblando se clavará;

hoja que del árbol seca
arrebata el vendaval,
sin que nadie acierte el surco
donde al polvo volverá;

gigante ola que el viento
riza y empuja en el mar,
y rueda y pasa, y se ignora
qué playa buscando va;

luz que en cercos temblorosos
brilla, próxima a expirar,
y que no se sabe de ellos
cuál el último será;

eso soy yo, que al acaso
cruzo el mundo sin pensar
de dónde vengo ni a dónde
mis pasos me llevarán.

Rhyme II. Arrow flying thru the heavens...

Arrow flying thru the heavens
shot off and crossing by chance,
no one ever ventures guesses
where it will tremblingly fall;

withered leaf of autumn forest
battered by southerly blast,
no one knowing in which hollow
it will happen soon to fall;

giant wave the wind and weather
twists and tosses out at sea,
rolling, passing, never knowing
on what beach it comes to fall;

light of wisps or vibrant haloes
shining, but only to fade,
not knowing which of their number
will shine on the last of all:

such am I, perhaps by hazard
crossing the earth come what may,
never knowing whence nor whither
my steps carry me today.

Translated by James H. Donalson


posted by Bishop @ 10:02  
  • At 15 de julio de 2007, 10:33, Blogger Bishop said…

    Rhyme II. BOLT THAT FLIES...

    Bolt that flies
    headlong, fired at random,
    without divining where
    it will nail itself, trembling;

    leaf of a dry tree
    snatched by the gale,
    never guessing the furrow
    into which it will fall;

    giant wave that the wind
    twists and pushes in the sea,
    that rolls and moves, and knows not
    what beach it is seeking;

    lamps that shine on the flickering
    wall, about to expire,
    ignorant of which one
    will shine the longest;

    and I, who by chance
    travel this world, without thinking
    from where I am come, nor to where
    my steps will take me.

    Translated by Howard A. Landman

  • At 15 de julio de 2007, 10:35, Blogger Bishop said…


    An aimless darting arrow
    Through the distance flying,
    Never knowing where
    Its target may be lying;

    A vagrant autumn leaf
    By sea winds whirled around,
    No one knowing where
    It will fall upon the ground;

    A towering ocean wave,
    Tossed in the storm's vast roar,
    Swirling, passing, unaware
    What beach it searches for;

    A light that flickers, shines,
    Wavers, all but dark,
    Nor knows which trembling gleam
    May be its final spark;

    All of this am I;
    I go my way unheeding,
    Never knowing where
    My footsteps may be leading.

    Translated by Alice Jane McVan

  • At 15 de julio de 2007, 10:37, Blogger Bishop said…


    Arrow that flieth,
    At random shot,
    To fall to earth trembling
    In some unknown spot;

    Leaf that the whirlwind
    From dead tree doth tear,
    To rest in some furrow,
    Unknowing where;

    Wave that the sudden gale
    Rouseth at sea,
    Unknowing the strand
    Where its end will be;

    Lights that in sconces
    Burn high and low,
    Not knowing which flame
    Farthest will glow;

    Such am I, by chance
    In the world, unknowing
    Whence I come, nor whither
    My steps are going.

    Translated by Young Allison

  • At 15 de julio de 2007, 10:41, Blogger Bishop said…


    A rapid-flying dart, by Fate impelled
    For blind destruction and which cannot know
    Where it may find its quivering course repelled,
    Nor why it strikes the blow.
    A withered leaf, stripped from a famished tree
    By frenzied autumn-gales in madd'ning dance;
    Which ditch may shelter its extremity
    Is hid in ignorance.

    A monstrous billow, which the ocean wind
    Curls and drives onward, lashes into foam;
    Rolling, unheedful of what shore may find
    For it a restful home.

    A waxlight, flick'ring in a chandelier,
    Which, ere it is extinguished, sputters low;
    Which is the first to end its brief career
    And which the last to go?

    All these am I, - with blind, hap-hazard aim
    I cross this world, without the slightest heed
    From what mysterious origin I came,
    Nor where my steps may lead.

    Translated by Jules Renard

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