|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?" 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 XXIX. Sobre la falda tenía el libro abierto...-
| domingo, 15 de abril de 2007
|Rima XXIX. Sobre la falda tenía el libro abierto...
Sobre la falda tenía el libro abierto;
en mi mejilla tocaban sus rizos negros;
no veíamos letras ninguno creo;
mas guardábamos ambos hondo silencio.
¿Cuánto duró? Ni aun entonces pude saberlo.
Sólo sé que no se oía más que el aliento,
que apresurado escapaba del labio seco.
Sólo sé que nos volvimos los dos a un tiempo,
y nuestros ojos se hallaron ¡y sonó un beso!
Creación de Dante era el libro; era su Infierno.
Cuando a él bajamos los ojos, yo dije trémulo:
—¿Comprendes ya que un poema cabe en un verso?
Y ella respondió encendida: —¡Ya lo comprendo!
Rhyme XXIX. Upon her lap she held an open book...
Upon her lap she held an open book:
Her soft black tresses kiss’d my cheek; no look
Cast we upon the words, nor looked we round
But both maintain’d a silence most profound.
E’en then I could not tell how long ’twas kept;
I only know that naught was heard except
The quicken’d breath, which from our warm lips crept:
I only know we two together turned,
Our eyes met, in a kiss our blent lips burned.
Dante’s «Inferno» was the book. My head
Bent o’er it. «Do you understand», I said,
«How in one line may be a poem?» And
She answered blushing; «Yes, I understand.»
Translated by Mason Carnes
Etiquetas: Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
|posted by Bishop @ 10:29
THE OPENED BOOK WAS LAID...
The opened book was laid
On the lap of her dress;
Against my cheek there played
Her black hair’s sweeping tress;
Neither of us observed
The printed signs, I guess;
But both of us preserved
A profound silentness.
How long? Not even then I
Could know the time’s stress;
Only I know naught was heard nigh
More than the breath’s egress,
From the lips’ parchedness.
We turned, I only know,
But with one singleness,
And our eyes met, and lo!
The sound was of a kiss.
Dante’s creation was the book,
'Twas the Inferno of his,
And when to it we lowered our look,
I said with timidness:
«Dost comprehend that one verselet
May a great poem express?»
And she replied, with cheeks alit,
«I comprehend it, yes!»
Translated by Fleming Bremner
ON HER SKIRT SHE HELD THE BOOK OPEN...
La bocca mi bacciò tutto tremante
On her skirt she held
the book open;
against my cheek flickered
her black curls,
we did not see the letters
at all, I think;
however we maintained
a deep silence.
For how long? Not even then
could I have said.
I only know nothing was heard
but our breath
which mounting escaped
from dry lips.
I only know we turned
both in one movement
and our eyes found each other
and there sounded, a kiss.
Dante's creation, the book was;
it was his Inferno.
When we lowered our eyes to it
I said shakily:
Do you know, a poem can
subsist in a single line?
and she replied, glowing:
I do now!
RHYME XXIX. ON YOUR SKIRT...
On your skirt rested
the open book,
against my cheek brushed
your black curls:
we did not see the letters
none, I believe,
but both of us maintained
How long did it last? Even then
I couldn't know;
only that I heard nothing
more than the breath
that suddenly escaped
from dry lips.
Only that we turned
both at the same time
and our eyes met
and there sounded a kiss.
Dante's creation was the book,
was his Inferno.
When to him we lowered our eyes
I said trembling:
You understand that a poem
begins with one verse?
And you replied fervently:
Translated by H. Landman
RHYME XXIX. UPON HER LAP SHE HELD AN OPEN BOOK...
Upon her lap she held an open book
While furtively her black curls touched my cheek;
For all its letters not a passing look,
In sultry silence no attempt to speak. -
How long we sat? - I did not know it then;
I only know, that nothing but our breath
Was audible, escaping just as when
Oppressed, it flies the shriveled lips of death. -
I only know, that we both turned at once,
Instinctively attracted, that our eyes
Sought, found each other like two flaming suns
And that a kiss was heard in Paradise.
'T was Dante's "Hell," which we had both perused;
When we resumed, I trembling said and low:
"Canst thou perceive intelligibly how
A poem in one verse may be infused?"
And, blushing, she replied: "I see it now."
Translated by Jules Renard
RHYME XXIX. SHE HELD THE VOLUME OPEN...
She held the volume open
Upon her dress;
Against my cheek was brushing
One raven tress;
The letter there before us,
Not one was seen -
But a great silence reigned
Us two between.
How long? ... Not even then
Could it be known;
Naught do I know, save there
Was heard, alone,
The breath from dry lips rushing.
And I know this:
We turned at once ... eyes met ...
Sounded a kiss.
The book was Dante's work,
It was his Hell. All tremulous, I said
When our eyes fell:
"Seest now how a poem ca
In one verse be?"
And she, enkindled, answered:
"Yes, I see!"
Translated by Young Allison