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 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

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posted by Bishop @ 10:29  
5 Comments:
  • At 12 de julio de 2007, 17:34, Blogger Bishop said…

    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,
    Escaping rapidly
    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

     
  • At 12 de julio de 2007, 18:19, Blogger Bishop said…

    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!

     
  • At 16 de julio de 2007, 7:03, Blogger Bishop said…

    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
    profound silence.

    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:
    I understand!

    Translated by H. Landman

     
  • At 16 de julio de 2007, 7:06, Blogger Bishop said…

    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

     
  • At 16 de julio de 2007, 7:08, Blogger Bishop said…

    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

     
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