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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 |
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| Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer -Rima LXXVI. En la imponente nave...- |
| viernes, 15 de junio de 2007 |
Rima LXXVI. En la imponente nave...
En la imponente nave
del templo bizantino,
vi la gótica tumba a la indecisa
luz que temblaba en los pintados vidrios.
Las manos sobre el pecho,
y en las manos un libro,
una mujer hermosa reposaba
sobre la urna, del cincel prodigio.
Del cuerpo abandonado,
al dulce peso hundido,
cual si de blanda pluma y raso fuera
se plegaba su lecho de granito.
De la sonrisa última
el resplandor divino
guardaba el rostro, como el cielo guarda
del sol que muere el rayo fugitivo.
Del cabezal de piedra
sentados en el filo,
don ángeles, el dedo sobre el labio,
imponían silencio en el recinto.
No parecía muerta;
de los arcos macizos
parecía dormir en la penumbra,
y que en sueños veía el paraíso.
Me acerqué de la nave
al ángulo sombrío
con el callado paso que llegamos
junto a la cuna donde duerme un niño.
La contemplé un momento,
y aquel resplandor tibio,
aquel lecho de piedra que ofrecía
próximo al muro otro lugar vacío,
en el alma avivaron
la sed de lo infinito,
el ansia de esa vida de la muerte
para la que un instante son los siglos...
Cansado del combate
en que luchando vivo,
alguna vez me acuerdo con envidia
de aquel rincón oscuro y escondido.
De aquella muda y pálida
mujer me acuerdo y digo:
—¡Oh, qué amor tan callado, el de la muerte!
¡Qué sueño el del sepulcro, tan tranquilo!
Rhyme LXXVI. In the imposing nave...
In the imposing nave
of that Byzantine temple
I saw the Gothic tomb in the uncertain
light that trembled in the stained-glass windows.
Her hands were on her breast,
and in her hands a book,
and this most beautiful woman was lying
on the urn, a miracle of carving.
Sinking under the weight
of her sweet abandoned body
her granite bed was creased as if made
of the softness of feathers and of satin.
Of her last sweet smile
her face preserved the divine
radiance, just as the heavens preserve
the fleeting rays of the dying sun.
Sitting at the edge
of her pillow of stone
two angels with fingers on their lips
enjoined silence all around.
She did not seem dead;
she seemed to be asleep
in the shadow of the massive arches,
and seeing paradise in her slumber.
I approached the darkness
at the corner of the nave
as someone walking on quiet feet
would approach the cradle where a child is asleep.
I looked at her for a moment
as she glowed there brightly,
and at her bed of stone that offered
another, empty, space by the wall,
and they revived in my soul
the thirst for the infinite,
the yearning for that life in death
for which the centuries are but a moment.
Weary of the battle
I fight all through my life
sometimes I recall with envy
that retreat so dark and hidden.
I recall that pale
and silent woman, and say:
"What a silent love is that of death!
What a peaceful sleep is that of the grave!"
Translated by Brian ColeEtiquetas: Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer |
posted by Bishop @ 11:16  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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RHYME LXXVI. IN THE IMPOSING NAVE...
In the imposing nave
of the byzantine church,
I saw the gothic tomb in the indecisive
light that trembled through multicolored glass.
Hands on her chest,
and in her hands a book,
a beautiful woman rested
on the urn of the chisel-genius.
Deep-set by the sweet weight
of that neglected body,
as if her bed of granite were folded
out of soft feathers and satin.
Her countenance held
the divine splendor
of a final smile, like the sky keeps
the fugitive rays of the sun that dies.
Seated on the edge
of the stone bolster,
two angels, fingers on their lips,
imposed silence on the area.
She didn't seem dead;
she seemed to sleep in
the shade of those massive arches
and in her dreams see paradise.
I approached the shady
corner of the nave,
with the quiet step of one coming
up to the cradle where a boy sleeps.
For a while I comtemplated her
and that lukewarm brilliance,
that bed of stone that offered
next to the wall another vacant space.
In my soul intensified
the thirst for the infinite,
the longing of this life for death,
where an instant became centuries...
Tired of the combat
of life's struggles,
I sometimes recall with envy
that dark and hidden corner.
I recall that mute and pallid
woman and say:
"Oh, what love is as shy as that of death!?
What dream is as tranquil as a sepulchre!?"
Translated by H. Landman
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RHYME LXXVI. IN THE IMPOSING NAVE...
In the imposing nave
of the byzantine church,
I saw the gothic tomb in the indecisive
light that trembled through multicolored glass.
Hands on her chest,
and in her hands a book,
a beautiful woman rested
on the urn of the chisel-genius.
Deep-set by the sweet weight
of that neglected body,
as if her bed of granite were folded
out of soft feathers and satin.
Her countenance held
the divine splendor
of a final smile, like the sky keeps
the fugitive rays of the sun that dies.
Seated on the edge
of the stone bolster,
two angels, fingers on their lips,
imposed silence on the area.
She didn't seem dead;
she seemed to sleep in
the shade of those massive arches
and in her dreams see paradise.
I approached the shady
corner of the nave,
with the quiet step of one coming
up to the cradle where a boy sleeps.
For a while I comtemplated her
and that lukewarm brilliance,
that bed of stone that offered
next to the wall another vacant space.
In my soul intensified
the thirst for the infinite,
the longing of this life for death,
where an instant became centuries...
Tired of the combat
of life's struggles,
I sometimes recall with envy
that dark and hidden corner.
I recall that mute and pallid
woman and say:
"Oh, what love is as shy as that of death!?
What dream is as tranquil as a sepulchre!?"
Translated by H. Landman