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Translated poetry esp → eng
An archive for (mostly) classical Spanish poetry, translated over to English by hand!
Translations are located beneath the original poem. "×" symbols indicate a footnote (relevant to the specific verse it is placed at). they will vary in quantity so as to distinguish different footnotes in the footnotes section after every poem.
i am not a professional translator at all! this is entirely for fun. keep that in mind. this is mostly for my personal entertainment. :)
Poem count: 110
if any poem has not been done justice, was wrongly interpreted, or has any otherwise major flaw, contact is appreciated. (note that some older translations may be worse).
You can contact me through my Neospring!
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Frequently Asked Questions
Federico García Lorca Soneto de la guirnalda de rosas | Soneto de la dulce queja | ¡Ay, qué trabajo me cuesta...! | ¡Ay, voz secreta del amor oscuro! | Noche del amor insomne | El amor duerme en el pecho del poeta | Alma ausente | La leyenda del tiempo | Memento | Despedida | Oda a Salvador Dalí | Romance sonámbulo | Idilio | Paisaje con dos tumbas y un perro asirio | Variación | En el instituto y en la universidad | Encuentro | Gacela de la huida | Fábula y rueda de los tres amigos | Casida de la mano imposible | Sorpresa | Madrigal | Balada interior | Los encuentros de un caracol aventurero | Muerte de la petenera | Poema de la siguiriya gitana: La guitarra | La sangre derramada | Si mis manos pudiesen deshojar | Romance | Serenata | Prólogo (fragmento) | El poeta pide a su amor que le escriba | Agua, ¿dónde vas? | Gacela del niño muerto | Remansillo | Las manos de mi cariño | Paisaje | Las tres hojas | Dos lunas de tarde | La Lola | La cogida y la muerte | Las seis cuerdas | ¡Ay! | Casida de la rosa | De otro modo | Canciones andaluzas: canción del jinete | Crucifixión | El poeta pregunta a su amor por la ciudad encantada de Cuenca | Llagas de amor
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer XXX | XX | XXI | XXII | XXIII | XXIV | XXXVIII | X | LXV | LXIX | XXXV | XI | LIII
Vicente Aleixandre No busques, no | Unidad en ella | Ven, siempre ven | A la muerta | Humana voz | Ven, ven tú | El último amor | Miraste amor y viste muerte | Amante | Corazón negro | El perfume | Noche sinfónica
Coplas a la muerte de su padre (Jorge Manrique) I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII
Mario Benedetti Corazón coraza | Alguien | Cálculo de probabilidades | Lo que necesito de ti | Cinco veces triste | Pasatiempo | Últimas golondrinas | El paisaje | Los mortales | Conjugaciones (1: Álbum) | Conjugaciones (2: Claves)
Lope De Vega Desmayarse, atreverse, estar furioso | No sabe amor quien no te ama | Amor con tan honesto pensamiento | Yo me muero de amor
Luis Cernuda El mar es un olvido | Si el hombre pudiera decir | Contigo | Te quiero
Fran Fernández Álvarez × Poema I | Poema II | Poema III | Poema IV
Garcilaso de la Vega Soneto V
Francisco de Quevedo Definición de amor
Francisco Figueroa Soneto XVII
Antonio Solano Algunas veces he soñado
Anonymous / Unknown No me mueve, mi Dios, para quererte
You should read the FAQ before diving into the poetry!
Soneto de la guirnalda de rosas
Federico García Lorca
Esa guirnalda! ¡pronto! ¡que me muero!
¡Teje deprisa! ¡canta! ¡gime! ¡canta!
que la sombra me enturbia la garganta
y otra vez y mil la luz de enero.
Entre lo que me quieres y te quiero,
aire de estrellas y temblor de planta,
espesura de anémonas levanta
con oscuro gemir un año entero.
Goza el fresco paisaje de mi herida,
quiebra juncos y arroyos delicados.
Bebe en muslo de miel sangre vertida.
Pero ¡pronto! Que unidos, enlazados,
boca rota de amor y alma mordida,
el tiempo nos encuentre destrozados.
Translation — "Sonnet of the rose garland"
That garland! Quick! I am dying! ×
Weave quickly! sing! moan! sing!
for the shadow clouds my throat
and again and a thousand times the light of January.
between what you love me and what i love you,
air from stars and trembling from a plant,
a density of anemones lifts up
with dark moaning, a whole year ××
enjoy the fresh landscape of my wound,
break delicate rushes and rivers.
drink from spilled blood from a thigh of honey ××
but quick! that united, intertwined, ×
[with a] broken mouth of love and bitten soul,
time will find us destroyed. ××
footnotes
× It would literally be translated as “soon!” rather than “quick!” but it sounded better.
×× Hyperbatons.
Soneto de la dulce queja
Federico García Lorca
tengo miedo a perder la maravilla
de tus ojos de estatua, y el acento
que me pone de noche en la mejilla
la solitaria rosa de tu aliento.
Tengo pena de ser en esta orilla
tronco sin ramas, y lo que más siento
es no tener la flor, pulpa o arcilla,
para el gusano de mi sufrimiento.
Si tú eres el tesoro oculto mío,
si eres mi cruz y mi dolor mojado,
si soy el perro de tu señorío,
no me dejes perder lo que he ganado
y decora las aguas de tu río
con hojas de mi otoño enajenado.
Translation — "Sonnet of the sweet complaint"
i fear losing the wonder
of your eyes of statue, and the accent
that places at night upon my cheek
the solitary rose of your breath. ×
i am ashamed of being a trunk without branches ××
in this shore, and what i grieve the most
is not having the flower, pulp or clay,
for the worm of my suffering.
if you are the hidden treasure of mine,
if you are my cross and my damp pain,
if i am your lordship’s dog,
don't let me lose what i have won
and adorn the waters of your river
with leaves from my alienated autumn.
footnotes
× hyperbaton.
×× hyperbaton.
El poeta dice la verdad
Federico García Lorca
Quiero llorar mi pena y te lo digo
para que tú me quieras y me llores
en un anochecer de ruiseñores
con un puñal, con besos y contigo.
Quiero matar al único testigo
para el asesinato de mis flores
y convertir mi llanto y mis sudores
en eterno montón de duro trigo.
Que no se acabe nunca la madeja
del te quiero me quieres, siempre ardida
con decrépito sol y luna vieja.
Que lo que no me des y no te pida
será para la muerte, que no deja
ni sombra por la carne estremecida.
Translation — "The poet tells the truth"
i want to cry out my sorrows and i tell you
so that you'll love me and cry to me
in a nightfall of nightingales
with a dagger, with kisses and with you.
i want to kill the only witness
for the assassination of my flowers
and turn my cries and my sweat
into an eternal pile of hard wheat.
may the skein never run out
from the “i love you, you love me”, always ardent ×
with decrepit sun and old moon.
that whatever you don't give me and i don't ask for
will be for death, that doesn't leave
[not] even [a] shadow along the shaken flesh.
footnotes
× strange wording; i interpret it as “may the skein of the “i love you, you love me” never end”. (may our love never end).
¡Ay, qué trabajo me cuesta!…
Federico García Lorca
¡Ay, qué trabajo me cuesta
quererte como te quiero!
Por tu amor me duele el aire,
el corazón
y el sombrero.
¿Quién me compraría a mí
este cintillo que tengo
y esta tristeza de hilo
blanco, para hacer pañuelos?
¡Ay, qué trabajo me cuesta
quererte como te quiero!
Translation — Ah, what a struggle it is...!
ah, what a struggle it is
to love you like i love you!
because of your love, the air,
the heart,
and the hat hurt.
who would buy me
this headband of mine
and this sadness of white
thread, to make handkerchiefs?
ah, what a struggle it is
to love you like i love you!
Desmayarse, atreverse, estar furioso
Lope de Vega
Desmayarse, atreverse, estar furioso,
áspero, tierno, liberal, esquivo,
alentado, mortal, difunto, vivo,
leal, traidor, cobarde y animoso;
no hallar fuera del bien centro y reposo,
mostrarse alegre, triste, humilde, altivo,
enojado, valiente, fugitivo,
satisfecho, ofendido, receloso;
huir el rostro al claro desengaño,
beber veneno por licor süave,
olvidar el provecho, amar el daño;
creer que un cielo en un infierno cabe,
dar la vida y el alma a un desengaño;
esto es amor, quien lo probó lo sabe.
Translation — "To faint, to dare, being furious,"
to faint, to dare, being furious,
rough, tender, liberal, withdrawn,
encouraged, mortal, deceased, alive,
loyal, traitor, cowardly and lively;
being unable to find center and rest outside of the good ×,
to seem happy, sad, humble, haughty,
angry, courageous, fugitive,
content, offended, suspicious;
to hide the face upon clear disappointment, ××
to drink poison as soft liquor,
to forget the enjoyment, to love harm; ×××
to believe that a heaven fits inside a hell,
to give life and soul to a disappointment;
this is love, whoever has tried it knows.
footnotes
× hyperbaton (removed).
×× literally “to flee the face”, not hide.
××× could loosely be interpreted as “enjoyment” in this context, but usually is not. (“benefit” or “beneficial” would be closer).
No me mueve, mi Dios, para quererte
Anonymous
No me mueve, mi Dios, para quererte
el cielo que me tienes prometido,
ni me mueve el infierno tan temido
para dejar por eso de ofenderte.
Tú me mueves, Señor, muéveme el verte
clavado en una cruz y escarnecido,
muéveme ver tu cuerpo tan herido,
muévenme tus afrentas y tu muerte.
Muéveme, en fin, tu amor, y en tal manera,
que aunque no hubiera cielo, yo te amara,
y aunque no hubiera infierno, te temiera.
No me tienes que dar porque te quiera,
pues aunque lo que espero no esperara,
lo mismo que te quiero te quisiera.
Translation — "It doesn't move me, my lord, so that I can love you" ×
the heaven that you have promised me,
my lord, does not move so that i love you ×
nor does the dreaded hell move me
to stop me from offending you.
you move me, Lord, seeing you moves me ××
nailed to a cross and mocked,
seeing your body so wounded moves me, ××
your affronts and death move me. ××
your love, in the end, moves me, and in such a way
that even if there was no heaven, i would love you,
and even if there was no hell, i would dread you.
you don't have to give to me because i love you,
because even if i didn't wait for what i wait,
i would love you right as i love you now.
footnotes
× hyperbaton. essentially, it implies that it is not heaven [or hell, in the next verse] which moves the author to act in favor of God: it is God Himself who does.
×× in the first verse, the literal translation would be roughly: “The seeing you moves me” (the act of seeing you moves me). that conjugation of “muéveme” is imperative.
¡Ay, voz secreta del amor oscuro!
Federico García Lorca
Ay voz secreta del amor oscuro!
¡ay balido sin lanas! ¡ay herida!
¡ay aguja de hiel, camelia hundida!
¡ay corriente sin mar, ciudad sin muro!
¡Ay noche inmensa de perfil seguro,
montaña celestial de angustia erguida!
¡ay perro en corazón, voz perseguida!
¡silencio sin confín, lirio maduro!
Huye de mí, caliente voz de hielo,
no me quieras perder en la maleza
donde sin fruto gimen carne y cielo.
Deja el duro marfil de mi cabeza,
apiádate de mí, ¡rompe mi duelo!
¡que soy amor, que soy naturaleza!
Translation — "Oh, secret voice of the dark love!"
Ay, secret voice of the dark love!
Ay faded without wools! Ay wound! ×
Ay needle of gall, sunken camellia!
Ay current without sea, city without wall!
Ay vast night of secure profile,
celestial mountain with erect anguish!
Ay dog in heart, persecuted voice!
silence without confine, ripened lily!
flee from me, warm voice of ice,
you would not want to lose me within the weeds,
where without purpose, flesh and sky moan. ××
leave the hard ivory of my head,
have mercy on me, break my duel!
for i am love, for i am nature!
footnotes
× could also be translated into “injured” “wounded” “tarnished”, so on and so forth.
×× hyperbaton. “where flesh and sky moan without purpose”.
Noche del amor insomne
Federico García Lorca
Noche arriba los dos con luna llena,
yo me puse a llorar y tú reías.
Tu desdén era un dios, las quejas mías
momentos y palomas en cadena
Noche abajo los dos. Cristal de pena,
llorabas tú por hondas lejanías.
Mi dolor era un grupo de agonías
sobre tu débil corazón de arena.
La aurora nos unió sobre la cama,
las bocas puestas sobre el chorro helado
de una sangre sin fin que se derrama.
Y el sol entró por el balcón cerrado
y el coral de la vida abrió su rama
sobre mi corazón amortajado.
Translation — "Night of the insomniac love"
night above both of us with [a] full moon,
i broke down crying and you laughed.
your disdain was a god, the complaints of my
moments and doves in a chain ×
Night below both of us. Crystal of sorrow,
you cried for deep remoteness.
my pain was a group of agonies
on your weak heart of sand.
the aurora united us on the bed,
the mouths placed on the icy squirt
of a never-ending blood that is spilled.
and the sun entered through the closed balcony
and the coral of life opened its branch
on my shrouded heart.
footnotes
× chain as in “chain of events”.
No sabe amor quien no te ama
Lope de Vega
No sabe qué es amor quien no te ama,
celestial hermosura, esposo bello,
tu cabeza es de oro, y tu cabello
como el cogollo que la palma enrama.
Tu boca como lirio, que derrama
licor al alba; de marfil tu cuello;
tu mano el torno y en su palma el sello
que el alma por disfraz jacintos llama.
¡Ay Dios!, ¿en qué pensé cuando, dejando
tanta belleza y las mortales viendo,
perdí lo que pudiera estar gozando?
Mas si del tiempo que perdí me ofendo,
tal prisa me daré, que un hora amando
venza los años que pasé fingiendo.
Translation — "he who does not love you does not know what love is"
he who does not love you does not know what love is ×,
celestial beauty, beautiful spouse
your head is made of gold, and your hair
like the bunch that the palm slithers around.
your mouth like lily, that spills
liquor at dawn; your neck, of ivory;
your hand the turning; and in its palm the seal
that the soul, as disguise, calls out for hyacinths. ××
Oh, God! what was i thinking when, leaving
such beauty and the mortals watching
i lost what i could have been enjoying?
though if for the time i lost i take offense, ××
i will take such hurry, that an hour loving
will overcome the years i spent pretending.
footnotes
× literally translated as "whoever does not love you does not know love", but it it fit better otherwise.
×× hyperbatons.
El amor duerme en el pecho del poeta
Federico García Lorca
Tú nunca entenderás lo que te quiero
porque duermes en mí y estás dormido.
Yo te oculto llorando, perseguido
por una voz de penetrante acero.
Norma que agita igual carne y lucero
traspasa ya mi pecho dolorido
y las turbias palabras han mordido
las alas de tu espíritu severo.
Grupo de gente salta en los jardines
esperando tu cuerpo y mi agonía
en caballos de luz y verdes crines.
Pero sigue durmiendo, vida mía.
Oye mi sangre rota en los violines.
¡Mira que nos acechan todavía!
Translation — "The lover sleeps on the poet's chest"
you'll never understand how much i love you
because you sleep on me × and you are asleep.
i hide you, crying; persecuted
by a voice of penetrating steel.
norm that shakes both flesh and light
now passes through my aching chest
and the disturbing words have bitten
the wings of your stern spirit.
[A] group of people jumps in the gardens
waiting for your body and my agony
in horses of light and green manes.
but keep on sleeping, my love ××
listen to my broken blood on the violins
look how they lurk around us still!
footnotes
× "en” is a preposition with various meanings. theoretically, it could mean “you sleep on me”, but it could also mean “you sleep within me” or even “you sleep in me”.
×× “Mi vida” is literally “my life”, but that's not a common form of endearment in English (hence its removal).
Soneto V
Garcilaso de la Vega
Escrito está en mi alma vuestro gesto,
y cuanto yo escribir de vos deseo;
vos sola lo escribisteis, yo lo leo
tan solo, que aun de vos me guardo en esto.
En esto estoy y estaré siempre puesto;
que aunque no cabe en mí cuanto en vos veo,
de tanto bien lo que no entiendo creo,
tomando ya la fe por presupuesto.
Yo no nací sino para quereros;
mi alma os ha cortado a su medida;
por hábito del alma mismo os quiero.
Cuanto tengo confieso yo deberos;
por vos nací, por vos tengo la vida,
por vos he de morir, y por vos muero.
Translation — “5th sonnet”
Written is your gesture in my soul, ×
and how much i wish to write about you; ×
you alone wrote it, i read it
so alone, that i keep this even from you. ×
in this i am and will always be steadfast; ××
for even though what i see within you does not fit within me, ×
i believe in [the] good that i do not understand, ×××
taking now faith as a given.
i was not born to do more than to love you;
my soul has tailored you to its needs;
i love you as the habit of the own soul. ××××
what i have i must confess to you;
for you i was born, for you i have life,
for you i shall die, and for you i die.
footnotes
× hyperbatons; most are removed, because i could not translate them coherently.
×× the literal word is not “steadfast”, but rather, the verb “placed” (puesto). “in this i will always be placed” is somewhat equivalent to “in this i will always be still”, thus the message conveyed is that one will be immovable; hence steadfast.
××× unusual structure and wording; loose interpretation. literal translation would be “out of so much good[ness], i believe in what i don’t understand.” meaning is more or less implied / decipherable.
×××× slightly strange hyperbatons and wording. it is implied that the author’s love has become a habit [of the soul] already.
XXXVIII
G. A. Becquer
Los suspiros son aire y van al aire.
Las lágrimas son agua y van al mar.
Dime, mujer: cuando el amor se olvida,
¿sabes tú adónde va?
Translation
Sighs are air and they go into the air.
Tears are water and they go into the sea.
Tell me, woman: when love is forgotten,
do you know where it goes?
Asomaba a sus ojos una lágrima
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Asomaba a sus ojos una lágrima
y a mi labio una frase de perdón;
habló el orgullo y se enjugó su llanto
y la frase en mis labios expiró.
Yo voy por un camino, ella por otro;
pero al pensar en nuestro mutuo amor,
yo digo aún: «¿Por qué callé aquel día?»
Y ella dirá: «¿Por qué no lloré yo?»
Translation — "A tear peeped through her eyes"
A tear peeped through her eyes ×
and to my lips, a phrase of forgiveness;
pride spoke and she wiped away her sob
and the phrase in my lips expired.
I follow a path, she follows another;
but upon thinking of our mutual love,
i still say “why did i stay quiet that day?”
and she will say “why didn't i cry?”
footnotes
× hyperbaton
No busques, no
Vicente Aleixandre
Yo te he querido como nunca.
Eras azul como noche que acaba,
eras la impenetrable caparazón del galápago
que se oculta bajo la roca de la amorosa llegada de la luz.
Eras la sombra torpe
que cuaja entre los dedos cuando en tierra dormimos solitarios.
De nada serviría besar tu oscura encrucijada de sangre alterna,
donde de pronto el pulso navegaba
y de pronto faltaba como un mar que desprecia a la arena.
La sequedad viviente de unos ojos marchitos,
de los que yo veía a través de las lágrimas,
era una caricia para herir las pupilas,
sin que siquiera el párpado se cerrase en defensa.
Cuán amorosa forma
la del suelo las noches del verano
cuando echado en la tierra se acaricia este mundo que rueda,
la sequedad obscura
la sordera profunda,
la cerrazón a todo,
que transcurre como lo más ajeno a un sollozo.
Tú, pobre hombre que duermes
sin notar esa luna trunca
que gemebunda apenas si te roza;
tú, que viajas postrero
con la corteza seca que rueda entre tus brazos,
no beses el silencio sin falla por donde nunca
a la sangre se espía,
por donde será inútil la busca del calor
que por los labios se bebe
y hace fulgir el cuerpo como con una luz azul si la noche es de plomo.
No, no busques esa gota pequeñita,
ese mundo reducido o sangre mínima,
esa lágrima que ha latido
y en la que apoyar la mejilla descansa.
Yo te he querido como nunca.
Translation — "Don't search, no"
I have loved you like never before.
You were blue like a night that ends,
you were the impenetrable shell of the tortoise
that hides underneath the rock of the beloved arrival of light.
You were the clumsy shadow
that sets between the fingers when we sleep alone in the land.
Kissing your dark crossroads of intersected blood would be in vain, ×
where suddenly the pulse sailed ××
and suddenly it was missing, like a sea that loathes the sand. ×××
The living dryness of withered eyes,
from which i saw, through tears,
it was a caress to hurt the pupils,
without the eyelid even closing in defense.
How loving of a form
that of the floor in summer nights
when laid on the ground, this world that spins is caressed,
the dark dryness
the profound deafness,
the stubbornness towards all,
which happens like the most alien [thing] to a sob. ××××
You, poor man that sleeps ×××××
without noticing that truncated moon
that, moaning, barely grazes you
you, who travels last ××××××
with the dry bark that rolls within your arms,
don't kiss the silence without fail through where ×××××××
the blood is never spied,
through where the search for warmth will be useless
for it is drank through the lips
and makes the body like a blue light if the night is made of lead.
No, don't search for that little drop,
that reduced world or minimal blood,
that tear that has pulsated
and which reposes on resting against the cheek.
I have loved you like never before.
footnotes
× hyperbaton. also, “in vain” is not a literal translation — it could also be “it would be useless to kiss your dark crossroads…” or “kissing your dark crossroads would be/do no good…” the literal translation would roughly be “It would serve (do) nothing to kiss your dark crossroads”. on that same page, “crossroads” is a metaphorical figure for something jumbled, convoluted, hard to get out of, and so on. also, “alterna” is directly translated to “alternate”; i am assuming it is being used as “alternating”: and given the context of “crossroads”, “intersecting” is the most cohesive pick.
×× literal translation is “navigated”, not “sailed”.
××× i have no idea why he chose “was missing” instead of “vanished”, “disappeared”, or even “went missing”. the literal translation is simply “was missing”.
×××× “alien” could also be translated as “oblivious”, “distant”, “foreign”... the point is that it is unlike a sob. the opposite of a sob.
××××× even while saying “poor man”, the author continues in 2nd person (you). i cannot cohesively convey this in the usage of the verb “to sleep”.
×××××× “postrero” can be translated as “last” OR as “something situated remotely or away [from something]”.
××××××דwithout fail” may have some figurative meaning.
Unidad en ella
Vicente Aleixandre
Cuerpo feliz que fluye entre mis manos,
rostro amado donde contemplo el mundo,
donde graciosos pájaros se copian fugitivos,
volando a la región donde nada se olvida.
Tu forma externa, diamante o rubí duro,
brillo de un sol que entre mis manos deslumbra,
cráter que me convoca con su música íntima,
con esa indescifrable llamada de tus dientes.
Muero porque me arrojo, porque quiero morir,
porque quiero vivir en el fuego, porque este aire de fuera
no es mío, sino el caliente aliento
que si me acerco quema y dora mis labios desde un fondo.
Deja, deja que mire, teñido del amor,
enrojecido el rostro por tu purpúrea vida,
deja que mire el hondo clamor de tus entrañas
donde muero y renuncio a vivir para siempre.
Quiero amor o la muerte, quiero morir del todo,
quiero ser tú, tu sangre, esa lava rugiente
que regando encerrada bellos miembros extremos
siente así los hermosos límites de la vida.
Este beso en tus labios como una lenta espina,
como un mar que voló hecho un espejo,
como el brillo de un ala,
es todavía unas manos, un repasar de tu crujiente pelo,
un crepitar de la luz vengadora,
luz o espada mortal que sobre mi cuello amenaza,
pero que nunca podrá destruir la unidad de este mundo.
Translation — "Unity in her"
Happy body that flows between my hands,
loved countenance where i contemplate the world,
where graceful birds copy themselves fleetingly,
flying to the land where nothing is forgotten.
Your external form, diamond or hard ruby,
shine of a sun that dazzles within my hands,
crater that convokes me with its intimate music,
with that indecipherable calling of your teeth.
I die because I throw myself, because I want to die,
Because I don't want to live in the fire, because this air from outside
is not mine, rather, the hot breath
that if i get close, burns and gilds my lips from a depth.
Let, let me look, tinged with love,
reddened is the face because of your purplish life, ×
Let me look at the deep clamor of your entrails
where i die and renounce to live, forever. ××
I want love or death, i want to die completely,
I want to be you, your blood, that roaring lava
flowing, contained within beautiful limbs ×××
feeling thus the gorgeous limits of life.
This kiss to your lips like a slow spine,
like a sea that flew, made a mirror, ××××
like the shine of a wing,
is still a pair of hands, a caress to your crisp hair,
a crackle of the vengative light,
light or lethal sword that threatens above my neck,
but that will never be able to destroy the unity of this world.
footnotes
× “purpúrea” doesn't have a direct translation. “purplish” or “purple-hued” is the closest i could get.
×× comma was added for clarity. (the meaning is not that the author is refusing immortality, but rather that he is refusing to live once and for all.)
××× loose translation, phrasal structure not direct.
×××× implied that the sea was made into a mirror, turned into a mirror, “grew into” being a mirror, and so on.
Ven, siempre ven
Vicente Aleixandre
No te acerques. Tu frente, tu ardiente frente, tu encendida frente,
las huellas de unos besos,
ese resplandor que aún de día se siente si te acercas,
ese resplandor contagioso que me queda en las manos,
ese río luminoso en que hundo mis brazos,
en el que casi no me atrevo a beber, por temor después a ya una dura vida
de
lucero.
No quiero que vivas en mí como vive la luz,
con ese ya aislamiento de estrella que se une con su luz,
a quien el amor se niega a través del espacio
duro y azul que separa y no une,
donde cada lucero inaccesible
es una soledad que, gemebunda, envía su tristeza.
La soledad destella en el mundo sin amor.
La vida es una vívida corteza,
una rugosa piel inmóvil
donde el hombre no puede encontrar su descanso,
por más que aplique su sueño contra un astro apagado.
Pero tú no te acerques. Tu frente destellante, carbón encendido que me
arrebata a
la propia conciencia,
duelo fulgúreo en que de pronto siento la tentación de morir,
de quemarme los labios con tu roce indeleble,
de sentir mi carne deshacerse contra tu diamante abrasador.
No te acerques, porque tu beso se prolonga como el choque imposible de las
estrellas,
como el espacio que súbitamente se incendia,
éter propagador donde la destrucción de los mundos es un único corazón que
totalmente se abrasa.
Ven, ven, ven como el carbón extinto oscuro que encierra una muerte;
ven como la noche ciega que me acerca su rostro;
ven como los dos labios marcados por el rojo,
por esa línea larga que funde los metales.
Ven, ven, amor mío; ven, hermética frente, redondez casi rodante
que luces como una órbita que va a morir en mis brazos;
ven como dos ojos o dos profundas soledades,
dos imperiosas llamadas de una hondura que no conozco.
¡Ven, ven muerte, amor; ven pronto, te destruyo;
ven, que quiero matar o amar o morir o darte todo;
ven, que ruedas como liviana piedra,
confundida como una luna que me pide mis rayos!
Translation — "Come, always come"
Don't come close. Your forehead, your ardent forehead, your bright forehead,
the prints of kisses,
that radiance that you can still feel if you come close, even in daylight, ×
that contagious radiance that sticks to my hands, ××
that luminous river in which i sink my arms,
from which i almost don't dare to drink, for fear afterwards of
an already difficult life
of brilliance. ×××
i don't want you to live in me as light lives,
with that established isolation of [a] star that connects with its light,
whom love refuses throughout space;
hard and blue that separates and doesn't unite, where each inaccessible star
is a solitude that, moaning, sends its sadness.
Solitude shines in the world without love.
Life is a vivid bark,
a rough, immobile skin ××××
where man cannot find his rest, ×××××
no matter how much he applies his sleep against a dim celestial body. ××××××
But don't you come close. Your radiant forehead, hot coal
that takes away
conscience itself,
Fulgurean duel in which i soon find the temptation of dying,
of burning my lips with your indelible grazing,
of feeling my flesh fall apart against your scorching diamond.
Don't come close, because your kiss is prolonged like the
impossible colliding of the
stars,
like the space that suddenly catches fire,
propagating ether where the destruction of (the) worlds is
an only heart that
is totally burned.
Come, come, come like the dark, spent coal that encloses
a death;
come like the blind night that brings its face closer;
come like the two lips marked by the red,
through that long line that melts metals.
Come, come, my love; come, hermetic forehead, roundness nearly rolling
that you showcase like an orbit that is going to die in my arms;
come like two eyes or two profound solitudes,
two compelling callings of a depth that i do not know.
Come, come death, love; come soon, or i will destroy you,
come, that i want to kill or love or die or give you everything;
come, for you roll like a light stone,
confused like a moon that asks for my lightning strikes!
footnotes
× direct translation is “during the day”, not “in daylight”.
×× literal translation is “remains in my hands”. the meaning, however, is self-evident and the changes were added for clarity.
××× i honestly have no idea what he was aiming at with “lucero” (the original word) in here. it's translated to “brilliance” very loosely.
×××× direct translation is “wrinkly”, not “rough”.
××××× in Spanish, this is impersonal. it's referring to “man” in more of a general sense.
×××××× weird wording! interpret it as you like.
A la muerta
Vicente Aleixandre
Vienes y vas ligero como el mar,
cuerpo nunca dichoso,
sombra feliz que escapas como el aire
que sostiene a los pájaros casi entero de pluma.
Dichoso corazón encendido en esta noche de invierno,
en este generoso alto espacio en el que tienes alas,
en el que labios largos casi tocan opuestos horizontes
como larga sonrisa o súbita ave inmensa.
Vienes y vas como el manto sutil,
como el recuerdo de la noche que escapa,
como el rumor del día que ahora nace
aquí entre mis dos labios o en mis dientes.
Tu generoso cuerpo, agua rugiente,
agua que cae como cascada joven,
agua que es tan sencillo beber de madrugada
cuando en las manos vivas se sienten todas las estrellas.
Peinar así la espuma o la sombra,
peinar -no- la gozosa presencia,
el margen de delirio en el alba,
el rumor de tu vida que respira.
Amar, amar, ¿quién no ama si ha nacido?,
¿quién ignora que el corazón tiene bordes,
tiene forma, es tangible a las manos,
a los besos recónditos cuando nunca se llora?
Tu generoso cuerpo que me enlaza,
liana joven o luz creciente,
aguda teñida del naciente confín,
beso que llega con su nombre de beso.
Tu generoso cuerpo que no huye,
que permanece quieto tendido como la sombra,
como esa mirada humilde de una carne
que casi toda es párpado vencido.
Todo es alfombra o césped, o el amor o el castigo.
Amarte así como el suelo casi verde
que dulcemente curva un viento cálido,
viento con forma de este pecho
que sobre ti respira cuando lloro.
Vienes y vas ligero como el mar,
Translation — "To the dead one"
You come and go, light like the sea,
body never joyous,
happy shadow that escapes like the air ×
that sustains the birds [made] almost wholly of feathers.
Joyous heart alight in this winter night,
in this generous tall space in which you have wings,
in which long lips almost touch opposite horizons
like a long smile or a sudden, immense bird.
You come and go like the subtle mantle,
like the memory of the night that escapes,
like the rumor of the day that is now born
here between my two lips, or on my teeth.
Your generous body, roaring water,
water that falls like a young waterfall,
water that is so easy to drink in the morning,
when you can feel all of the stars within your living hands. ××
To brush like so the foam or the shadow ×××
To brush — no — the joyful presence,
the margin of delirium in the sunrise,
the rumor of your life that breathes.
To love, to love, who doesn't love if they have been born?
who ignores that the heart has edges,
has shape, is tangible to the hands,
to the recondite kisses when one never cries?
Your generous body that intertwines with me,
young vine or crescent light,
water tinted with the nascent confine,
kiss that arrives with its name, of “kiss”.
Your generous body that doesn't flee,
that remains still like the shadow,
like that humble glance of a flesh
that is almost entirely a closed eyelid.
Everything is rug or grass, or love or punishment,
Loving you like loving the almost-green ground
that sweetly curves a warm wind,
[a] wind with the shape of this chest
that breathes atop you when i cry.
footnotes
× the shadow in question is referred to in 2nd person, but i can't translate that cohesively to English.
×× hyperbaton.
××× “To brush” as in brushing hair.
SONETO XVII (old translation)
Francisco Figueroa
Perdido ando, señora, entre la gente,
sin vos, sin mí, sin ser, sin Dios, sin vida;
sin vos, porque no sois de mí servida;
sin mí, porque no estoy con vos presente;
sin ser, porque de vos estando ausente
no hay cosa que del ser no me despida;
sin Dios, porque mi alma a Dios olvida
por contemplar en vos continuamente;
sin vida, porque ya que haya vivido,
cien mil veces mejor morir me fuera
que no un dolor tan grave y tan extraño.
¡Qué preso yo por vos, por vos herido,
y muerto yo por vos d’esta manera,
estéis tan descuidada de mi daño!
Translation — "Sonnet XVII"
Lost I walk, lady, among people,
without you ×, without myself, without being, without God, without life;
without you, for you are not mine to serve;
without me, for i am not with you;
without being, for being absent from you
there is nothing that does not separate me from being;
without God, for my soul forgets God
for contemplating in you continuously;
without life, for though i have lived,
to die would be a thousand times better
that a pain so grave and so strange.
How much of a prisoner i am for you,
for you wounded, and dead for you in this way, ××
you are so unconcerned for my pain! ×××
footnotes
× “vos”; formal you. person is addressed formally, like royalty, all throughout the poem.
×× "for" could also be "by".
××× he used a very strange verbal conjugation which i don't think is grammatically accurate. i translated it in present simple, because i was not about to get into that conundrum. “estéis” (infinitive “estar”). it would usually be preceded by something else, like “que” or “aunque” ([al]though). (“y aunque muerto yo de esta manera…”) so the meaning would be something like “and albeit i am dead for you in this way, you are [still] so unconcerned for my pain!”.
XXI
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
“¿Qué es poesía?”, dices mientras clavas
en mi pupila tu pupila azul.
“¿Qué es poesía? ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?
Poesía... eres tú.”
Translation — XXI
“What is poetry?”, you say while you set
your blue pupil against my pupil. ×
“What is poetry? And you are asking me that?
Poetry... is you.”
footnotes
× hyperbaton: i had to change the phrasal structure slightly, too.
XX
Sabe, si alguna vez tus labios rojos
quema invisible atmósfera abrasada,
que el alma que hablar puede con los ojos
también puede besar con la mirada.
Translation — "XX"
You know, if your red lips ever
burned the invisible, scorched atmosphere,
for the soul which can talk with its eyes
can also kiss with its glance.
XXII
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
¿Cómo vive esa rosa que has prendido
junto a tu corazón?
Nunca hasta ahora contemplé en la tierra
sobre el volcán la flor.
Translation — "XXII"
How is that rose that you have ignited
living alongside your heart?
Never have I ever, until today, contemplated in the earth
the flower on top of the volcano.
XXIII
G. A. Bécquer
Por una mirada, un mundo;
por una sonrisa, un cielo;
por un beso…, ¡yo no sé
qué te diera por un beso!
Translation — "XXIII"
For a glance, a world;
for a smile, a heaven; ×
for a kiss…, i do not know
what i would give you for a kiss!
footnotes
× "cielo" can refer either to the word “sky” or the word “heaven”.
Coplas a la muerte de su padre (I)
Manrique
Recuerde el alma dormida,
avive el seso y despierte,
contemplando
cómo se passa la vida,
cómo se viene la muerte
tan callando;
cuán presto se va el plazer,
cómo después, de acordado,
da dolor;
cómo, a nuestro parescer,
cualquiera tiempo passado
fue mejor.
Translation — "Couplets on the death of his father" (I)
Remember the sleeping soul,
Enliven the brain and wake,
contemplating
how life passes by,
how death comes
so silently;
how quickly pleasure goes,
how afterwards, remembrance
causes pain;
how, in our eyes,
any past times
were better.
Coplas a la muerte de su padre (II)
Manrique
Pues si vemos lo presente
cómo en un punto se es ido
y acabado,
si juzgamos sabiamente,
daremos lo no venido
por pasado.
No se engañe nadie, no,
pensando que ha de durar
lo que espera
mas que duró lo que vio,
pues que todo ha de pasar
por tal manera.
Translation — "Couplets on the death of his father" (II)
For if we see the present,
how, at a point, it has gone
and ended,
if we judge wisely,
we will judge the things that did not come
as things of the past.
Don't be fooled, no,
thinking that, whatever waits
is bound to last.
even when what you saw did last,
everything has to pass
in that way.
Coplas a la muerte de su padre (III)
Manrique
Nuestras vidas son los ríos
que van a dar en la mar,
que es el morir,
allí van los señoríos
derechos a se acabar
y consumir;
allí los ríos caudales,
allí los otros medianos
y más chicos,
y llegados, son iguales
los que viven por sus manos
y los ricos.
Translation — "Couplets on the death of his father" (III)
Our lives are the rivers
that end up at the sea,
that is to die,
there go the manors
determined to ending
and to be consumed; ×
there the abundant rivers,
there the medium others
and the smallest [ones],
and once they arrive, they are all equal:
the ones that live by their own hands
and the rich ones.
footnotes
× the poem has olden Spanish, so it might be "to consume" and not "to be consumed"; i assumed based on the surrounding context.
Coplas a la muerte de su padre (IV)
Manrique
Dejo las invocaciones
de los famosos poetas
y oradores;
no curo de sus ficciones,
que traen yerbas secretas
sus sabores;
aquel sólo invoco yo
de verdad,
que en este mundo viviendo
el mundo no conoció
su deidad.
Translation — "Couplets on the death of his father" (IV)
I leave the invocations
of the famous poets
and speakers;
I don't heal from their fictions,
that bring secret herbs
their flavors;
that only i invoke
truthfully,
for living in this world
the world didn't know
their deity.
Coplas a la muerte de su padre (V)
Manrique
Este mundo es el camino
para el otro, que es morada
sin pesar;
mas cumple tener buen tino
para andar esta jornada
sin errar.
Partimos cuando nacemos
andamos mientras vivimos,
y llegamos
al tiempo que fenecemos;
así que cuando morimos
descansamos.
Translation — "Couplets on the death of his father" (V)
This world is the path
for the other, that is a house
without regret;
it is better to have good judgment
to walk this journey
flawlessly.
We set off when we are born
we walk while we live,
and we arrive
to the time we perish;
so when we die
we rest.
Coplas a la muerte de su padre (VI)
Manrique
Este mundo bueno fue
si bien usásemos dél
como debemos,
porque, según nuestra fe,
es para ganar aquel
que atendemos.
Aun aquel Hijo de Dios,
para subirnos al cielo,
descendió
a nacer acá entre nos,
y a morir en este suelo
do murió.
Translation — "Couplets on the death of his father" (VI)
This world has been good
if we use(d) it like
we are supposed to,
because, according to your faith,
it is to gain that whom
we attend to
But that Son of God,
to bring us to heaven above,
descended
and when being born around us,
and to die in this ground
he died.
Coplas a la muerte de su padre (VII)
Manrique
Ved de cuán poco valor
son las cosas tras que andamos
y corremos,
que en este mundo traidor
aun primero que muramos
las perdemos.
De ellas deshace la edad,
de ellas casos desastrados
que acaecen,
de ellas, por su calidad,
en los más altos estados
desfallecen.
Translation — "Couplets on the death of his father" (VII)
See of how little value
are the things that we walk
and run after,
that in this traitorous world
the moment we die
we lose them.
They tear apart age,
From them disastrous cases
occur,
from them, for their quality,
in the highest of states,
[they] vanish. (faint)
Coplas a la muerte de su padre (VIII)
Manrique
Decidme: La hermosura,
la gentil frescura y tez
de la cara,
la color y la blancura,
cuando viene la vejez,
¿cuál se para?
Las mañas y ligereza
y la fuerza corporal
de juventud,
todo se torna graveza
cuando llega al arrabal
de senectud.
Translation — "Couplets on the death of his father" (VIII)
Tell me: the beauty,
the gentle freshness and complexion
of the face,
the color and the whiteness,
when old age comes,
which one stops?
the knack and lightness
of youth,
everything turns severe
when one reaches the suburbs
of senility.
Alma ausente
Federico G. Lorca
No te conoce el toro ni la higuera,
ni caballos ni hormigas de tu casa.
No te conoce el niño ni la tarde
porque te has muerto para siempre.
No te conoce el lomo de la piedra,
ni el raso negro donde te destrozas.
No te conoce tu recuerdo mudo
porque te has muerto para siempre.
El otoño vendrá con caracolas,
uva de niebla y monjes agrupados,
pero nadie querrá mirar tus ojos
porque te has muerto para siempre.
Porque te has muerto para siempre,
como todos los muertos de la Tierra,
como todos los muertos que se olvidan
en un montón de perros apagados.
No te conoce nadie. No. Pero yo te canto.
Yo canto para luego tu perfil y tu gracia.
La madurez insigne de tu conocimiento.
Tu apetencia de muerte y el gusto de tu boca.
La tristeza que tuvo tu valiente alegría.
Tardará mucho tiempo en nacer, si es que nace,
un andaluz tan claro, tan rico de aventura.
Yo canto su elegancia con palabras que gimen
y recuerdo una brisa triste por los olivos.
Translation — "Absent soul"
You are not known by the bull or the fig tree, ×
nor the horses or ants of your house.
You are not known by the boy or the afternoon
because you have died forever.
You are not known by the surface of the stone,
nor the black satin where you destroy yourself.
You are not known by your mute memory,
because you have died forever.
Autumn will arrive with shells,
grapes and groups of monks ××
but nobody will want to look you in the eyes
because you have died forever.
because you have died forever,
like all the deceased of the Earth,
like all the deceased that are forgotten
within a pile of dull dogs.
You are not known by anyone. No. But i sing to you.
I sing to you for, later, your profile and your grace.
The maturity [is] successful in your knowledge.
Your appetite for death and the taste of your mouth.
The sadness that had your brave joy.
It will take a long time to be born, if it is born at all,
an Andalusian so clear, rich with adventure.
I sing his elegance with words that moan
and i remember a sad breeze within the olive trees.
footnotes
× the expression “you are not known” is rather “[x] doesn't know you” (the bull doesn't know you, the fig tree doesn't know you) but i changed it to keep the original phrasal structure.
×× the literal translation would be "grapes of fog and monks grouped together". "grapes of fog" is indecipherable, and "monks grouped together" wasn't quite harmonious.
Humana Voz
Vicente Aleixandre
Duele la cicatriz de la luz,
duele en el suelo la misma sombra de los dientes,
duele todo,
hasta el zapato triste que se lo llevó el río.
Duelen las plumas del gallo,
de tantos colores
que la frente no sabe qué postura tomar
ante el rojo cruel del poniente.
Duele el alma amarilla o una avellana lenta,
la que rodó mejilla abajo cuando estábamos dentro del agua
y las lágrimas no se sentían más que al tacto.
Duele la avispa fraudulenta
que a veces bajo la tetilla izquierda
imita un corazón o un latido,
amarilla como el azufre no tocado
o las manos del muerto a quien queríamos.
Duele la habitación como la caja del pecho,
donde las palomas blancas como sangre
pasan bajo la piel sin pararse en los labios
a hundirse en las entrañas con sus alas cerradas.
Duele el día, la noche,
duele el viento gemido,
duele la ira o espada seca,
aquello que se besa cuando es de noche.
Tristeza. Duele el candor, la ciencia,
el hierro, la cintura,
los límites y esos brazos abiertos, horizonte
como corona contra las sienes.
Duele el dolor. Te amo.
Duele, duele. Te amo.
Duele la tierra o uña,
espejo en que estas letras se reflejan.
Translation — "Human voice"
The scar from the light hurts, ×
The shadow of the teeth etched on the floor hurts,
everything hurts,
even the sad shoe that the river carried away.
the feathers from the rooster hurt,
so colorful
that the forehead does not know what position to take
before the cruel red of the sunset.
The yellow soul or the slow hazelnut hurt,
the one that rolled down a cheek when we were inside the water
and tears were only felt through touch.
the fraudulent wasp hurts,
that sometimes, beneath the left breast
imitates a heart or a heartbeat,
yellow like untouched sulfur
or the hands of a deceased somebody that we loved.
The [bed]room hurts, as does the ribcage inside the chest,
where the doves, white as blood,
pass under the skin without stopping at the lips
to sink into the entrails with their wings closed.
The day hurts, so does the night,
the moaned wind hurts,
the wrath or the dry sword hurt,
that which is kissed when night settles.
Sadness. Candor hurts, science hurts,
the iron, the waist,
limits, and those open arms, an horizon
like a crown against the temples.
The pain hurts. I love you.
It hurts, it hurts. I love you.
The soil or the nail hurt,
[the] mirror in which these letters are reflected.
footnotes
× “Hurt” is being used as a verb in the original poem, so it goes before the rest of the sentence. i have had to reinvent or paraphrase some words along the poem to keep it cohesive, which is why it's repeated more than it should be.
Amor con tan honesto pensamiento
Lope de Vega
Amor con tan honesto pensamiento
arde en mi pecho, y con tan dulce pena,
que haciendo grave honor de la condena,
para cantar me sirve de instrumento.
No al fuego, al celestial atento,
en alabanza de Amarilis suena
con esta voz, que el curso al agua enfrena,
mueve la selva y enamora el viento.
La luz primera del primero día,
luego que el sol nació, toda la encierra,
círculo ardiente de su lumbre pura,
y así también, cuando tu sol nacía,
todas las hermosuras de la tierra
remitieron su luz a tu hermosura.
Amor con tan honesto pensamiento
Translation — "Love with such honest thought"
Love with such honest thought
burns within my chest, and with such sweet pity,
that, making grave honor of the condemnation,
it serves me as an instrument to sing. ×
Not to the fire, to the alert celestial [being],
in praise to Amarylis it sounds
with this voice, that slows the course of water,
[that] moves the forest and enamours the wind.
The first light of the first day, ×
after the birth of the sun, encloses [ing] everything,
ardent circle of its pure fire,
and as such, when your sun was being born,
every single beauty of the Earth
diverted their light towards your beauty.
footnotes
× hyperbaton (removed).
El mar es un olvido
Luis Cernuda
El mar es un olvido,
una canción, un labio;
el mar es un amante.
fiel respuesta al deseo.
Es como un ruiseñor,
y sus aguas son plumas;
impulsos que levantan
a las frías estrellas.
Sus caricias son sueño,
entreabren la muerte,
son lunas accesibles,
son la vida más alta.
Sobre espaldas oscuras
las olas van gozando.
Translation — "The sea is oblivion"
The sea is oblivion,
[it's] a song, a lip;
the sea is a lover.
[a] faithful response to desire.
It's like a nightingale,
and its water is feathers;
impulses that lift up
the cold stars.
Its caresses are [a] dream,
They halfopen death,
they're accessible moons,
they're the highest [form of] life.
Above dark backs
the waves go by, joyful.
Si el hombre pudiera decir
Luis Cernuda
Si el hombre pudiera decir lo que ama,
si el hombre pudiera levantar su amor por el cielo
como una nube en la luz;
si como muros que se derrumban,
para saludar la verdad erguida en medio,
pudiera derrumbar su cuerpo,
dejando sólo la verdad de su amor,
la verdad de sí mismo,
que no se llama gloria, fortuna o ambición,
sino amor o deseo,
yo sería aquel que imaginaba;
aquel que con su lengua, sus ojos y sus manos
proclama ante los hombres la verdad ignorada,
la verdad de su amor verdadero.
Libertad no conozco sino la libertad de estar preso en alguien
cuyo nombre no puedo oír sin escalofrío;
alguien por quien me olvido de esta existencia mezquina
por quien el día y la noche son para mí lo que quiera,
y mi cuerpo y espíritu flotan en su cuerpo y espíritu
como leños perdidos que el mar anega o levanta
libremente, con la libertad del amor,
la única libertad que me exalta,
la única libertad por que muero.
Tú justificas mi existencia:
si no te conozco, no he vivido;
si muero sin conocerte, no muero, porque no he vivido.
Translation — "If man could say"
If man could say what he loves,
if man could rise his love above the sky
like a cloud within the light;
if, like walls that break down
to greet the truth stood in the middle
[man] could break down his body,
leaving only the truth of his love,
the truth of himself,
that is not called “glory”, “fortune” or “ambition”,
but rather “love” or “desire”,
i would be that one that i imagined;
the one that, with his tongue, his eyes and his hands
proclaims before the men the ignored truth,
the truth of his true love.
Freedom i do not know, but rather the freedom of being imprisoned within somebody
whose name i cannot hear without [a] shiver;
somebody for whom i forget this cruel existence
for whom the day and the night are, for me, whatever i want,
and my body and my spirit float in their body and their spirit
like lost trunks that the sea floods or lifts
freely, with the freedom of love,
the only freedom that exalts me,
the only freedom for which i die.
You justify my existence:
if i don't know you, i haven't lived:
if i die without knowing you, i don't die, because then i have not lived.
Yo me muero de amor
Lope de Vega
Yo me muero de amor, que no sabía,
aunque diestro en amar cosas del suelo,
que no pensaba yo que amor del cielo
con tal rigor las almas encendía.
Si llama la moral filosofía
deseo de hermosura a amor, recelo
que con mayores ansias me desvelo
cuanto es más alta la belleza mía.
Amé en la tierra vil, ¡qué necio amante!
¡Oh luz del alma, habiendo de buscaros,
qué tiempo que perdí como ignorante!
Mas yo os prometo agora de pagaros
con mil siglos de amor cualquiera instante
que por amarme a mí dejé de amaros.
Translation — "I die from love"
I die from love, for I did not know,
albeit dexterous in loving things from the ground, ×
i did not think that love from the sky
would enliven souls with such rigor.
If the moral philosophy
calls love a wish for beauty, i distrust
[the fact] that i am torn with increased eagerness ××
the higher my own beauty is.
I loved within the vile earth, how stupid of a lover! ×××
Oh, light of the soul; how much time i have lost
like an ignorant in having to search for you!
Although i promise you now that i have to pay you
with a thousand centuries of love in any instant
that for loving myself i stopped loving you.
footnotes
× “things from the ground” are earthly things.
×× very loose translation of “distrust”, “[i am] torn”, and “eagerness”.
××× “stupid” isn't the sole translation (there's a myriad of other equally-as-distasteful interpretations.)
Ven, ven tú
Vicente Aleixandre
Allá donde el mar no golpea,
donde la tristeza sacude su melena de vidrio,
donde el aliento suavemente espirado
no es una mariposa de metal, sino un aire.
Un aire blando y suave
donde las palabras se murmuran como a un oído.
Donde resuenan unas débiles plumas
que en la oreja rosada son el amor que insiste.
¿Quién me quiere? ¿Quién dice que el amor es un hacha doblada,
un cansancio que parte por la cintura el cuerpo,
un arco doloroso por donde pasa la luz
ligeramente sin tocar nunca a nadie?
Los árboles del bosque cantan como si fueran aves.
Un brazo inmenso abarca la selva como una cintura.
Un pájaro dorado por la luz que no acaba
busca siempre unos labios por donde huir de su cárcel.
Pero el mar no golpea como un corazón,
ni el vidrio o cabellera de una lejana piedra
hace más que asumir todo el brillo del sol sin devolverlo.
Ni los peces innumerables que pueblan otros cielos
son más que las lentísimas aguas de una pupila remota.
Entonces este bosque, esta mota de sangre,
este pájaro que se escapa de un pecho,
este aliento que sale de unos labios entreabiertos,
esta pareja de mariposas que en algún punto va a amarse...
Esta oreja que próxima escucha mis palabras,
esta carne que amo con mis besos de aire,
este cuero que estrecho como si fuera un nombre,
esta lluvia que cae sobre mi cuerpo extenso,
este frescor de un cielo en el que unos dientes sonríen,
en el que unos brazos se alargan, en que un sol amanece,
en que una música total canta invadiéndolo todo,
mientras el cartón, las cuerdas, las falsas telas,
la dolorosa arpillera, el mundo rechazado,
se retira como un mar que muge sin destino.
Translation — "Come, you, come"
There where the sea does not hit,
where sadness shakes her hair made of glass,
where the breath, softly exhaled
is not a metal butterfly, but a gust of air instead.
a smooth and soft air
where words are murmured as if to an ear.
Where some weak feathers resonate
that in the pinkish ear are the love that insists.
who loves me? who says that love is a bent ax,
a tiredness that breaks the body in half from the waist,
a painful arch through which light flows by
lightly, without ever touching anybody?
the trees in the forest sing as if they were birds.
an immense arm covers the forest like a waist.
a golden bird always searches for lips to escape its cage through,
by the light that never ends.
But the sea doesn't hit like a heart does,
neither the glass or the hair of a distant stone
do more than assume all the brightness from the sun without returning it.
nor are the innumerable fish that populate other skies
are anything more than the slow waters of a remote pupil.
So, this forest, this drop of blood,
this bird that flees from a chest,
this breath that escapes my half-open lips,
this couple of butterflies that is, at some point, going to love each other…
this ear that, close, listens in to my words,
this flesh that i love with my kisses of air,
this leather that i extend as if it was a name,
this rain that falls on my extense body,
this freshness from a sky in which some teeth smile,
in which some arms stretch, in which a sun rises,
in which a total music sings, invading everything,
while the cardboard, the ropes, the fake cloth,
the painful burlap, the rejected world,
withdraws like a sea that moos without [a] destiny.
Contigo
Luis Cernuda
¿Mi tierra?
Mi tierra eres tú.
¿Mi gente?
Mi gente eres tú.
El destierro y la muerte
para mi están adonde
no estés tú.
¿Y mi vida?
Dime, mi vida,
¿qué es, si no eres tú?
Translation — "With you"
My land?
You are my land.
My people?
You are my people.
Exile and death
for me, are wherever
you are not present.
And my life?
Tell me, my life
what is it, if not you?
Te quiero
Luis Cernuda
Te quiero.
Te lo he dicho con el viento,
jugueteando como animalillo en la arena
o iracundo como órgano impetuoso;
Te lo he dicho con el sol,
que dora desnudos cuerpos juveniles
y sonríe en todas las cosas inocentes;
Te lo he dicho con las nubes,
frentes melancólicas que sostienen el cielo,
tristezas fugitivas;
Te lo he dicho con las plantas,
leves criaturas transparentes
que se cubren de rubor repentino;
Te lo he dicho con el agua,
vida luminosa que vela un fondo de sombra;
te lo he dicho con el miedo,
te lo he dicho con la alegría,
con el hastío, con las terribles palabras.
Pero así no me basta:
más allá de la vida,
quiero decírtelo con la muerte;
más allá del amor,
quiero decírtelo con el olvido.
Translation — "I love you"
I love you.
I have told you with the wind,
Playing like a little animal in the sand
or enraged like an impetuous organ.
I have told you with the sun,
That tans naked juvenile bodies
and smiles within every innocent thing;
I have told you with the clouds,
melancholic fronts that sustain the sky,
fugitive sorrows;
I have told you with the plants,
light transparent creatures
that cover themselves with a sudden blush;
I have told you with the water,
luminous life that guards a background of shadow[s];
I have told you with fear,
i have told you with joy,
with boredom, with terrible words.
But still it does not suffice me:
beyond life,
i want to tell you with death;
beyond love,
i want to tell you with oblivion.
La leyenda del tiempo
Federico García Lorca
El sueño va sobre el tiempo
flotando como un velero.
Nadie puede abrir semillas
en el corazón del sueño.
¡Ay, cómo canta el alba, cómo canta!
¡Qué témpanos de hielo azul levanta!
El tiempo va sobre el sueño
hundido hasta los cabellos.
Ayer y mañana comen
oscuras flores de duelo.
¡Ay, cómo canta la noche, cómo canta!
¡Qué espesura de anémonas levanta!
Sobre la misma columna,
abrazados sueño y tiempo,
cruza el gemido del niño,
la lengua rota del viejo.
¡Ay, cómo canta el alba, cómo canta!
¡Qué espesura de anémonas levanta!
Y si el sueño finge muros
en la llanura del tiempo,
el tiempo le hace creer
que nace en aquel momento.
¡Ay, cómo canta la noche, cómo canta!
¡Qué témpanos de hielo azul levanta!
Translation — "The legend of time"
The dream goes over (the) time
floating like a sailboat.
Nobody can [crack] open the seeds
at the heart of the dream. ×
Ay, how the dawn sings, how it sings!
What icebergs of blue ice it raises!
(The) time goes over the dream
sunken up to the hairs.
Yesterday and tomorrow they eat
dark flowers of duel.
Ay, how the night sings, how it sings!
What thicket of anemones it raises!
Over the same column,
Time and dream intertwined ××
crosses the moan of the boy,
the broken tongue of the elder.
Ay, how the dawn sings, how it sings!
What thicket of anemones it raises!
And if the dream pretends [to be] walls ×××
within the plain of time,
time will make it believe
that it is being born at that moment.
Ay, how the night sings, how it sings!
What icebergs of blue ice it raises!
footnotes
× I interpret it as “at the heart”, but it could be “in the heart” or “within the heart”, which would make for something more literal.
×× The literal adjective used is not “entrelazados” (intertwined), but, rather, “abrazados” (hugged/hugging each other).
××× The literal phrase is “and if the dream pretends walls”. “to be” is entirely assumed.
XXIV
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Dos rojas lenguas de fuego
que a un mismo tronco enlazadas
se aproximan, y al besarse
forman una sola llama;
dos notas que del laúd
a un tiempo la mano arranca,
y en el espacio se encuentran
y armoniosas se abrazan;
dos olas que vienen juntas
a morir sobre una playa,
y que al romper se coronan
con un penacho de plata;
dos jirones de vapor
que del lago se levantan,
y al juntarse allá en el cielo
forman una nube blanca
dos ideas que al par brotan,
dos besos que a un tiempo estallan,
dos ecos que se confunden…,
eso son nuestras almas.
Translation — "XXIV"
Two red tongues of fire
that, intertwined at the same trunk
approximate, and when they kiss
they form a single flame;
two notes that the hand
rips from the lute at once,
and they find each other within the space
and, harmonious, they hug;
two waves that come together
to die over a beach,
and when breaking they crown themselves
with a silver tuft;
two shreds of steam
that rise from the lake,
and when coming together, there, in the sky,
they form a white cloud
two ideas that sprout at once,
two kisses that explode at the same time,
two echos that are confused…, ×
those are our souls.
footnotes
× confused with each other.
Memento
Federico García Lorca
Cuando yo me muera,
enterradme con mi guitarra
bajo la arena.
Cuando yo me muera,
entre los naranjos
y la hierbabuena.
Cuando yo me muera,
enterradme si queréis
en una veleta.
¡Cuando yo me muera!
Translation — "Memento"
When i die,
Bury me with my guitar
Underneath the sand.
When i die,
within the orange trees
and the mint.
When i die,
bury me, if you want to,
in a wind vane.
When i die!
Despedida
Federico García Lorca
Si muero,
dejad el balcón abierto.
El niño come naranjas.
(Desde mi balcón lo veo).
El segador siega el trigo.
(Desde mi balcón lo siento).
¡Si muero,
dejad el balcón abierto!
Translation — "Goodbye"
If I die,
leave the balcony open.
The boy eats oranges.
(From my balcony I see it).
The reaper reaps the wheat.
(From my balcony I feel it).
If I die,
leave the balcony open!
Oda a Salvador Dalí
Federico García Lorca
Una rosa en el alto jardín que tú deseas.
Una rueda en la pura sintaxis del acero.
Desnuda la montaña de niebla impresionista.
Los grises oteando sus balaustradas últimas.
Los pintores modernos en sus blancos estudios,
cortan la flor aséptica de la raíz cuadrada.
En las aguas del Sena un ice-berg de mármol
enfría las ventanas y disipa las yedras.
El hombre pisa fuerte las calles enlosadas.
Los cristales esquivan la magia del reflejo.
El Gobierno ha cerrado las tiendas de perfume.
La máquina eterniza sus compases binarios.
Una ausencia de bosques, biombos y entrecejos
yerra por los tejados de las casas antiguas.
El aire pulimenta su prisma sobre el mar
y el horizonte sube como un gran acueducto.
Marineros que ignoran el vino y la penumbra,
decapitan sirenas en los mares de plomo.
La Noche, negra estatua de la prudencia, tiene
el espejo redondo de la luna en su mano.
Un deseo de formas y límites nos gana.
Viene el hombre que mira con el metro amarillo.
Venus es una blanca naturaleza muerta
y los coleccionistas de mariposas huyen.
—
Cadaqués, en el fiel del agua y la colina,
eleva escalinatas y oculta caracolas.
Las flautas de madera pacifican el aire.
Un viejo dios silvestre da frutas a los niños.
Sus pescadores duermen, sin ensueño, en la arena.
En alta mar les sirve de brújula una rosa.
El horizonte virgen de pañuelos heridos,
junta los grandes vidrios del pez y de la luna.
Una dura corona de blancos bergantines
ciñe frentes amargas y cabellos de arena.
Las sirenas convencen, pero no sugestionan,
y salen si mostramos un vaso de agua dulce.
—
¡Oh, Salvador Dalí, de voz aceitunada!
No elogio tu imperfecto pincel adolescente
ni tu color que ronda la color de tu tiempo,
pero alabo tus ansias de eterno limitado.
Alma higiénica, vives sobre mármoles nuevos.
Huyes la oscura selva de formas increíbles.
Tu fantasía llega donde llegan tus manos,
y gozas el soneto del mar en tu ventana.
El mundo tiene sordas penumbras y desorden,
en los primeros términos que el humano frecuenta.
Pero ya las estrellas ocultando paisajes,
señalan el esquema perfecto de sus órbitas.
La corriente del tiempo se remansa y ordena
en las formas numéricas de un siglo y otro siglo.
Y la Muerte vencida se refugia temblando
en el círculo estrecho del minuto presente.
Al coger tu paleta, con un tiro en un ala,
pides la luz que anima la copa del olivo.
Ancha luz de Minerva, constructora de andamios,
donde no cabe el sueño ni su flora inexacta.
Pides la luz antigua que se queda en la frente,
sin bajar a la boca ni al corazón del bosque.
Luz que temen las vides entrañables de Baco
y la fuerza sin orden que lleva el agua curva.
Haces bien en poner banderines de aviso,
en el límite oscuro que relumbra de noche.
Como pintor no quieres que te ablande la forma
el algodón cambiante de una nube imprevista.
El pez en la pecera y el pájaro en la jaula.
No quieres inventarlos en el mar o en el viento.
Estilizas o copias después de haber mirado,
con honestas pupilas sus cuerpecillos ágiles.
Amas una materia definida y exacta
donde el hongo no pueda poner su campamento.
Amas la arquitectura que construye en lo ausente
y admites la bandera como una simple broma.
Dice el compás de acero su corto verso elástico.
Desconocidas islas desmiente ya la esfera.
Dice la línea recta su vertical esfuerzo
y los sabios cristales cantan sus geometrías.
—
Pero también la rosa del jardín donde vives.
¡Siempre la rosa, siempre, norte y sur de nosotros!
Tranquila y concentrada como una estatua ciega,
ignorante de esfuerzos soterrados que causa.
Rosa pura que limpia de artificios y croquis
y nos abre las alas tenues de la sonrisa
(Mariposa clavada que medita su vuelo).
Rosa del equilibrio sin dolores buscados.
¡Siempre la rosa!
—
¡Oh, Salvador Dalí de voz aceitunada!
Digo lo que me dicen tu persona y tus cuadros.
No alabo tu imperfecto pincel adolescente,
pero canto la firme dirección de tus flechas.
Canto tu bello esfuerzo de luces catalanas,
tu amor a lo que tiene explicación posible.
Canto tu corazón astronómico y tierno,
de baraja francesa y sin ninguna herida.
Canto el ansia de estatua que persigues sin tregua,
el miedo a la emoción que te aguarda en la calle.
Canto la sirenita de la mar que te canta
montada en bicicleta de corales y conchas.
Pero ante todo canto un común pensamiento
que nos une en las horas oscuras y doradas.
No es el Arte la luz que nos ciega los ojos.
Es primero el amor, la amistad o la esgrima.
Es primero que el cuadro que paciente dibujas
el seno de Teresa, la de cutis insomne,
el apretado bucle de Matilde la ingrata,
nuestra amistad pintada como un juego de oca.
Huellas dactilográficas de sangre sobre el oro,
rayen el corazón de Cataluña eterna.
Estrellas como puños sin halcón te relumbren,
mientras que tu pintura y tu vida florecen.
No mires la clepsidra con alas membranosas,
ni la dura guadaña de las alegorías.
Viste y desnuda siempre tu pincel en el aire
frente a la mar poblada de barcos y marinos.
Translation "Ode to Salvador Dalí"
A rose in the high garden that you wish for.
A wheel in the pure syntaxis of the steel.
Nakens the mountain of the impressionist fog.
The grays othering their last balustrades.
The modern painters inside their white studios,
cut the aseptic flower of the square root.
within the waters of the Sena, an iceberg of marble
cools the windows and dissipates the ivy.
The man steps harshly [on] the paved streets.
The glass dodges the magic of the reflection. ×
The Government has closed the perfume stores.
The machine eternizes its binary compasses.
An absence of forests, screens and eyebrows
errs across the roofs of the old houses.
The air polishes its prism over the sea
and the horizon rises like a great aqueduct.
Sailors that ignore the wine and the penumbra,
decapitate mermaids within the seas of lead.
The Night, black statue of prudence, has
the round mirror of the moon in its hand.
A desire for shapes and limits wins over us.
Comes the man that looks with the yellow metro.
Venus is a dead, white nature
and the butterfly collectionists flee.
—
Cadaqués, within the faith(ful) of water and the hill, ××
rises stairs and hides shells.
The wood flutes pacify the air.
An old, wild God gives out fruit to the children.
Its fishermen sleep, without dreams, within the sand.
In the high sea, a rose serves them as a compass.
The virgin horizon of damaged handkerchief,
brings together the great glass(es) of the fish and of the moon.
A hard crown of white brigs
girdles bitter foreheads and hairs of sand.
The mermaids convince, but don't suggest,
and they come out if we show them a glass of freshwater.
—
Oh, Salvador Dalí, of olive voice! ×××
I don't praise your imperfect, adolescent paintbrush
nor your color that grazes the color of your time,
but i acclaim your eagerness of limited eternity.
Hygienic soul, you live on new marbles.
You flee the dark forest of incredible forms.
Your fantasy reaches where your hands reach,
and you enjoy the sonnet of the sea at your window.
The world has deaf darknesses and disorder,
in the first terms that the human frequents.
But now, the stars hiding landscapes,
designates the perfect scheme of their orbits.
The current of time calms down and tidies
within the numeric forms of a century and another century.
and the defeated Death refuges, trembling
within the narrow circle of the present minute.
When picking up a palette with a shot in a wing,
you ask for the light that the cup of olive cheers up.
Wide light of Minerva, scaffold constructor,
where there is no space for neither the dream nor its inexact flora.
You ask the old light that remains in the forehead,
without going down to the mouth nor to the heart of the forest.
Light that the tender vines of Baco fear,
and the strength without order that carries the curvated water.
—
You do good in placing pennants of warning,
in the dark limit that shines at night.
As a painter, you don't want the unchanging cotton
of an unforeseen cloud to soften your form.
The fish in the fishbowl and the bird in the cage.
You don't want to invent them at sea or in the wind.
You stylize or copy after having looked,
with honest pupils, at their agile little bodies.
You love a matter that is defined and exact
where the fungus cannot set down its camp.
You love the architecture that builds upon the absence
and you tolerate the flag like a simple joke.
The metal compass says its short, elastic verse.
Unknown islands are denied by the sphere.
The straight line talks of its vertical effort
and the wise crystals sing their geometries. ×
—
But also the rose of the garden in which you live.
Always the rose, always, north and south of us!
Calm and concentrated like a blind statue,
ignorant of underground efforts it causes.
Pure rose that cleanses of artifices and sketches
and opens our dim wings of the smile
(Pinned butterfly that considers its flight).
Rose of equilibrium without searched[-for] pains.
Always the rose!
—
Oh, Salvador Dalí, of olive voice! ×
I say what your persona and your paintings say to me.
I do not praise your imperfect adolescent paintbrush,
but I sing the firm direction of your arrows.
I sing your beautiful effort of Catalan lights,
your love for what[ever] has a possible explanation.
I sing your heart, astronomic and tender,
of French deck and with no wounds. ××××
I sing the anxiety for statue that you chase without truce,
the fear of the emotion that awaits you on the street.
I sing the mermaid in the sea that sings to you
sat on a bicycle of corals and shells.
But, before all, I sing a common thought
which unites us in the dark and golden hours.
the Art isn't the light which blinds our eyes.
It is first the love, the friendship or the communication. ×××××
It is first that the painting you so patiently paint
Teresa’s breast, the one of sleepless skin,
the tightened loop of Matilde the ungrateful,
our friendship painted like a game of snakes and ladders. ××××××
Dactylographic prints of blood on the gold,
scratch[ing] the heart of eternal Catalonia.
Stars like fists without hawk shine [upon] you,
while your painting and your life bloom.
Don't look at the clepsydra with membranous wings,
nor the hard dagger of allegories.
Always clothe and undress your paintbrush in the air
before the sea populated with ships and sailors.
footnotes
× “cristal” (original word) can be either translated to “crystal” or, alternatively, “glass”. i picked according to the context.
×× Cadaqués is the place where Salvador Dalí was born.
××× i cannot translate “aceitunada” (original word) to English with a-hundred-percent accuracy… it would be something like “olivened”.
×××× “deck” is in fact referring to “deck of cards”.
××××× “communication” is a loose translation. in reality, the original word (esgrima) refers to the various sets of skills one has to possess in order to navigate interpersonal relationships healthily.
×××××× i cannot confirm with total conviction, due to my lack of international culture, if “juego de la oca” (original phrase) is in fact translated to the game “snakes and ladders”.
Romance sonámbulo
Federico García Lorca
Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas le están mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.
—
Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha,
vienen con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato garduño,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
¿Pero quién vendrá? ¿Y por dónde...?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
soñando en la mar amarga.
—
Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo por su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los montes de Cabra.
Si yo pudiera, mocito,
ese trato se cerraba.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
Compadre, quiero morir
decentemente en mi cama.
De acero, si puede ser,
con las sábanas de holanda.
¿No ves la herida que tengo
desde el pecho a la garganta?
Trescientas rosas morenas
lleva tu pechera blanca.
Tu sangre rezuma y huele
alrededor de tu faja.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
Dejadme subir al menos
hasta las altas barandas,
dejadme subir, dejadme,
hasta las verdes barandas.
Barandales de la luna
por donde retumba el agua.
—
Ya suben los dos compadres
hacia las altas barandas.
Dejando un rastro de sangre.
Dejando un rastro de lágrimas.
Temblaban en los tejados
farolillos de hojalata.
Mil panderos de cristal,
herían la madrugada.
—
Verde que te quiero verde,
verde viento, verdes ramas.
Los dos compadres subieron.
El largo viento, dejaba
en la boca un raro gusto
de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
¡Compadre! ¿Dónde está, dime?
¿Dónde está mi niña amarga?
¡Cuántas veces te esperó!
¡Cuántas veces te esperara,
cara fresca, negro pelo,
en esta verde baranda!
—
Sobre el rostro del aljibe
se mecía la gitana.
Verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Un carámbano de luna
la sostiene sobre el agua.
La noche su puso íntima
como una pequeña plaza.
Guardias civiles borrachos,
en la puerta golpeaban.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar.
Y el caballo en la montaña.
Translation — "Sleepwalking romance"
Green for i love you green. ×
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship over the sea
and the horse in the mountain.
With the shadow at the waist
she dreams in her railing, ××
green flesh, green hair,
with eyes of cold silver.
Underneath the Romani moon, ×××
the things are looking at her
and she can’t look at them.
—
Green for i love you green.
Big stars of frost,
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the path to dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the hill, [a] tabby cat,
raises its sour hackles.
But who will come? And from where…?
She remains in her railing,
green flesh, green hair,
dreaming in the bitter sea.
—
Comrade, i want to switch ××××
my horse for your house ×××××
my saddle for your mirror,
my knife for your blanket.
Comrade, i come bleeding,
from the hills of Cabra
If I could, boy,
this treaty would be closed.
But i am no longer i,
nor is my house my house.
Comrade, i want to die
decently, in my bed
of steel, if that can be,
with the sheets of Holland.
Can’t you see the wound that I have
from the chest to the throat?
Three hundred tan roses
carries your white front.
Your blood oozes and smells
around your belt.
But i am no longer i,
nor is my house my house.
Let me go up at least
Up to the high railings
let me go up, let me,
up to the green railings.
Railings of the moon
around where water rumbles.
—
There go the two comrades
towards the high railings.
Leaving behind a trace of blood.
Leaving behind a trace of tears.
Trembling in the roofs
[were] little lanterns of tin.
A thousand tambourines of glass
wound the morning.
—
Green for i love you green.
green wind, green branches.
The two comrades went up.
The long wind, left
in the mouth, a strange aftertaste
of bile, of mint and of basil.
Comrade! Where is she, tell me?
Where is my bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times will she wait for you,
fresh face, black hair,
in this green railing!
—
Over the face of the well
rocked the Romani woman. ×××
Green flesh, green hair,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her over the water.
The night turned intimate ××××××
like a small square. ×××××××
Drunk civil guards,
banged on the door.
Green for i love you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship over the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.
footnotes
× very common saying in Spain. it is indeed referring to the color.
×× “railing” as railing that protects/surrounds the edge of a balcony.
××× the original word was not “Romani”, but rather its disrespectful counterpart.
×××× I chose “comrade”, but the original word can be translated to things like “buddy”, “pal”, etc…
××××× the other person is treated with “usted” (formal 2nd person pronoun). i can’t translate it over to English.
×××××× i suspect there was a typo or other error in the original text — the original expression was not “se puso” (turned) but “su puso” which means… nothing. they could have meant the word “supuso” (supposed) but that does not make sense with the verse.
××××××× “square” as in the place, not the shape.
Idilio
Federico García Lorca
Tú querías que yo te dijera
el secreto de la primavera.
Y yo soy para el secreto
lo mismo que es el abeto.
Árbol cuyos mil deditos
señalan mil caminitos.
Nunca te diré, amor mío,
por qué corre lento el río.
Pero pondré en mi voz estancada
el cielo ceniza de tu mirada.
¡Dame vueltas, morenita!
Ten cuidado con mis hojitas.
Dame más vueltas alrededor,
jugando a la noria del amor.
¡Ay! No puedo decirte, aunque quisiera,
el secreto de la primavera.
Translation — "Idyll"
You wanted me to tell you
the secret of spring.
And I am to the secret
what is the fir.
[A] tree whose thousands of little fingers
point to a thousand little paths.
I will never tell you, my love, ×
why the river courses slow.
But I will place in my stagnant voice
the ash[y] sky of your glance.
Spin me around, little brunette!
Be careful with my little leaves.
Spin me around more,
playing the ferris wheel of love.
Ay! I can't tell you, even if i wanted to,
the secret of spring.
footnotes
× literal translation is “love of mine”.
Paisaje con dos tumbas y un perro asirio
Federico García Lorca
Amigo,
levántate para que oigas aullar
al perro asirio.
Las tres ninfas del cáncer han estado bailando,
hijo mío.
Trajeron unas montañas de lacre rojo
y unas sábanas duras donde estaba el cáncer dormido.
El caballo tenía un ojo en el cuello
y la luna estaba en un cielo tan frío
que tuvo que desgarrarse su monte de Venus
y ahogar en sangre y ceniza los cementerios antiguos.
Amigo,
despierta, que los montes todavía no respiran
y las hierbas de mí corazón están en otro sitio.
No importa que estés lleno de agua de mar.
Yo amé mucho tiempo a un niño
que tenía una plumilla en la lengua
y vivimos cien años dentro de un cuchillo.
Despierta. Calla. Escucha. Incorpórate un poco.
El aullido
es una larga lengua morada que deja
hormigas de espanto y licor de lirios.
Ya vienen hacia la roca. ¡No alargues tus raíces!
Se acerca. Gime. No solloces en sueños, amigo.
¡Amigo!
Levántate para que oigas aullar
al perro asirio.
Translation "Landscape with two tombs and an Assyrian dog"
Friend,
wake up so you can hear the howl ×
of the Assyrian dog.
The three nymphs of cancer have been dancing,
son of mine. ××
They brought mountains of red wax
and hard sheets where the cancer was asleep.
The horse had an eye in its neck
and the moon was in a sky so cold
that its hill of Venus had to be torn
and drown in blood and ash the old cemeteries.
Friend,
wake up, for the hills still do not breathe
and the herbs of my heart are in someplace else.
It doesn't matter that you're full of seawater.
I loved for a long time a boy
who had a nib in his tongue
and we lived a hundred years inside a knife.
Wake up. Shush. Listen. Straighten up a little.
The howl
is a long purple tongue that leaves
ants of horror and liquor of lilies.
Now they are coming towards the rock. Don't extend your roots!
It's inching closer. Whimper. Don't sob in your dreams, friend.
Friend!
Wake up so you can hear
the howl of the Assyrian dog.
footnotes
× the original expression is “so you can hear the Assyrian dog howl” but i thought preserving the phrasal structure was more important for the pacing.
×× “son of mine” is a common Spanish term of endearment, or that denotes closeness. it isn't necessarily directed towards one’s son.
Variación
Federico García Lorca
El remanso del aire
bajo la rama del eco.
El remanso del agua
bajo fronda de luceros.
El remanso de tu boca
bajo espesura de besos.
Translation — "Variation"
The calmness of the air
underneath the branch of the echo.
The calmness of the water
underneath a frond of lights.
The calmness of your mouth
underneath a thicket of kisses.
En el instituto y en la universidad
Federico García Lorca
La primera vez
no te conocí.
La segunda, sí.
Dime
si el aire te lo dice.
Mañanita fría
yo me puse triste,
y luego me entraron
ganas de reírme.
No te conocía.
Sí me conociste.
No me conociste.
Ahora entre los dos
se alarga impasible,
un mes, como un
biombo de días grises.
La primera vez
no te conocí.
La segunda, sí.
Translation "In highschool and in university"
The first time
i didn't know you.
The second one, i did.
Tell me
if the air tells you it.
Cold morning
i turned sad,
and then i was overcome
by a desire to laugh.
I didn't know you.
You did know me.
You did not know me.
Now between us two
it extends, impassive,
a month, like a
screen of gray days.
The first time
i didn't know you.
The second one, i did.
Encuentro
Federico García Lorca
Ni tú ni yo estamos
en disposición
de encontrarnos.
Tú... por lo que ya sabes.
¡Yo la he querido tanto!
Sigue esa veredita.
En las manos
tengo los agujeros
de los clavos.
¿No ves cómo me estoy
desangrando?
No mires nunca atrás,
vete despacio
y reza como yo
a San Cayetano,
que ni tú ni yo estamos
en disposición
de encontrarnos.
Translation "Meeting"
Neither you nor i are
in disposition
to meet each other.
You… as you already know.
I have loved her so much!
Follow that little sidewalk.
In my hands
I have the holes
of the nails.
Can't you see how i am
bleeding out?
Don't ever look back,
go slowly
and pray like me
to Saint Cayetano,
for neither you nor i are
in disposition
to meet each other.
Gacela de la huida
Federico García Lorca
Me he perdido muchas veces por el mar
con el oído lleno de flores recién cortadas.
Con la lengua llena de amor y de agonía
muchas veces me he perdido por el mar,
como me pierdo en el corazón de algunos niños.
No hay nadie que al dar un beso
no sienta la sonrisa de la gente sin rostro,
ni nadie que al tocar un recién nacido
olvide las inmóviles calaveras de caballo.
Porque las rosas buscan en la frente
un duro paisaje de hueso
y las manos del hombre no tienen más sentido
que imitar a las raíces bajo tierra.
Como me pierdo en el corazón de algunos niños,
me he perdido muchas veces por el mar.
Ignorante del agua, voy buscando
una muerte de luz que me consuma.
Translation — "Gacela of the fleeing"
I have gotten lost many times along the sea
with my ear full of freshly cut flowers.
With a tongue full of love and agony
many times i have gotten lost along the sea,
like i get lost within the heart of some boys. ×
There is nobody to kiss
don't feel the smile of the faceless people,
nor anybody that, when touching a newborn,
forgets the immobile skulls of horses.
Because the roses search, in the forehead,
[for] a hard landscape of plaster
and the hands of man do not have any more sense
than to imitate the roots underneath the earth.
Like i get lost within the heart of some boys,
i have gotten lost many times along the sea.
Ignorant of the water, i go searching
for a death of light that consumes me.
footnotes
× "boys" is a cultural nickname; Lorca is not referring to actual young boys (children)!
Fábula y rueda de los tres amigos
Federico García Lorca
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo.
Estaban los tres helados:
Enrique por el mundo de las camas;
Emilio por el mundo de los ojos y las heridas de las manos,
Lorenzo por el mundo de las universidades sin tejados.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique.
Estaban los tres quemados:
Lorenzo por el mundo de las hojas y las bolas de billar;
Emilio por el mundo de la sangre y los alfileres blancos,
Enrique por el mundo de los muertos y los periódicos abandonados.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique.
Estaban los tres enterrados.
Lorenzo en un seno de Flora;
Emilio en la, yerta ginebra que se olvida en el vaso,
Enrique en la hormiga, en el mar y en los ojos vacíos de los pájaros.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique.
Fueron los tres en mis manos
tres montañas chinas,
tres sombras de caballo,
tres paisajes de nieve y una cabaña de azucenas
por los palomares donde la luna se pone plana bajo el gallo.
Uno
y uno
y uno.
Estaban los tres momificados.
Con las moscas del invierno,
con los tinteros que orina el perro y desprecia el vilano,
con la brisa que hiela el corazón de todas las madres,
por los blancos derribos de Júpiter donde meriendan muerte los borrachos.
Tres
y dos
y uno.
Los vi perderse llorando y cantando
por un huevo de gallina,
por la noche que enseñaba su esqueleto de tabaco,
por mi dolor lleno de rostros y punzantes esquirlas de luna,
por mi alegría de ruedas dentadas y látigos,
por mi pecho turbado por las palomas,
por mi muerte desierta con un solo paseante equivocado.
Yo había matado la quinta luna
y bebían agua por las fuentes los abanicos y los aplausos.
Tibia leche encerrada de las recién paridas
agitaba las rosas con un largo dolor blanco.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo.
Diana es dura,
pero a veces tiene los pechos nublados.
Puede la piedra blanca latir en la sangre del ciervo
y el ciervo puede soñar por los ojos de un caballo.
Cuando se hundieron las formas puras
bajo el cri cri de las margaritas,
comprendí que me habían asesinado.
Recorrieron los cafés y los cementerios y las iglesias,
abrieron los toneles y los armarios,
destrozaron tres esqueletos para arrancar sus dientes de oro.
Ya no me encontraron.
¿No me encontraron?
No. No me encontraron.
Pero se supo que la sexta luna huyó torrente arriba,
y que el mar recordó ¡de pronto!
los nombres de todos sus ahogados.
Translation "'Fable and wheel of the three friends"
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo.
The three of them were frozen:
Enrique for the world of the beds;
Emilio for the world of the eyes and the wounds of the hands;
Lorenzo for the world of the universities without roofs.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique.
The three of them were burnt:
Lorenzo for the world of the leaves and the billiard balls;
Emilio for the world of the blood and the white pins,
Enrique for the world of the dead and the abandoned newspapers.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique.
The three of them were buried.
Lorenzo, in a bosom of Flora;
Emilio in the, stiff gin that is forgotten in the cup,
Enrique in the ant, at sea and in the vacant eyes of the birds.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique.
The three of them were, in my hands
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of [a] horse,
three snowy landscapes and a shed of lilies
along the dovecotes where the moon turns flat underneath the rooster.
One
and one
and one.
The three of them were mummified.
With the flies of winter,
with the inkwells that the dog urinates and the villain despises,
with the breeze that freezes over the heart of all the mothers,
along the white Jupiter shootdowns where the drunkards snack on death.
Three
and two
and one.
I saw them getting lost crying and singing
over a chicken egg,
for the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
for my pain full of faces and stinging shards of moon,
for my joy of dented wheels and whips,
for my chest turbulent because of the doves,
for my deserted death with only one mistaken passerby.
I had killed the fifth moon
and they drank water by the fountains, the fans and the applause ×
Warm, enclosed milk from the recently-born
shook the roses with a long, white pain.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo.
Diana is firm,
but sometimes her breasts are foggy.
The white stone can beat within the deer’s blood
and the deer can dream for the eyes of a horse.
When the pure forms sank
underneath the crying of the daisies, ××
i understood that i had been murdered.
They traveled through the cafés and the cemeteries and the churches,
they opened the barrels and the drawers,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
They did not find me any more.
They did not find me?
No. They did not find me.
But it was known that the sixth moon fled up the torrent,
and that the sea remembered, suddenly!
the names of all the ones it had drowned. ×××
footnotes
× fans as in the object one uses to fan oneself.
×× the original word is not “crying” but rather, an onomatopoeia; “cri cri” (“underneath the cri cri of the daisies…”)
××× the original word is “drowned” as in “drowned people” (“the names of all the drowned”); it was changed in favor of easier understanding (and drama!).
Casida de la mano imposible
Federico García Lorca
Yo no quiero más que una mano;
una mano herida, si es posible.
Yo no quiero más que una mano
aunque pase mil noches sin lecho.
Sería un pálido lirio de cal.
Sería una paloma amarrada a mi corazón.
Sería el guardián que en la noche de mi tránsito
prohibiera en absoluto la entrada a la luna.
Yo no quiero más que esa mano
para los diarios aceites y la sábana blanca de mi agonía.
Yo no quiero más que esa mano
para tener un ala de mi muerte.
Lo demás todo pasa.
Rubor sin nombre ya. Astro perpetuo.
Lo demás es lo otro; viento triste,
mientras las hojas huyen en bandadas.
Translation — "Qasida of the impossible hand"
I don't want more than a hand;
a wounded hand, if it is possible.
I don't want more than a hand
even if i spent a thousand nights without a bed.
It would be a pale lily of lime.
It would be a dove tied to my heart.
It would be the guardian that in the night of my transit
would wholly prohibit entering the moon.
I do not want more than that hand
for the daily oils and the white sheet of my agony.
I do not want more than that hand
to have a wing of my death.
Everything else passes.
Blush without a name now. Perpetual star.
Everything else are the other [things]; sad wind,
as the leaves flee in flocks.
Sorpresa
Federico García Lorca
Muerto se quedó en la calle
con un puñal en el pecho.
No lo conocía nadie.
¡Cómo temblaba el farol!
Madre.
¡Cómo temblaba el farolito
de la calle!
Era madrugada. Nadie
pudo asomarse a sus ojos
abiertos al duro aire.
Que muerto se quedó en la calle
que con un puñal en el pecho
y que no lo conocía nadie
Translation — "Surprise"
Dead he was left in the street
with a dagger in the chest.
Nobody knew him.
How the lamppost shook!
God. ×
How the lamppost shook
in the street!
It was morning. Nobody
could peek into his eyes
open to the hard air.
For dead he was left in the street
with a dagger in the chest
and that nobody knew him.
footnotes
× the direct translation is "mother", but that is a Spanish expression of surprise, much like "God" or "oh my God" ("madre" / "madre mía"); so i translated it to the closest English expression.
Madrigal
Federico García Lorca
Yo te miré a los ojos
cuando era niño y bueno.
Tus manos me rozaron
Y me diste un beso.
(Los relojes llevan la misma cadencia,
Y las noches tienen las mismas estrellas.)
Y se abrió mi corazón
Como una flor bajo el cielo,
Los pétalos de lujuria
Y los estambres de sueño.
(Los relojes llevan la misma cadencia,
Y las noches tienen las mismas estrellas.)
En mi cuarto sollozaba
Como el príncipe del cuento
Por Estrellita de oro
Que se fue de los torneos.
(Los relojes llevan la misma cadencia,
Y las noches tienen las mismas estrellas.)
Yo me alejé de tu lado
Queriéndote sin saberlo.
No sé cómo son tus ojos,
Tus manos ni tus cabellos.
Sólo me queda en la frente
La mariposa del beso.
(Los relojes llevan la misma cadencia,
Y las noches tienen las mismas estrellas.)
Translation — "Madrigal"
i looked at you in the eyes
when i was young and good.
your hands graced me
And you gave me a kiss.
(The clocks have have the same cadence,
And the nights have the same stars.)
And my heart opened
Like a flower underneath the sky,
The petals of lust
And the staments of sleep.
(The clocks have have the same cadence,
And the nights have the same stars.)
in my room i weeped
Like the prince of the story
for Star of gold
that left the tournaments. ×
(The clocks have have the same cadence,
And the nights have the same stars.)
I walked away from your side
Loving you without knowing.
I don't know how your eyes are,
Nor your hands nor your hair.
In my forehead, there's only
the butterfly of the kiss left for me.
(The clocks have have the same cadence,
And the nights have the same stars.)
footnotes
× possibly referencing a book/story.
Balada interior
Federico García Lorca
El corazón,
Que tenía en la escuela
Donde estuvo pintada
La cartilla primera,
¿Está en ti,
Noche negra?
(Frío, frío,
Como el agua
Del río.)
El primer beso
Que supo a beso y fue
Para mis labios niños
Como la lluvia fresca,
¿Está en ti,
Noche negra?
(Frío, frío
Como el agua
Del río.)
Mi primer verso.
La niña de las trenzas
Que miraba de frente
¿Está en ti,
Noche negra?
(Frío, frío,
Como el agua
Del río,)
Pero mi corazón
Roído de culebras,
El que estuvo colgado
Del árbol de la ciencia,
¿Está en ti,
Noche negra?
(Caliente, caliente,
Como el agua
De la fuente.)
Mi amor errante,
Castillo sin firmeza,
De sombras enmohecidas,
¿Está en ti,
Noche negra?
(Caliente, caliente,
Como el agua
De la fuente.)
¡Oh, gran dolor!
Admites en tu cueva
Nada más que la sombra.
¿Es cierto,
Noche negra?
(Caliente, caliente,
Como el agua
De la fuente.)
¡Oh, corazón perdido!
¡Réquiem aeternam!
Translation — "Inner ballad"
The heart,
That i had in school
Where the first book
was painted,
is it within you,
black night?
(Cold, cold,
Like the water
From the river.)
The first kiss
That tasted like a kiss and was,
to my young lips,
like fresh rain,
is it within you,
black night?
(Cold, cold
Like the water
From the river.)
My first verse.
The girl with the braids
That looked to the front
is she within you,
dark night?
(Cold, cold
Like the water
From the river,)
But my heart
gnawed on by snakes,
The one that was hanging
By the tree of science,
Is it within you,
dark night?
(Hot, hot,
like the water
from the fountain.)
My wandering love,
Castle without firmness,
Of moldy shadows,
Is it within you,
dark night?
(Hot, hot,
like the water
from the fountain.)
Oh, great pain!
You allow inside of your cave
nothing more than shadow.
Is it true,
dark night?
(Hot, hot,
like the water
from the fountain.)
Oh, lost heart!
Requiem aeternam! [Eternal rest!]
Los encuentros de un caracol aventurero
Federico García Lorca
Hay dulzura infantil
En la mañana quieta.
Los árboles extienden
Sus brazos a la tierra.
Un vaho tembloroso
Cubre las sementeras,
Y las arañas tienden
Sus caminos de seda
Rayas al cristal limpio
Del aire.
En la alameda
Un manantial recita
Su canto entre las hierbas
Y el caracol, pacífico
Burgués de la vereda,
Ignorado y humilde,
El paisaje contempla.
La divina quietud
De la naturaleza
Le dio valor y fe,
Y olvidando las penas
De su hogar, deseó
Ver el fin de [la] senda.
Echó andar e internóse
En un bosque de yedras
Y de ortigas. En medio
Había dos ranas viejas
Que tomaban el sol,
Aburridas y enfermas.
Esos cantos modernos,
Murmuraba una de ellas,
Son inútiles. Todos,
Amiga, le contesta
La otra rana, que estaba
Herida y casi ciega:
Cuando joven creía
Que si al fin Dios oyera
Nuestro canto, tendría
Compasión. Y mi ciencia,
Pues ya he vivido mucho,
Hace que no la crea.
Yo ya no canto más…
Las dos ranas se quejan
Pidiendo una limosna
A una ranita nueva
Que pasa presumida
Apartando las hierbas.
Ante el bosque sombrío
El caracol, se aterra.
Quiere gritar. No puede,
Las ranas se le acercan.
¿Es una mariposa?,
Dice la casi ciega.
Tiene dos cuernecitos,
La otra rana contesta.
Es el caracol. ¿Vienes,
Caracol, de otras tierras?
Vengo de mi casa y quiero
Volverme muy pronto a ella.
Es un bicho muy cobarde,
Exclama la rana ciega.
¿No cantas nunca? No canto,
Dice el caracol. ¿Ni rezas?
Tampoco: nunca aprendí.
¿Ni crees en la vida eterna?
¿Qué es eso?
Pues vivir siempre
En el agua más serena,
Junto a una tierra florida
Que a un rico manjar sustenta.
Cuando niño a mí me dijo
Un día mi pobre abuela
Que al morirme yo me iría
Sobre las hojas más tiernas
De los árboles más altos.
Una hereje era tu abuela.
La verdad te la decimos
Nosotras. Creerás en ella,
Dicen las ranas furiosas.
¿Por qué quise ver la senda?
Gime el caracol. Sí, creo
Por siempre en la vida eterna
Que predicáis...
Las ranas,
Muy pensativas, se alejan,
Y el caracol, asustado,
Se va perdiendo en la selva.
Las dos ranas mendigas
Como esfinges se quedan.
Una de ellas pregunta:
¿Crees tú en la vida eterna?
Yo no, dice muy triste
La rana herida y ciega.
¿Por qué hemos dicho entonces
Al caracol que crea?
¿Por qué?... No sé por qué,
Dice la rana ciega.
Me lleno de emoción
Al sentir la firmeza
Con que llaman mis hijos
A Dios desde la acequia…
El pobre caracol
Vuelve atrás. Ya en la senda
Un silencio ondulado
Mana de la alameda.
Con un grupo de hormigas
Encarnadas se encuentra.
Van muy alborotadas,
Arrastrando tras ellas
A otra hormiga que tiene
Tronchadas las antenas.
El caracol exclama:
Hormiguitas, paciencia.
¿Por qué así maltratáis
A vuestra compañera?
Contadme lo que ha hecho.
Yo juzgaré en conciencia.
Cuéntalo tú, hormiguita.
La hormiga medio muerta
Dice muy tristemente:
Yo he visto las estrellas.
¿Qué son estrellas? dicen
Las hormigas inquietas.
Y el caracol pregunta
Pensativo: ¿estrellas?
Sí, repite la hormiga,
He visto las estrellas.
Subí al árbol más alto
Que tiene la alameda
Y vi miles de ojos
Dentro de mis tinieblas.
El caracol pregunta:
¿Pero qué son estrellas?
Son luces que llevamos
Sobre nuestra cabeza.
Nosotras no las vemos,
Las hormigas comentan.
Y el caracol, mi vista
Sólo alcanza a las hierbas.
Las hormigas exclaman
Moviendo sus antenas:
Te mataremos, eres
Perezosa y perversa,
El trabajo es tu ley.
Yo he visto a las estrellas,
Dice la hormiga herida.
Y el caracol sentencia:
Dejadla que se vaya,
Seguid vuestras faenas.
Es fácil que muy pronto
Ya rendida se muera.
Por el aire dulzón
Ha cruzado una abeja.
La hormiga agonizando
Huele la tarde inmensa
Y dice, es la que viene
A llevarme a una estrella.
Las demás hormiguitas
Huyen al verla muerta.
El caracol suspira
Y aturdido se aleja
Lleno de confusión
Por lo eterno. La senda
No tiene fin, exclama.
Acaso a las estrellas
Se llegue por aquí.
Pero mi gran torpeza
Me impedirá llegar.
No hay que pensar en ellas.
Todo estaba brumoso
De sol débil y niebla.
Campanarios lejanos
Llaman gente a la iglesia.
Y el caracol, pacífico
Burgués de la vereda,
Aturdido e inquieto
El paisaje contempla.
Translation — "The encounters of an adventurous snail"
There is infantile sweetness
In the quiet morning.
The trees extend
Their arms to the earth.
A trembling mist
Covers the sowings,
And the spiders lay
Their paths of silk
Lines to the clean glass
Of the air.
In the boulevard
a wellspring recites
its singing between the grasses
And the snail, peaceful
bourgeois of the boulevard,
Ignored and humble,
Contemplates the landscape.
The divine stillness
Of nature
Gave it valor and faith,
And forgetting the sorrows
Of its home, it wished
to see the end of the track.
It commenced walking and entered
In a forest of ivy
And nettles. In the middle
There were two old frogs
That sunbathed,
Bored and ill.
“Those modern chants,”
Murmured one of them,
“Are useless.” “All of them,
friend,” replied
The other frog, that was
Wounded and almost blind:
“When i was young i believed
That if God would finally hear
Our chant, He would have
Compassion. And my science,
As I have already lived for long,
Makes me not believe in it.
I don’t sing anymore…”
The two frogs complain
Asking for alms
To a new little frog
That passes by, presumptuous,
Shoving the grass out of its way.
Before the gloomy forest
The snail, is terrified.
It wants to scream. It can’t,
The frogs are approaching it.
“Is it a butterfly?”,
Says the nearly-blind.
“It has two little horns,”
The other frog responds.
It is the snail. “Do you come,
Snail, from another land?”
“I come from my home and I want
To return to it very soon.”
“You are a very cowardly bug,”
Exclaims the blind frog.
“Don’t you ever sing?” “I don’t sing,”
Says the snail. “Nor pray?”
No, neither: I never learned.
“Nor believe in eternal life?”
“What is that?”
“Well, to live forever
In the most serene water,
Next to a flowery land
That sustains a delightful delicacy.”
“When I was young, one day
To me my poor grandmother said
That when I died I would go
Over the most tender of leaves
Of the tallest of trees.”
“What a heretic your grandmother was.
The truth is told to you by
Us. You will believe in it,”
Said the irate frogs.
“Why did i want to come see this path?”
Whimpered the snail. “Yes, i believe
Forevermore in the eternal life
You two preach..”
The frogs,
Very pensive, withdraw,
And the snail, terrified,
Is getting lost in the forest.
The two beggar frogs
Are left like sphinxes.
One of them asks:
“Do you believe in eternal life?”
“I don’t,” says, very sadly,
The wounded, blind frog.
“Then, why have we told
The snail to believe?”
“Why…? I don’t know why,”
Said the blind frog.
“I am filled with emotion
When feeling the firmness
With which my sons call out
to God from the gutter…”
The poor snail
Turns back around. Already in the path
A wavy silence
Emanates from the boulevard.
With a group of incarnated
ants it is met.
They go by very rowdy,
Dragging along with them
Another ant that has
Its antennae cut off.
The snail exclaims:
“Little ants, patience.
Why do you mistreat
Your mate in this way?
Tell me what she has done.
I will judge it in conscience.
You tell it to me, little ant.”
The half-dead ant
Says very sadly:
“I have seen the stars.”
“What are stars?” say the
Restless ants.
And the snail asks
Pensive: “stars?”
“Yes”, repeats the ant,
“I have seen the stars.
I climbed the tallest tree
That the boulevard has
And I saw thousands of eyes
Inside of my darkness.”
The snail asks:
“But what are stars?”
“They are lights that we carry
Over our heads.
Us, we do not see them.”
The ants comment.
And the snail, “my gaze
Only reaches the grass.”
The ants exclaim
Moving their antennae:
“We will kill you, you are
Lazy and perverse,
Work is your law.”
“I have seen the stars,”
Says the wounded ant.
And the snail sentences:
“Let her go,
Continue with your tasks.
It is easy that very soon
She will die, defeated.”
Along the sweetened air
A bee passes by.
The ant, agonizing,
Smells the immense afternoon
And says, “it is the one that comes
To take me to a star.”
The rest of the little ants
Flee upon seeing her dead.
The snail sighs
And bewildered withdraws
Filled with confusion
For the eternal. “The path
Has no end”, it exclaims.
“Perhaps to the stars
I can arrive through here.
But my grand clumsiness
Will impede me from getting there.
I must not think of them.”
Everything was foggy
With weak sunlight and mist.
Distant bell towers
Call people to church.
And the snail, peaceful
Bourgeois of the boulevard,
Bewildered and restless
Contemplates the landscape.
Translator's note: ellipses were added for easier reading.
Muerte de la petenera
Federico García Lorca
En la casa blanca, muere
la perdición de los hombres.
Cien jacas caracolean.
Sus jinetes están muertos.
Bajo las estremecidas
estrellas de los velones,
su falda de moaré tiembla
entre sus muslos de cobre.
Cien jacas caracolean.
Sus jinetes están muertos.
Largas sombras afiladas
vienen del turbio horizonte,
y el bordón de una guitarra
se rompe.
Cien jacas caracolean.
Sus jinetes están muertos.
Translation — "The death of the petenera"
In the white house, dies ×
men’s perdition.
A hundred mares caracole.
Their horsemen are dead.
Underneath the shaken
stars of the candles,
the skirt of moiré trembles
between thighs of copper.
A hundred mares caracole.
Their horsemen are dead.
Long sharp shadows
come from the turbid horizon,
and the strings of a guitar
break.
A hundred mares caracole.
Their horsemen are dead.
footnotes
× literal white-painted house.
Poema de la siguiriya gitana: La guitarra
Federico García Lorca
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas
de la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Es inútil callarla.
Es imposible
callarla.
Llora monótona
como llora el agua,
como llora el viento
sobre la nevada.
Es imposible
callarla.
Llora por cosas
lejanas.
Arena del Sur caliente
que pide camelias blancas.
Llora flecha sin blanco,
la tarde sin mañana,
y el primer pájaro muerto
sobre la rama.
¡Oh, guitarra!
Corazón malherido
por cinco espadas.
Translation — "Poem of the Gypsy Siguiriya: The Guitar"
Commences the sobbing
of the guitar.
The cups of the morning
break.
Commences the sobbing
of the guitar.
It is useless
To shut it up.
It is impossible
To shut it up.
It cries, monotonous,
like the water cries,
like the wind cries
over the snow.
It is impossible
To shut it up.
It cries for distant things.
Hot Southern sand
that asks for white camellias.
Cries the arrow with no target,
the afternoon with no morning,
and the first dead bird
over the branch.
Oh guitar!
A heart wounded
by five swords.
La sangre derramada
Federico García Lorca
¡Que no quiero verla!
Dile a la luna que venga,
que no quiero ver la sangre
de Ignacio sobre la arena.
¡Que no quiero verla!
La luna de par en par.
Caballo de nubes quietas,
y la plaza gris del sueño
con sauces en las barreras.
¡Que no quiero verla!
Que mi recuerdo se quema.
¡Avisad a los jazmines
con su blancura pequeña!
¡Que no quiero verla!
La vaca del viejo mundo
pasaba su triste lengua
sobre un hocico de sangres
derramadas en la arena,
y los toros de Guisando,
casi muerte y casi piedra,
mugieron como dos siglos
hartos de pisar la tierra.
No.
¡Que no quiero verla!
Por las gradas sube Ignacio
con toda su muerte a cuestas.
Buscaba el amanecer,
y el amanecer no era.
Busca su perfil seguro,
y el sueño lo desorienta.
Buscaba su hermoso cuerpo
y encontró su sangre abierta.
¡No me digáis que la vea!
No quiero sentir el chorro
cada vez con menos fuerza;
ese chorro que ilumina
los tendidos y se vuelca
sobre la pana y el cuero
de muchedumbre sedienta.
¡Quién me grita que me asome!
¡No me digáis que la vea!
No se cerraron sus ojos
cuando vio los cuernos cerca,
pero las madres terribles
levantaron la cabeza.
Y a través de las ganaderías,
hubo un aire de voces secretas
que gritaban a toros celestes
mayorales de pálida niebla.
No hubo príncipe en Sevilla
que comparársele pueda,
ni espada como su espada
ni corazón tan de veras.
Como un río de leones
su maravillosa fuerza,
y como un torso de mármol
su dibujada prudencia.
Aire de Roma andaluza
le doraba la cabeza
donde su risa era un nardo
de sal y de inteligencia.
¡Qué gran torero en la plaza!
¡Qué buen serrano en la sierra!
¡Qué blando con las espigas!
¡Qué duro con las espuelas!
¡Qué tierno con el rocío!
¡Qué deslumbrante en la feria!
¡Qué tremendo con las últimas
banderillas de tiniebla!
Pero ya duerme sin fin.
Ya los musgos y la hierba
abren con dedos seguros
la flor de su calavera.
Y su sangre ya viene cantando:
cantando por marismas y praderas,
resbalando por cuernos ateridos,
vacilando sin alma por la niebla,
tropezando con miles de pezuñas
como una larga, oscura, triste lengua,
para formar un charco de agonía
junto al Guadalquivir de las estrellas.
¡Oh blanco muro de España!
¡Oh negro toro de pena!
¡Oh sangre dura de Ignacio!
¡Oh ruiseñor de sus venas!
No.
¡Que no quiero verla!
Que no hay cáliz que la contenga,
que no hay golondrinas que se la beban,
no hay escarcha de luz que la enfríe,
no hay canto ni diluvio de azucenas,
no hay cristal que la cubra de plata.
No.
¡¡Yo no quiero verla!!
Translation — "The spilled blood"
For I don't want to see it!
Tell the moon to come,
for i don't want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.
For i don't want to see it!
The moon wide open. ×
Horse of still clouds,
and the gray square of the dream ××
with willows in the railings.
For i don't want to see it!
For my memory is burning.
Warn the jasmine
with their small whiteness!
For i don't want to see it!
The cow of the old world
passed its sad tongue
over a snout of bloods
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
almost death and almost stone,
mooed like two centuries
fed up with walking on the Earth. ×××
No.
Up along the stands goes Ignacio
with all his death on his back.
He searched for the dawn,
And the dawn was not.
He searches for his secure profile,
and the sleep desorients him. ××
He searched for his beautiful body
and he found his open blood.
Don't tell me to look at it! ××××
I don't want to feel the [blood]stream
each time with less strength,
that stream that illuminates
the lying and turns over
the corduroy and the leather
of the thirsty crowd.
Who is yelling at me to peek out?!
Don't tell me to look at it!
His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the terrible mothers
raised their heads.
And throughout the farms,
there was an air of secret voices
that shouted at baby blue bulls
head shepherds of pale fog.
There was no prince in Sevilla
that could be compared,
nor a sword like his sword
nor [a] heart so true.
Like a river of lions
his marvelous strength,
and like a torso of marble
his drawn prudence.
[An] air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his laughter was a nard
of salt and intelligence.
What a great bullfighter in the ring!
What a good mountaineer in the sierra!
How gentle with the ears of grain!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling at the fair!
How tremendous with the last
banners of darkness!
But now he sleeps without end.
Now the mosses and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And his blood now comes, singing:
singing by marshes and meadows,
slipping on cold horns,
hesitating without a soul along the fog,
tripping on thousands of hooves
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
to form a puddle of agony
alongside the Guadalquivir of the stars. ×××××
Oh white wall of Spain!
Oh black bull of sorrow!
Oh hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh nightingale of his veins!
No.
For I don't want to see it!
For there is no chalice that can contain it,
for there are no swallows to drink it,
there is no hoarfrost of light to cool it,
there is no singing or deluge of lilies,
there is no glass that covers it in silver.
No.
I don't want to see it!!
footnotes
× literal expression is “open pair in pair / couple in couple” like a double door.
×× square as in Times Square. ++ “dream” can also be translated to “sleep”.
××× unsure if it's earth or Earth. i chose the most poetic one, since oftentimes they do mean Earth but simply don't add the capital letter.
×××× Literal translation is “don't tell me to see it!”
××××× Guadalquivir is a Spanish river.
Si mis manos pudieran deshojar
Federico García Lorca
Yo pronuncio tu nombre
En las noches oscuras
Cuando vienen los astros
A beber en la luna
Y duermen los ramajes
De las frondas ocultas.
Y yo me siento hueco
De pasión y de música.
Loco reloj que canta
Muertas horas antiguas.
Yo pronuncio tu nombre,
En esta noche oscura,
Y tu nombre me suena
Más lejano que nunca.
Más lejano que todas las estrellas
Y más doliente que la mansa lluvia.
¿Te querré como entonces
Alguna vez? ¿Qué culpa
Tiene mi corazón?
Si la niebla se esfuma
¿Qué otra pasión me espera?
¿Será tranquila y pura?
¡¡Si mis dedos pudieran
Deshojar a la luna!!
Translation — "If my hands could defoliate"
I pronounce your name
In the dark nights
When the stars come
To drink in the moon
And sleep the branches
of the hidden fronds.
And I feel devoid ×
Of passion and music.
Crazy clock that sings
Dead, antique hours.
I pronounce your name,
In this dark night,
And your name sounds
Farther than ever.
Farther than all of the stars
And more hurtful than the peaceful rain.
Will I love you like I loved you then
Sometime? At what fault
Is my heart?
If the fog vanishes
What other passion awaits me?
Will it be calm and pure?
If only my fingers could
Defoliate the moon!
footnotes
× direct translation is "hollow [of]", not "devoid".
Romance
Federico García Lorca
Aquel rubio de Albacete
vino, madre, y me miró.
¡No lo puedo mirar yo!
Aquel rubio de los trigos
hijo de la verde aurora,
alto, solo y sin amigos
pisó mi calle a deshora.
La noche se tiñe y dora
de un delicado fulgor
¡No lo puedo mirar yo!
Aquel lindo de cintura
sentí galán sin…
sembró por mi noche obscura
su amarillo jazminero
tanto me quiere y le quiero
que mis ojos se llevó.
¡No lo puedo mirar yo!
Aquel joven de la Mancha
vino, madre, y me miró.
¡No lo puedo mirar yo!
Translation — ”Romance“
That one blonde from Albacete
came over, mother, and looked at me. ×
I can't look back at him! ××
That blonde from the wheats
son of the green aurora,
tall, alone and without friends
stepped on my street at the wrong time.
The night is tinted and golden
with a delicate glow
I can't look back at him!
That one, with a cute waist
i felt [he was a] heartthrob without… [end] ×××
he planted along my dark night
his yellow jasmine
so much he loves me, and i love him
that he took away my eyes.
I can't look back at him!
he came over, mother, and looked at me.
I can't look back at him!
footnotes
× “madre” (original word) is literally “mother”, although it is sometimes used as an expression of surprise, disbelief, passion, or generally strong emotions (“¡madre!” “¡madre mía!”) that evidently do not allude to a mother. i interpret the poem as if though the author/narrator were to be talking to his mother.
×× “back” was added for clarity. really, the expression as a whole is simply “i can't look at him!” in a more generalized way.
××× parenthesis’ words are assumed.
Corazón coraza
Mario Benedetti
Porque te tengo y no
porque te pienso
porque la noche está de ojos abiertos
porque la noche pasa y digo amor
porque has venido a recoger tu imagen
y eres mejor que todas tus imágenes
porque eres linda desde el pie hasta el alma
porque eres buena desde el alma a mí
porque te escondes dulce en el orgullo
pequeña y dulce
corazón coraza
porque eres mía
porque no eres mía
porque te miro y muero
y peor que muero
si no te miro amor
si no te miro
porque tú siempre existes dondequiera
pero existes mejor donde te quiero
porque tu boca es sangre
y tienes frío
tengo que amarte amor
tengo que amarte
aunque esta herida duela como dos
aunque te busque y no te encuentre
y aunque
la noche pase y yo te tenga
y no.
Translation — ”Shell heart“
Because i have you and not
because i think [of] you
because the night is [full] of open eyes
because the night passes and i say “love”
because you have come to pick up your image
and you are better than all of your images
because you are beautiful from your foot to your soul
because you are good from your soul to me
because you hide, sweet, within pride,
small and sweet
shell heart ×
because you are mine
because you are not mine
because i look at you and i die
and worse, for i die
if i don't look at you, love
if i don't look at you
because you always exist wherever
but you exist better where i love you
because your mouth is blood
and you feel cold
i have to love you, love
i have to love you
even if this wound hurts like two
even if i searched for you and i did not find you
and even if
the night appeared and i had you
and i didn't [have you].
footnotes
× in Spanish it makes more sense. it is a play with how the original words sound. ("corazón coraza") — it essentially means a guarded heart, a heart that has a wall or a shell around it. (literally, "shell heart").
El último amor I
Vicente Aleixandre
Amor mío, amor mío. Y la palabra suena en el vacío. Y se está solo.
Y acaba de irse aquella que nos quería. Acaba de salir. Acabamos de oír cerrarse la puerta.
Todavía nuestros brazos están tendidos. Y la voz se queja en la garganta.
Amor mío...
Cállate. Vuelve sobre tus pasos. Cierra despacio la puerta,
si es que
no quedó bien cerrada.
Regrésate.
Siéntate ahí, y descansa.
No, no oigas el ruido de la calle. No vuelve. No puede volver.
Se ha marchado, y estás solo.
No levantes los ojos para mirarlo todo, como si en todo aún estuviera.
Se está haciendo de noche.
Ponte así: tu rostro en tu mano.
Apóyate. Descansa.
Te envuelve dulcemente la oscuridad, y lentamente te borra.
Todavía respiras. Duerme.
Duerme si puedes. Duerme poquito a poco, deshaciéndote,
desliéndote
en la noche que poco a poco te anega.
¿No oyes? No, ya no oyes. El puro
silencio eres tú, Oh dormido, Oh abandonado,
Oh solitario.
¡Oh, si yo pudiera hacer que nunca más despertases!
Translation — ”The last love I“
My love, my love.
And the word echoes within the emptiness.
And one is alone.
And the one who loved us has just left.
She has just left.
We have just heard the door close.
Our arms are still outstretched.
And the voice complains within the throat.
My love…
Shut up. Walk back over your steps. Close the door slowly,
if
it had not been properly closed.
Come back.
Sit down there, and rest.
No, don't hear the noise from the street. It does not come back. It cannot come back.
It has left, and you are alone.
Do not lift up your eyes to watch everything, as if she was still inside everything.
The night is arriving.
Stay like this: your face in your hand.
Lean on it. Rest.
The darkness sweetly wraps around you, and slowly it erases you.
You are still breathing. Sleep.
Sleep if you can. Sleep little by little,
melting away,
losing yourself
in the night that little by little overwhelms you.
You do not hear? No, you cannot hear anymore. The pure
silence is you, Oh asleep, Oh abandoned,
Oh lonely.
Oh, if I could make it so you never woke up again!
Definición del amor
Francisco de Quevedo
Es hielo abrasador, es fuego helado,
es herida que duele y no se siente,
es un soñado bien, un mal presente,
es un breve descanso muy cansado.
Es un descuido que nos da cuidado,
un cobarde con nombre de valiente,
un andar solitario entre la gente,
un amar solamente ser amado.
Es una libertad encarcelada,
que dura hasta el postrero paroxismo;
enfermedad que crece si es curada.
Éste es el niño Amor, éste es su abismo.
¿Mirad cuál amistad tendrá con nada
el que en todo es contrario de sí mismo!
Translation — ”Definition of love”
It is abrasive ice, it is frozen fire,
it is [a] wound that hurts and cannot be felt,
it is dreaming well, a present wrong,
it is a brief rest that is very tired.
It is a carelessness that gives us carefulness,
a coward with a name of valor,
a solitary walking amongst people,
a loving solely for being loved.
It is an incarcerated liberty,
that lasts until the definitive paroxysm;
sickness that grows if it is cured.
This is the boy Love, this is his abyss.
See what friendship he will have with nothing
which is in what everything is contrary to himself!
Serenata
Federico García Lorca
Por las orillas del río
se está la noche mojando
y en los pechos de Lolita
se mueren de amor los ramos.
Se mueren de amor los ramos.
La noche canta desnuda
sobre los puentes de marzo.
Lolita lava su cuerpo
con agua salobre y nardos.
Se mueren de amor los ramos.
La noche de anís y plata
relumbra por los tejados.
Plata de arroyos y espejos.
Anís de tus muslos blancos.
Se mueren de amor los ramos.
Translation — ”Serenade”
Along the river’s shore
the night is getting drenched
and within Lolita’s breasts
the blossoms are dying of love.
The blossoms are dying of love.
The night sings naked
along March’s bridges.
Lolita washes her body
with brackish water and tuberose.
The blossoms are dying of love.
The night of anise and silver
shines along the roofs.
Silver from rivers and mirrors.
Anise from your white thighs.
The blossoms are dying of love.
Miraste amor y viste muerte
Vicente Aleixandre
Miraste amor y viste muerte,
amor o muerte fugitiva.
Miraste el mundo y viste huyendo
la rubia sombra tornadiza.
Amaste su cuerpo encendido.
Lo deseaste con tus labios.
Mas, solitario sobre el mundo,
era en tus ojos triste el campo.
Sé que en tu frente centellea
la leve chispa del misterio.
Veo en tus ojos vagas lunas
perseguidas entre luceros.
El resplandor de las estrellas
está en las palmas de tus manos.
Pero en tus venas bate, oscuro,
eco de un denso mar cerrado.
Miras el campo largo, abierto.
Es un desnudo allá extendido.
Tú lo acaricias con los ojos.
¡Latiente cuerpo lejanísimo!
La luz se ciñe a las colinas,
los dulces valles, suaves flancos.
Un ave blanca de deseo
pica entre los abiertos labios.
Brisa de oriente, rosa y vaga,
rodea el cálido presente.
Un cuerpo hermoso casi pesa
envuelto en luces de poniente.
Veo tu brazo alzar, tenderse;
tu pecho arder. Tus ojos brillan.
Pero el desnudo lejos yace
en soledades amarillas.
La tarde cae. El cielo se hace
azul, profundo, casi un agua.
Sobre ese extenso mar tranquilo
boga la luna plateada.
El aire inquieto te circunda.
Nunca más vivo vi al poeta.
Sobre su frente clavan todas
sus vivas puntas las estrellas.
Un corazón, un mar, un pecho.
¿Qué es el deseo cuando late?
Sombra de sombra, luz tangible,
rayo de luna hecho de carne.
Música entera te hace el mundo.
Vuela la tierra en su canción.
En los espacios infinitos
un astro imita un corazón.
El mundo es tuyo. Entre tus brazos
un cuerpo entero está presente.
Sobre tus labios, quietos, fijos,
están los labios de la muerte.
Translation — ”You looked at love and saw death”
You looked [at] love and saw death,
love or death fugitive.
You looked at the world and saw
the blond, turnaround shadow fleeing.
You loved their enlightened body. ×
You desired it with your lips.
But, solitary over the world,
in your eyes, the field was sorrowful.
I know that the slight sparkle
of mystery flickers on your front.
I see within your eyes vague moons
persecuted between stars.
The glow of the stars
is within the palms of your hands.
But in your veins stirs, dark,
[an] echo of a dense, closed sea.
You see the field long, open.
It is naked extended over there.
You caress it with your eyes.
Pulsating body that is so far!
The light sticks to the hills,
the sweet valleys, soft flanks.
a white bird of desire
snacks between the open lips.
[A] breeze from Orient, pink and vague,
circles the warm present.
A beautiful body almost weighs
enveloped in lights from the sunset.
I see your arm raise, reach out;
your chest, burn[ing]. Your eyes sparkle.
But the naked remoteness lays
within yellow solitude.
The afternoon falls. The sky becomes
blue, profound, almost water.
Along that calm, vast sea
the silver moon rows.
The restless air circles around you.
Never again did i see the poet alive.
On his head, all of the stars
stab their living tips.
A heart, a sea, a breast.
What is desire when it pulsates?
Shadow of shadow, tangible light,
ray of moon made of flesh.
Whole music the world makes you.
The Earth flies in its song.
Within the infinite spaces
a star imitates a heart.
The world is yours. Within your arms
there is an entire body present
Over your lips, still, fixated,
are death’s lips.
footnotes
× “their” is assumed. (possessive pronoun in Spanish is “su” and it can be applied to a woman, a man, an object…)
Prólogo (fragmento)
Federico García Lorca
Dime, Señor,
¡Dios mío!
¿Nos hundes en la sombra
del abismo?
¿Somos pájaros ciegos
sin nidos?
La luz se va apagando.
¿Y el aceite divino?
Las olas agonizan.
¿Has querido
jugar como si fuéramos
soldaditos?
Dime, Señor,
¡Dios mío!
¿No llega el dolor nuestro
a tus oídos?
¿No han hecho las blasfemias
Babeles sin ladrillos
para herirte, o te gustan
los gritos?
¿Estas sordo? ¿Estás ciego?
¿O eres bizco
de espíritu
y ves el alma humana
con tonos invertidos?
Translation — ”Prologue” (fragment)
Tell me, Lord,
My God!
Do you sink us into the shadow
of the abyss?
Are we blind birds
without nests?
The light is fading.
And the divine oil?
The waves agonize.
Have you wanted to play
[with us] as if we were
little toy soldiers?
Tell me, Lord,
My God!
Doesn’t our pain reach
your ears?
Haven’t the blasphemies,
babels without bricks,
served to hurt you, or do you like
the screams?
Are you deaf? Are you blind?
Or are you cross-eyed
in spirit
and see the human soul
with inverted tones?
El poeta pide a su amor que le escriba
Federico García Lorca
Amor de mis entrañas, viva muerte,
en vano espero tu palabra escrita
y pienso, con la flor que se marchita,
que si vivo sin mí quiero perderte.
El aire es inmortal. La piedra inerte
ni conoce la sombra ni la evita.
Corazón interior no necesita
la miel helada que la luna vierte.
Pero yo te sufrí. Rasgué mis venas,
tigre y paloma, sobre tu cintura
en duelo de mordiscos y azucenas.
Llena pues de palabras mi locura
o déjame vivir en mi serena
noche del alma para siempre oscura.
Translation — ”The poet asks his love to write to him”
Love of my entrails, living death,
in vain i wait for your written word
and i think, with the flower that withers,
that if i live without myself, i want to lose you.
The air is immortal. The inert stone
neither knows the shadow nor avoids it.
[The] inner heart does not need
the frozen honey that the moon pours.
But I suffered you. I tore my veins,
tiger and dove, over your waist
in [a] duel of bites and lilies.
Fill, thus, my insanity with words,
or let me live in my serene
night of the soul, dark forever.
Agua, ¿dónde vas?
Federico García Lorca
Agua, ¿dónde vas?
Riyendo voy por el río
a las orillas del mar.
Mar, ¿adónde vas?
Río arriba voy buscando
fuente donde descansar.
Chopo, y tú ¿qué harás?
No quiero decirte nada.
Yo..., ¡temblar!
¿Qué deseo, qué no deseo,
por el río y por la mar?
(Cuatro pájaros sin rumbo
en el alto chopo están.)
Translation — ”Water, where are you going?”
Water, where are you going?
“Flowing i go along the river
to the sea’s shore.”
Sea, where are you going?
“Up the water i go searching
[for a] fountain to rest [on].”
Poplar tree, and you, what will you do?
“I don't want to tell you anything.
Me… [I] tremble!”
What i wish, what i don't wish,
for the river and for the sea!
(Four birds with no course
are within the high poplar tree.)
Gacela del niño muerto
Federico García Lorca
Todas las tardes en Granada,
todas las tardes se muere un niño.
Todas las tardes el agua se sienta
a conversar con sus amigos.
Los muertos llevan alas de musgo.
El viento nublado y el viento limpio
son dos faisanes que vuelan por las torres
y el día es un muchacho herido.
No quedaba en el aire ni una brizna de alondra
cuando yo te encontré por las grutas del vino
No quedaba en la tierra ni una miga de nube
cuando te ahogabas por el río.
Un gigante de agua cayó sobre los montes
y el valle fue rodando con perros y con lirios.
Tu cuerpo, con la sombra violeta de mis manos,
era, muerto en la orilla, un arcángel de frío.
Translation — ”Gacela of the dead child”
Every afternoon in Granada,
every afternoon there dies a child.
Every afternoon the water sits down
to talk with its friends.
The dead carry wings of moss.
The foggy wind and the clean wind
are two pheasants that fly over the towers
and the day is a wounded boy.
Not even a blade of lark was left in the air
when i found you along the caves of wine.
There was not even a crumb of a cloud on the Earth
when you drowned along the river.
A giant [made] of water fell on the hills
and the valley went rolling with dogs and with lilies.
Your body, a violet shadow of my hands,
was, dead on the shore, an archangel of cold.
Remansillo
Federico García Lorca
Me miré en tus ojos
pensando en tu alma.
Adelfa blanca.
Me miré en tus ojos
pensando en tu boca.
Adelfa roja.
Me miré en tus ojos.
¡Pero estabas muerta!
Adelfa negra.
Translation — ”Remansillo”
I looked at myself in your eyes
thinking about your soul.
White oleander.
I looked at myself in your eyes
thinking about your mouth.
Red oleander.
I looked at myself in your eyes.
But you were dead!
Black oleander.
Las manos de mi cariño
Federico García Lorca
Las manos de mi cariño
te están bordando una capa
con agremán de alhelíes
y con esclavina de agua.
Cuando fuiste novio mío,
por la primavera blanca,
los cascos de tu caballo
cuatro sollozos de plata.
La luna es un pozo chico,
las flores no valen nada,
lo que valen son tus brazos
cuando de noche me abrazan,
lo que valen son tus brazos
cuando de noche me abrazan.
Translation — ”The hands of my affection”
The hands of my affection
are embroidering you a cape
with agreman of wallflowers
and with a cloak of water. ×
When you were a boyfriend of mine,
along the white spring,
your horse's helmets
[were] four sobs of silver.
The moon is a small well,
the flowers are worthless,
what is worth it are your arms
when they hug me at night.
footnotes
× “esclavina” (original word) can be “cloak”, “pelerine”, “neck strap”, etc. either way, it is usually described as a piece of clothing used on the neck or connected to it, and is typically (very loosely) translated as “cape”.
Paisaje
Federico García Lorca
El campo
de olivos
se abre y se cierra
como un abanico.
Sobre el olivar
hay un cielo hundido
y una lluvia oscura
de luceros fríos.
Tiembla junco y penumbra
a la orilla del río.
Se riza el aire gris.
Los olivos,
están cargados
de gritos.
Una bandada
de pájaros cautivos,
que mueven sus larguísimas
colas en lo sombrío.
Translation — "Landscape"
The olive
field
opens and closes
like a hand fan.
Over the olive grove
there is a sunken sky
and a dark rain
of cold sparkles.
[The] eeds and [the] gloom tremble
at the river’s shore.
The grey air curls.
The olive trees,
are full
of screams.
A flock
of captured birds,
that move their extremely long
tails within the shadows.
Amante
Vicente Aleixandre
Lo que yo no quiero
es darte palabras de ensueño,
ni propagar imagen con mis labios
en tu frente, ni con mi beso.
La punta de tu dedo,
con tu uña rosa, para mi gesto
tomo, y, en el aire hecho,
te la devuelvo.
De tu almohada, la gracia y el hueco.
Y el calor de tus ojos, ajenos.
Y la luz de tus pechos
secretos.
Como la luna en primavera,
una ventana
nos da amarilla lumbre. Y un estrecho
latir
parece que refluye a ti de mí.
No es eso. No será. Tu sentido verdadero
me lo ha dado ya el resto,
el bonito secreto,
el graciosillo hoyuelo,
la linda comisura
y el mañanero
desperezo.
Translation — "Lover"
What i do not want
is to give you words of dreaminess,
nor propagate [an] image with my lips
on your forehead, nor with my kiss.
The tip of your finger,
with your pink nail, for my gesture
i take, and, in the (made) air,
i return it to you.
From your pillow, the grace and the hollow.
And the warmth of your eyes, foreign.
And the light of your secret
fronts. ×
Like the moon in spring,
a window
that gives us yellow fire. And a narrow
beating
seems to flow from me to you.
It is not that. It will not be. Your true sense
has already been given to me by the rest,
the pretty secret,
the funny hollow,
the beautiful corner
and the morning
stretching.
footnotes
× original word is more similar to "breast" than "front" — refers to the chest area.
Las tres hojas
Federico García Lorca
Debajo de la hoja
de la verbena
tengo a mi amante malo.
¡Jesús, qué pena!
Debajo de la hoja
de la lechuga
tengo a mi amante malo
con calentura.
Debajo de la hoja
del perejil
tengo a mi amante malo
y no puedo ir.
Translation — "The three leaves"
Under the leaf
of the verbena
i have my lover, sick. ×
Jesus, what a pity!
Under the leaf
of the lettuce
i have my lover, sick
with fever.
Under the leaf
of parsley
i have my lover sick
and i can't go.
footnotes
× this is a very direct translation, but i thought keeping the phrasal structure was important. more fluidly, it would be translated to "...lays my sick lover", or something of the sort.
Poema I
Fran Fernández Álvarez
baja no tan limpio
pero más
que en ninguna otra parte
donde nacen cuernos
y nacen alas
se cortan y hacha
y desgrana el cantar
mientras la ropa
se lava con lo frío
a veces
piedras de fuera.
baja de donde la niebla
hace caer lo negro
lo negro
no es
de los astros
es
del suelo
y de la llama
más negro
y lo de allá arriba
más arriba
no hay quien lo entienda.
aun así baja
y señala algún camino
uno
lleva al agua y a cristo
la pared llena de crisálidas
un accidente de tráfico
otro
lleva a lo negro y al animal
y al agua también.
allí
todo lleva al agua.
Translation — "Poem I"
it comes down, not as clean
but more
than in any other place
where horns are born
and wings are born
they cut themselves, and [an] axe
and it breaks down the singing
while the clothes
are washed with the cold
sometimes
stones from outside.
it comes down from where the fog
makes the black fall
the black
is not
of the stars
it is
of the ground
and of the flame
more black
and that from above
more above
there is nobody who understands.
still it comes down
and signals to some path
one
leads to water and christ
the wall full of crystals
a car accident
another
leads to the black and to the animal
and to the water too.
there,
the water carries everything.
Poema II
Fran Fernández Álvarez
el habla contiene
un amor y una promesa
un olvido
una súplica
un lamento
lo que se quiso.
dios está en el habla.
un ternero está en el habla.
una aguja y una herida
un tiro que atraviesa
todo/ está en el habla.
en el silencio
se hiela el caer calmo
de la huida celeste
se cubre de arena el camino.
solo hay una noche.
Translation — "Poem II"
speech contains ×
a love and a promise
an oblivion
a plead
a sorrow
what was wanted. ××
god is within speech.
a calf is within speech.
a needle and a wound
a shot which punctures through everything
is within speech.
in the silence
it freezes over upon falling calmly
from the celestial escape
the path is covered with sand.
there is only one night.
footnotes
× “speech” as in the concept of speaking — not a “talk” as in a presentation. (articles are omitted to make this clearer).
×× “quiso” (original verb; from the verb “querer”) can be translated as either “wanted” or “loved”.
Poema III
Fran Fernández Álvarez
la señal viene
escrita por su periodo
y su longitud de onda
por la fase y por el ruido.
algunos milagros forman
parte inherente
del espectro de radio.
hacerlos realidad
es cuestión
de buscar la frecuencia
de resonancia.
la génesis
complementaria
tiene naturaleza
corpuscular.
se hace con las manos.
Translation — "Poem III"
the signal comes
written by its period
and its wavelength
by the phase and by the noise.
some miracles form
inherent part
of the radio spectrum.
making them reality
is a question
of searching for the frequency
of resonance.
the complimentary
genesis
has a corpuscular
nature.
it is made with the hands.
Dos lunas de tarde
Federico García Lorca
1
La luna está muerta, muerta;
pero resucita en la primavera.
Cuando en la frente de los chopos
se rice el viento del sur.
Cuando den nuestros corazones
su cosecha de suspiros.
Cuando se pongan los tejados
sus sombreritos de yerba.
La luna está muerta, muerta;
pero resucita en la primavera.
2
La tarde canta
una «berceuse» a las naranjas.
Mi hermanita canta:
La tierra es una naranja.
La luna llorando dice:
Yo quiero ser una naranja.
No puede ser, hija mía,
aunque te pongas rosada.
Ni siquiera limoncito.
¡Qué lástima!
Translation — "Two moons in the afternoon"
1
The moon is dead, dead;
but resuscitates in the spring.
When at the front of the poplar
the Southern wind curls.
When our hearts give
their harvest of sighs.
When the ceilings put on
their little grass hats.
The moon is dead, dead;
but resuscitates in the spring.
2
The afternoon sings
a «berceuse» to the oranges.
My little sister sings:
“The world is an orange”.
The moon crying says:
“I want to be an orange”.
That can't be, my daughter,
even if you turn pink. ×
Not even [a] little lemon.
What a pity!
footnotes
translator's note: ellipses were added for easier reading.
× Lorca is referring directly to the moon; “even if you turn pink” is a little unclear in English, since in Spanish the original expression is a bit different. It's a bit like “even if you turn red”; even if the moon really wants to, she'll never be an orange. not a little lemon, even!
Corazón negro
Vicente Aleixandre
Corazón negro.
Enigma o sangre de otras vidas pasadas,
suprema interrogación que ante los ojos me habla,
signo que no comprendo a la luz de la luna.
Sangre negra, corazón dolorido que desde lejos la envías
a latidos inciertos, bocanadas calientes,
vaho pesado de estío, río en que no me hundo,
que sin luz pasa como silencio, sin perfume ni amor.
Triste historia de un cuerpo que existe como existe un planeta,
como existe la luna, la abandonada luna,
hueso que todavía tiene un claror de carne.
Aquí, aquí en la tierra echado entre unos juncos,
entre lo verde presente, entre lo siempre fresco,
veo esa pena o sombra, esa linfa o espectro,
esa sola sospecha de sangre que no pasa.
¡Corazón negro, origen del dolor o la luna,
corazón que algún día latiste entre unas manos.
beso que navegaste por unas venas rojas,
cuerpo que te ceñiste a una tapia vibrante!
Translation — "Black heart"
Black heart.
Enigma or blood of other past lives,
supreme interrogation that speaks to me before my eyes,
sign that I do not comprehend the moonlight.
Black blood, aching heart that from afar you send her
to uncertain heartbeats, hot panting,
vapor heavy with summer, river in which i do not drown,
that, without light, passes by like silence, without perfume or love.
Sad story of a body that exists like a planet exists,
like the moon exists, the abandoned moon,
bone that always has the clarity of flesh.
Here, here in the dirt laid between some rushes,
between the present green[ness], between the always-fresh,
i see that pity or shadow, that lymph or ghost,
that sole suspicion of blood that does not pass.
Black heart, origin of the pain or of the moon,
kiss that you sailed throughout red veins,
body to which you girded to a vibrant wall!
Poema IV
Fran Fernández Álvarez
para doblar lo frío
hace falta la piedra
y hace falta el golpe
la mano levantada
y la mano que cae.
lo frío y el golpe
para separar la tierra
de lo plantado.
para doblar lo tierno
basta
comer después
algo en la cocina.
Translation — "Poem IV"
to bend what is cold
the stone is needed
and the punch is needed
the raised hand
and the hand that falls.
what is cold and the punch
[serve] to separate the ground
from what has been planted.
to bend what is tender
it is enough
to eat afterwards
something in the kitchen.
Algunas veces he soñado
Antonio Solano
Algunas veces he soñado
con ventanas y raíles.
En el sueño estás en pie,
junto a la casa
de postigos mudos y desvencijados.
Estás en pie
como un golpe de sal,
con la belleza exacta
de quien contempla la desaparición
de una promesa.
Las ventanas no te mienten,
pero tú contemplas en silencio
el arrogante resplandor de los raíles.
Translation — "Some times I have dreamt"
Some times I have dreamt
about windows and rails.
In the dream you are standing,
next to the house
of mute and rickety shutters.
You are standing
like a punch of salt, ×
with the exact beauty
of whom contemplates the disappearance
of a promise.
The windows are not lying to you,
but you contemplate, in silence,
the arrogant sparkling of the rails.
footnotes
× literally "punch" of salt. it's not a typo.
El perfume
Vicente Aleixandre
Chupar tu vida sobre tus labios,
no es quererte en la muerte.
Chupar tu vida, amante,
para que lenta mueras
de mí, de mí que mato.
Para agotar tu vida
como una rosa exhausta.
Color, olor: mis venas
saben a ti: allí te abres.
Ebriamente encendido,
tú me recorres. Toda,
toda mi sangre es solo
perfume. Tú me habitas,
aroma arrebatado
que por mí te despliegas,
que como sangre corres
por mí: ¡que a mí me pueblas!
Translation — "The perfume"
Sucking your life out from your lips,
is not loving you in death.
Sucking your life out, lover,
so you die slowly
by me, by me, for I kill.
To drain your life
like an exhausted rose.
Color, smell: my veins
taste like you: there you open up.
Drunkenly alight,
you run through me. All,
all of my blood is just
perfume. You inhabit me,
stolen aroma
that undoes along me,
that, like blood, you run
along me: that you populate me!
La Lola
Federico García Lorca
Bajo el naranjo, lava
pañales de algodón.
Tiene verdes los ojos
y violeta la voz.
¡Ay, amor,
bajo el naranjo en flor!
El agua de la acequia
iba llena de sol,
en el olivarito
cantaba un gorrión.
¡Ay, amor,
bajo el naranjo en flor!
Luego cuando la Lola
gaste todo el jabón,
vendrán los torerillos.
Translation — ”La Lola”
Underneath the orange tree, she washes
cotton diapers.
She has green eyes
and a violet voice.
Ay, love,
underneath the blooming orange tree!
The water from the ditch
went by, full of sun,
in the little olive grove
a sparrow sung.
Ay, love,
underneath the blooming orange tree!
Afterwards, when Lola
runs out of all the soap,
the bullfighters will come.
La cogida y la muerte
Federico García Lorca
A las cinco de la tarde.
Eran las cinco en punto de la tarde.
Un niño trajo la blanca sábana
a las cinco de la tarde.
Una espuerta de cal ya prevenida
a las cinco de la tarde.
Lo demás era muerte y sólo muerte
a las cinco de la tarde.
El viento se llevó los algodones
a las cinco de la tarde.
Y el óxido sembró cristal y níquel
a las cinco de la tarde.
Ya luchan la paloma y el leopardo
a las cinco de la tarde.
Y un muslo con un asta desolada
a las cinco de la tarde.
Comenzaron los sones de bordón
a las cinco de la tarde.
Las campanas de arsénico y el humo
a las cinco de la tarde.
En las esquinas grupos de silencio
a las cinco de la tarde.
¡Y el toro solo corazón arriba!
a las cinco de la tarde.
Cuando el sudor de nieve fue llegando
a las cinco de la tarde
cuando la plaza se cubrió de yodo
a las cinco de la tarde,
la muerte puso huevos en la herida
a las cinco de la tarde.
A las cinco de la tarde.
A las cinco en Punto de la tarde.
Un ataúd con ruedas es la cama
a las cinco de la tarde.
Huesos y flautas suenan en su oído
a las cinco de la tarde.
El toro ya mugía por su frente
a las cinco de la tarde.
El cuarto se irisaba de agonía
a las cinco de la tarde.
A lo lejos ya viene la gangrena
a las cinco de la tarde
Trompa de lirio por las verdes ingles
a las cinco de la tarde.
Las heridas quemaban como soles
a las cinco de la tarde,
y el gentío rompía las ventanas
a las cinco de la tarde.
A las cinco de la tarde.
¡Ay, qué terribles cinco de la tarde!
¡Eran las cinco en todos los relojes!
¡Eran las cinco en sombra de la tarde!
Translation — ”The taking and death”
At five in the afternoon
It was five o’clock in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A basket of lime, already prevented ×
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death and only death
at five in the afternoon.
The wind carried away the cottons
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide planted glass and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
The dove and the leopard already fight
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolate pole
at five in the afternoon.
The songs of snare began
at five in the afternoon.
The bells of arsenic and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
In the corners, groups of silence
at five in the afternoon.
And the lone bull [with] his heart up!
at five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was arriving
at five in the afternoon
when the square was covered in iodine ××
at five in the afternoon,
death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
At five o’clock in the afternoon.
A coffin with wheels is the bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes echo in his ear ×××
at five in the afternoon.
The bull already mooed along his forehead
at five in the afternoon.
The room turned iridescent out of agony
at five in the afternoon.
From far away the gangrene is already coming
at five in the afternoon.
Trumpet of lilies along the green inner thighs
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds burned like suns
at five in the afternoon.
Ay, how terrible of a five in the afternoon!
It was five in all of the clocks!
It was five in the shadow of the afternoon!
footnotes
× “lime” as in the alkaline substance formed by calcium oxide.
×× “square” as in “Times Square”.
××× “his” is assumed — “su” (possessive pronoun in Spanish) does not have any assigned gender.
Rima X
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Los invisibles átomos del aire
en derredor palpitan y se inflaman,
el cielo se deshace en rayos de oro,
la tierra se estremece alborozada.
Oigo flotando en olas de armonías,
rumor de besos y batir de alas;
mis párpados se cierran... —¿Qué sucede?
¿Dime?
—¡Silencio! ¡Es el amor que pasa!
Translation — ”Rhyme X”
The invisible atoms from the air
throb and palpitate together,
the sky undoes into rays of gold,
the earth trembles happily.
I hear floating in waves of harmonies,
a purr of kisses and the hiss of wings,
my eyelids are closing… — What’s happening?
Tell me?
— Silence! It’s love that’s passing by!
Alguien
Mario Benedetti
Alguien limpia la celda
de la tortura
que no quede la sangre
ni la amargura
alguien pone en los muros
el nombre de ella
ya no cabe en la noche
ninguna estrella
alguien limpia su rabia
con un consejo
y la deja brillante
como un espejo
alguien piensa hasta cuando
alguien camina
suenan lejos las risas
una bocina
y un gallo que propone
su canto en hora
mientras sube la angustia
la voladora
alguien piensa en afuera
que allá no hay plazo
piensa en niños de vida
y en un abrazo
alguien quiso ser justo
no tuvo suerte
es difícil la lucha
contra la muerte
alguien limpia la celda
de la tortura
lava la sangre pero
no la amargura.
Translation — ”Somebody”
Somebody cleans the cell
of torture
so that there's no blood
or bitterness left.
somebody carves her name
into the walls
now there are no stars
that fit within the night.
somebody washes their rage
with a piece of advice
and leaves it shining
like a mirror
somebody thinks even when ×
somebody walks
the laughter is heard from far away
a horn
and a rooster that proposes
its singing on time
while anxiety, the flier,
rises. ××
somebody thinks of the outside
because outside there is no deadline ×××
they think of kids living
and of a hug.
somebody wanted to be fair
they had no luck
it's hard, the battle
against death
somebody washes the cell
of torture
they wash away the blood but
not the bitterness.
footnotes
× “even when” could also be interpreted as “even about”.
×× i had to add commas + remove the hyperbaton here for easier understanding.
××× i had to repeat the word “outside” for easier understanding and to avoid confusing repetition; in English, there is no difference between “hay” (there: as in ‘there are…’) and “ahí” (there: as in ‘over there’), like in Spanish. i would have had to write something along the lines of ‘there, there is no deadline…’
Las seis cuerdas
Federico García Lorca
La guitarra,
hace llorar a los sueños.
El sollozo de las almas
perdidas,
se escapa por su boca
redonda.
Y como la tarántula
teje una gran estrella
para cazar suspiros,
que flotan en su negro
aljibe de madera.
Translation — ”The six strings”
The guitar,
makes dreams cry.
The sobbing of the lost
souls,
escapes through its round
mouth.
And like the tarantula,
it knits a big star
to hunt sighs,
that float in its black
wooden cistern.
Cálculo de probabilidades
Mario Benedetti
Cada vez que un dueño de la tierra proclama
para quitarme este patrimonio
tendrán que pasar
sobre mi cadáver
debería tener en cuenta
que a veces
pasan.
Translation — ”Calculation of probabilities”
Everytime a landowner proclaims
to take this heritage away from me
they will have to pass
over my dead body
i should take into account
that sometimes
they pass.
LXV
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Llegó la noche y no encontré un asilo;
y tuve sed ... ¡mis lágrimas bebí!
¡Y tuve hambre! ¡Los hinchados ojos
cerré para morir!
¿Estaba en un desierto? Aunque a mi oído
de las turbas llegaba el ronco hervir,
yo era huérfano y pobre... El mundo estaba
desierto... ¡para mí!
Translation — ”LXV”
The night arrived and I did not find a haven;
and I was thirsty… I drank my tears!
and I was hungry! I shut my swollen
eyes to die!
Was I in a desert? Although the husky
rumbling of the mobs reached my ear,
I was orphaned and poor… The world was
deserted… for me!
Translator’s note: There were a lot of hyperbatons, so I had to change a lot of the phrasal structures, so some sentences are in different verses than the original.
LXIX
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Al brillar un relámpago nacemos,
y aún dura su fulgor cuando morimos;
¡tan corto es el vivir!
La Gloria y el Amor tras que corremos
sombras de un sueño son que perseguimos;
¡despertar es morir!
Translation — ”LXIX”
When lightning sparkles, we are born,
and its glint still lasts when we die.
Living is so short! ×
The glory and the love we run after,
they are shadows of a dream that we chase.
To wake up is to die! ××
footnotes
× Literal phrasal structure would be a little strange if I translated it directly from Spanish. It's something like “How short is the [act of] living!”
×× More literally translated, it would be “waking [up] is dying!”
Lo que necesito de ti
Mario Benedetti
No sabes cómo necesito tu voz;
necesito tus miradas
aquellas palabras que siempre me llenaban,
necesito tu paz interior;
necesito la luz de tus labios
¡Ya no puedo... seguir así!
Ya... No puedo
mi mente no quiere pensar
no puede pensar nada más que en ti.
Necesito la flor de tus manos
aquella paciencia de todos tus actos
con aquella justicia que me inspiras
para lo que siempre fue mi espina
mi fuente de vida se ha secado
con la fuerza del olvido...
me estoy quemando;
aquello que necesito ya lo he encontrado
¡pero aún! ¡Te sigo extrañando!
Translation — ”What I need from you”
You do not know how much I need your voice;
I need your glances
those words that always filled me,
I need your inner peace;
I need the light from your lips
I cannot keep… going on like this!
I… cannot
my mind does not want to think
cannot think of nothing else but you.
I need the flower of your hands
that patience from all your actions
with that justice you inspire in me
what my spine was always made for
my fountain of life has dried out
with the force of oblivion…
I am burning up;
that which I need I have already found
but still! I keep missing you!
¡Ay!
Federico García Lorca
El grito deja en el viento
una sombra de ciprés.
(Dejadme en este campo,
llorando.)
Todo se ha roto en el mundo.
No queda más que el silencio.
(Dejadme en este campo,
llorando.)
El horizonte sin luz
está mordido de hogueras.
(Ya os he dicho que me dejéis
en este campo,
llorando.)
Translation — ”Ay!”
The scream leaves a shadow
of cypress in the wind.
(Leave me in this field,
crying).
Everything in this world has broken.
There is nothing else but silence.
(Leave me in this field,
crying).
The horizon without light
is bitten with bonfires.
(I have already told you to leave me ×
in this field,
crying).
footnotes
× plural “you”.
Casida de la rosa
Federico García Lorca
La rosa
no buscaba la aurora:
Casi eterna en su ramo
buscaba otra cosa.
La rosa
no buscaba ni ciencia ni sombra:
Confín de carne y sueño
buscaba otra cosa.
La rosa
no buscaba la rosa:
Inmóvil por el cielo
¡buscaba otra cosa!
Translation — ”Qasida of the rose”
The rose
was not searching for the aurora;
almost eternal in its bouquet
it was searching for something else.
The rose
was not searching for science or shadow:
confine of flesh and dream ×
it was searching for something else.
The rose
was not searching for the rose:
Immobile by the sky
it was searching for something else!
footnotes
× “dream” can also be translated as “sleep”.
De otro modo
Federico García Lorca
La hoguera pone al campo de la tarde,
unas astas de ciervo enfurecido.
Todo el valle se tiende. Por sus lomos,
caracolea el vientecillo.
El aire cristaliza bajo el humo.
— Ojo de gato triste y amarillo —.
Yo en mis ojos, paseo por las ramas.
Las ramas se pasean por el río.
Llegan mis cosas esenciales.
Son estribillos de estribillos.
Entre los juncos y la baja tarde,
¡qué raro que me llame Federico!
Translation — ”Another way”
The bonfire places some antlers from an infuriated deer
on the afternoon field.
All the valley lays down. Alongside their backs,
the wind spirals.
The air crystallizes under the smoke.
— Cat eye, sad and yellow —.
I, in my eyes, walk along the branches.
The branches walk along the river.
My essentials arrive.
They are choruses of choruses.
Between the rushes and the low afternoon,
How strange it is that I am named Federico!
Cinco veces triste
Mario Benedetti
Lo que conoces
es tan poco
lo que conoces
de mí
lo que conoces
son mis nubes
son mis silencios
son mis gestos
lo que conoces
es la tristeza
de mi casa vista de afuera
son los postigos de mi tristeza
el llamador de mi tristeza.
Pero no sabes
nada
a lo sumo
piensas a veces
que es tan poco
lo que conozco
de ti
lo que conozco
o sea tus nubes
o tus silencios
o tus gestos
lo que conozco
es la tristeza
de tu casa vista de afuera
son los postigos de tu tristeza
el llamador de tu tristeza.
Pero no llamas.
Pero no llamo.
Translation — ”Sad five times”
What you know
is so little
what you know
about me
what you know
are my clouds
my silences
my gestures
what you know
is the sadness
of my house seen from the outside
they are the shutter doors of my sadness
the caller of my sadness.
But you know
nothing
overall
you sometimes think
that it is so little
what I know
about you
What I know
that is, your clouds
or your silences
is the sadness
of your house seen from the outside
the caller of your sadness.
But you do not call.
But I do not call.
Pasatiempo
Mario Benedetti
Cuando éramos niños
los viejos tenían como treinta
un charco era un océano
la muerte lisa y llana
no existía
luego cuando muchachos
los viejos eran gente de cuarenta
un estanque era océano
la muerte solamente
una palabra
ya cuando nos casamos
los ancianos estaban en cincuenta
un lago era un océano
la muerte era la muerte
de los otros
ahora veteranos
ya le dimos alcance a la verdad
el océano es por fin el océano
pero la muerte empieza a ser
la nuestra.
Translation — ”Pastime”
When we were children
the elderly were like thirty
a puddle was an ocean
the smooth and flat death
did not exist
then when we were teens
the elderly were people in their forties
a pond was an ocean
death was only
a word
then when we got married
the elderly were at fifty
a lake was an ocean
death was the death
of the others
now veterans
now we have reached the truth
the ocean is finally the ocean
but death begins to be
ours.
Canciones andaluzas: canción del jinete
Federico García Lorca
Córdoba.
Lejana y sola.
Jaca negra, luna grande,
y aceitunas en mi alforja.
Aunque sepa los caminos
yo nunca llegaré a Córdoba.
Por el llano, por el viento,
jaca negra, luna roja.
La muerte me está mirando
desde las torres de Córdoba.
¡Ay qué camino tan largo!
¡Ay mi jaca valerosa!
¡Ay, que la muerte me espera,
antes de llegar a Córdoba!
Córdoba.
Lejana y sola.
Translation — ”Andalusian songs: the horseman’s song”
Córdoba.
Distant and alone.
Black mare, grand moon,
and olives in my saddlebag.
Even though I know the way
I will never arrive in Córdoba.
Along the plain, along the wind
black mare, red moon.
Death is looking at me
atop the towers of Córdoba.
Ay, what a long trail!
Ay, my brave mare!
Ay, death is waiting for me,
before arriving in Córdoba!
Córdoba.
Distant and alone.
XI
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
—Yo soy ardiente, yo soy morena,
yo soy el símbolo de la pasión,
de ansia de goces mi alma está llena.
¿A mí me buscas?
—No es a ti, no.
—Mi frente es pálida, mis trenzas de oro:
puedo brindarte dichas sin fin,
yo de ternuras guardo un tesoro.
¿A mí me llamas?
—No, no es a ti.
—Yo soy un sueño, un imposible,
vano fantasma de niebla y luz;
soy incorpórea, soy intangible:
no puedo amarte.
—¡Oh ven, ven tú!
Translation — ”XI”
— I am ardent, I am brunette,
I am the symbol of passion;
my soul is full of longing for joys.
Is it I that you search for?
— It is not you, no.
My forehead is pale, my braids are made of gold:
i can bring you neverending joys;
I am keeping a treasure of tenderness.
Is it I that you call for?
— No, it is not you.
— I am a dream, an impossibility ×
vain ghost of fog and light;
I am incorporeal, I am intangible;
I cannot love you.
— Oh, come; you, come!
footnotes
× Bécquer literally wrote “impossible”, not “impossibility”.
XXXV
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
¡No me admiró tu olvido! Aunque de un día,
me admiró tu cariño mucho más;
porque lo que hay en mí que vale algo,
eso… ¡ni lo pudiste sospechar!
Translation — ”XXXV”
Your oblivion did not amaze me! Although for a day,
your affection amazed me much more;
because what is inside me that is actually worth something,
that… you could not even suspect that!
Crucifixión
Federico García Lorca
La luna pudo detenerse al fin por la curva blanquísima de los caballos.
Un rayo de luz violenta que se escapaba de la herida
proyectó en el cielo el instante de la circuncisión de un niño muerto.
La sangre bajaba por el monte y los ángeles la buscaban,
pero los cálices eran de viento y al fin llenaba los zapatos.
Cojos perros fumaban sus pipas y un olor de cuero caliente
ponía grises los labios redondos de los que vomitaban en las esquinas.
Y llegaban largos alaridos por el Sur de la noche seca.
Era que la luna quemaba con sus bujías el falo de los caballos.
Un sastre especialista en púrpura
había encerrado a tres santas mujeres
y les enseñaba una calavera por los vidrios de la ventana.
Las tres en el arrabal rodeaban a un camello blanco,
que lloraba porque al alba
tenía que pasar sin remedio por el ojo de una aguja.
¡Oh cruz! ¡Oh clavos! ¡Oh espina!
¡Oh espina clavada en el hueso hasta que se oxíden los planetas!
Como nadie volvía la cabeza, el cielo pudo desnudarse.
Entonces se oyó la gran voz y los fariseos dijeron:
Esa maldita vaca tiene las tetas llenas de leche.
La muchedumbre cerraba las puertas
y la lluvia bajaba por las calles decidida a mojar el corazón
mientras la tarde se puso turbia de latidos y leñadores
y la oscura ciudad agonizaba bajo el martillo de los carpinteros.
Esa maldita vaca
tiene las tetas llenas de perdigones,
dijeron los fariseos.
Pero la sangre mojó sus pies y los espíritus inmundos
estrellaban ampollas de laguna sobre las paredes del templo.
Se supo el momento preciso de la salvación de nuestra vida.
Porque la luna lavó con agua
las quemaduras de los caballos
y no la niña viva que callaron en la arena.
Entonces salieron los fríos cantando sus canciones
y las ranas encendieron sus lumbres en la doble orilla del rio.
Esa maldita vaca, maldita, maldita, maldita
no nos dejará dormir, dijeron los fariseos,
y se alejaron a sus casas por el tumulto de la calle
dando empujones a los borrachos y escupiendo sal de los sacrificios
mientras la sangre los seguía con un balido de cordero.
Fue entonces
y la tierra despertó arrojando temblorosos ríos de polilla.
Translation — ”Crucifixion”
The moon could finally stop along the extremely white
curve of the horses.
A ray of violent light that was escaping the wound
projected, across the sky, the instance of the
circumcision of a dead child.
The blood rolled down the hill and the angels
were searching for it
but the chalices were made of wind and, in the end, filled
the shoes.
Crippled dogs smoked their pipes and a smell of ×
hot leather
turned grey the lips of those who were vomiting at the corners.
And long screams arrived by the South of the dry night.
It was that the moon burned, with its spark, the phallus
of the horses. ××
A tailor, specialist in purplish ×××
had locked up three saintly women
and showed them a skull through the glass window. ××××
The three of them circled a white camel in the suburb,
it cried because at sunrise
it had to irremediably pass through a needle’s eye
Oh, cross! Oh, nails! Oh, thorn!
Oh, thorn stabbed into the bone until the planets oxidize!
Since nobody turned their head, the sky could undress.
Then the grand voice was heard and the pharisees said:
“That damned cow has her tits full of milk.”
The mob closed the doors
and the rain flowed down the streets determined to wet the heart
While the afternoon turned murky with heartbeats and lumberjacks.
And the dark night agonized under the carpenters’ hammer.
“That damned cow
has her tits full of pellets,”
said the pharisees.
But the blood soaked their feet and the filthy spirits
threw ampules of lagoon at the temple’s walls.
The precise moment of our life’s salvation was known.
Because the moon washed, with water,
the horses’ burns
and not the living girl whom they silenced in the sand.
Then the cold ones came out singing their songs.
And the frogs lit up their fires at the river’s double shore.
“That damned cow, damned, damned, damned
will not let us sleep,” said the pharisees.
And they went home along the busy street
pushing the drunks and
spitting salt from the sacrifices
while the blood followed after them with a lamb’s bleat
It was then
And the Earth awoke, throwing trembling
rivers of moth.
Translator’s note: Ellipses were added for easier reading.
footnotes
× “Cojos” (the original word against “crippled”) more specifically tends to refer to an affliction in one leg. It could be translated as limping dogs, or one-legged dogs.
×× “Bujías” (the original word against “spark”) would be more literally translated to tangible sources of light. It could be translated as “candles” or “lights”.
××× “Purpúrea” (the original word against “purplish”) does not have a specific direct translation to English. “Purplish” or “purple-hued” are the closest words it could be equal to.
×××× The literal translation would not be “through a glass window”; more so, “through the glasses from the window”.
El poeta pregunta a su amor por la ciudad encantada de Cuenca
Federico García Lorca
Te gustó la ciudad que gota a gota
labró el agua en el centro de los pinos?
¿Viste sueños y rostros y caminos
y muros de dolor que el aire azota?
¿Viste la grieta azul de luna rota
que el Júcar moja de cristal y trinos?
¿Han besado tus dedos los espinos
que coronan de amor piedra remota?
¿Te acordaste de mí cuando subías
al silencio que sufre la serpiente,
prisionera de grillos y de umbrías?
¿No viste por el aire transparente
una dalia de penas y alegrías
que te mandó mi corazón caliente?
Translation — ”The poet asks his lover for the enchanted city of Cuenca”
Did you like the city that, drop by drop,
carved the water at the center of the pine trees?
Did you see dreams and faces and paths
and walls of pain that the air hits?
Did you see the blue crack from the broken moon ×
that the Júcar soaks with glass and chirping?
Have your hands been kissed by the thorns
that crown the remote stone with love?
Did you remember me when you climbed
to the silence that the snake suffers,
prisoner of crickets and shadows?
Didn't you see, across the transparent air,
a dahlia made of tragedies and joys
that my hot heart had sent to you?
footnotes
× “from the” would become “of” if literally translated.
Llagas de amor
Federico García Lorca
Esta luz, este fuego que devora.
Este paisaje gris que me rodea.
Este dolor por una sola idea.
Esta angustia de cielo, mundo y hora.
Este llanto de sangre que decora
lira sin pulso ya, lúbrica tea.
Este peso del mar que me golpea.
Este alacrán que por mi pecho mora.
Son guirnalda de amor, cama de herido,
donde sin sueño, sueño tu presencia
entre las ruinas de mi pecho hundido.
Y aunque busco la cumbre de prudencia,
me da tu corazón valle tendido
con cicuta y pasión de amarga ciencia.
Translation — ”Sores of love”
This light, this fire that devours.
This grey landscape that surrounds me.
This pain over one sole idea.
This anguish of sky, world and time. ×
This sob of blood that decorates
a lyre that is already without pulse, lustful drunkenness ××
This weight from the sea that hits me.
This scorpion that resides along my chest,
They are a garland of love, a wounded one's bed
where restlessly, I dream of your presence, ×××
between the ruins of my sunken chest.
And although I search for the summit of prudence
your heart gives me a laying valley
with hemlock and passion of bitter science.
footnotes
× “time” would be directly translated to “hour”, but figuratively it's the same thing.
×× “lustful drunkenness” is somewhat of a loose translation, as “lúbrica tea” (original words) have various different meanings.
××× directly translated, “where without sleep, I dream of your presence”. It's important to point out because “sleep” and “dream” are the same word in Spanish (“sueño”) and it is possible that Lorca was aiming for a specific effect by repeating it.
Noche sinfónica
Vicente Aleixandre
La música pone unos tristes guantes,
un velo por el rostro casi transparente,
o a veces, cuando la melodía es cálida,
se enreda en la cintura penosamente como una forma de hierro.
Acaso busca la forma de poner el corazón en la lengua,
de dar al sueño cierto sabor azul,
de modelar una mano que exactamente abarque el talle
y si es preciso nos seccione como tenues lombrices.
Las cabezas caerían sobre el césped vibrante,
donde la lengua se detiene en un dulce sabor a violines,
donde el cedro aromático canta
como perpetuos cabellos.
Los pechos por tierra tienen forma de arpa,
pero cuán mudamente ocultan su beso,
ese arpegio de agua que hacen unos labios
cuando se acercan a la corriente mientras cantan las liras.
Ese transcurrir íntimo,
la brevísima escala de las manos al rodar:
qué gravedad la suya cuando, partidas ya las muñecas,
dejan perderse su sangre como una nota tibia.
Entonces por los cuellos dulces melodías aún circulan,
hay un clamor de violas y estrellas
y una luna sin punta, roto el arco,
envía mudamente sus luces sin madera.
Qué tristeza un cuerpo deshecho de noche, qué silencio,
qué remoto gemir de inoíbles tañidos,
qué fuga de flautas blancas como el hueso
cuando la luna redonda se aleja sin oído.
Translation — ”Symphonic night”
The music puts on some sad gloves,
a nearly transparent veil across the face,
or, sometimes, when the melody is warm,
it pitifully snakes around the hip like an iron form. ×
Perhaps it searches for a way to place the heart on the tongue,
to give the dream a certain blue taste,
to model a hand that reaches the size exactly
and, that if it is needed, it will section us like faint worms.
The heads would fall over the vibrant grass,
where the tongue stops in a sweet flavor of violins,
where the aromatic cedar sings
like perpetual hairs.
The chests across the ground are harp-shaped ××
But how wordlessly they hide their kiss,
that arpeggio of water that makes lips
when they come close to the current while they sing the lyres.
That intimate elapsing,
the extremely brief escale of the hands upon rolling:
what severity of theirs when, with the wrists already broken, ×××
they let their blood get lost like a lukewarm note.
Then, along the necks there are still sweet melodies circling,
there is a clamor of violas and stars
and in a moon without tip, the bow, broken,
sends soundlessly its lights without woods.
How sad is a body undone at night, how silent
how remote is the moaning of inaudible ringings,
what a fugue of flutes, white like bone
when the round moon withdraws without hearing. ××××
footnotes
× "Form" can also be interpreted as "shape".
×× The original word has a slight interpretative inclination towards "breasts" rather than "chests".
××× The use of the "what" beforehand is emphatic: a bit like "how" is used sometimes ("how terrible!") I just did not rework the sentence to use "how".
×××× the literal expression is not "without hearing", but rather "without [an] ear".
LIII
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Volverán las oscuras golondrinas
en tu balcón sus nidos a colgar,
y otra vez con el ala a sus cristales
jugando llamarán;
pero aquellas que el vuelo refrenaban,
tu hermosura y mi dicha a contemplar;
aquellas que aprendieron nuestros nombres.
esas... ¡no volverán!
Volverán las tupidas madreselvas
de tu jardín las tapias a escalar,
y otra vez a la tarde aún más hermosas,
sus flores se abrirán;
pero aquellas cuajadas de rocío,
cuyas gotas mirábamos temblar
y caer como lágrimas del día…,
esas... ¡no volverán!
Volverán del amor en tus oídos
las palabras ardientes a sonar;
tu corazón de su profundo sueño
tal vez despertará;
pero mudo y absorto y de rodillas,
como se adora a Dios ante su altar,
como yo te he querido…, desengáñate,
¡nadie así te amará!
Translation — ”LIII”
The dark swallows will return
to hang their nests from your balcony,
and once again, with a wing, they will playfully
call out for their crystals;
but those that restrained their flight
upon contemplating your beauty and my joy;
those ones who had learnt our names.
Those ones… will not return!
The thick honeysuckles will return
to climb the walls of your garden, ×
and once again in the afternoon, even more beautiful,
their flowers will bloom; ××
but those that were curdled with dew,
whose water drops we watched tremble
and fall, like tears from the day…,
those ones… will not return!
The ardent words of love will return
to echo in your ears;
your heart might wake
from its profound sleep;
but mute and absorbed and on its knees,
like God is adored before His altar,
like I have loved you…, do not lie to yourself:
Nobody will love you like that!
footnotes
× The wording is slightly off: the original verse implies that the honeysuckles will return and then climb on the walls, not that they will return to climb on the walls.
×× Literal word was “open”, not “bloom”.
Últimas golondrinas
Mario Benedetti
Sabes
gustavo adolfo
en cualquier año de éstos
ya no van a volver
las golondrinas
ni aún las pertinaces
las del balcón
las tuyas
es lógico
están hartas
de tanto y tanto alarde
migratorio
de tanto y tanto cruce
sobre el mar y retórica
y pretextos
y alcores
su tiempo ya pasó
lo reconocen
y a mitad de su ida
o de su vuelta
oscuras
cursilíneas
tiernitas de alas largas
se dejarán caer
como buscando
cada una su ola
terminal.
Translation — ”The last swallows”
You know
gustavo adolfo
one of these years
the swallows
are not going to return anymore
neither will the perinates
the ones from the balcony
the ones that are yours
it is logical
they are fed up
of so so much migratory
display
of so so much crossing
over the sea and rhetoric
and pretexts
and alcores
their time has already passed
they acknowledge it
and halfway through their departure
or their return
dark
showy
tender little ones with long wings
will let themselves fall
as if searching
for their respective terminal
wave.
El paisaje
Mario Benedetti
Durante muchos años
y tantísimos versos
el paisaje
no estuvo en mis poemas
vaya a saber
por qué
mejor dicho
el paisaje
eran hombres
mujeres
amores.
pero de pronto
casi sin yo advertirlo
mi poesía empezó
a tener ramas
dunas
colinas
farallones
vaya a saber
por qué
dejó de ser
poesía en blanco y negro
y se llenó de verdes
tantos como follajes
de flamboyanes rojos
oros suaves del alba
y memorias de pinos
con sus siluetas sobre
horizonte y candela
¿será que este paisaje
no quiere que sigamos
sin decirnos las claves?
¿o será que el paisaje
no quiere que me vaya?
Translation — ”The landscape”
For many years
and so many verses
the landscape
was not in my poems ×
who knows ××
why
more clearly ×××
the landscape
were men
women
lovers.
but suddenly
almost without me noticing
my poetry began
to have branches
dunes
hills
outcrops
who knows ××
why
it stopped being
black and white poetry
and it was filled with greens
as many as foliages
of red flamboyants
soft gardens from the sunrise
and memories of pine trees
with their silhouettes over
the horizon and candlelight
is it that this landscape
does not want to continue
without giving us the keys?
or is it that this landscape
does not want me to leave?
footnotes
× [present] in the poems.
×× the original expression is impersonal (with no subject) and i had to translate it somewhat loosely to English.
××× original expression is "better said".
Los mortales
Mario Benedetti
Pero estaba previsto que al aflojar la tarde
comparecieran suaves los penachos
las sombras para asombrar al bando de los vivos
es imposible estar seguro
porque
¿y si resultan pinos o quimeras?
lo cierto es que no están bajo las flores
por el contrario hay quienes suponen
que pueden cultivarlas con agüita
de lluvia
en realidad
no están bajo las flores
no están bajo las cruces
no están bajo las losas
no están bajo la tierra
no están
sencillamente
Translation — ”The mortals”
But it was expected that when the afternoon loosened ×
the soft plumes would appear ××
the shadows to amaze the side of the living
it is impossible to be sure
because
what if they turn out to be pine trees or chimeras?
the truth is that they are not underneath the flowers
on the contrary there are ones who suppose
that you can cultivate them with water
from the rain
in reality
they are not underneath the flowers
they are not underneath the crosses
they are not underneath the slabs
they are not underneath the ground
they simply
are not ×××
footnotes
× the sentence can also be read as something that is actively being caused — "but it was expected that when the afternoon was loosened..."
×× the wording can also imply that the plumes appeared softly.
××× in Spanish, there is a difference between the verb “to be” as in to be somewhere/to feel something (“estar”) and to be something (“ser”). In this case, the verb “are” is originally “estar”.
Conjugaciones: 1 — Álbum
Mario Benedetti
Cómo quisiera fotografiar
minucia por minucia
pedazos de futuro
y colocar las instantáneas
en un álbum
para poder hojearlo
lenta morosamente
en un manso remanso
del pasado
Translation — "Conjugations: 1 — Album"
How I wish I could photograph
trifle by trifle
little pieces of the future
and place the snapshots
in an album
to be able to skim through it
slow, gradually
in a docile backwater
from the past
Conjugaciones: 2 — Claves
Mario Benedetti
Algunas claves
del futuro
no están en el presente
ni en el pasado
están
extrañamente
en el futuro
Translation — ”Conjugations: 2 — Keys”
Some keys
for the future ×
are not in the present
nor in the past
they are
strangely
in the future
footnotes
× can be within the future.
FAQ
frequently asked questions
Q: Why do your translations lack, or have shifts in punctuation?
A: Sometimes, I have to shift, add, or remove things such as commas or full stops for the sake of coherency. As for my lack of capital letters, it's both a matter of personal preference and proof that my translations aren't done by automatic tools or AI.
Q: Why do you sometimes point out hyperbatons in footnotes?
A: Because, often, due to different phrasal structures, I won't be able to translate a sentence word-for-word. Thus, as I think it's important to be the most objective I can, I'll sometimes mark those hyperbatons so the reader is aware of the literary resource that was used.
Q: Why are your translations a bit nonsensical sometimes?
A: My older translations might be more nonsensical because back then, i tried to keep my translations as close to the original material as I could, and sometimes that implied utilizing strange expressions or structures in order to get as close to a word-for-word translation as possible. Now, I'm more focused on less rigid translations (although I still do like keeping it as objective as possible). However, I make sure to add the proper footnotes if whatever I end up writing sounds strange for any reason.
Q: Where else can I find the poems that you translate?
A: Searching the titles up may suffice. Do note, though — and especially for lesser-known poets — that I translate these poems for a reason, and you might not find them in a language other than Spanish.
Q: Why don't you have sources for the poems linked?
A: It's a tedious process, and I'm a single person working on this with not much free time. If you wish to know where a poem came from, please search it up or ask me privately. I'm more than happy to provide answers!
Q: Why isn't [insert x poem] here?
A: Because I haven't translated it! I'm open to suggestions, but I'm very picky with what I will and will not translate. Do with that what you will.
Q: Will you ever translate poems that are not written by poets of Spanish origin?
A: I will occasionally translate poetry from Latino authors, but generally I do not do so because I feel slightly uncomfortable prying into others' literature. The only South American author I will consistently and majorly include in this archive is Mario Benedetti, because I admire him profoundly.
Q: Is Spanish your first language?
A: Yes!
Q: How come you feel qualified to translate these poems?
A: I have a C2 in English and am generally skilled at linguistics.
Q: Why is Lorca so prominent in your translations?
A: Him and his work are very dear to me. I admire his resilience, tenderness, and skills. You are welcome to read some basic information about him here, if you wish.
Q: How can I contact you?
A: My Neospring provides you with the wonderful option to ask me any questions or tell me whatever musings you want, anonymously or not!
Q: How can I call you or refer to you?
A: However you wish. The internet can be intense, so I tend to keep to myself. I don't mind any names, pronouns or terms; don't think about it too much.
Q: Are these dedicated to someone?
A: You!
Q: Are you a poet?
A: Everyone is.
Q: Why did you make this page in the first place?
A: Love. I love art, I love people having access to art, I love poems, I love translating…
Q: Does anybody actually ask these questions?
A: Not at all! This is just a directory. Nobody asks me anything, you people are (usually) very smart.