La Brújula de la Andrómeda: Poemas en inglés - APÉNDICE 2 - Jesús Salviejo/Lola Fajardo
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La Brújula de la
Andrómeda:
Poemas en inglés
APÉNDICE 2
Jesús Salviejo/Lola Fajardo
Técnicos de Educación y Cultura
de la Diputación de Valladolid
La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
2
La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
ÍNDICE DE POEMAS EN INGLÉS
ARCHIVO DE NÓMADAS
Geocraphical knowledge THOMAS HARDY (5)
ARRECIFES Y BOSQUE
From Retrospection, CHARLOTE BRONTE (7)
Life and death, CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (8)
BAHÍAS DEL SILENCIO
Silence, THOMAS HOOD (10)
In celebration of my uterus, ANNE SEXTON (11)
The colossus, SYLVIA PLATH (12)
DUNAS Y MAREA
We have come home, LENRIE PETERS (14)
Travel, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (15)
3
La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
4
La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
GEOCRAPHICAL KNOWLEDGE
(A MEMORY OF CHRISTIANA C.)
WHERE Blackmoor was, the road that led
To Bath, she could not show,
Nor point the sky that overspread
Towns ten miles off or so.
But that Calcutta stood this way,
Cape Horn there figured fell,
That here was Boston, here Bombay,
She could declare full well.
Less known to her the track athwart
Froom Mead or Yell’ham Wood
Than how to make some Austral port
In seas of surly mood.
She saw the glint of Guinea’s shore
Behind the plum-tree nigh,
Heard old unruly Biscay’s roar
In the weir’s purl hard by...
‚My son’s a sailor, and he knows
All seas and many lands,
And when he’s home he points and shows
Each country where it stands.
THOMAS HARDY
5
La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
6La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
FROM RETROSPECTION
And scare a glimpse of shore.
We wove a web in childhood,
A web of sunny air; The mustard-seed in distant land
We dug a spring in infancy Bends down a mighty tree,
Of water pure and fair; The dry unbudding almond-wand
Has touched eternity.
We sowed in youth a mustard seed, There came a second miracle
We cut an almond rod; Such as on Aaron's sceptre fell,
We are now grown up to riper age- And sapless grew like life from heath,
Are they withered in the sod? Bud, bloom and fruit in mingling wreath
All twined the shrivelled off-shoot round
Are they blighted, failed and faded, As flowers lie on the lone grave-mound.
Are they mouldered back to clay?
For life is darkly shaded; Dream that stole o'er us in the time
And its joys fleet fast away. When life was in its vernal clime,
Dream that still faster o'er us steals
Faded! the web is still of air, As the wild star of spring declining
But how its folds are spread, The advent of that day reveals,
And from its tints of crimson clear That glows in Sirius fiery shining:
How deep a glow is shed. Oh! as thou swellest, and as the scenes
The light of an Italian sky. Cover this cold world's darkest features,
Where clouds of sunset lingering lie Stronger each change my spirit weans
Is not more ruby-red. To bow before thy god-like creatures.
But the spring was under a mossy stone, When I sat 'neath a strange roof-tree
Its jet may gush no more. With nought I knew or loved round me
Hark! sceptic bid thy doubts be gone, Oh how my heart shrank back to thee,
Is that a feeble roar Then I felt how fast thy ties had bound me.
Rushing around thee? Lo! the tide
Of waves where armed fleets may ride
Sinking and swelling, frowns and smiles Traducido al español por El Espejo Gótico.
An ocean with a thousand isles
7La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
LIFE AND DEATH
LIFE is not sweet. One day it will be sweet
To shut our eyes and die:
Nor feel the wildflowers blow, nor birds dart by
With flitting butterfly
Nor grass grow long aboye our heads and feet,
Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high,
Nor sigh that spring is fleet and summer fleet,
Nor mark the waxing wheat,
Nor know wiho sits in our accustomed seat.
Life is not good. One day it will be good
To die, then live again;
To sleep meanwhile: so not to feel the wane
Of shrunk leaves dropping in the wood,
Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main,
Nor mark the blackened bean-fields,
nor where stood Rich ranks of golden grain
Only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain:
Asleep from risk, asleep from pain.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
8La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
9La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
SILENCE
THERE is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave--under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush'd--no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or the wild hyaena calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan--
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
THOMAS HOOD (1799-1845)
The poetical works of Thomas Hood. With some account of the author. In four volumes.
Scholarly Publishing Office, University of Michigan Library (December 21, 2005).
10La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
IN CELEBRATION OF MY UTERUS one is shifting pots on the stove in Egypt,
one is painting her bedroom walls moon color,
Everyone in me is a bird. one is dying but remembering a breakfast,
I am beating all my wings. one is stretching on her mat in Thailand,
They wanted to cut you out one is wiping the ass of her child,
but they will not. one is staring out the window of a train
They said you were immesurably empty in the middle of Wyoming and one is
but you are not. anywhere and some are everywhere and all
They said you were sick unto dying seem to be singing, although some can not
but they were wrong. sing a note.
You are singing like a school girl. Sweet weight,
You are not tom. in celebration of the woman I am
let me carry a ten-foot scarf,
Sweet weight, let me drum for the nineteen-year-olds,
in celebration of the woman I am let me carry bowls for the offering
and of the soul of the woman I am (if that is my part).
and of the central creature and its delight Let me study the cardiovascular tissue,
I sing for you. I dare to live. let me examine the angular distance of meteors,
Hello, spirit. Hello, cup. let me suck on the stems of flowers
Fasten, cover. Cover that does contain. (if that is my part).
Hello to the soil of the tields. Let me make certain tribal figures
Wellcome, roots. (if that is my part).
For this thing the body needs
Each cell has a life. let me sing,
There is enough here to please a nation. for the supper,
It is enough that the populace own these goods for the kissing,
Any person, any commonwealth would say of it, for the correct
"It is good this year that we may plant again yes.
and think forward to a harvest.
A blight had been forecast and has been cast out."
Many women are singing together of this: ANNE SEXTON
one is in a shoe factory cursing the machine, El asesino y otros poemas. ISBN 8474263077.
one is at the aquarium tending a seal, Traducción de Jonio González y Jorge Ritter.
one is dull at the wheel of her Ford, Icaria Editorial. Poesía. 1ª ed. (12/1996). Arc de Sant
one is at the toll gate collecting, Cristòfol, 11-23 | 08003 Barcelona. Tel. 93 269 13 75 -
one is tying the cord of a calf in Arizona, info@icarialibreria.com
one is straddling a cello in Russia,
11La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
THE COLOSSUS
I shall never get you put together entirely,
Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.
Mulebray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles
Proceed from your great lips.
It’s worse than a barnyard.
Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,
Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.
Thirty years now I have labored
To dredge the silt from your throat.
I am none the wiser.
Scaling little ladders with gluepots atad pails of Lysol
I crawl like an ant in mourning
Over the weedy acres of your brow
To mend the immense skull-plates and clear
The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.
A blue sky out of the Oresteia
Arches aboye us. O father, all by yourself
You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.
I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.
Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered
In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.
It would take more than a lightningstroke
To create such a ruin.
Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,
Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The Sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing.
SYLVIA PLATH
Poesía Completa (1956-1963), Edición bilingüe de Ted Hughes. Bartleby Editores, 2008.
Traducción y notas de Xoán Abeleira.
12La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
13La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
WE HAVE COME HOME We have come home
To the green foothills
We have come home To drink from the cup
From the bloodless wars Of warm and mellow birdsong
With sunken hearts ‘To the hot beaches
Our booths full of pride- Where the boats go out to sea
From the true massacre of the soul Threshing the ocean’s harvest
When we have asked And the hovering, plunging
‘What does it cost Gliding gulls shower kisses on the waves
To be loved and left alone’
We have come home
We have come home Where through the lighting flash
Bringing the pledge And the thundering rain
Which is written in rainbow colours The famine the drought,
Across the sky-for burial The sudden spirit
But is not the time Lingers on the road
To lay wreaths Supporting the tortured remnants of the flesh
For yesterday’s crimes, That spirit which asks no favour of the world
Night threatens But to have dignity.To be loved and left alone’
Time dissolves
And there is no acquaintance LENRIE PETERS
With tomorrow Poesía africana de hoy, Buenos Aires, 1968,
Ed. Sudamericana.
The gurgling drums Traducción de Willian Shand y Rodolfo Benasso.
Echo the stars
The forest howls
And between the trees
The dark sun appears.
We have come home
When the dawn falters
Singing songs of other lands
The death march
Violating our ears
Knowing all our loves and tears
Determined by the spinning coin
14La Brújula de la Andrómeda – Poemas en inglés
TRAVEL Lest the hunt be drawing near,
Or a comer-by be seen
I should like to rise and go Swinging in the palanquin;--
Where the golden apples grow;-- Where among the desert sands
Where below another sky Some deserted city stands,
Parrot islands anchored lie, All its children, sweep and prince,
And, watched by cockatoos and goats, Grown to manhood ages since,
Lonely Crusoes building boats;-- Not a foot in street or house,
Where in sunshine reaching out Not a stir of child or mouse,
Eastern cities, miles about, And when kindly falls the night,
Are with mosque and minaret In all the town no spark of light.
Among sandy gardens set, There I'll come when I'm a man
And the rich goods from near and far With a camel caravan;
Hang for sale in the bazaar;-- Light a fire in the gloom
Where the Great Wall round China goes, Of some dusty dining-room;
And on one side the desert blows, See the pictures on the walls,
And with the voice and bell and drum, Heroes fights and festivals;
Cities on the other hum;-- And in a corner find the toys
Where are forests hot as fire, Of the old Egyptian boys.
Wide as England, tall as a spire,
Full of apes and cocoa-nuts From Child's Garden of Verses,
And the negro hunters' huts;-- R. L. stevenson.
Where the knotty crocodile
Lies and blinks in the Nile,
And the red flamingo flies
Hunting fish before his eyes;--
Where in jungles near and far,
Man-devouring tigers are,
Lying close and giving ear
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