terça-feira, 17 de março de 2009
La casada infiel; english translation and original spanish version
THE FAITHLESS WIFE
And I took her to the river believing her a maid,
but she had a husband
It was on St James's night and almost as if in duty bound.
The street-lights went out and the crickets flared up.
By the last street corners I touched her sleeping breasts,
and they opened to me suddenly like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat sounded in my ear
like a piece of silk rent by ten knives.
The trees, without silver light on their tops, have grown larger,
and a horizon of dogs barks very far from the river.
Past the blackberries, the reeds, and the hawthorn,
underneath her cluster of hair I made a hollow in the fine sand.
I took off my tie. She took off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver. She, her four bodices.
Not tuberose nor shell have a skin so fine,
nor do glass mirrors shine with such brilliance.
Her thighs slipped from me like startled fish,
one half full of fire, one half full of cold.
That night I galloped on the best of roads,
mounted on a mother-of-pearl mare, without bridle or stirrups.
As a man, I won't repeat the things she said to me.
The light of understanding has made me most discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses I took her away from the river
The swords of the lilies battled with the air.
I behaved like the person I am. Like a proper gipsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket of straw-coloured satin,
and I did not want to let myself fall in love
because though she had a husband, she told me she was a maiden
as I was taking her to the river.
LA CASADA INFIEL
Y que yo me la llevé al río
creyendo que era mozuela,
pero tenía marido.
Fué la noche de Santiago
y casi por compromiso.
Se apagaron los faroles
y se encendieron los grillos.
En las últimas esquinas
toqué sus pechos dormidos,
y se me abrieron de pronto
como ramas de jacintos.
El almidón de su enagua
mi sonaba en el oído
como una pieza de seda
rasgada por diez cuchillos.
Sin luz de plata en sus copas
los árboles han crecido,
y un horizonte de perros
ladra muy lejos del río.
Pasadas las zarzamoras,
los juncos y los espinos,
bajo su mata de pelo
hice un hoyo sobre el limo.
Yo me quité la corbata.
Ella se quitó el vestido.
Yo, el cinturon con revólver.
Ella, sus cuatro corpiños.
Ni nardo ni caracolas
tienen el cutis tan fino,
ni los cristales con luna
relumbran con ese brillo.
Sus muslos se me escapaban
como peces sorprendidos,
la mitad llenos de lumbre,
la mitad llenos de frío.
Aquella noche corrí
el mejor de los caminos,
montado en potra de nácar
sin bridas y sin estribos.
No quiero decir, por hombre,
las cosas que ella mi dijo.
La luz del entendiemiento
me hace ser muy comedido.
Sucia de besos y arena,
yo me la llevé del río.
Con el aire se batían
las espadas de los lirios.
Me porté como quien soy.
Como un gitano legítimo.
La regalé un costurero
grande de raso pajizo,
y no quise enamorarme
porque teniendo marido
me dijo que era mozuela
cuando la llevaba del río.
Introducing Lorca to you
In my soul and point of view, the poetry of Federico Garcia Lorca outshines almost all other 20th poets.That's a big statement to make and perhaps I exaggerate but there is no doubt that Lorca's poetry is the 'Soul of Spain' in general and the 'Heart of Andalusia' in particular.
Lorca was murdered by local fascists at the outset of the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939). No other contemporary Spanish poet has achieved so international a reputation as Lorca. Federico Garcia Lorca was born at Fuentevaqueros, in the fertile plain of Granada, on 5 June 1898. He was murdered in August 1936 by a group of now well knowm fascits-catolicssupórters of Generalissimo Franco tugs, during the first days of the civil war, claiming he was a comunist (he was not, was a republican) and a Gay (he was, a joyful one). The assassination took place, it seems, at Viznar, on the hills outside Granada, but his body (as he prophetically foresaw) was never found.
I am reproducing a poem with translation very faithful,
but none cannot translate the music in the original version.