Spanish poems

Para que nadie diga que tan solo publico traducciones de mis propios poemas, en estas indagaciones mías por estos mundos literarios Internet, me he encontrado con estos poemas de autores españoles traducidos al inglés. Porque, al igual que se traduce a Shakespeare al español, las obras de los autores de habla hispana se traducen al inglés. Literatura Universal en ambas direcciones. Como ese que dice texto.

In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long ago one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing.

Traducción de un texto universal de español al inglés

De los otros seis poemas tres son de Antonio Machado, Uno de MIguel de Unamuno y otro de Federico García Lorca y, para que no sean tan solo poetas españoles, he añadido un poema de Pablo Neruda, que era chileno.

En los enlaces del listado están las páginas de la traducción es español. Yo tan solo me atribuyo la autoría de la confección y del texto de esta entrada en el blog y esta pequeña introducción.

Listado de poemas originales:

Spanish poems

Summer Night. Antonio Machado (1875-1939)

 It’s a beautiful summer night.
The balcony doors
of the tall houses
open onto the large plaza of the old town.
In the deserted, wide rectangle,
stone benches, hedges and acacias,
symmetrically draw
their black shadows onto white sand.
The moon, at its zenith, and on the tower,
the illuminated face of the clock.
I stroll in this old town
alone, like a phantom.


The Mountains of My Land. Miguel de Unamuno (1864 – 1936)

The mountains of my land 
Look at themselves in the sea
And the oak trees that dress them
Breathe in a salty pond.

The wild sea of my land
Rocks the mountains
And they fall asleep feeling
The sea in their guts.

Oh! My coastal Biscay,
Mountainous land,
Your summits kiss the sky
And the sea kisses you!

Your deep sea and your mountains,
I carry within myself,
A crown you gave me in the heavens,
A root in the abyss.

Este poema proviene de su primer poemario llamado Poesías (Poemas) de 1907


Autumn Dawn. Antonio Machado (1875 – 1939)

A long road 
Between gray rocky slopes
And a humble meadow
Where black bulls graze.
Brambles, weeds, rock-roses.

The earth is wet
From drops of dew
And the poplar grove gilded,
Near the river bend.
Beyond the violet hills
The first light of dawn has broken:
A gun hanging on his back,
With his keen greyhounds,
A hunter is walking.


The Plaza Has a Tower. Antonio Machado (1875 – 1939)

Photo by Gintaru0117 Kairaitytu0117 on
The plaza has a tower 
the tower has a balcony
the balcony has a lady
the lady has a white flower.

A gentleman has walked by,
who knows what for!
and he has taken the plaza
with its tower and its balcony,
with its balcony and its lady,
its lady and her white flower.


City That Does Not Sleep. Federico García Lorca (1898-1936

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody. 
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.

No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.


I Like for You to Be Still. Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.

As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.

I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.

And let me talk to you with your silence that is bright
as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it's not true.

Photo by Sound On on
Anuncio publicitario