Traducciones en camino
Traducciones de varios poemas de inglés al español. Y algunos del español al inglés, supongo.
Pick your favorites
Pick your favorite poems on this collection. I want to shape them up into something nice. Elijan sus poemas favoritos de este tumblr, que quiero tallerearlos.
…la armonía duraba increíblemente, no había palabras para contestar a la bondad de esos dos ahí abajo, mirándole y hablándole desde la rayuela… -Julio Cortázar, Rayuela Sí, a ustedes les hablo, si es que han leído esto, a ti que buscas el nombre en el 91 y a ti con la cabeza metida en el 5 (no te culpo si no quieres volver) no sé en qué orden hayan leído, pero aquí se cuenta una...
#99: Cannot finish this without writing an...
Everlasting in my mind, a Dreamboy made a man Who haunts the wedding dreams I really never have for then I would ask No one else but you. Vain and little fantasy of this girl, Anachronic desire for a hero who eventually became Nothing but irreplaceable. I wished and said “Don’t go.” But you made up your mind. Eternity was already your path, any other way. Royalty of a...
#98: Blood on the Tracks
As I live and breathe You have killed me You have killed me Yes I walk around somehow But you have killed me You have killed me And there is no point saying this again there is no point saying this again But I forgive you, I forgive you Always I do forgive you. -Morrissey, “You Have Killed Me” Unfleshed for the silence turned a knife took me away and doomed me into this nothing: I...
#97: Last Will
Deathbed wish, it says. Hanging like a neon sign upon me, the slight urgency of life before it’s swallowed by everything we are and by our watches. The taking, the holding and everything is last year and the pages of days you wrote and solved with my life enthroned there as a hope beam. If time could be a place I would chose that, the tangling of my life between your arms, the...
#96: Sitting on a Bench
I had seen you as a nothing that could go away, but chance gave us a finite, sweet connection. It was nothing about love, but it was something I could recognize from myself. You asked to send a text. I could imagine you, day after day, waiting for your family to come. Memorizing the other side of the road, until it became invisible from customary sightseeing. Form a path so nobody can see...
#95: Iron Maiden
My mother wants me to become Margaret Thatcher. My grandmother thinks otherwise. I am barren and birthless in her eyes. She loves the perpetuation of the species. She longs for a wedding that never happened, for dresses, white. I am a strange accessory, a silent statue sitting with a book and watchful in a corner. She wishes I could marry a prince. I’m a faded mirage of a fairytale, ...
Bore me with the incessant image of your past, with no dreams, with your small sighs of nice commodity. With your reruns of a life and a strangled wish in tears. With your smiles headed behind to your nape and your hair. I can take my ridicule, my laughter to myself, into something like tomorrow, rotten, but unknown.
#93: Blue Moon Ritual
Papers burning and there I could see my words. They were written as in a trance, and as they burned, I could see my dreams turned into ashes. But there was a heart of a flame inside, there, tossing and turning like a neon light, vivid orange, rockstar, tasting with tongue kisses my life, killing it to make it real in years to come.
#92: Brighter Days
The day should have shone with the spirit of—something. Should have had the magic of you gliding like the jasmine mind, It should have yelled in the face of life like a rebel, Should have had something more besides the morning bread and butter. The letters that never came, and the ones I never sent. Lewd songs booming from car windows and pirate records. Two men fixing the bathroom...
Done. Don’t go, I could say. Giving Meaning to an Individual feeling. Teenage thoughts Abound in me. Rapid succession of Brilliant years Ended and gone by. Ringing watches or Biting alarm-clocks Announcing endings of These heroes I knew. Open arms forever. Vivid images of you.
#90: Former Stranger
Let me love the world as I loved you: walking blindly to your arms, making them home, fearless of anything that meant you; suddenly my surroundings were the nightmare and the deathtrap, the embodiment of fear was never you. I cried on the phone after your voice, the bridge to the outside, the protector —no God ever gave me home sweet home— rang into my eyes: the sirensong. ...
I cannot live with You— It would be Life— -Emily Dickinson Let me not live inside your arms like a lotus flower in the dark: my nightmares and perverse imaginations make me flinch like an infant in fear: but the dream you offer me in pieces is nothing but an automnal nap— so let’s take these last and charming minutes of music and blessings I wish I take.
They hang to their last hours like torture unwilling to depart in silence reminders of the sad condition of customary cups of coffee
#87: I Never Learned to Draw
So I really like you Blackboard baby When I can outsketch you And turn you into my past With former days cologne And then erase For new days ln backyards
Night and beauty and bonhomie Reconcile me with life And if you gave me the downpour Of tears and those clear eyes I would find the simple words To forgive God in His height
Let me forget you and the scars the pumping anything I’ll take myself as a bunch of skin so lower than a car or status you take
my mother gave me sleeping pills so i could drift away dreamless in the night. because there’s no illusion, no morning to look forward to but there’s nothing in the darkness as well, see, no prince to hug and steal me away in dreams. (my parents never hug me)
Last chances are stretched out like S.O.S. calls dying on the inside for torture devices try to make them taller like surreal football stars
#82: The Beauty of Limits
Guess there’s nothing that wounds life as much as languor. The indefinite, stretching string of days under the same sky like a yawn, like a hand reaching out because of sleepiness or desperation. Unknowing of the hours is a sigh. So, when there’s a glimpse of it being over, there’s a crowd on the stars, the shining of a street you look twice for you won’t see it...
#81: Little One
Forgive me if I cry because Grandma blesses the car with the prayers she knows or if my uncle plays Adventure Island and some other games that I used to know when younger and I look for a moment or a dream to relive a past I could touch and take years in a small ball and make them the perfect fantasy, with all nightmares gone.
#80: Pozo de los deseos (haiku)
Otorgada de Sueño trashumante que Busca realidad.
#79: Dreams vs Reality
So when dreams knock reality out, will you be ready then? To embrace the beloved monster of your thoughts? To take on the quest your heart has retraced? To be everything you dreamed you could be even though the mind is easier task?
So, can you flesh me out as a woman From the demonic arms of the night? So, can you burn the bridges to past lives With the embraces of a polished mirror? So, can you erase the meaning of “heart” With something else than the tombstones of everyday? So, can you take the words of these eyes And flesh them out, as well, as a woman?
#77: My Nervous Hands Wrote This
You’re a sigh choking in the midst of the stars A splinter crawling in the back of a neck The bite of the ripper heart of the people Nothing is an adjective upon your story It glides nameless when you suck life away from words When you murder promises into poetry You leave behind the whimpering ghost of May The whore-humming of closing doors The dead phoenixes of ashen hearts ...
#76: Carta confesa
Si tú murieras Las estrellas a pesar de su lámpara encendida Perderían el camino ¿Qué sería del universo? -Vicente Huidobro, Altazor Hola. No podría ser escrito de otra manera, aunque esto sea prosa entrecortada, pero es que es la forma en que hablo, hipando, temblando, ante las enredaderas de tus ojos, ante las risas que olvido en otras cartas— quiero que sean tuyas. No lo...
today they take away the car i never really used. parents wouldn’t let me. even so, the memory of what could have happened takes a little place of the night. they bought it for my brother and me. or that was the way it was supposed to be. when my brother threw my records out the car, i told my mother the car would never be mine. she said i was crazy and paranoid, always making a big...
This anathema fire violent-and-virulent, wallflower-surreal, electrified-as-water, hyperdimensional in polyquantum systems could be nothing.
kill this hunger in an attempt to deny my self-imposed exile tracing my burning gut like desperation drowning in fixed-image windows
#72: Ask for It
Let me take a kiss from you in hatred because of the queen I never was because of the images you had in mind and the denial you sport tonight when I’m no longer the angel and you’re no longer adventurous and you still ask for perfection: it’s much easier to forget me, to fall asleep with the me that was not me, to take revenge for my carnality and mortal eye.
#71: Sandman, You
Just as they said my mother was dying I took you Against the deathbed that was the hour of sleep. Mostly it was just me, holding against my body Eternal, like a prayer, like the smell of something Sacred, a magazine with you, and as a cover story all your Hate, all the sadness that led you to write what you did, Evil, you, and your music, what I learned to love so. Taken by your memories,...
Gray lines of sea under gray skyline. The unmoving air, sticks over rocksand. The clouds, so lonely, whispers over this phantom town. Lonely road, no sun, the sweet indifference of life engulfed in this. Mist hiding the horizon from eyes, a sweet place to let these tears roll down, without anyone walking on to you. Lonely as the moon set out to sea, stone lover, waving hairstrands of a...
#69: And I've Seen the Eternal Footman Hold My...
She eyes me like a Pisces when I’m weak. -Nirvana, “Heart Shaped Box” We could hang by a thread the stranglehold of my soul gasping into the fountain of eternity unable to see the light. We could be strange drops in the night if it wasn’t because of the venom of your hex, your vainglorious youth. Like a honeytrap I dream, bless, awake, see nothing but this. I...
#68: Jelinek's Children
For Emily And every other cutter They. The anarchists of skin. The ones who show us the true face of life, turning our gut wounds the other way around, showing us the stitches, like a banner: their St. Crispian’s day is every day. Life’s needlework, showcased, traced, they’re her work of art, living, and breathing, every speck of dust their final sigh. Scratching ...
#67: Attending in Spirit
Have we lost that beautiful custom of loving from a distance? Of taking our presences, as a ruffling breeze. as our source of happiness? We made our souls our uninvited guests and dwelt along with them in shadowy corners creating our bonds, enjoying our small hours together, in imagination and all these future plans. We tried to give a name to those days we’d spend together, imagined...
#66: Missing (Milk Carton Haiku)
If you ever find him, Him alcoholic-haze blind, Say hello; don’t wake him.
#65: Imperfect Wish
What can I say: I asked for it. Someone who wouldn’t taint love into illusion, someone who would be as true as a snow ripple, someone who I had only made up. And now that I see you in front of me, I think of myself as unworthy to you. You have taken love as idealism, flame; but me, desire has burned harshly upon my past, it hangs upon me like a burden and a kill, Damocles’...
#64: Realized (Haiku)
That I do love you. Because I killed happiness For your gentle smile…
#63: Limitless (and Horrid) Aleph
What I am, however, is host to something that will never leave. It made me realise that you should take great care in what you choose - often in a cavalier moment - to place in your memory, because some things will sit there for ever, like a bad seed; like a shadow on the moon; like a crow on a fence in a dream. - Caitlin Moran after watching the “Ukraine Maniacs” video Should...
Papers crumble and eventually are memories in the wastebasket. What should I do to keep these, your words, in permanence? I have tried to keep them in my heart, as a golden museum embroidery, but then I disposed of that idea, for my heart is no eternal figure: keeping your words as a tattoo in nothing but this body, would make of them nothing but a sigh for mortal coils. Practicity,...
Quiéreme como yo te quiero poniendo la otra mejilla para que tú la hagas trizas con la espada voluta del deseo pidiendo a gritos tu clemencia un suspiro de vuelta con mi nombre para otorgarte aunque sea sólo engaño tu pizca de terrenalidad. Quiéreme así. A evocaciones entre páginas roídas, a mitades de frases contrahechas, que tristemente reconocen que tú has de ser obra maestra; ...
Bebes la cerveza a pico de botella, siempre, así. Nunca como dama en un vaso, sacudiéndote el cabello de forma descuidada, largo, así lo llevas. Mal peinado. Años y nunca te queda bien, o eso dice tu madre. Y es que siempre has sido eso, chico de cabello largo, de esos que se lo dejan crecer porque así es el rock n’ roll. Cuando te maquillas es como ellos, más Freddie Mercury que ...
#59: Childhood's End? (á la Marillion)
I remember hiding my head under the pillow when there was a ghost around the house until I learned how to cry myself to sleep and then I found out no night’s for dreaming so I eventually reverted prayers. Now I go to life as to the office, standing there, looking at my watch sometimes impatiently, listening to parents who no longer love each other, dreading that moment when...
I dreamt about you once and twice and everlasting until I wore you off and faded you away because page after page you were dog-eared. (Not to mention gray eraser-holes, ripped-out guts of spiral-bound notebooks). In several pillows I saw something else. Eventually it was not you, it was me and the crawling whispers of my name now intertwined with everything else and a second home. So...
#57: Like a Child Again
Be my mother. Be there, when I open my eyes during some afternoon that’s everything like the others and find myself an orphan (my mother’s upstairs, I know, my brother’s in his room, my father is not home yet) but I’m here, looking at a finished childhood in the eye. Be my covers under which I hide when there’s a monster in my yard of...
#56: The Cleaners
They’re the ghosts of my unspoken knives, of the words I keep to myself forming vermin at the pool of my stomach. It’s the smile before a drink, before pushing an “I don’t care” behind the gums and the bones that are the teeth. Who are you after all. I don’t care if you smile and come to me, showing off some shadows of a picture, pretending you’re...
I have rolled over and over in a future that rolled over in Lynn Goldsmith and Springsteen catching fire in Cameron Crowe movies in bloodied romances and heavy metal of escaping and running and then Chickenfoot singing to me I’m their kinda girl.
Rehuir el arte del viento y de los abanicos sin ojos, de la seda la imitación de mi nombre yo que escondo que busco alas que busco ser sombra camuflaje a pasos para no ver los días
I once again take my vows to illusion and the twinkling lights in mirrors and even though there are no original plans there is still that faint smell of faraway and of a whole wide world waiting for me my aisle, and my promise in an altar, made of life and beauty and of you.