Romancero gitano, published in 1928, is a collection of poems written by Spanish poet Federico García Lorca. Since the collection’s publication, this work has not failed to capture the attention of poets, scholars, writers, and general poetry enthusiasts the world over. This project is a collection of personal translations and analyses of each poem within the work as part of a senior thesis idea I embarked upon in Spring 2010 to discover an underlying theme is Lorca’s work: Roma identity. In addition to publishing the final manuscript in both English and Spanish, I decided to have this blog available to document my thoughts, translations, and analyses (also in English and Spanish). I hope you enjoy and find this useful. All the best!
A ver. Publicó en el año 1928, Romancero gitano es una colección de poesía escritó por el poeta español, Federico García Lorca. Desde se publicó la colección, esta obra tenía éxito en llamar la atención de varios poetas, eruditos, escritores y entusiastas generales de la poesía en todo el mundo. Este proyecto es una colección de traducciones mías junto con un análisis de cada poema que, juntos, son partes de una tesis mía que empecé yo en la primavera 2010 para descubrir un tema subyacente: la identidad del gitano. Decidí crear este blog, además de escribir el manuscrito en inglés y castellano, para compartir con Ustedes mis pensamientos, traducciones, y el análisis de cada poema. ¡Espero que Uds. les guste! ¡Gracias!
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
romance de la luna, luna :: español
texto original // original text
derechos de autor // copyright :: federico garcía lorca
La luna vino a la fragua
con su polisón de nardos.
El niño la mira, mira.
El niño la está mirando.
con su polisón de nardos.
El niño la mira, mira.
El niño la está mirando.
En el aire conmovido
mueve la luna sus brazos
y enseña, lúbrica y pura,
sus senos de duro estaño.
mueve la luna sus brazos
y enseña, lúbrica y pura,
sus senos de duro estaño.
Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
harían con tu corazón
collares y anillos blancos.
collares y anillos blancos.
Niño, déjame que baile.
Cuando vengan los gitanos,
te encontrarán sobre el yunque
con los ojillos cerrados.
te encontrarán sobre el yunque
con los ojillos cerrados.
Huye luna, luna, luna,
que ya siento sus caballos.
que ya siento sus caballos.
Niño, déjame, no pises
mi blancor almidonado.
mi blancor almidonado.
El jinete se acercaba
tocando el tambor del llano.
Dentro de la fragua el niño,
tiene los ojos cerrados.
Por el olivar ven'an,
bronce y sueño, los gitanos.
Las cabezas levantadas
y los ojos entornados.
Cómo canta la zumaya,
¡ay, cómo canta en el árbol!
Por el cielo va la luna
con un niño de la mano.
¡ay, cómo canta en el árbol!
Por el cielo va la luna
con un niño de la mano.
Dentro de la fragua lloran,
dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la está velando.
dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la está velando.
romance de la luna, luna :: english
translated text // texto traducido
copyright // derechos de autor :: b. a. lederle
_
_
Translator's note: I attempted to stick closely to the original structure of the poem as noted in the original version; however, at first translation, I felt the result came off as choppy - albeit word for word correct. I went back and arranged the words different, choosing synonyms for various verbs and adjectives in the English language that would give a more poetic feel if read out loud. There seems to be a magnetic pulse behind the poems in Romancero and my goal was to convey that same pulse in the English language while sticking as close to the original structure as artistically possible.
_
The moon approached the forge
with her bustle˚ laden with nardos.
A young boy gazes at her
and gazes again and again.
In the agitated air
the moon spins her arms
lewd and unadulterated, she shows
exposing her bosoms of tough tin.
--Run away, oh moon, moon, moon!
If the gypsies come
from your heart they would make
necklaces and white rings!
--Oh, child! let me dance.
When the gypsies come
they will find you on the anvil
with your small eyes closed
--Run away, oh moon, moon, moon!
I can already feel their horses coming.
I can already feel their horses coming.
--Child, enough! leave me; do not walk
on my crisp whiteness.
The rider came closer,
beating the drum of the plain.
beating the drum of the plain.
Inside the forge the boy
has both eyes closed.
Through the olive grove they came,
bronze and dreamy, the gypsies
heads, raised,
and eyes half closed.
Listen how the owl sings,
Oh! How it sings in the tree!
Towards the heavens goes the moon,
with a child by the hand.
Within the forge they cry,
wailing, the gypsies.
The wind keeps watch over the moon,
the wind is keeping watch.
˚bustle :: a pad or framework expanding and supporting the fullness and drapery of the back of a woman's skirt or dress
Nardos (also Tuberose)
preciosa y el aire :: español
texto original // original text
derechos de autor // copyright :: federico garcía lorca
Su luna de pergamino
Preciosa tocando viene,
por un anfibio sendero
de cristales y laureles.
El silencio sin estrellas,
huyendo del sonsonete,
cae donde el mar bate y canta
su noche llena de peces.
En los picos de la sierra
los carabineros duermen
guardando las blancas torres
donde viven los ingleses.
Y los gitanos del agua
levantan por distraerse,
glorietas de caracolas
y ramas de pino verde.
Su luna de pergamino
Preciosa tocando viene.
Al verla se ha levantado
el viento que nunca duerme.
San Cristobalón desnudo,
lleno de lenguas celestes,
mira la niña tocando
una dulce gaita ausente.
Niña, deja que levante
tu vestido para verte.
Abre en mis dedos antiguos
la rosa azul de tu vientre.
Preciosa tira el pandero
y corre sin detenerse.
El viento-hombrón la persigue
con una espada caliente.
Frunce su rumor el mar.
Los olivos palidecen.
Cantan las flautas de umbría
y el liso gong de la nieve.
¡Preciosa, corre, Preciosa,
que te coge el viento verde!
¡Preciosa, corre, Preciosa!
¡Míralo por dónde viene!
Sátiro de estrellas bajas
con sus lenguas relucientes.
Preciosa, llena de miedo,
entra en la casa que tiene,
más arriba de los pinos,
el cónsul de los ingleses.
Asustados por los gritos
tres carabineros vienen,
sus negras capas ceñidas
y los gorros en las sienes.
El inglés da a la gitana
un vaso de tibia leche,
y una copa de ginebra
que Preciosa no se bebe.
Y mientras cuenta, llorando,
su aventura a aquella gente,
en las tejas de pizarra
el viento, furioso, muerde.
preciosa y el aire :: english
translated text // texto traducido
With parchment moon in hand
saunters Precious, playing,
along an amphibious path
of laurels and crystal shining.
the starless silence, 5
escaping from the sonance,
falls where sea pounds and sings
its night a fish-filled darkness.
On the peaks of the mountains
the cavalry slumber 10
while guarding white towers
where the English lumber.
and the river gypsies,
delighting themselves,
construct bowers from green 15
pine boughs and conch shells.
With parchment moon in hand
saunters Precious, playing.
Upon seeing her the Wind
that never tires starts preying. 20
Saint Christopher, naked
full of heavenly discourse,
watches her play
an absent, sweet chor’s.
Child, so that I may see you, 25
lift up your guise.
Open your womb’s blue rose
in my fingers so wise
Precious throws her tambourine
and runs without break 30
The man, as if wind, pursues
her with fiery stake.
The sea purses its murmur,
The olive trees turn sallow.
The flutes sing of shade 35
and the still gong of the snow.
Precious! Run, Precious!
for the green wind is chasing you!
Precious! Run, Precious!
Pay attention from where he comes 40
he, the Satyr of the low stars
with his radiant language.
Precious, full of fear,
far above the pines,
go inside the building, 45
where the English House lies.
Frightened by her cries
three cavalry arise,
black capes clinging taut
caps fitted to temples
the Englishman gives the gypsy girl 50
a glass of milk lukewarm
and a cup of gin liquor
that Precious doesn’t drink
Crying, she recounts
her adventure to those people, 55
while in the works of slate
the wind, furious, gnashes
_
satyr and bacchante :: james pradier
saunters Precious, playing,
along an amphibious path
of laurels and crystal shining.
the starless silence, 5
escaping from the sonance,
falls where sea pounds and sings
its night a fish-filled darkness.
On the peaks of the mountains
the cavalry slumber 10
while guarding white towers
where the English lumber.
and the river gypsies,
delighting themselves,
construct bowers from green 15
pine boughs and conch shells.
With parchment moon in hand
saunters Precious, playing.
Upon seeing her the Wind
that never tires starts preying. 20
Saint Christopher, naked
full of heavenly discourse,
watches her play
an absent, sweet chor’s.
Child, so that I may see you, 25
lift up your guise.
Open your womb’s blue rose
in my fingers so wise
Precious throws her tambourine
and runs without break 30
The man, as if wind, pursues
her with fiery stake.
The sea purses its murmur,
The olive trees turn sallow.
The flutes sing of shade 35
and the still gong of the snow.
Precious! Run, Precious!
for the green wind is chasing you!
Precious! Run, Precious!
Pay attention from where he comes 40
he, the Satyr of the low stars
with his radiant language.
Precious, full of fear,
far above the pines,
go inside the building, 45
where the English House lies.
Frightened by her cries
three cavalry arise,
black capes clinging taut
caps fitted to temples
the Englishman gives the gypsy girl 50
a glass of milk lukewarm
and a cup of gin liquor
that Precious doesn’t drink
Crying, she recounts
her adventure to those people, 55
while in the works of slate
the wind, furious, gnashes
_
satyr and bacchante :: james pradier
reyerta :: español
texto original // original text
derechos de autor // copyright :: federico garcía lorca
En la mitad del barranco
las navajas de Albacete
bellas de sangre contraria,
relucen como los peces.
Una dura luz de naipe 5
recorta en el agrio verde
caballos enfurecidos
y perfiles de jinetes.
En la copa de un olivo
lloran dos viejas mujeres. 10
El toro de la reyerta
se sube por las paredes.
Ángeles negros traían
pañuelos y agua de nieve.
Ángeles con grandes alas 15
de navajas de Albacete.
Juan Antonio el de Montilla
rueda muerto la pendiente,
su cuerpo lleno de lirios
y una granada en las sienes. 20
Ahora monta cruz de fuego,
carretera de la muerte.
El juez, con guardia civil,
por los olivares viene.
Sangre resbalada gime 25
muda canción de serpiente.
Señores guardias civiles: aquí
pasó lo de siempre.
Han muerto cuatro romanos
y cinco cartagineses. 30
La tarde loca de higueras
y de rumores calientes
cae desmayada en los muslos
heridos de los jinetes.
Y ángeles negros volaban 35
por el aire del poniente.
Ángeles de largas trenzas
y corazones de aceite.
En la mitad del barranco
las navajas de Albacete
bellas de sangre contraria,
relucen como los peces.
Una dura luz de naipe 5
recorta en el agrio verde
caballos enfurecidos
y perfiles de jinetes.
En la copa de un olivo
lloran dos viejas mujeres. 10
El toro de la reyerta
se sube por las paredes.
Ángeles negros traían
pañuelos y agua de nieve.
Ángeles con grandes alas 15
de navajas de Albacete.
Juan Antonio el de Montilla
rueda muerto la pendiente,
su cuerpo lleno de lirios
y una granada en las sienes. 20
Ahora monta cruz de fuego,
carretera de la muerte.
El juez, con guardia civil,
por los olivares viene.
Sangre resbalada gime 25
muda canción de serpiente.
Señores guardias civiles: aquí
pasó lo de siempre.
Han muerto cuatro romanos
y cinco cartagineses. 30
La tarde loca de higueras
y de rumores calientes
cae desmayada en los muslos
heridos de los jinetes.
Y ángeles negros volaban 35
por el aire del poniente.
Ángeles de largas trenzas
y corazones de aceite.
reyerta :: english
translated text // texto traducido
copyright // derechos de autor :: b. a. lederle
_
Translator's note: I've twice had the wonderful opportunity of traveling to the comunidad autónima (similar to a US state) and provincia (similar to a US county) in Spain where Albacete is located. Castilla-La Mancha, the autonomous community, is ruggedly beautiful is so many distinct ways that I urge you to take a trip to this area in Spain that many forget to spend time in. The province of Albacete is a fanciful collection of cascading lakes and far-stretching plains that bake in the Spanish sun and offer some of the most beautiful sunsets I've ever witnessed. The region also has some of the most peculiar ruins and it is with this scene in mind that I translated this poem. Lorca uses an ample amount of landscape and nature references in this poem, but they're subtle. I attempted to characterize the summer heat and expansive nature of the plains of La Mancha that act a scene of brutality and hot-blooded interaction in this poem. Mostly it's a word for word translation with some stylistic elements included.
_
Midway through the ravine
the blades of Albacete,
beauties of enemy blood,
shimmer like the scales of fish.
A trivial, lasting light 5
in the bitter green snips out
raging horses
and horsemen profiles
At the top of an olive tree
sit two old women, crying. 10
The brawl’s bull
retreats up the walls.
Black angels arrive
with cloths and snow water -
Angels with large wings 15
made of the blades of Albacete.
Juan Antonio de Montilla
rolls down the slope, dead,
his body full of lilies
and a smear of pomegranate in his temples. 20
Now he rides a cross of fire
on the road of death.
With the Guardia Civil, the judge,
comes through the olive grove.
Slipping blood moans the 25
mute song of the serpent
Honorable Guardia Civil:
what happened here happens often.
Four Romans have died
and five Carthaginians. 30
This crazy afternoon, marked by
fig trees and hot rumors,
unconsciously falls onto the injured
thighs of the horsemen.
And black angels flew around 35
through the westerly wind.
Angels with olive braids
and hearts of olive oil.
_
Alcalá del Júcar :: Albacete, Spain
Photo Credit
_
Translator's note: I've twice had the wonderful opportunity of traveling to the comunidad autónima (similar to a US state) and provincia (similar to a US county) in Spain where Albacete is located. Castilla-La Mancha, the autonomous community, is ruggedly beautiful is so many distinct ways that I urge you to take a trip to this area in Spain that many forget to spend time in. The province of Albacete is a fanciful collection of cascading lakes and far-stretching plains that bake in the Spanish sun and offer some of the most beautiful sunsets I've ever witnessed. The region also has some of the most peculiar ruins and it is with this scene in mind that I translated this poem. Lorca uses an ample amount of landscape and nature references in this poem, but they're subtle. I attempted to characterize the summer heat and expansive nature of the plains of La Mancha that act a scene of brutality and hot-blooded interaction in this poem. Mostly it's a word for word translation with some stylistic elements included.
_
Midway through the ravine
the blades of Albacete,
beauties of enemy blood,
shimmer like the scales of fish.
A trivial, lasting light 5
in the bitter green snips out
raging horses
and horsemen profiles
At the top of an olive tree
sit two old women, crying. 10
The brawl’s bull
retreats up the walls.
Black angels arrive
with cloths and snow water -
Angels with large wings 15
made of the blades of Albacete.
Juan Antonio de Montilla
rolls down the slope, dead,
his body full of lilies
and a smear of pomegranate in his temples. 20
Now he rides a cross of fire
on the road of death.
With the Guardia Civil, the judge,
comes through the olive grove.
Slipping blood moans the 25
mute song of the serpent
Honorable Guardia Civil:
what happened here happens often.
Four Romans have died
and five Carthaginians. 30
This crazy afternoon, marked by
fig trees and hot rumors,
unconsciously falls onto the injured
thighs of the horsemen.
And black angels flew around 35
through the westerly wind.
Angels with olive braids
and hearts of olive oil.
_
Alcalá del Júcar :: Albacete, Spain
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