Saturday, November 7, 2009

Paisaje con la Caída de Ícaro de William Carlos Williams

(Versión de José Juan Góngora Cortés)

De acuerdo con Brueghel
cuando Ícaro cayó
era primavera

un agricultor araba
su terreno
la pompa completa

del año estuvo
despierta hormigueando
cerca

de la orilla del mar
dedicada
a lo propio

sudando en el sol
que derritió
la cera de las alas

insignificantemente
cerca de la costa
hubo

una salpicadura inadvertida
era
Ícaro ahogándose.

***************
Traducción de Jordi Doce
Traducción de Daniel Aguirre
Otra Traducción sin traductor

==========================


LANDSCAPE WITH THE FALL OF ICARUS
by William Carlos Williams

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
it was
Icarus drowning.

Musée des beaux-arts by W. H. Auden


About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.


In Brueghel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the plowman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

Museo de las Bellas Artes
(Versión de José Juan Góngora Cortés)

Acerca del sufrimiento, nunca estuvieron equivocados,
Los Viejos Maestros: cuán bien entendieron
Su posición humana. Como toma lugar,
Mientras otro está comiendo o abriendo una ventana o caminando lerdamente a la deriva.
Como, cuando los ancianos están reverente y apasionadamente esperando
El nacimiento milagroso, siempre debe haber
Niños que, especialmente, no quisieran que sucediera, patinando
En un estanque a la orilla del bosque:
Ellos nunca olvidaron
Que aun el más espantoso martirio debe seguir su curso
De cualquier manera en una esquina: algún paraje desaliñado
Donde los perros pasan con sus perrunas vidas y el caballo del torturador
Rasca su inocente trasero en un árbol.

En el Ícaro de Brueghel, por ejemplo: como cada cosa da la espalda,
Relajadamente, al desastre. El arador habrá
Oído el chapuzón, el grito desamparado;
Pero, para él, no era una falla importante; el sol brillaba
Tal como debía, sobre las blancas piernas que desaparecían en el agua
Verde, y la nave costosa y delicada que debe haber visto
Algo asombroso, a un muchacho cayendo del cielo,
Ya tenía un destino y zarpaba sosegadamente.

The Analysis of Auden’s Musee des Beaux Arts
Auden’s Musée des Beaux Arts

Ikarus, Gottfried Benn


I (A good article about this 1st part: Benn’s Icarus)

O Mittag, der mit heißem Heu mein Hirn
zu Wiese, flachem Land und Hirten schwächt,
daß ich hinrinne und, den Arm im Bach,
den Mohn an meine Schläfe ziehe -
o du Weithingewölbter, enthirne doch
stillflügelnd über Fluch und Gram
des Werdens und Geschehns
mein Auge.
Noch durch Geröll der Halde, noch durch Land-aas,
verstaubendes, durch bettelhaft Gezack
der Felsen - überall
das tiefe Mutterblut, die strömende
entstirnte
matte
Getragenheit.

Das Tier lebt Tag um Tag
und hat an seinem Euter kein Erinnern
der Hang schweigt seine Blume in das Licht und wird zerstört.
Nur ich, mit Wächter zwischen Blut und Pranke,
ein hirnzerfressenes Aas, mit Flüchen
im Nichts zergellend, bespien mit Worten,
veräfft vom Licht -
o du Weithingewölbter,
träuf meinen Augen eine Stunde
des guten frühen Voraugenlichts –
schmilz hin den Trug der Farben, schwinge
die kotbedrängten Höhlen in das Rauschen
gebäumter Sonnen, Sturz der Sonnen-sonnen,
o aller Sonnen ewiges Gefälle -

II

Das Hirn frißt Staub. Die Füße fressen Staub.
Wäre das Auge rund und abgeschlossen,
dann bräche durch die Lider süße Nacht,
Gebüsch und Liebe.
Aus dir, du süßes Tierisches,
aus euern Schatten, Schlaf und Haar,
muß ich mein Hirn besteigen,
alle Windungen,
das letzte Zwiegespräch -

III

So sehr am Strand, so sehr schon in der Barke,
im krokosfarbnen Kleide der Geweihten
und um die Glieder schon den leichten Flaum –
ausrauschst du aus den Falten, Sonne,
allnächtlich Welten in den Raum -
o eine der vergeßlich hingesprühten
mit junger Glut die Schläfe mir zerschmelzend,
auftrinkend das entstirnte Blut -

Nostalgia II: Crazy Looney Toones

Darkness by (George Gordon) Lord Byron


I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour
They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought--and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails--men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress--he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died--
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless--
A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge--
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.

=========================================
La siguiente traducción la encontré en la red y más poemas
==========================================

"Tuve un sueño que no era del todo un sueño.
El brillante sol se apagaba, y los astros
Vagaban apagándose por el espacio eterno,
Sin rayos, sin rutas, y la helada tierra
Oscilaba ciega y oscureciéndose en un cielo sin luna.
La mañana llegó, y se fue, y llegó, y no trajo consigo el día,
Y los hombres olvidaron sus pasiones ante el terror
De esta desolación, y todos los corazones
Se congelaron en una plegaria egoísta por luz,
Y vivieron junto a hogueras, y los tronos,
Los palacios de los reyes coronados, las chozas,
Las viviendas de todas las cosas que habitaban,
Fueron quemadas en los fogones, las ciudades se consumieron,
Y los hombres se reunieron en torno a sus ardientes casas
Para verse de nuevo las caras unos a otros.

Felices eran aquellos que vivían dentro del ojo
De los volcanes, y su antorcha montañosa,
Una temerosa esperanza era todo lo que el mundo contenía;
Se encendió fuego a los bosques, pero hora tras hora
Fueron cayendo y apagándose, y los crujientes troncos
Se extinguieron con un estrépito y todo quedó negro.

Las frentes de los hombres, a la luz sin esperanza
Tenían un aspecto no terreno cuando de pronto
Haces de luz caían sobre ellos; algunos se tendían
Y escondían sus ojos y lloraban; otros descansaban
Sus barbillas en sus manos apretadas y sonreían;
Y otros iban rápido de aquí para allá y alimentaban
Sus pilas funerarias con combustible, y miraban hacia arriba
Suplicando con loca inquietud al sordo cielo,
El sudario de un mundo pasado, y entonces otra vez
Con maldiciones se arrojaban sobre el polvo,
Y rechinaban sus dientes y aullaban; las aves silvestres chillaban
Y, aterrorizadas, revoloteaban sobre el suelo,
Y agitaban sus inútiles alas; los brutos más salvajes
Venían dóciles y trémulos; y las víboras se arrastraron
Y se enroscaron escondiéndose entre la multitud,
Siseando, pero sin picar, y fueron muertas para servir de alimento.
Y la Guerra, que por un momento se había ido,
Se sació otra vez; una comida se compraba
Con sangre, y cada uno se hartó resentido y solo
Atiborrándose en la penumbra: no quedaba amor.
Toda la tierra era un solo pensamiento y ese era la muerte
Inmediata y sin gloria; y el dolor agudo
Del hambre se instaló en todas las entrañas, hombres
Morían y sus huesos no tenían tumba, y tampoco su carne;
El magro por el magro fue devorado,
Y aún los perros asaltaron a sus amos, todos salvo uno,
Y aquel fue fiel a un cadáver, y mantuvo
A raya a las aves y las bestias y los débiles hombres,
Hasta que el hambre se apoderó de ellos, o los muertos que caían
Tentaron sus delgadas quijadas; él no se buscó comida,
Sino que con un gemido piadoso y perpetuo
Y un corto grito desolado, lamiendo la mano
Que no respondió con una caricia, murió.

De a poco la multitud fue muriendo de hambre; pero dos
De una ciudad enorme sobrevivieron,
Y eran enemigos; se encontraron junto
A las agonizantes brasas de un altar
Donde se había apilado una masa de cosas santas
Para un fin impío; hurgaron,
Y temblando revolvieron con sus manos delgadas y esqueléticas
En las débiles cenizas, y sus débiles alientos
Soplaron por un poco de vida, e hicieron una llama
Que era una ridícula; entonces levantaron
Sus ojos al verla palidecer, y observaron
El aspecto del otro, miraron, y gritaron, y murieron.
De puro espanto mutuo murieron,
Sin saber quién era aquel sobre cuya frente
La hambruna había escrito "Enemigo". El mundo estaba vacío,
Lo populoso y lo poderoso era una masa,
Sin estaciones, sin hierba, sin árboles, sin hombres, sin vida;
Una masa de muerte, un caos de dura arcilla.
Los ríos, lagos, y océanos estaban quietos,
Y nada se movía en sus silenciosos abismos;
Los barcos sin marinos yacían pudriéndose en el mar,
Y sus mástiles bajaban poco a poco; cuando caían
Dormían en el abismo sin un vaivén.
Las olas estaban muertas; las mareas estaban en sus tumbas,
Antes ya había expirado su señora la Luna;
Los vientos se marchitaron en el aire estancado,
Y las nubes perecieron; la Oscuridad no necesitaba
De su ayuda... Ella era el universo".

Poe: The Raven, Le Corbeau, O Corvo, El Cuervo


El Cuervo de Poe en una excelente traducción y aquí otra traducción.
Edgar Alan Poe en la Máquina del Tiempo.

Y el original enseguida:

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

First Published in 1845

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“This some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore —
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Name less here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“This some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; —
This it is, and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” — here I opened wide the door; ——
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this, and nothing more.

Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
‘This the wind, and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made him; not an instant stopped or stayed him;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sublunary being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered —
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have flown before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
Wondering at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster — so, when Hope he would adjure,
Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure —
That sad answer, “Nevermore!”

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and Nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Let me quaff this kind Nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore —
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore —
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, up starting —
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — nevermore!

Índice