El poeta dice la verdad
FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA
Quiero llorar mi pena y te lo digo
para que tú me quieras y me llores
en un anochecer de ruiseñores,
con un puñal, con besos y contigo.
Quiero matar al único testigo
para el asesinato de mis flores
y convertir mi llanto y mis sudores
en eterno montón de duro trigo.
Que no se acabe nunca la madeja
del te quiero me quieres, siempre ardida
con decrépito sol y luna vieja.
Que lo que me des y no te pida
será para la muerte, que no deja
ni sombra por la carne estremecida.
posted by Özlem @ Tuesday, August 22, 2006
7 Comments:
“I want to cry my pain and you I say it so that you want to me and you cry to me in a dusk of ruiseñores, with a dagger, with kisses and you.
I want to kill the only witness for the murder of my flowers and to turn my weeping and my sweats eternal pile of hard wheat.
That the hank never finishes of I want to you you want to me, always burned with decrepit sun and old moon.
That what me DES and does not request to you it will be for the death, that does not leave nor shade by the shaken meat.”
The decay of love lost? The tragic nature of love, the loss of love and their relationship with death is often the subject of wistful, heartful poetry. The above, even in translation, is a beautiful work though I’m sure much has been lost in translation. Lorca is particularly well loved in Canada as our own native poet, Leonard Cohen, translated his poem "Pequeño vals vienés" into a song in English, and which became a #1 hit on the Spanish single charts in 1986 (as "Take This Waltz"). Says Cohen: "With the Lorca poem, the translation took 150 hours, just to get it into English that resembled - I would never presume to say duplicated - the greatness of Lorca's poem. It was a long, drawn-out affair, and the only reason I would even attempt it is my love for Lorca. I loved him as a kid; I named my daughter Lorca, so you can see this is not a casual figure in my life."
In celebration of this marriage of these great Spanish and Canadian poets, here is Leonard Cohen’s mediations on the beauty of the death of love:
You Have the Lovers
You have the lovers,
they are nameless, their histories only for each other,
and you have the room, the bed, and the windows.
Pretend it is a ritual.
Unfurl the bed, bury the lovers, blacken the windows,
let them live in that house for a generation or two.
No one dares disturb them.
Visitors in the corridor tip-toe past the long closed door,
they listen for sounds, for a moan, for a song:
nothing is heard, not even breathing.
You know they are not dead,
you can feel the presence of their intense love.
Your children grow up, they leave you,
they have become soldiers and riders.
Your mate dies after a life of service.
Who knows you? Who remembers you?
But in your house a ritual is in progress:
It is not finished: it needs more people.
One day the door is opened to the lover's chamber.
The room has become a dense garden,
full of colours, smells, sounds you have never known.
The bed is smooth as a wafer of sunlight,
in the midst of the garden it stands alone.
In the bed the lovers, slowly and deliberately and silently,
perform the act of love.
Their eyes are closed,
as tightly as if heavy coins of flesh lay on them.
Their lips are bruised with new and old bruises.
Her hair and his beard are hopelessly tangled.
When he puts his mouth against her shoulder
she is uncertain whether her shoulder
has given or received the kiss.
All her flesh is like a mouth.
He carries his fingers along her waist
and feels his own waist caressed.
She holds him closer and his own arms tighten around her.
She kisses the hand besider her mouth.
It is his hand or her hand, it hardly matters,
there are so many more kisses.
You stand beside the bed, weeping with happiness,
you carefully peel away the sheets
from the slow-moving bodies.
Your eyes filled with tears, you barely make out the lovers,
As you undress you sing out, and your voice is magnificent
because now you believe it is the first human voice
heard in that room.
The garments you let fall grow into vines.
You climb into bed and recover the flesh.
You close your eyes and allow them to be sewn shut.
You create an embrace and fall into it.
There is only one moment of pain or doubt
as you wonder how many multitudes are lying beside your body,
but a mouth kisses and a hand soothes the moment away.
- Leonard Cohen
Thanks for this, Bazarov!
I had no idea that Cohen was so closely linked to Lorca. Well, that is 'kismet', I guess.
As you already said, much of the beauty gets lost in translation. TBH, I didn't like the English version here.
I have found a German translation, which, I think, manages to convey most of the expressiveness:
Der Dichter sagt die Wahrheit
Ich will mein Leid dir klagen noch und noch,
damit du mich liebst und mich bedauerst
in einer Dämmerung, von Nachtigalln belauert,
mit Küssen, mit dir und einem Dolch.
Töten will ich allein, in meinem Zorn,
den Zeugen der Ermordung meiner Blüten, und all mein Klag und Müh vergüten
zu einem ewigen Haufen harten Korns.
Nie mögen zu Ende gehen die Litanein
des ich lieb dich, du mich liebst, stets gewagt
bei siecher Sonne und altem Mond allein.
Denn was ich nicht wünsche, was du mir versagt,
wird bloss für den Tod sein, dessen Schein
keinen Schatten wirft auf das Fleisch, das verzagt.
Translated by Gustav Siebenmann
Özlem
PS. How is Stefan Zweig doing?
You are absolutely right about the translation - this was a "Google Language Tools" special, and of course, it is not only the meaning that gets lost in a mechanical translation, but the art as well. Here is a truer translation of Lorca's poem which I'm sure captures the spirit of the Lorca poem a bit better (although its never as good as in its native tongue, and its hard to capture impassoned, bitter love in English):
I want to cry my pain, and I tell you
so you will love me and will cry for me
in a dusk of nightingales
with a dagger, with kisses and with you.
I want to kill the only witness
to the assassination of my flowers
and turn my cry and my sweat
into an eternal heap of hard wheat.
Let the kein never end
of I love you you love me, ever burnt
with decrepit sun and old moon;
for whatever you don't give me and I don't ask of you
will be for death, which does not leave
even a shadow on trembling flesh.
Zweig is looking very well preserved but unfortunately, I fear, is feeling neglected. Worry not dear Oz! All that practice of yours wearing a flowered dress will be realized soon. I'm sure all of your readers are eagerly anticipating the photos from this event. I will therefore be inspired to finish Zweig for the greater good.
Hey Bazarov,
we need to find a Cigar bar though for this to happen. Remember?
Either in NYC or in London...
Dearest Oz,
See below:
http://www.viewlondon.co.uk/Restaurants-With-Cigar-Bars-recommended-london.html
http://www.cigaraficionado.com/Cigar/CA_Features/CA_Feature_Basic_Template/0,2344,1125,00.html
We're covered in either city.
Hey, hey...
I'm impressed!
I have just taken a quick look at the ones in London but I knew right away where I'd like to go: Floridita is the place!! With live Cuban music....what else could I ask for...?!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMKPTixxRuQ&feature=related
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