classic poetry
La lluvia / The Rain
POSTED IN classic poetry, Spring, translated Spanish-English May 4, 2018
La lluvia / The Rain
La lluvia tiene un vago secreto de ternura,
algo de somnolencia resignada y amable,
una música humilde se despierta con ella
que hace vibrar el alma dormida del paisaje.Es un besar azul que recibe la Tierra,
el mito primitivo que vuelve a realizarse.
El contacto ya frío de cielo y tierra viejos
con una mansedumbre de atardecer constante.Es la aurora del fruto. La que nos trae las flores
y nos unge de espíritu santo de los mares.
La que derrama vida sobre las sementeras
y en el alma tristeza de lo que no se sabe.La nostalgia terrible de una vida perdida,
el fatal sentimiento de haber nacido tarde,
o la ilusión inquieta de un mañana imposible
con la inquietud cercana del color de la carne.El amor se despierta en el gris de su ritmo,
nuestro cielo interior tiene un triunfo de sangre,
pero nuestro optimismo se convierte en tristeza
al contemplar las gotas muertas en los cristales.Y son las gotas: ojos de infinito que miran
al infinito blanco que les sirvió de madre.Cada gota de lluvia tiembla en el cristal turbio
y le dejan divinas heridas de diamante.
Son poetas del agua que han visto y que meditan
lo que la muchedumbre de los ríos no sabe.¡Oh lluvia silenciosa, sin tormentas ni vientos,
lluvia mansa y serena de esquila y luz suave,
lluvia buena y pacifica que eres la verdadera,
la que llorosa y triste sobre las cosas caes!¡Oh lluvia franciscana que llevas a tus gotas
almas de fuentes claras y humildes manantiales!
Cuando sobre los campos desciendes lentamente
las rosas de mi pecho con tus sonidos abres.El canto primitivo que dices al silencio
y la historia sonora que cuentas al ramaje
los comenta llorando mi corazón desierto
en un negro y profundo pentágrama sin clave.Mi alma tiene tristeza de la lluvia serena,
tristeza resignada de cosa irrealizable,
tengo en el horizonte un lucero encendido
y el corazón me impide que corra a contemplarte.¡Oh lluvia silenciosa que los árboles aman
y eres sobre el piano dulzura emocionante;
das al alma las mismas nieblas y resonancias.Federico Garcia Lorca
……………………………………………………………………………
THE RAINThe rain has a vague secret of tenderness,
some resigned and kind drowsiness,
a humble music wakes up with her
that makes the sleeping soul of the landscape vibrate.It’s a blue kiss that Earth receives,
the primitive myth that returns to be realized.
The already cold contact of old heaven and earth
with a meekness of a constant sunset.It’s the aurora of the fruit. The one that brings us the flowers
and anoints us with the holy spirit of the seas.
The one that spills life on the sowings
and in the soul sadness of what is not known.The terrible nostalgia of a lost life,
the fatal feeling of being born late,
or the restless illusion of an impossible tomorrow
with the inquietude close to the color of the flesh.Love wakes up in the gray of its rhythm,
our inner heaven has a triumph of blood,
but our optimism turns to sadness
when contemplating the drops dead in the crystals.And they are the drops: eyes of infinity that look
to the white infinity that served as their mother.Every drop of rain trembles in the cloudy crystal
and leave you divine diamond wounds.
They are poets of water who have seen and who meditate
what the crowd of the rivers does not know.¡Oh silent rain, without storms or winds,
gentle and serene rain of shearing and soft light,
good and peaceful rain that you are the true one,
the one that tearful and sad about things you fall!¡Oh Franciscan rain that you take to your drops
souls from clear sources and humble springs!
When on the fields you descend slowly
the roses of my chest with your sounds open.The primitive song that you say to silence
and the sound story that you tell the branches
tells them crying my desolate heart
in a black and deep pentagram without a key.My soul has the sadness of the serene rain,
the resigned sadness of helplessness
I have a lighted star on the horizon
and my heart stops me from running to look at you.¡Oh silent rain that the trees love
and you are on the piano exciting sweetness;
give to the soul the same mists and resonances
English version, Maria Magdalena Biela
La Vendimia / The Harvest
POSTED IN classic poetry, Spring, translated Spanish-English May 4, 2018
La Vendimia / The HarvestEn un campo árido, reseco, muerto
puse gotas de ilusiones para regar
esforzando los corazones y cuerpos
hasta poder nuestro amor cosechar.En el mercado de corazones
fui una vez a participar en subasta,
aposte allí todas mis ilusiones
y llegué a tu amor de manera exacta.El amor recién descubierto
he guardado como tesoro
en el pecho, para ti abierto
como cofrecito color de oro
Embargado de dicha, pleno
te confieso mi sentimiento
de amor limpio y sereno
en el alma y pensamiento
a pesar de mi pobreza
te ofrezco mi único tesoro
lleno de amor con realeza
El cofrecito color de oroRecolectando,
mis ilusiones
guarde mis ansias
por encontrarte;
y en la subasta de
mis tristezas
encontre los frutos
de nuestro amorLa Vendimia que hoy honramos
a fuerza de amor y dulzura,
recoge el verde de las uvas
en las mieles del te quiero.
La tierra fértil abonadas con amor
ha sembrado con las aguas de pasión
que han sido fecundadas con fuego
que ha cosechado el corazón.Entonces todo las pasiones entregadas
hicieron suma para la tierra abonarla
con semillas puras de amor endulzadas
consagrando un planta para adorarla.Subaste mi amor con tus besos
los cuales siempre me diste
te entregue mi amor por completo
sin pensar que serias mi comprador absoluto.nuestro amor es dulce como la uva madura, que se recoge y con la cual se hace el mejor vino, nuestra relacion fue cosechada en el mejor tiempo, nuestro amor da muchos frutos por la intensidad con que nos amamos.
Ha concluido el esfuerzo de ambos
la consagración nos ha premiado
la vendimia del amor demostrado
resulto el eden hilando nuestro lazos.Vito Angeli
……………………………………………….The Harvest
In an arid, parched, dead field
I put drops of illusions to water
straining hearts and bodies
until our love can harvest.In the market of hearts
I went once to participate in auction,
bet there all my illusions
and I got to your love exactly.The newly discovered love
I have saved as treasure
in the chest, for you open
as a gold colored casket
Embargoed of happiness, fully
I confess my feeling
of clean and serene love
in the soul and thought
despite my poverty
I offer you my only treasure
full of love with royalty
The gold-colored casketCollecting,
My illusions
save my cravings
to find you;
and in the auction of
my sorrows
I found the fruits
of our loveThe harvest that we honor today
by force of love and sweetness,
pick up the green of the grapes
in the honey of I love you.
The fertile soil fertilized with love
has sown with the waters of passion
that have been fertilized with fire
who has harvested the heartThen all the passions delivered
they made money for the land
with pure seeds of sweetness sweetened
consecrating a plant to worship it.You raised my love with your kisses
which you always gave me
I give you my love completely
without thinking that you would be my absolute buyer.Our love is sweet like the ripe grape, which is picked and with which the best wine is made, our relationship was harvested at the best time, our love gives many fruits for the intensity with which we love each other.
It’s finished the effort of both
the consecration has rewarded us
the harvest of love demonstrated
the Eden resulted by spinning our ties.English version, Maria Magdalena Biela
My pretty Rose Tree
POSTED IN classic poetry, Spring April 29, 2018
My pretty Rose TreeA flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore,
But I said, ‘I’ve a pretty rose tree,’
And I passed the sweet flower o’er.Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night,
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.
William Blake
Retrato
POSTED IN classic poetry April 21, 2018
RetratoEu não tinha este rosto de hoje,
assim calmo, assim triste, assim magro,
nem estes olhos tão vazios,
nem o lábio amargo.Eu não tinha estas mãos sem força,
tão paradas e frias e mortas;
eu não tinha este coração
que nem se mostra.Eu não dei por esta mudança,
tão simples, tão certa, tão fácil:
– Em que espelho ficou perdida
a minha face?
Cecilia Meireles
………………………………..
PortraitI didn’t have this face of now,
so resigned, so sad, so wasted,
nor these eyes so empty,
nor the bitter lips.I didn’t have these hands without strength,
so still and cold and dead;
I didn’t have this heart.
that doesn’t even show.I didn’t feel this change,
so simple, so sure, so easy:
In which mirror is lost
my face ?English version,
Bielka
Pożegnanie widoku / Farewell to a lanscape
POSTED IN classic poetry, Spring April 15, 2018
Pożegnanie widoku / Farewell to a lanscapeNie mam żalu do wiosny,
że znowu nastała.
Nie obwiniam jej o to,
że spełnia jak co roku
swoje obowiązki.Rozumiem, że mój smutek
nie wstrzyma zieleni.
Źdźbło, jeśli się zawaha,
to tylko na wietrze.Nie sprawia mi to bólu,
że kępy olch nad wodami
znowu mają czym szumieć.Przyjmują do wiadomości,
że – tak jakbyś żył jeszcze –
brzeg pewnego jeziora
pozostał piękny jak był.Nie mam urazy
do widoku w widok
na olśnioną słońcem zatokę.Potrafię sobie nawet wyobrazić,
że jacyś nie my
siedzą w tej chwili
na obalonym pniu brzozy.Szanuję ich prawo
do szeptu, śmiechu
i szczęśliwego milczenia.Zakładam nawet,
że łączy ich miłość
i że on obejmuje ją
żywym ramieniem.Coś nowego ptasiego
szeleści w szuwarach.
Szczerze im życzę,
żeby usłyszeli.Żadnej zmiany nie żądam
od przyrbrzeżnych fal,
to zwinnych. to leniwych
i nie mnie posłusznych.Niczego nie wymagam
od toni pod lasem,
raz szmaragdowej,
raz szafirowej,
raz czarnej.Na jedno się nie godzę.
Na swój powrót tam.
Przywilej obecności –rezygnuję z niego.
Na tyle Cię przeżyłam
i tylko na tyle,
żeby myśleć z daleka.Wisława Szymborska.
………………………………………………………………………………………….Farewell to a landscape
I have no regrets for spring
came again.
I do not blame it
for fulfilling every year
its duties.I understand that my sadness
will not stop the verdure.
The blade, if it’s swinging,
it’s only in the wind.It’s not saddening me,
that clumps of alder on the water
have a reason to whisper again.I observe
that – as if you were still alive –
the shore of a certain lake
remained as beautiful as it was.I have no bitterness
to look just to see
the sun-drenched bay.I can imagine
some other than us
sitting right now
on a fallen birch stump.I respect their right
to whisper, to laugh
and for happy silence.I assume
that love binds them
and that he embraces her
by a living arm.Some young feathers
rustling in the reeds.
sincerely I wish ,
that they would hear them.I don’t demand any change
from the coastal waves,
now agile , now lazy
and disobeying me.I do not demand anything
from the depths of the forest,
once an emerald,
once sapphire,
once black.I can not agree with one thing.
Coming back there.
The privilege of being present –
I gave up.I survived you enough
and only enough,
to think from a distance.English version, Maria Magdalena Biela
I’m Nobody! Who are you? / Eu sunt Nimeni! Tu esti cine?
POSTED IN classic poetry, Spring, translated English-Romanian April 13, 2018
I’m Nobody! Who are you? / Eu sunt Nimeni! Tu esti cine?
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!Emily Dickinson
…………………………………………………………………………………
Eu sunt Nimeni !Tu esti cine ?
Tot – Nimeni – ca si mine?
Suntem pereche deci!
Nu spune! Reclama fac – stii bine!Ce groaznic – sa fii – Cineva!
Public – Broasca la fire –
in Iunie – sa strigi un nume
si-o Balta sa te-admire!Translated, Maria Magdalena Biela
How many flowers fail in Wood / Cate Flori prin Padure cad
POSTED IN classic poetry, Spring, translated English-Romanian March 25, 2018
How many Flowers fail in Wood –
How many flowers fail in Wood –
Or perish from the Hill –
Without the privilege to know
That they are Beautiful –How many cast a nameless Pod
Upon the nearest Breeze –
Unconscious of the Scarlet Freight –
It bear to Other Eyes –Emily Dickinson
…………………………………………….
Cîte Flori prin Pădure cad-
Ori de pe Deal pier crunt –
Făr-a-vea dreptul de a sti
Cat de frumoase sunt –Si cate anonime coji
Se pierd in Vant ruina-
Uitand de Rosia Samanta –
A Altor Ochi lumina –
Translated by Maria Magdalena Biela
A word is dead / Cuvantu-i dus
POSTED IN classic poetry, Spring, translated English-Romanian March 25, 2018
A word is deadA word is dead
When it is said
Some day.I say it just
Begins to live
That day.Emily Dickison
………………………………. ………
Cuvantu-i dus
Îndat’ ce-i spus
Candva.Eu cred c-abia
Atunci ‘si-ncepe
Viata.
Romanian Version,
Maria Magdalena Biela
Elysium is far as to / Elysium departe-i precum
POSTED IN classic poetry, Spring, translated English-Romanian March 25, 2018
Elysium is as far as toElysium is as far as to
The very nearest Room
If in that Room a Friend await
Felicity or Doom-What fortitude the Soul contains
That it can so endure
The accent of a coming Foot-
The opening of a Door-Emily Dickinson
……………………………… ………………
Elysium departe-i precum
Odaia de alaturi.
In Ea așteaptă un Om bun
Fericiri sau Framanturi.Ce forta Sufletul cuprinde
Că poate îndura
Calcatul unui Pas ce vine-
Usa a descuia- –Romanian version,
Maria Magdalena Biela
Because I could not stop for Death – / Cum Moartea nu putui s-astept –
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian March 14, 2018
Because I could not stop for Death – / Cum Moartea nu putui s-astept
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –Emily Dickinson
……………………………… ……………………
Cum moartea nu putui sa-astept –
M-astepta ea, prea buna –
Trasura-i ne-avea doar pe noi –
Cu vecia-mpreuna.Mergeam usor – nu pas grabit
Iar eu lasai deoparte
Munca-mi si zilnicul ragaz,
Spre-a Ei Civilitate –Lasaram scoala, cu Copii
Luptand – insufletit –
Lasaram Campurile-aurii –
Soarele-n asfintit –Mai bine zis – El ne-a lasat –
Fior de roua rece –
Subtire rochia-mi era –
Simteam frigul cum trece –Ne-opriram lang-o casa ce
Parea ca o movila –
Acoperisul nevazut –
Cornisa in Argila –De-atunci – sunt Secole – si tot
Pare o Zi menit
Mereu simtii ca acei Cai
Mergeau spre Infinit –Romanian Version,
Maria Magdalena Biela
