MIGUEL HERNANDEZ PROGRAMACIÓN DIDÁCTICA

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

MIGUEL HERNÁNDEZ EN INGLÉS

traducción al Inglés

For freedom

For freedom I bleed, fight and live on.
For freedom, my eyes and my hands,
like a carnal tree, generous and captive,
I give to the surgeons.
For freedom I feel more hearts
than sands in my chest. My veins give off foam
and I enter the hospitals and I go into the cotton sheets
as into the white lilies.
Because where empty eye sockets dawn,
she will place two rocks looking to the future
and make that new arms and new legs grow
in the fallen flesh.
The relics of my body that I lose in each wound
will sprout wings of sap without an autumn.
Because I am like a fallen tree, I will sprout
and I still have my life.
For freedom I bleed, fight and live on.
For freedom, my eyes and my hands,
like a carnal tree, generous and captive,
I give to the surgeons.
Because where empty eye sockets dawn,
she will place two rocks looking to the future
and make that new arms and new legs grow
in the fallen flesh.
The relics of my body that I lose in each wound
will sprout wings of sap without an autumn.
Because I am like a fallen tree, I will sprout
and I still have my life,
and I still have my life.
     
Español

Para la libertad

Para la libertad sangro, lucho y pervivo.
Para la libertad, mis ojos y mis manos,
como un árbol carnal, generoso y cautivo,
doy a los cirujanos.
Para la libertad siento más corazones
que arenas en mi pecho. Dan espumas mis venas
y entro en los hospitales y entro en los algodones
como en las azucenas.
Porque donde unas cuencas vacías amanezcan,
ella pondrá dos piedras de futura mirada
y hará que nuevos brazos y nuevas piernas crezcan
en la carne talada.
Retoñarán aladas de savia sin otoño,
reliquias de mi cuerpo que pierdo en cada herida.
Porque soy como el árbol talado, que retoño
y aún tengo la vida.
Para la libertad sangro, lucho y pervivo.
Para la libertad, mis ojos y mis manos,
como un árbol carnal, generoso y cautivo,
doy a los cirujanos.
Porque donde unas cuencas vacías amanezcan,
ella pondrá dos piedras de futura mirada
y hará que nuevos brazos y nuevas piernas crezcan
en la carne talada.
Retoñarán aladas de savia sin otoño,
reliquias de mi cuerpo que pierdo en cada herida.
Porque soy como el árbol talado, que retoño
y aún tengo la vida,
y aún tengo la vida.





traducción al Inglés

Elegy (To Ramón Sijé)

(In Orihuela, his town and mine, Ramón Sijé, whom I loved dearly, has died as though as struck by lightning)
I want to be the weeping gardener
of the land you occupy and fertilize,
oh my soulmate, so soon.
Feeding rains, snails
and organs, my aimless pain,
to the downtrodden poppies
I´ll give your heart as nourishment.
So much pain converges on my sides
that even my breath is fraught with it.
A harsh slap, an icy blow,
an invisible, killing axe cut
a brutal shove has felled you.
There´s no expanse greater than my wound,
I cry my misfortune and its ramifications,
and I feel your death more acutely than my life.
I walk over the remnants of the dead,
without anyone´s warmth, without relief
I go from my heart to my earthly concerns.
Soon did Death take flight,
soon did the dawn got up early,
soon you rolled on the ground.
I won´t forgive the lovestruck Death,
I won´t forgive the uncaring life,
I won´t forgive the earth, nor the nothingness.
On my hands I raise a storm
of stones, lightning and strident axes,
thirsting for catastrophes, and hungry.
I want to dig into the earth with my teeth,
I want to part the ground, side to side
with curt, hot bites.
I want to dig in the earth until I find you,
and kiss your noble skull
and get you out of the burial robes and return you.
You´ll come back to my orchard and my fig tree:
through the flower´s high scaffoldings
your soul linger playfully, like a bee
making heavenly waxes and labors.
You will return to the lull of the fences
of the loving peasants.
You´ll lighten the shadow of my brows,
and your blood will part, side to side,
conflicted between your girlfriend and the bees.
Your heart, now faded velvet,
is called to a field of foaming almond flowers
by my greedy lover´s voice.
To the winged souls of the roses
of almond trees I am calling you:
for there are many things we need to talk about,
oh my soulmate, my companion.

Elegía

(En Orihuela, su pueblo y el mío, se me ha muerto como del rayo Ramón Sijé, con quien tanto quería.)
Yo quiero ser llorando el hortelano
de la tierra que ocupas y estercolas,
compañero del alma, tan temprano.
Alimentando lluvias, caracoles
Y órganos mi dolor sin instrumento,
a las desalentadas amapolas
daré tu corazón por alimento.
Tanto dolor se agrupa en mi costado,
que por doler me duele hasta el aliento.
Un manotazo duro, un golpe helado,
un hachazo invisible y homicida,
un empujón brutal te ha derribado.
No hay extensión más grande que mi herida,
lloro mi desventura y sus conjuntos
y siento más tu muerte que mi vida.
Ando sobre rastrojos de difuntos,
y sin calor de nadie y sin consuelo
voy de mi corazón a mis asuntos.
Temprano levantó la muerte el vuelo,
temprano madrugó la madrugada,
temprano estás rodando por el suelo.
No perdono a la muerte enamorada,
no perdono a la vida desatenta,
no perdono a la tierra ni a la nada.
En mis manos levanto una tormenta
de piedras, rayos y hachas estridentes
sedienta de catástrofes y hambrienta
Quiero escarbar la tierra con los dientes,
quiero apartar la tierra parte
a parte a dentelladas secas y calientes.
Quiero minar la tierra hasta encontrarte
y besarte la noble calavera
y desamordazarte y regresarte
Volverás a mi huerto y a mi higuera:
por los altos andamios de las flores
pajareará tu alma colmenera
de angelicales ceras y labores.
Volverás al arrullo de las rejas
de los enamorados labradores.
Alegrarás la sombra de mis cejas,
y tu sangre se irá a cada lado
disputando tu novia y las abejas.
Tu corazón, ya terciopelo ajado,
llama a un campo de almendras espumosas
mi avariciosa voz de enamorado.
A las aladas almas de las rosas
del almendro de nata te requiero,
que tenemos que hablar de muchas cosas,
compañero del alma, compañero.



traducción al Inglés

The Child of the Plough

The Child of the Plough
Flesh of the yoke, he was born
more humbled than handsome,
with his neck plagued
by the neck-yoke.
He is born, like a tool,
destined to receive the blows
of a discontented land
and an unsatisfied plough.
Amongst dung pure and alive
from cows, he brings into life
a soul the colour of olives,
now old and silent.
He begins to live, and he begins
to die bit by bit
raising the crust
of his mother with the yoked oxen.
He begins to feel, and he feels
life is like a war,
and in his fatigue he knocks
against the bones of the earth.
He cannot count his age,
yet he knows that sweat
is a solemn crown
of salt for the labourer.
He works, and while he works,
serious and masculine,
he is anointed with rain and adorned
with cemetery flesh.
From the blows, strong,
and from the sun, burnished,
with an ambition for death
he tears apart the hard-fought bread.
With each new day he is
more like a root, less like a human being,
listening beneath his feet
the voice of the sepulchre.
And like a root he sinks down
slowly into the earth
so that the earth can flood
his brow with peace and bread.
I am pained by this hungry child,
a skeleton in skin,
and his ashen life
turns over my soul of oak.
I see him plough the stubble,
and devour a scrap of food,
and declare with his eyes
why is he flesh of the yoke.
His plough strikes at my chest,
his life at my throat,
and it pains me to see the earth
so great, so bare beneath his feet.
Who will save this little child,
smaller than an oat grain?
From where will come the hammer
executioner of this chain?
May it come from the hearts
of labouring men,
who before they are men are
and have been children of the plough.
 
Español

El niño yuntero

Carne de yugo, ha nacido
más humillado que bello,
con el cuello perseguido
por el yugo para el cuello.
Nace, como la herramienta,
a los golpes destinado,
de una tierra descontenta
y un insatifecho arado.
Entre estiércol puro y vivo
de vacas, trae a la vida
un alma color de olivo
vieja ya y encallecida.
Empieza a vivir, y empieza
a morir de punta a punta
levantando la corteza
de su madre con la yunta.
Empieza a sentir, y siente
la vida como una guerra,
y a dar fatigosamente
en los huesos de la tierra.
Contar sus años no sabe,
y ya sabe que el sudor
es una corona grave
de sal para el labrador.
Trabaja, y mientras trabaja
masculinamente serio,
se unge de lluvia y se alhaja
de carne de cementerio.
A fuerza de golpes, fuerte,
y a fuerza de sol, bruñido,
con una ambición de muerte
despedaza un pan reñido.
Cada nuevo día es
más raíz, menos criatura,
que escucha bajo sus pies
la voz de la sepurtura.
Y como raíz se hunde
en la tierra lentamente
para que la tierra inunde
de paz y panes su frente.
Me duele este niño hambriento
como una grandiosa espina,
y su vivir ceniciento
resuelve mi alma de encina.
Le veo arar los rastrojos,
y devorar un mendrugo,
y declarar con los ojos
que por qué es carne de yugo.
Me da su arado en el pecho,
y su vida en la garganta,
y sufro viendo el barbecho
tan grande bajo su planta.
¿Quién salvará a este chiquillo
menor que un grano de avena?
¿De dónde saldrá el martillo
verdugo de esta cadena?
Que salga del corazón
de los hombres jornaleros,
que antes de ser hombres son
y han sido niños yunteros.
Miguel Hernández


TIIE TRAIN OF TIIE WOUNDED

Silence that shipwrecks in ~e silenee

of the closed mollths during the night.

It never stops being silent, even when cut across.

It speaks tlie drowned tongile of the dead.

Silenee.

Open the roads of deep cotton,

muifie the wheels, the cloeks, h~d back the voice of the sea, of the pigeon:

stir np the night of dreams.

Silenee.

The soaked train of escaping blood,

the frail train of men bleeding to death,

the silent, the painful train, the pale train,

the speeehless train of agonies.

Silence.

Train of the deathly pallor that is aseending:


the pallor dresses the heads,

the "ah!", the voice, the heart, the dust,

the heart of those who were badly wounded.



Silence.





They go, spilling legs, arms, eyes,

they go, throwing chunks through the train.

They pass, leaving bitter traces,

a new Milky Way, with their own members for stars.



Silence.



Hoarse train, disheartened, blood-red:

the coal lies in its last agony, the smoke heavily breathes

and, maternal, the engine sighs,

it moves on, like a long discouragement.



Silence.



The long mother would like to come to a stop

under a tunnel, and he down weeping.

There are no way stations for us,

except in the hospital, or else in the breast.



To live, a mere bit is enough:

in a single comer of flesh, you can put up a man.

One finger alone, one piece of a wing alone

can lift the whole body into absolute flight.



Silence.



Stop that dying train

that never completes its journey across the night.

Even the dying horse is left without shoes,

and the hooves, and the breath, are buried under the sand.



Tra~ted b~ Ja~e8 Wri~



A N OflIOfl is frost
shut tight and poor.
Frost of your days
and rny rnghts.
~unger and Oflion,
black ice and frost
large and round.

My child lay there
in bis cradie of hunger
and nursed on
the blood of an Oflion
. But your blood
Was a frost of sugar
Ofl Ofljon and hunger.

Dissolved ~ InOon,
a dark~haired woman
lets trickle by tnckle
spill Over the cradie.
Little one, laugh,
YOU can eat up the ir~OOn
whenever YOU want.

Lark of my house,
laugh again and again.
Laughter's the light
of the world in your eyes.
Keep laughing so that
in my soní when it hears you
space will be conquered.

Your laughter frees me,
Lends me wings,
canceis loneliness,
tears down my prison,
lets my mouth fly, lets
heart touch your lips
flashing lightning.

Laughter's your most
victorious weapon,
conquering flowers
and larks,
rivalling suns,
future of ah my bones
arid my love.

Flesh quivering,


suddenly blinking,

chud never blushed

with such color.

So many linnets

flutter, fly up

from my body.



I awoke from being a chud:

you never waken.

My mouth is sad.

You always laugh!

In your cradie always

defending laughter

feather by feather.



Keep soaring so high

arid so far

you become flesh

of the just-born sky.

If I could only

go back to the start

of your flight!



Eight months arid your laughter,

five lemon blossoms.

Five of the tiniest

ferocities.

Those five teeth of yours

five adolescent

jasmines.



Tomorrow they'll arrive at

the frontier of kissing

when you will sense

in your teeth a weapon,

sense fire flow down

from those teeth

avidly seeking a center.



Little one, fly on

the double moon of the breast:

it, an onion sad and poor;

you, fed and content.


Do riot ~ter.

Never mmd what happens

or what's to come.











posted by JOAN PÀMIES I LÓPEZ @ 12:36 PM 

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