i can't just sit on this forever
Around two years ago, I received a lengthy confession, explanation, divestment, whatever you want to call it, from the most passionate, most intimidatingly intelligent, most estrellada girl I never loved.
Contained within, in addition, was a sheaf of translations I'd been begging her to do for me, of Neruda, Paz, and other luminaries of the Spanish language. I always told her that with her command of both languages and her passion for poetry, and for the amount of bitching she always did about other editors' shitty translations, she ought to publish her own. I know she'd do well by them.
After two years, I figure the statute of limitations on these translations has expired. And so I publish them here. I'll start with Neruda's most famous poem, the one I'm most grateful to her for translating, and add others later. You will never find another translation of this poem as lyrical as this one. She was right: the others suck.
Sonnet 20
from Twenty Poems Of Love
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight
Write, for instance: "The night is shattered, stars strewn across the sky,
And, blue, they shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky, and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight
I cared for him, and sometimes he cared for me, too.
On nights like these he held me in his arms
I kissed him so many times under the infinite sky.
He cared for me, at times I cared for him too.
How could I not have loved those large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight
To think I don't have him. To feel I've lost him.
To hear the immense night, even more immense without him.
And the poem falls to the soul as the dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep him?
The night is full of stars and he is not with me.
That is all. In the distance someone sings. In the distance
My soul is not satisfied without him.
As if to bring him nearer, my eyes search for him.
To reach his ear, my voice sought out the gust of wind that would carry it near.
Another's. He will be another's. As he was before my kisses.
His voice, his bright body. His infinite eyes.
I no longer care for him, true, but perhaps I care for him.
Love is so short and forgetting is so long.
Because on nights like this he held me in his arms.
My soul is not satisfied now that I've lost him.
Although this may be the final pain he causes me,
And these be the last verses I write for him.
--Neruda
From the translator:
I've taken the artistic freedom to change the gender...
You're lucky I translated this. I HATE this poem in English. It's impossible to translate. Why?
Contained within, in addition, was a sheaf of translations I'd been begging her to do for me, of Neruda, Paz, and other luminaries of the Spanish language. I always told her that with her command of both languages and her passion for poetry, and for the amount of bitching she always did about other editors' shitty translations, she ought to publish her own. I know she'd do well by them.
After two years, I figure the statute of limitations on these translations has expired. And so I publish them here. I'll start with Neruda's most famous poem, the one I'm most grateful to her for translating, and add others later. You will never find another translation of this poem as lyrical as this one. She was right: the others suck.
Sonnet 20
from Twenty Poems Of Love
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight
Write, for instance: "The night is shattered, stars strewn across the sky,
And, blue, they shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky, and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight
I cared for him, and sometimes he cared for me, too.
On nights like these he held me in his arms
I kissed him so many times under the infinite sky.
He cared for me, at times I cared for him too.
How could I not have loved those large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight
To think I don't have him. To feel I've lost him.
To hear the immense night, even more immense without him.
And the poem falls to the soul as the dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep him?
The night is full of stars and he is not with me.
That is all. In the distance someone sings. In the distance
My soul is not satisfied without him.
As if to bring him nearer, my eyes search for him.
To reach his ear, my voice sought out the gust of wind that would carry it near.
Another's. He will be another's. As he was before my kisses.
His voice, his bright body. His infinite eyes.
I no longer care for him, true, but perhaps I care for him.
Love is so short and forgetting is so long.
Because on nights like this he held me in his arms.
My soul is not satisfied now that I've lost him.
Although this may be the final pain he causes me,
And these be the last verses I write for him.
--Neruda
From the translator:
I've taken the artistic freedom to change the gender...
You're lucky I translated this. I HATE this poem in English. It's impossible to translate. Why?
- "Estrellada" => shattered; star-filled. A beautiful visual image that English can't capture. It's NOT "starry". It's broken. Full of stars haphazardly strewn across the night -- NOT "starry".
- whirls, whirls, whirls -- NOT spin. They dance.
- gustar = like. Often associated with the senses. Me "gusta" the smell of eucalyptus, taste of peaches, etc.
- querer = to like, with affection. To want. To desire. Basically, affection. Can be applied romantically, friendship, family.
- amor = solely romantic. You don't feel "amor" for your brother or sister, or pet. There is a sense of passion in the word, not just affection.