There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know!
Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before them
the undertow of all our sufferings
is embedded in our souls . . . I don't know!
There are few; but are . . . opening dark furrows
in the fiercest of faces and the strongest of loins,
They are perhaps the colts of barbaric Attilas
or the dark heralds Death sends us.
They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul,
of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes.
Those bloody blows are the crepitation
of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door
And the man . . . poor . . . poor!
He turns his eyes around, like
when patting calls us upon our shoulder;
he turns his crazed maddened eyes,
and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze.
There are such hard blows in life. I don't know.
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
-
I like it
--SRL -
great translations (i think)...one note -- i think "cuando sobre el hombro una palmada nos llama" would sound best in english as "when a tap on the shoulder calls us" (or "calls to us"?)
A question: Has anyone found a good translation (official or unofficial) of Trilce? I want to share these poems with non-spanish-speaking friends, but i refuse to even attempt a translation of my own, which would be a disaster!
thanks... -
Great comment Manuel. Thanks for visiting and sharing your translation of this poem.
-
The translation is pretty good. I am a native speaker of Spanish, and I had attempted one some time ago that goes like this:
The black heralds
There are blows in life, so hard . . . I don't know!
Blows like from God's hate; as if before them,
the residue of all that was suffered
would stagnate in the soul . . . I don't know!
They are few, but they are . . .They open dark furrows
in the fiercest of faces and in the strongest of loins.
They would be perhaps the horses of barbaric attilas;
or the black heralds that Death sends upon us.
They are the deep fallings of the Christs from the soul
from some adorable faith that Destiny blasphemes.
Those bloody blows are cracklings
of some bread that burns upon us at the oven's door.
An man . . . Poor devil . . .poor devil! He turns his eyes, like
when a clap calls us over the shoulder;
he turns his crazy eyes, and all that was lived
stagnates like a puddle of guilt, in his stare.
There are blows in life, so hard . . . I don't know!
"el odio de Dios" is God's hate. Wrath is "ira", ire, something that you may unleash even on somebody you love.
"resaca" is frequently translated as undertow, or backwash, but further south it means the residue of solid matter that is left by the receding tide. Probably ther is a term in English for that, but I canno find it.
"potros" is not necessary colts, but adult horses too, and it is unlikely that the black heralds ride on colts. In fact colt is "potrillo".
On the other hand I suspect that some of the forms that you use are more appropriate in English, like the use of gerund for the burning bread.
Concerning the ". . . Pobre . . . Pobre!" exclamation, it expresses pity, that is not reflected in the English "poor". That is why I translated it as "poor devil".
But it is a stiking and beautiful poem in Spanish, and (modestia aparte) I think that both our translations keep some of its original strength.
I have attempted many Vallejo translations. On one hand, since the majority of his poems (with some exceptions, including Los heraldos) do not have rhyme, they are easier to translate, but the use of words that have more than one meaning even in Spanish makes it very difficult.
Adding your comment:
