Ver, a propósito, o conceito de "tradução generativa" avançado por Lisa Rose Bradford, aqui: http://docs.lib.purdue.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=2365&context=clcweb
Onde se diz ser esta tradução aquela que, em vez de clonar o poema, o cultiva, e também: "This time-traveled correspondence is key in generative translation, which creates an expression that points, implies, insinuates within a serialized moment where the volume functions as an echo of other voices."
He Died at Sunrise
Onde se diz ser esta tradução aquela que, em vez de clonar o poema, o cultiva, e também: "This time-traveled correspondence is key in generative translation, which creates an expression that points, implies, insinuates within a serialized moment where the volume functions as an echo of other voices."
He Died at Sunrise
A translation for Allen Joyce
Night of four moons
And a single tree,
With a single shadow
And a single bird.
I look into my body for
The tracks of your lips.
A stream kisses into wind
Without touch.
I carry the No you gave me
Clenched in my palm
Like something made of wax
An almost-white lemon.
Night of four moons
And a single tree
At the point of a needle
Is my love, spinning.
Jack Spicer (After Lorca, 1957)
Muriò al amañecer
Noche de cuatro lunas
y un solo árbol,
con una sola sombra
y un solo pájaro.
Busco en mi carne las
huellas de tus labios.
El manantial besa al viento
sin tocarlo.
Llevo el No que me diste,
en la palma de la mano,
como un limón de cera
casi blanco.
Noche de cuatro lunas
y un solo árbol,
En la punta de una aguja,
está mi amor ¡girando!
Night of four moons
And a single tree,
With a single shadow
And a single bird.
I look into my body for
The tracks of your lips.
A stream kisses into wind
Without touch.
I carry the No you gave me
Clenched in my palm
Like something made of wax
An almost-white lemon.
Night of four moons
And a single tree
At the point of a needle
Is my love, spinning.
Jack Spicer (After Lorca, 1957)
Muriò al amañecer
Noche de cuatro lunas
y un solo árbol,
con una sola sombra
y un solo pájaro.
Busco en mi carne las
huellas de tus labios.
El manantial besa al viento
sin tocarlo.
Llevo el No que me diste,
en la palma de la mano,
como un limón de cera
casi blanco.
Noche de cuatro lunas
y un solo árbol,
En la punta de una aguja,
está mi amor ¡girando!
Things do not connect; they correspond. That is what makes it possible for a poet to
translate real objects, to bring them across language as easily as he can bring them across
time. That tree you saw in Spain is a tree I could never have seen in California, that
lemon has a different smell and a different taste, BUT the answer is this – every place
and every time has a real object to correspond with your real object- that lemon may
become this lemon, or it may even become this piece of seaweed, or this particular color
of gray in this ocean. One does not need to imagine that lemon; one needs to discover it.
Even these letters. They correspond with something (I don’t know what) that you have written (perhaps as unapparently as that lemon corresponds to this piece of seaweed) and, in turn, some future poet will write something which corresponds to them. That is how we dead men write to each other. (extract from letter to García Lorca in Jack Spicer's After Lorca, 1957)
Even these letters. They correspond with something (I don’t know what) that you have written (perhaps as unapparently as that lemon corresponds to this piece of seaweed) and, in turn, some future poet will write something which corresponds to them. That is how we dead men write to each other. (extract from letter to García Lorca in Jack Spicer's After Lorca, 1957)
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