One of Lorca's renditions of New York (click to enlarge) Translation is not limited to language. It also occurs between one form and another. Taking a bike to work would hardly be the same as a car, train, or donkey. The results could be said to be the same, but the experiences are distinct. Each has pluses and disadvantages, add-ons and deductions which improve and worsen. To say one is superior is to exaggerate or overly focus on a circumstance and not take account of the entire panorama. To do something in different forms is to enter into dialogue with the experience; to explore its nature and discover about both it and yourself.
Leonard Cohen tells that he discovered Federico García Lorca’s Poeta en Nueva York as a teenager in Montreal. He often relates this story in his concerts and although there is probably a degree of romanticization, it seems to mark a before and after in his life; as if at that point the world of lyric opened and the beautifully-voiced poet that is loved by many was born. Cohen has famously visited Spain and paid homage to Lorca, but perhaps his most moving tribute came in the form of his version of Lorca’s “Pequeño vals vienés”. It is a place where languages meet, cultures intertwine, and forms blend. First the poem and then Cohen’s live performance. Happy new year!
Leonard Cohen tells that he discovered Federico García Lorca’s Poeta en Nueva York as a teenager in Montreal. He often relates this story in his concerts and although there is probably a degree of romanticization, it seems to mark a before and after in his life; as if at that point the world of lyric opened and the beautifully-voiced poet that is loved by many was born. Cohen has famously visited Spain and paid homage to Lorca, but perhaps his most moving tribute came in the form of his version of Lorca’s “Pequeño vals vienés”. It is a place where languages meet, cultures intertwine, and forms blend. First the poem and then Cohen’s live performance. Happy new year!
| Pequeño vals vienés por Federico García Lorca del libro Poeta en Nueva York En Viena hay diez muchachas, un hombro donde solloza la muerte y un bosque de palomas discadas. Hay un fragmento de la mañana en el museo de la escarcha. Hay un salón con mil ventanas. ¡Ay, ay, ay, ay! Toma este vals con la boca cerrada. Este vals, este vals, este vals, de sí, de muerte y de coñac que moja su cola en el mar. Te quiero, te quiero, te quiero, con la butaca y el libro muerto, por el melancólico pasillo, en el oscuro desván del lirio, en nuestra cama de la luna y en la danza que sueña la tortuga. ¡Ay, ay, ay, ay! Toma este vals de quebrada cintura. | En Viena hay cuatro espejos donde juegan tu boca y los ecos. Hay una muerte para piano que pinta de azul a los muchachos. Hay mendigos por los tejados. Hay frescas guirnaldas de llanto. ¡Ay, ay, ay, ay! Toma este vals que se muerte en mis brazos. Porque te quiero, te quiero, amor mío, en el desván donde juegan los niños, soñando viejas luces de Hungría por los rumores de la tarde tibia, viendo ovejas y lirios de nieve por el silencio oscuro de tu frente. ¡Ay, ay, ay, ay! Toma este vals del “Te quiero siempre”. En Viena bailaré contigo con un disfraz que tenga cabeza del río. ¡Mira qué orillas tengo de jacintos! Dejaré mi boca entre tus piernas, mi alma en fotografías y azucenas, y en las ondas oscuras de tu andar quiero, amor mío, amor mío, dejar, violín y sepulcro, las cintas del vals. | |
