[2] ARCHIVOS 1ª, 2ª, 3ª, 4ª, 5ª 6ª 7ª 8ª 9ª 10ª 11ª 12ª 13ª 14ª 15ª 16ª 17ª 18ª 19ª 20ª y 21ª BLOQUES

SUGERENCIA: Buscar poetas antologados fácilmente:
Escribir en Google: "Nombre del poeta" + Fernando Sabido
Si está antologado, aparecerá en las primeras referencias de Google

lunes, 14 de mayo de 2012


Nikola Vaptsarov  (Bansko, Bulgaria, 1909-1942)
Nikola Yonkov Vaptsarov nació el 7 de diciembre de 1909 en la ciudad de Bansko. Es uno de los poetas más populares de Bulgaria. Sus ideas humanistas, modernas y comprensivas a la vez, transmiten valores universales. Es admirado y respetado también por sus actividades en la resistencia antifascista que le valieron ser encarcelado, juzgado y ejecutado en 1942. Su libro de poemas más famoso se titula « Motor songs» (Cantos de Motor). Los poemas de Vaptsarov fueron traducidos a más de 40 idiomas. En 1952, diez años después de su muerte, se le concedió el Premio Internacional de la Paz a título póstumo.

En prisión, el aguerrido poeta de Cantos de motor, traducido a más de 40 idiomas, que había dedicado un ciclo al heroísmo de la República española, antes de ser ejecutado por sus ideas revolucionarias y antifascistas, escribió estos dos poemas finales:


a mi esposa

Quizás sin avisar, invitado lejano
al que ya nadie espera, te visite en un sueño.
No me dejes afuera a la intemperie.
No asegures del todo nuestra puerta.

Entraré con sigilo. Me sentaré despacio,
tratando de observarte en la penumbra.
Sólo cuando los ojos se sacien de mirar,
te besaré, y partiré para siempre.

La lucha es implacable y cruel.
La lucha es, como suele decirse, épica.
Yo moriré. Otro ocupará mi lugar… y así siempre.
¿Acaso importa aquí la suerte de uno mismo?

Un disparo, y después- sólo gusanos.
Esto es algo tan simple como lógico.
¡Pero en la tempestad de nuevo estaremos juntos,
oh pueblo mío, porque nos hemos amado!

(14.00 h. 23-VII-1942)

Traducidos por Juan Antonio Bernier


Nikola Vaptsarov 1909-1942

A factory, Clouds of smoke above.
The people – simple,
The life – hard, boring.
Life with the mask and grease-paint off
Is a savage dog snarling.

You must tirelessly fight,
Must be tough and persist,
To extract from the teeth
Of the angry,
                bristling beast
A crust.

Slapping belts in the shed,
Screeching shafts overhead,
And the air is so stale
You can’t easily

Not far off the spring breeze
Rocks the fields, the sun calls...
Leaning skyward
                        the trees
The factory walls.
How unwanted,
And strange
        are the fields !
        have thrown in the dustbin
The sky and its dreams.
For to stray for a second
Or soften your heart,
Is to lose to no purpose
Your strong
You must shout in the clatter
And din of machines
For your words
                to pass over
The spaces between.

I shouted for years –
An eternity ...
I gathered the others too shouted in chorus –
The factory,
                the machinery
And the man
                in the farthest,
                                darkest corner.
This shout forged an alloy of steel
And we armoured our life with its plate.
Just try putting
                a spoke in the wheel –
It’s your own hand you’ll break.

You, factory,
Still seek to blind us
With smoke and soot,
Layer on layer.
In vain! For you teach us to struggle.
We’ll bring
The sun
Down to us here.

So many
Under your tyranny smart.
But one heart within you tirelessly
Beats with a thousand hearts.


History, will you mention us
In your faded scroll?
We worked in factories, offices –
Our names were not well known.
We worked in fields, smelled strongly
Of onion and sour bread.
Through thick moustaches angrily
We cursed the life we led.

Will you at least be grateful
We fattened you with news
And slaked your thirst so richly
With the blood of slaughtered crowds?
You’ll lose the human focus
To view the panorama,
And no one will remember
The simple human drama.

The poets will be distracted
With pamphlets, progress rates;
Our unrecorded suffering
Will roam alone in space.

Was it a life worth noting,
A life worth digging up?
Unearthed, it reeks of poison,
Tastes bitter in the cup.

We were born along the hedgerows,
In the shelter of stray thorns
Our mothers lay perspiring,
Their dry lips tightly drawn.

We died like flies in autumn.
The women mourned the dead,
Turned their lament to singing –
But only the wild grass heard.

We who survived our brothers,
Sweated from every pore,
Took any job that offered,
Toiled as the oxen do.

At home our fathers taught us:
‘So shall it always be.’
But we scowled back and spat on
Their fool’s philosophy.

We quit the table curtly,
Ran out of doors, and there
In the open felt the stirring
Of something bright and fair.

How anxiously we waited
In crowded-out cafés,
And turned in late at night
With the last communiqués!

How we were soothed by hoping! ...
But leaden skies pressed lower,
The scorching wind hissed viciously ...
Till we could stand no more!

Yet in your endless volumes
Beneath each letter and line
Out pain will leer forbiddingly
And raise a bitter cry.

For life, showing no mercy,
With heavy brutish paw
Battered our hungry faces.
That’s why our tongue is raw.

That’s why the poems I’m writing
In hours I steal from sleep
Have not the grace of perfume,
But brief and scowling beat.

For the hardship and affliction
We do not seek rewards,
Nor do we want our pictures
In the calendar of years.

Just tell our story simply
To those we shall not see,
Tell those who will replace us –
We fought courageously.


A breathless, perspiring
Came to see me
And said:
‘Write a poem about Botev.’

‘A poem about Botev?’
I sat down.
‘All right,
Come back about seven
On Saturday night.’
Saturday’s long gone by – but I
Grimly persist
And heave a sigh.
The rooftops rattle
As engines battle
With moisture of spring
In the world
And the mist.

My mind is a blank,
My brain just repeating
The same old cant.
My heart beats in panic.
I put down the pen,
Scrap the paper,
Sigh deeply
And then
Say: ‘I can’t.’

I undress,
Lie in bed,
Fall asleep.
But here comes
The grimfaced worker
And asks:
‘Have you written the poem about Botev?’
                ‘The poem about Botev?
                Just listen ...
Stars gleam
In the moonswept sky,
Through rocky ravine
Grey wolves go by,
Their eyes in the darkness glisten ...’

The worker looks puzzled
And asks:
‘Is that Botev?

‘Write of the reapers braving the sun,
Of the tyrant toil,
Of the blood that runs
To blacken the soil,
Of the slaves who sing
To ease their pain
Slow songs which the wind
Bears over the plain.

‘Would Botev be seen
In a rocky ravine?
Even wild beasts of prey
Never go there today.
Can’t you see? Botev kindles
The light in our eyes.
Yes, Botev is here – with the people.
‘If you stumble, he says:
‘Up, and carry the flag!’
So I give you my hand
To help you stand,
And bolder we march along
Shoulder to shoulder.

‘That’s really Botev!
But you’ve used a lot of
Old junk. Cut it out!
Look at life! Move about!
And then you shall know him.
There, that is your poem!’

On Parting

To my wife
Sometimes I’ll come when you’re asleep,
An unexpected visitor.
Don’t leave me outside in the street,
Don’t bar the door!

I’ll enter quietly, softly sit
And gaze upon you in the dark.
Then, when my eyes have gazed their fill,
I’ll kiss you and depart.

The fight is hard and pitiless.
The fight is epic, as they say.
I fell. Another takes my place –
Why single out a name?

After the firing squad – the worms.
Thus does the simple logic go.
But in the storm, we’ll be with you,
My people, for we loved you so.

2 p.m. – 23 July, 1942

No hay comentarios: