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Spanish to English: excerpt from "El Libro de Todos Los Moles" General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: History
Source text - Spanish Para tomar confianza con un ángel barroco no hace falta, tan siquiera, cumplir con el deber del buen cristiano y acudir a una iglesia poblana. Basta con tener el antojo de unos chilaquiles y comerlos mientras se mira hacia el cielo raso. El palacio de los condes del valle de Orizaba, conocido como la Casa de los Azulejos en la ciudad México, ha venido siendo vapuleado por la historia hasta convertirse en un bello y popular restaurante. La historia de este lugar adorable parte de un tiempo lejano cuando, en la Valladolid de las Españas, un viernes santo del año 1453, un caballero fue lanzado desde una ventana del alcázar de Burgos. Este cadáver, el que se dijo que habia sideo defenestrado, inició una serie de leyendas que vinieron a dar con el primer conde del valle de Orizaba, que para nada nos importaría, si no fuera porque está intimamente ligado a la Casa de los Azulejos, que contiene dentro de sí a un ángel barroco que viene a ser el ejemplar más gozoso de cuanto ángel ha parido el mundo. No sé, y creo que nadie lo sabe, quién fue el hombre que modeló a este angel, con lo cual se significa la injusticia de que haya traído por los pelos a un ser de poca entidad para este libro, y sea yo, sin embargo, incapaz de resolver el misterio del ángel en el techo.
Por otra parte, la identidad del ángel, es cosa tan oscura que en un libro editado por San Angel Editores, en 1993, se le muestra a todo color y a pagina llena, bajo una noticia muy escueta:
“Cariatide de un espejo en el corredor de la planta alta de la Casa de los Azulejos.”
Translation - English To meet with a Baroque angel you need not comply with the duty of a good Christian and go to church in Puebla. It’s enough to have a craving for some chilaquiles and eat while looking at the ceiling. The Palace of the Counts of the Orizaba Valley, known as the House of Tiles in Mexico City, has been converted into a beautiful and popular restaurant. The history of this lovely place is from a distant time when, on Good Friday of 1453 in the Valladolid region of Spain, a gentleman was thrown out the window of the Burgos castle. This body, which could be said to have been “defenestrated,” initiated a series of legends which began with the first count of the Orizaba Valley, which for us would be unimportant if it were not that it is intimately linked to the House of Tiles, which contains within it a baroque angel that has come to be the most joyful example of what angels have given the world. I do not know, and I think nobody knows, who was the man who was the model for this angel, or the significance of the injustice that was done to him -- of little importance for this book, and I would be incapable of solving the mystery of the angel on the ceiling, nevertheless.
Moreover, the identity of the angel is something so obscure that in a book published by St. Angel Publishers in 1993, it is shown as a full-page color illustration with a very brief caption under it:
“Caryatid supporting a mirror in the hallway on the second floor of the House of Tiles.”
French to English: Iris, a poem by Ariane Dreyfus General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - French IRIS
Mais Dieu, surtout pas.
Ne mettez pas de mots vides dans votre bouche,
Hommes, regardez
Iris, malgré le mur,
Debout
C’est votre bleu.
Votre ligne, imaginons
Une plaie vivement recousue.
Votre broderie, sa joie se gonflant,
Quelques secondes d’amour par miracle successives.
Ici,
Du balancement le velours dressé,
Iris.
Je m’endors les mains sur toi.
Tu m’aimes si profondément qu’en dormant
Il y a ton visage pour le dire.
La nuit n’est pas noire.
Reconnaître ton sexe
A mon bonheur touché,
Fleur de l’infinie sculpture, fleur.
Plus rien de multiple.
La simplicité qui serait violente de te perdre,
qui serait d’un coup.
La vie simple vite tranchée
Serait mon visage dans la sciure.
Tu fermes les yeux pour que je les embrasse aussi,
C’est en confiance le ciel.
La langue dans le baiser, je dis la vérité.
Si j’ai la voix grave ?
Tantôt basse, tantôt soulevée dans le corps que tu cherches au milieu de tes mains.
Mes enfants grandissent, l’air passe. Serre-moi, toi qui es l’amour amour.
La vie éternelle n’est que mort, la vie veut seulement que les épaules frémissent l’une et l’autre et s’il fait froid, c’est qu’il n’y a pas de lumière sans qu’elle change.
La nuit les mains dansent obscurément.
Parfois le jour tu pars,
Je ramasse de l’invisible à plein courage.
Translation - English Iris
But God, certainly not
Don’t put empty words in your mouth,
People: look
Iris, despite the wall,
is standing
It’s your blue.
Your line, we imagine
A deep wound stitched.
Your embroidery, its joy inflated,
A few sequential seconds of love, by some miracle
Here
A stand to balance the velvet,
Iris.
I fall asleep in your hands.
You love me so deeply when sleeping
It’s written on your face.
The night is not black.
Experiencinging your sex
I reached happiness,
Flower of infinite sculpture: flower.
Never again repeated.
The simple fact of losing you
would be a blow.
This ordinary life sliced apart
Would be my face in the sawdust.
You close your eyes for me to kiss them too,
Believing in heaven.
In the language of kissing, I tell the truth.
Isn’t my voice deep?
Sometimes low, sometimes high, in the body that you seek with your hands.
My children grow up, in passing. Hold me, you who are love’s love.
Eternal life is nothing but death, a life that is only shivering, rubbing shoulders; and it is cold because there is no light without change.
The hands of night dance darkly.
Sometimes you leave during the day,
And I find courage in the invisible.
German to English: Mein Wald, Mein Leben by Emerenz Meier General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - German Ich sah den Wald im Sonnenglanz, /
Vom Abendrot beleuchtet, /
Belebt von düstrer Nebel Tanz, /
Vom Morgentau befeuchtet: /
Stets blieb er ernst, stets blieb er schön, /
Und stets mußt’ ich ihn lieben. /
Die Freud’ an ihm bleibt mir besteh’n, /
Die andern all zerstieben. /
Ich sah den Wald im Sturmgebraus, /
Vom Winter tief umnachtet, /
Die Tannen sein in wirrem Graus, /
Vom Nord dahingeschlachtet; /
Und lieben mußt’ ich ihn noch mehr, /
Ihn meiden könnt’ ich nimmer. /
Schön ist er, düsterschön und hehr, /
Und Heimat bleibt er immer. /
Ich sah mit hellen Augen ihn, /
Und auch mit tränenvollen; /
Bald hob er meinen frohen Sinn, /
Bald sänftigt’ er mein Grollen. /
In Sommersglut, in Winterfrost, – /
Konnt’ er mir mehr nicht geben, – /
So gab er meinem Herzen Trost; /
Und drum: Mein Wald, mein Leben! /
Translation - English I see the forest’s radiance
from evening sun lit red,
Alive with wisps of dancing mist,
From morning dew made wet;
Standing true; ever beautiful,
And always must I love it.
This joy remains within me,
When all else falls apart.
I see the forest in roaring storm,
From winter’s depths undone
The pines lie tangled in dread,
Slain from the North;
And I must love it even more,
I never could avoid it.
It is beautiful, dark, and noble,
And home will always be there.
I see it when my eyes are clear,
And also when in tears;
It quickly lifts my spirits high,
And soon it soothes my grumbling.
In summer’s heat, in winter’s frost
It could not yield me more,
So my heart takes comfort;
And drums its beat: My forest, my life!
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Years of experience: 17. Registered at ProZ.com: Sep 2009.
TranslateOT tech & literary translation in Washington DC. Into English from German, French, Spanish, Italian, and other languages.
Keywords: American English translation, USA translator, technical translation, literary translation, washington dc translator, into English translator, overnight translation
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