Clayton Eshleman, poeta y traductor norteamericano, ha venido traduciendo poemas de Vallejo desde la década del 50, cuando encontró el poema La Araña en una antología de poesía sudamericana de la editorial New Directions.
Su trabajo de traducción de Poemas Humanos le valió el importantísimo National Book Award en 1979.
Eshleman presentó ayer, en el auditorio del Instituto Cervantes en New York, la elegante edición bilingüe de esta PRIMERA TRADUCCION AL INGLES DE LA POESIA COMPLETA DE VALLEJO.
Es increíble que haya pasado tanto tiempo, pero por fin hay una poesía completa de Vallejo en inglés. Además, cuenta con un emotivo prólogo de Mario Vargas Llosa.
Eshleman leyó en inglés y la poeta mexicana Mónica de la Torre (PhD. Columbia University) leyó en español. La lectura en inglés fue muy intensa.
Eshleman, leyó 4 poemas de Los Heraldos Negros, cuatro de Trilce, 4 de Poemas Humanos y 2 de España aparta de mi este cáliz.
Pude grabar un fragmento de la lectura, El poema LVII de Trilce:
LVII
The highest points craterized, the points
of love, of capital being, I drink, I fast, I ab-
sorb heroin for the sorrow, for the languid
throb and against all correction.
Can I say that they’ve betrayed us? No.
That all were good? Neither. But
good will exist there, no doubt,
and above all, being so.
And so what who loves himself so! I seek myself
in my own design which was to be a work
of mine, in vain: nothing managed to be free.
And yet, who pushes me.
I bet I don’t dare shut the fifth window.
And the role of loving oneself and persisting, close to the
hours and to what is undue.
And this and that.
LVII
Craterizados los puntos más altos, los puntos
del amor, de ser mayúsculo, bebo, ayuno ab-
sorbo heroína para la pena, para el latido
lacio y contra toda corrección.
¿Puedo decir que nos han traicionado? No.
¿Que fueron todos buenos? Tampoco. Pero
allí está una buena voluntad, sin duda,
y sobre todo, el ser así
Y qué quien se ame mucho¡ Yo me busco
en mi propio designio que debió ser obra
mía, en vano: nada alcanzó a ser libre.
Y sin embargo, quién me empuja.
A que no me atrevo a cerrar la quinta ventana.
Y el papel de amarse y persistir, junto a las
horas y a lo indebido.
Y el éste y el aquél.
The New York Street 
5 diciembre, 2006 at 4:01 pm
>HOW ABOUT THIS DIFFERENT VERSION OF TRILCE LVII THAT I PROPOSE TO SHOW THE TREMENDOUS HARDSHIPS INVOLVED IN TRYING TO TRANSLATE VALLEJO’S POETRY:ONCE TORN DOWN THE HIGHEST PEAKS OF LOVING BEING GREAT,I DRINK, I FAST, I TAKE HEROINE TO APEACE MY SORROW, FOR THE LANGUID THROB, AGAINST ALL COMMANDS.WOULD I SAY THAT THEY BETRAYED US? NO.THAT THEY ALL WERE GOOD? NEITHER. BUT THERE IS SOME GOOD WILL THERE, NO DOUBT, AND ABOVE ALL BEING SO.SO WHAT IF I LOVE MYSELF DEARLY! AND SEARCH FOR MYSELF IN MY OWN DESIGN THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN MY OWN WORK, ALL IN VAIN: NOTHING GOT TO BE FREE AT ALL.AND YET, WHO PUSHES ME TO NOT DARING SHUT THE FIFTH PANE,AND THE ROLE OF LOVING MYSELF AND TO ENDURE, BY THE HOURS AND THE UNDUE?AND THIS AND THAT.
7 diciembre, 2006 at 1:54 am
>I’d like very much to receive (and convey) some comments on Vallejo’s poetry in english. It is something very hard to do well, but is worth trying, and I think I can add something towards that commended goal. I’ve read Vallejo for more that 40 years, in spanish, as a peruvian I can have a fine grasp for his colloquial expressions and inner motivations, and I think I can somehow know how to translate that into english after haveing lived up north for some 10 years of my life, always enjoying the reading of good potry, in spanish and in english.Please, come forth. Will answer all comments, for sure.
8 diciembre, 2006 at 3:24 am
>I’d join a serious discussion group of Vallejo’s poetry, and interchange thoughtful comments on it. I have some 40 yrs reading Vallejo and as a peruvian I think I have a special grasp at his ways and expressions.How about some attepts in translating him? Here I include some:TRILCE XPristine and the latest of unfounded joy, it just diedwith soul and everything, october room and pregnant,Three months of absence and ten of sweetHow fate,monosyllabic priest, laughs.How in the rear give up togethernessof contraries. How always the number appearsunder the line of every transformation. How whales undress doves.How in turn these leave the beakmarked out in third wing.How we harpoon, at face monotonous rumps.It is towed ten months toward the decennia,Toward something else further away.Two al least are left still in diapers.And the three months of absence.And the nine of gestation.There is not one single violence.The pacient raises,And once sat shows off quiet mixtures. TRILCE XII have found a girlin the street, and she has hugged me.X, ausculted, whoever found her and finds her,will not remember her.This girl is my cousin. Today, after touchingher waist, my hands have entered into her ageLike into a pair of badly finished tombs.And by the same desolation she left,delta on to the darkening sun,warble between us.“I got married”,she tells me. With what we did as childrenat the house of the dead aunt.She got married.She got married.Late latitudinal years,what true wishes have come to usto play to the bulls, to the yokes,but everything teasingly, in candor, like it was.
27 septiembre, 2007 at 1:28 am
>Hi everybody, I need some help with Poem 65 of Cesar Vallejo´s Trilce, please would you attach this poem in english.Thanks a lotPedro from Peru