7502.- MOLLY PEACOCK

Molly Peacock

Molly Peacock (Nacida en Buffalo, New York, EE.UU, 1947) es una poeta americano-canadiense, ensayista y escritora creativa de no ficción. Es una ex alumna de la Universidad de Binghamton.

Poesía:

And Live Apart, University of Missouri Press, 1980, ISBN 978-0-8262-0288-8

Raw Heaven, Random House, 1984, ISBN 978-0-394-53973-7

Take Heart, Random House, 1989, ISBN 978-0-394-57515-5

Original Love, Lightning Source Inc, 1996, ISBN 978-0-393-31466-3

Cornucopia: New & Selected Poems, W.W. Norton, 2002, ISBN 9780393051230

The Second Blush: Poems . W. W. Norton & Company. 2008. ISBN 978-0-393-06651-7.

No-ficción:

The Paper Garden: Mrs. Delany Begins Her Life's Work at 72 . McClelland & Stewart. 2010. ISBN 978-0-7710-7033-4.; Bloomsbury Publishing USA, 2011, ISBN 978-1-60819-523-7

How To Read A Poem and Start A Poetry Circle, Riverhead Books, 1999, ISBN 978-1-57322-128-3

Paradise, Piece By Piece, Riverhead Books, 1998, ISBN 978-1-57322-097-2

"Introduction" . Understory. UPNE. 1996. ISBN 978-1-55553-286-4.

Premios:

Ms. Peacock has received recognition from the Leon Levy Center for Biography (CUNY), Danforth Foundation, Ingram Merrill Foundation, Woodrow Wilson Foundation, National Endowment for the Arts, and New York State Council on the Arts. She was President of the Poetry Society of America from 1989 to 1995, and again from 1999 to 2001. She served as Poet in Residence at the American Poets' Corner, Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine from 2000 to 2005. Ms. Peacock was also Regents' Fellow at University of California, Riverside and Poet in Residence at Bucknell University and the University of Western Ontario.

PORQUE NO SOY BUDISTA

Amo el deseo, el estado de necesidad y de saber

adquirir; construir un reino en el alma 

requiere del deseo. Amo las cosas que anhelo: 

tú en tu bata de baño sin amarrar, las lenguas de efectivo que cuelgan 

de mi billetera; y amo lo que quiero: ropa,

casas, redenciones. ¿Acaso un traje  nuevo color malva 

equivale a Dios? Oh, no, el deseo tiene jerarquías. Perder 

una pluma amada no es igual a perder la fe. El deseo pertinaz 

por un pastel de nuez es menos apremiante que la muerte,

pero  el pastel en su plato adquiere un significado,

incluso cuando el amor peligra y ya nada importa.

Para mi madre, salud, para mi hermana, desposeída, 

entereza. Pero ¿por qué el deseo es sufrimiento?

¿Por qué la carencia deja al mundo en harapos?

¿De qué otra manera si no en harapos debe estar el mundo?

Una casa con un portal rodeado de columnas en lo alto sobre un lago.

Ten, aquí está tu dinero. Un rostro amado en agonía, 

el espíritu se ha marchado. Ten, usa mis harapos de amor.

Traducción de Argentina Rodríguez

Why I Am Not a Buddhist

I love desire, the state of want and thought

of how to get; building a kingdom in a soul

requires desire. I love the things I’ve sought-

you in your beltless bathrobe, tongues of cash that loll 

from my billfold- and love what I want: clothes,

houses, redemption. Can a new mauve suit

equal God? Oh no, desire is ranked. To lose

a loved pen is not like losing faith. Acute

desire for nut gateau is driven out by death,

but the cake on its plate has meaning,

even when love is endangered and nothing matters.

For my mother, health; for my sister, bereft,

wholeness. But why is desire suffering?

Because want leaves a world in tatters?

How else but in tatters should a world be?

A columned porch set high above a lake.

Here, take my money. A loved face in agony,

the spirit gone. Here, use my rags of love.

Altruism

What if we got outside ourselves and there   

really was an outside out there, not just   

our insides turned inside out? What if there   

really were a you beyond me, not just   

the waves off my own fire, like those waves off   

the backyard grill you can see the next yard through,   

though not well -- just enough to know that off   

to the right belongs to someone else, not you.   

What if, when we said I love you, there were   

a you to love as there is a yard beyond   

to walk past the grill and get to? To endure   

the endless walk through the self, knowing through a bond   

that has no basis (for ourselves are all we know)   

is altruism: not giving, but coming to know   

someone is there through the wavy vision   

of the self's heat, love become a decision.

“Altruism” from Cornucopia: New and Selected Poems 1975-2002.