NORMAN DUBIE [8.397]

Norman Dubie

Vermont, Estados Unidos, 1945
Ganador del prestigioso Griffin Awards Internacional, 2016.

OBRAS:

Poesía

Selected & New Poems (1986) ISBN 978-0-393-30140-3
Groom Falconer (1990) ISBN 0-393-30570-8
Radio Sky (1992) ISBN 978-0-393-30852-5
The Mercy Seat : Collected and New Poems 1967-2001 (Copper Canyon Press, 2001) ISBN 1-55659-212-4
Ordinary Mornings of a Coliseum (Copper Canyon Press, 2004) ISBN 1-55659-213-2
The Insomniac Liar of Topo (Copper Canyon Press, 2007)
The Volcano (Copper Canyon Press, 2010)

Antologías

The Morrow Anthology of Younger American Poets
The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry
David Walker, ed. (2006). American Alphabets: 25 Contemporary Poets. Oberlin College Press. ISBN 978-0-932440-28-0.


De Políticas y Arte

Para Allen

Aquí, en el punto más alejado de la península
la tormenta de invierno
que viene del Atlántico sacudió la escuela.
La Sra. Whitimore, estaba muriendo
de tuberculosis, dijo que sería después de la noche
antes de la barredora de nieve y de que el ómnibus llegara.

Nos leyó a Melville.

De cómo en un instante calamitoso
de la pesca marítima
algunos hombres en un bote se encontraron de repente
en el quieto y resguardado centro
de una gran manada de ballenas
donde todas las hembras nadaban a los lados
protegiendo allí a las crías. Los fríos balleneros, aterrados
miraban fijamente lo que suponían
era el extático lapidario estanque del ojo observador
de una hembra protectora.
Y estaban en paz consigo mismos.

Hoy escuché a una mujer decir
que podrían enseñar
Melville en la próxima década. Otra mujer preguntó: ‘¿Y por qué no?’
La primera respondió, ‘Porque no hay
Mujeres en su novela’.

Y la Sra. Whitimore estaba leyendo ahora de los Salmos.
Tosiendo en su pañuelo. Nieve sobre las ventanas.
Había una luz azul en su cara, pechos, y brazos.
A veces toda una civilización puede morir
pacíficamente en una sola mujer, joven, en un aula calefaccionada
con treinta niños
cautivados, confiados y escuchando la voz pura
de la tormenta hablar por Dios.

Versión © Silvia Camerotto


Of Politics & Art

for Allen

Here, on the farthest point of the peninsula
The winter storm
Off the Atlantic shook the schoolhouse.
Mrs. Whitimore, dying
Of tuberculosis, said it would be after dark
Before the snowplow and bus would reach us.

She read to us from Melville.

How in an almost calamitous moment
Of sea hunting
Some men in an open boat suddenly found themselves
At the still and protected center
Of a great herd of whales
Where all the females floated on their sides
While their young nursed there. The cold frightened whalers
Just stared into what they allowed
Was the ecstatic lapidary pond of a nursing cow's
One visible eyeball.
And they were at peace with themselves.

Today I listened to a woman say
That Melville might
Be taught in the next decade. Another woman asked, "And why not?"
The first responded, "Because there are
No women in his one novel."

And Mrs. Whitimore was now reading from the Psalms.
Coughing into her handkerchief. Snow above the windows.
There was a blue light on her face, breasts, and arms.
Sometimes a whole civilization can be dying
Peacefully in one young woman, in a small heated room
With thirty children
Rapt, confident and listening to the pure
God-rendering voice of a storm.

Las citas del hueso

La comida del hueso fue una leche agria-
sólo las cabezas de alces gigantes
en un ciclo sombrío mirando hacia
un tazón de madera lleno de galletas
y puerco. Un cuchillo largo
acomodado en la carne
callosa de la mano de un leñador.
Él sonríe a su mujer
que está envenenándolo lentamente
con la resina fibrosa de la campanillas.
Un insípido solvente con un cerdo rosado.
Los discursos del hueso
son conyugales en el otoño temprano-
para enero hay espuma de sangre
en una fosa nasal.
Él piensa que un témpano está enterrado en su oído.
Ella piensa que D. H. Lawrence fue un triste bucanero.
Odio a la mayoría de los hombres. Adoro a unos cuantos llamados Lou.
Un pequeño apéndice:
Los alces muertos también están sonriendo.

Traducción de Tania Márquez Aragón


The Quotations of Bone

The meal of bone was a soured milk—
just the heads of giant elk
in a dark circle looking down
on a wooden bowl of soda crackers
and pork. One large knife
resting in the meat
of a woodsman’s calloused hand.
He grins at his woman
who is slowly poisoning him
with the stringy resins of morning glory.
A tasteless turpentine with pink pig.
The speeches of bone
are matrimonial in early autumn—
by January there’s a froth of blood
at a nostril.
He thinks a long icicle is buried in his ear.
She thinks D. H. Lawrence was a grim buccaneer.
I hate most men. Adore the few named Lou.
One small addendum:
the dead elk are grinning too.



Telegrama

Los borradores de Baudelaire sobre pimenteros
y grandes ciervos dormidos en la nieve – una balsa cósmica
que se quema sobre la colina nocturna.

Un truco de cartas con una amante del distrito,
la insistente sífilis, antiguos
orbes de flores arrugadas –
sentimental

descansando sobre un periódico mojado
pero no por las lluvias de invierno – no en París.

Chère, unos gran danés

están comiéndose tu zapato negro.

Traducción de Adalberto García



Telegram

Baudelaire’s draft of pepper trees
and large deer asleep in snow – a cosmic raft
burning above the night hill.

A card trick with a district mistress,
the purposeful syphilis, ancient
orbs of flowers fold –
sentimental,

resting on wet newspaper
but not with winter rains – not Paris.

Chère, Great Danes

eating your black shoe.



Cantor, Frege & Gödel:

Aflojando arañas a través del inerte barítono
del tiempo transficcional,
él describe la ausencia exacta
del momento de equilibrio,

un panal de universos rotando,
concibiendo el espacio como un plato
de espagueti, blanco
en salsa blanca, aritmética
a priori en un mundo físico.

El lenguaje oculto asciende
para conocer su propio magnetismo—
aquí es seguro
para nosotros los conejos. Lago
Larkspur, salsa de hueso de cordero.

La angustia en todo esto
es menos que nuestra objeción
a la vejez, sufrimiento
y muerte por saltamontes.

Kurt pregunta, ¿Cómo es que un delicioso insecto gordo
puede crear hambrunas exitosas?
En la ciudad lógica, sus antenas, alas y piernas
son quemadas por montones como combustible.

Incluso el Rey se deleita con ellas,
si primero las baña en cenizas y engrudo.

Traducción de Esteban López Arciga


Cantor, Frege & Gödel

Loosening spiders across the inert baritone
of transfictional time,
he describes the exact absence
of moment in equilibrium,

a beehive of rotating universes,
devising space like a plate
of spaghetti, white
in white sauce, a priori
arithmetic in a physical world.

The hidden language rises
to meet its own magnetism—
it is safe here
for all us rabbits. Larkspur,
lake, a gravy of lamb bone.

The sorrow in all this
is less than our objection
to old age, suffering
and death by grasshopper.

Kurt asks how a delectable fat insect
can create a successful famine?
In the logical city their antennae, wings and legs
are burned by the bushel as fuel.

And even the King delights in them
if first dipped in ashes and gruel.



Anuario de la Física Oscura

El Mar Báltico se congeló en 1307. Los pájaros
volaron hacia el norte desde el mediterráneo en Enero
temprano. Cayeron tormentas meteóricas alrededor
de europa.

En el primer día de Cuaresma
dos niños se suicidaron:
sus cuerpos
fueron convertidos en zalea
y arrastrados por el caballo del verdugo
las tres millas hacia el fondo del mar.
Se les dio una tumba simple, en la arena.

El domingo siguiente, el Maestro Eckhart
gritó que una palabra secreta
se le había revelado. Dió un sermón

De que María Magdalena
había buscado a un hombre muerto en la tumba
pero, confundida, sólo encontró
a dos ángeles riéndose…

Y que eso fue por su pureza

Y su dolor, tan humano.
El Mar Báltico
también se congeló en 1303…
Nada pasó que fuera digno de la poesía.

Traducción de Sergio Eduardo Cruz



An Annual of the Dark Physics

The Baltic Sea froze in 1307. Birds flew north
From the Mediterranean in early January.
There were meteor storms throughout Europe.

On the first day of Lent
Two children took their own lives:
Their bodies
Were sewn into goatskins
And were dragged by the hangman’s horse
The three miles down to the sea.
They were given a simple grave in the sand.

The following Sunday, Meister Eckhart
Shouted that a secret word
Had been spoken to him. He preached

That Mary Magdalene
Sought a dead man in the tomb
But, in her confusion, found
Only two angels laughing. . .

This was a consequence of her purity

And her all too human grief.
The Baltic Sea
Also froze in 1303—
Nothing happened that was worthy of poetry.



Amanecer de South Boston, 53’

El mar está oscuro y entrecortado.
a lo lejos, en las calles de papel vitela
sólo hay taxis.
Tres monjas se sientan en el banco de piedra
y estudian la tormenta sin menosprecio,
sin saltar en los brazos de la tormenta-

aunque puedan ser novias salvajes,
aunque el aire del mar, con gran volumen,
empuje las granjas gris mate
de New Hampshire
en una larga miseria familiar-
las Hermanas
son sus propios paraguas oscuros, doblándose
entre los arboles invernales.

Traducción de Adalberto García López



South Boston Morning, ’53:

Very pragmatic closets of falling water,
bath and sewer, complex
dwellers eating black bread,
molasses and stringy beef,
eggs like fat flowers
smack the backs of griddlecakes
and rain is thrown against the window
white and elastic with one blue gull
in a loud commentary.

The sea is dark and choppy.
So far, out on the vellum streets
only taxis.
Three nuns sit on the stone bench
and study the storm without contempt,
without leaping into the arms of it—

though wild brides they may be,
though sea air, in heavy volume,
is pushing the dull grey farms
of New Hampshire
into a long familiar misery—
the Sisters
are their own dark umbrellas, folding
among the winter trees.



Un maestro Zen del siglo quince

Una joven ciega camina sobre peldaños rojos
de una bañera. El vapor se eleva desde sus hombros y cabello
Camina a través de la suciedad de suelo hacia ti
pienso que no eres su abuelo
miras junto a ella un hombre rosado
que ha evitado pagar impuestos por dos inviernos-
está siendo enjuiciado por gallos
y ha sido perseguido desde muy lejos hasta el campo. Sobre él

sacos de estiércol de murciélago están apilados
en las ramas purpuras de los arboles cardos
él es indiferente para el río
y nosotros también
Le dices a tu mujer que esas bolsas de excremento ardiendo
son como budas inmóviles
disolviéndose en un campo de cualidades.

Ella ríe nerviosa, tiene un diente delantero flojo
con el fondo del río nítido como el aire de la noche,
el barquero canta a través de los vapores hambrientos
que ahora emergen como serpientes blancas detrás de él.
Le dijiste a su esposa que el señor Buda hizo avispas
de caña amarilla de tabaco con un escupitajo negro.

En la bajada del frío bambú una mujer famélica
ha abierto un pequeño cerdo-
¿Antiguas lunas ascienden de su reluciente estomago azulado,
o es la infinita
luz que se desvanece de los sacos de excremento?

Maestro, ¿dónde está la diferencia?

Traducción de Tania Márquez Aragón



A Fifteenth-Century Zen Master

A blind girl steps over the red staves
Of a tub. Steam rising from her shoulders and hair,
She walks across a dirt floor to you.
I think you are not her grandfather.
You watch with her a pink man
Who has avoided taxes for two winters—
He is being judged by roosters
And has been chased this far into the countryside. Above him

Burning sacks of bat dung are arranged
In the purple branches of the thistle trees.
The river is indifferent to him.
And so are we.
You tell your mistress the burning bags of shit
Are like inert buddhas
Dissolving in a field of merit.

She giggles. A front tooth is loose.
With the river bottom clear as the night air,
The bargeman sings through the hungry vapors
Rising now like white snakes behind him.
You told his wife that Lord Buddha made wasps
From yellow stalks of tobacco with a dark spit.

Down in the cold bamboo a starving woman
Has opened a small pig—
The old moons climb from its blue glistening stomach,
Or is it light
From the infinitely receding sacks of shit?

Master, where is the difference?



Para Tranströmer

En la fría, en la intensa lluvia a través
de su pobre lente
una mujer
que podría ser un hombre
escribe con una lata de pintura azul
números grandes
en los costados de varadas ballenas—

incluso en la más pequeña que todavía
vive exhalando justo a un lado
de su madre oscureciente
donde el mismísimo aire es torniquete…

Estoy cierto de que esta mujer
está conmovida, como cualquiera
esperaría— sus disciplinas,

un regalo garantizado para nosotros,
para el negocio, el gobierno
para nuestra milicia,

y aunque ella ha mostrado cuidado y paciencia
hasta aquí talento
para ir contando

contando…

Traducción de Roberto Amézquita



For Transtromer

In the cold heavy rain, through
its poor lens,
a woman
who might be a man
writes with a can of blue paint
large numbers
on the sides of beached whales—

even on the small one who is still
living, heaving
there next to its darkening mother
where the very air is a turnstile…

I’m certain this woman is moved
as anyone would be—
her disciplines,

a warranted gift to us,
to business, government
and our military,

and still she exhibits care and patience
this further
talent for counting,

counting…


At Corfu

In seventeen hundred, a much hated sultan
visited us twice, finally
dying of headaches in the south harbor.

Ever since, visitors have come to the island.
They bring their dogs and children.

The ferry boat with a red cross
freshly painted on it
lifts in uneven drafts of smoke and steam
devising the mustard horizon
that is grotesque with purple thunderheads.

In the rising winds the angry sea birds
circle the trafficking winter ghosts
who are electric like the locusts at Patmos.

They are gathering sage in improvised slings
along the hillsides,
they are the lightning strikes scattering wild cats
from the bone yard:
here, since the war, fertilizer trucks
have idled much like the island itself.

We blame the wild cats who have eaten
all the jeweled yellow snakes of the island.

When sufficiently distant, the outhouses have a sweetness
like frankincense.

A darker congregation, we think the last days
began when they stripped the postage stamps
of their lies and romance.

The chaff of the hillsides
rises like a cramp, defeating a paring of moon . . . its
hot, modest conjunction of planets . . . 

And with this sudden hard rain
the bells on the ferry boat
begin a long elicit angelus.

Two small Turkish boys run out into the storm--
here, by superstition,
they must laugh and sing--like condemned lovers,

ashen and kneeling,
who are being washed

by their dead grandmothers' grandmothers.



The Boy Breughel

The birches stand in their beggar's row:
Each poor tree
Has had its wrists nearly
Torn from the clear sleeves of bone,
These icy trees
Are hanging by their thumbs
Under a sun
That will begin to heal them soon,
Each will climb out
Of its own blue, oval mouth;
The river groans,
Two birds call out from the woods

And a fox crosses through snow
Down a hill; then, he runs,
He has overcome something white
Beside a white bush, he shakes
It twice, and as he turns
For the woods, the blood in the snow

Looks like the red fox,
At a distance, running down the hill:
A white rabbit in his mouth killed
By the fox in snow
Is killed over and over as just
Two colors, now, on a winter hill:

Two colors! Red and white. A barber's bowl!
Two colors like the peppers
In the windows
Of the town below the hill. Smoke comes
From the chimneys. Everything is still.

Ice in the river begins to move,
And a boy in a red shirt who woke
A moment ago
Watches from his window
The street where an ox
Who's broken out of his hut
Stands in the fresh snow
Staring cross-eyed at the boy
Who smiles and looks out
Across the roof to the hill;
And the sun is reaching down
Into the woods

Where the smoky red fox still
Eats his kill. Two colors.
Just two colors!
A sunrise. The snow.


Sky Harbor

The flock of pigeons rises over the roof,
and just beyond them, the shimmering asphalt fields
gather their dull colored airliners.

It is the very early night,
a young brunette sits before the long
darkening glass of the airport's west wall.

She smells coffee burning
and something else--  her old mother's
bureau filled with mothballs.

Her nearly silver blouse smells of anise
and the heat of an iron.
She suddenly brushes sleep from her hair.

I have been dead for hours. The brunette
witness to nothing studies her new lipstick
smeared on a gray napkin.

The fires of a cremation tank are rising...
she descends into Seattle
nervous over the blinking city lights

that are climbing to meet her flight.
The old man seated next to her closes his book.
He has recognized her.

And leans into the window
to whisper, nothing happens. Nothing
ever happens.