Chella Courington
(Alabama, EE.UU., 1956)
Nacida y criada en las montañas Apalaches en el norte de Alabama, Chella Courington creció en una familia de narradores. Seducida por la palabra escrita, se decidió por un doctorado en Literatura en la Universidad de Carolina del Sur y estudió con James Dickey. En 2002 se mudó a California con un economista y dos gatos, antes de regresar a la poesía.
Ahora enseña en Santa Barbara City College, tiene poesía publicada o está próxima a publicar en Carquinez Poetry Review, Phantasmagoria, Ibbetson St Press, In The Grove, Iris (online), The Tusculum Review, Lotus Blooms Journal, King Log, NILAS, Healing Voice, y en varias antologías. Su primer libro, publicado por Foothills Publishing of New York en Noviembre 2004, is entitled Southern Girl Gone Wrong .
Verano a los trece
A Anna Claire y a mí nunca nos gustó la hierba alta,
como si tuviéramos miedo a pisar una víbora.
Pero el agua del color del índigo
espera por nosotras al otro lado del peligro.
Nos quitamos los vaqueros, la camisa, la ropa interior,
señalamos nuestro lugar en la orilla,
tomadas de la mano como Ruth y Noemí
nos metemos en el agua hasta la cintura.
A cada paso el agua se mueve cada vez más alta,
estremeciendo de frío nuestros recientes senos.
Rodeo a Anna Claire con los brazos
y me aprieto contra ella en busca de calor.
Me empuja y se aparta,
se sumerge un poco más allá,
sale a la superficie, se arquea,
se sumerge de nuevo,
nada por debajo de mí,
me mece de espaldas con las manos,
me levanta en el aire,
floto sobre las yemas de sus dedos.
Mueve lentamente las manos,
toca mi hombros y mis muslos.
Me besa en los labios,
me abre los ojos con la lengua.
No pronunciamos palabra
antes de alcanzar el amarradero,
antes de aventurarnos de nuevo a través de la hierba alta.
Southern Girl Gone Wrong, Foothills Publishing, Nueva York, 2004
Versión de Jonio González
Summer at Thirteen
Anna Claire and I never like tall grass
afraid we’ll step on a cottonmouth.
But water the color of indigo
waits for us the other side of danger.
We shed jeans, shirts, underwear,
mark our place at the edge,
hold hands like Ruth and Naomi
wading into the deep.
With each step, water moves higher,
chills our new breasts.
I throw my arms around Anna Claire,
press against her for warmth.
She pushes away,
plunges deep beyond,
surfaces, arches,
plunges again,
swims under me,
cradles my back in her palms,
lifting me to the air
so I float on her fingertips.
Her hands move gently
touch my shoulder and thigh.
She kisses my lips,
unclosing my eyes with her tongue.
We don’t say a word
before we reach the point of mooring
before we venture back through tall grass.
Medley
I
Hi, don't hang up, my name is Meredith Medley.
What?
Meredith Medley.
What kind of name is that?
Oh, my mom teaches piano at Waverly High.
Waverly? I went there.
Me too, graduated in 98.
I graduated in 88. Are you calling me about the reunion?
No, I'm calling about your favorite TV show.
My what?
Favorite TV show.
I don't watch TV.
Does anybody in your household?
Who wants to know?
Me.
What if there's nobody in my household?
Are you saying you're single?
What if I am?
Are you looking?
For what?
Someone to be with.
Like who?
Anybody. What do you do if you don't watch TV?
Why should I tell you?
Cause I work for Nielsen.
II
Hi, don't hang up, my name is Meredith Medley.
What do you want?
What's your favorite TV show?
Why?
I work for Nielsen Ratings.
Nielsen who?
Ratings.
Oh.
So, what's your favorite?
The Biggest Loser.
You fat?
Not really.
How much do you weigh?
130.
How tall?
5'9.”
You're almost skinny. I weigh that much & I'm 5'5.”
Yeah. I don't eat between meals.
So, what's your favorite show again?
The Biggest Loser.
Why?
I hate fat people & hate myself for hating them.
Really.
So when they lose weight, I can love them again.
Really.
And when I love them again, I can love myself again.
Really.
III
Hi, don't hang up, my name is Meredith Medley.
But I sent my cell number to dontcalldotgov.
So?
So you shouldn't be calling me.
Why not? I've called 20 other people today.
But they probably didn't send their number to dontcalldotgov.
Maybe they did.
If they did, you wouldn't be interrupting their life.
What do you mean interrupting?
Like you're doing to me.
What were you doing when I called?
Sleeping.
At 4 in the afternoon?
Look Missy whoever you are, it's none of your goddamn business.
Excuse me, sir, but that language is totally uncalled for.
My language? You're the one who woke me up.
But you're the one who took our heavenly father's name in vain.
But maybe he's not my heavenly father, just yours.
What? You don't believe in God?
It's none of your goddamn business.
Look sir, I'm not going to talk to you unless you apologize.
What?
Click.
IV
Hi, don't hang up, my name is Meredith Medley.
Are you kin to Mel Medley?
Never heard of him.
So you might be?
Don't know. Why?
He makes the meanest babyback ribs in Austin.
You from there?
No, but my best friend went to UT.
Hmm, what's your favorite TV show?
South Park.
What?
South Park.
How old are you?
Why do you want to know?
Cause my nephew watches it.
How old's he?
12.
So what? Those guys who write it are a lot older than that.
How old are you?
45.
And you like South Park?
Yeah, ever want to turn Barbara Streisand into a monster?
When my mother gave me Streisand's Greatest Hits.
See. Trey Parker & Matt Stone are geniuses.
Who's talking about genius? Thought it was South Park.
Those are the guys who write it.
What else you going to do with names like Trey & Matt?
What? What's your name again?
Meredith Medley.
To My Father’s Right
stands the body. Dad is left-handed. When he stretches his hand, the
body jumps. I used to stay in the body. We would ask Why can’t I have
the drumstick? Why? Why? Then the questions stopped. We were nine and
eating peach ice cream. Condensed milk, eggs, sugar, vanilla, fresh
Clanton peaches. Butt numb from sitting on the churn as Daddy cranked,
fingers handle-thick. No seconds little fatty. We reached for the ladle.
The next thing I saw was the body on the floor. Its cheek red and dry.
The Body in Ninth Grade
Diet tricks—red and yellow missiles the body steals and carries to
school. The body blasts off before algebra and Mrs. Burgoyne, braced in
support hose. Glaring at thighs, she writes the body up for a dress code
violation. Three to four, the clock hand circles in the cafeteria. The
body does time. Afterwards, an offensive guard bangs it blue under the
gym bleachers. The short skirt bunches about the body’s waist.
Natalie
While Natalie Wood twirls in the Tennessee night
suspended above trucks
Billy pushes me down on the seat
fumbles with my bra.
He's heavy and clumsy
wants me for his steady girl
leaves a hickey on my breast.
I know how to hide traces of sex
with powder and perfume
how to please penis and mama
at the same time
go through a string of Billies
settle out of state
for one of them.
Years later Natalie falls off a boat.
I dream I'm treading water when
she reaches for help.
Afraid of going under
I watch her drown.
This poem first appeared in King Log and later in my chapbook Southern Girl Gone Wrong (Foothills Publishing, 2004).
The Night I'm Sharon Olds
Promising gin, revelers entice me
to the writers' conference party.
People glance at my blank badge.
Giddy from martinis, I channel
letters that curl and rise through my fingers
like cigarette smoke.
Tag this self Sharon Olds.
A man with receding hair thanks me
for naming his poetry
honorable mention.
His words mount and fall
like gasps of an asthmatic.
I want to press my lips against his lips.
Breathe him into first place
and cover his body with laurel.
I list toward the featured playwright
buoyed by his circle of novices
who swoon to every syllable uttered.
He stares at my loopy famous name.
Winds his hand over my shoulder.
Where are you now?
I mutter, in the crook of your arm
and offer him a taste of juniper.
This poem appeared in The Tusculum Review (2005).
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