Vincent O’Sullivan
(Nueva Zelanda, 1937) es poeta, novelista y editor. También escribe teatro y crítica. Ha recibido numerosos premios y reconocimientos, y su poesía ha sido publicada ampliamente nacional e internacionalmente. En 2006 recibió el Premio Nacional de Literatura y en 2013 fue nombrado Poeta Laureado de Nueva Zelanda, el máximo reconocimiento para un poeta neozelandés. O’Sullivan radica actualmente en Dunedin.
Premios
2006 Prime Minister's Award for Literary Achievement
2005 Montana New Zealand Book Award for Poetry
1999 Montana New Zealand Book Award for Poetry
Obras
Poesía
"Blame Vermeer", Scottish Poetry Library
Our Burning Time (1965),
Revenants (1969)
Waikato-Taniwha-Rau (1971)
Bearings (1973)
From the Indian Funeral (1976)
Butcher & Co. (1977)
Brother Jonathan, Brother Kafka (1979)
The Rose Ballroom and Other Poems (1982)
The Butcher Papers (1982)
The Pilate Tapes (1986)
Selected Poems (1992)
Seeing you asked . Victoria University Press. 1998. ISBN 978-0-86473-352-8 .
Short Stories
The Boy, The Bridge, The River (1978)
Dandy Edison for Lunch and Other Stories (1981)
Survivals (1985)
The Snow in Spain: Short Stories (1990)
Palms and Minarets: Selected Stories (1992).
Novelas
Miracle (1976)
Let the River Stand (1993)
Plays
Shuriken, was performed at Downstage, Wellington, in July 1983.
Billy, presented at Bats Theatre, Wellington
Antologías
Jenny Bornholdt, Gregory O'Brien, Mark Williams, ed. (1997). An anthology of New Zealand poetry in English . Oxford University Press New Zealand. ISBN 978-0-19-558338-0
Fleur Adcock, ed. (1982). The Oxford book of contemporary New Zealand poetry . Oxford University Press. ISBN 978-0-19-558092-1 .
Presentamos, en versión del poeta, ensayista y narrador Rogelio Guedea (1974), un par de poemas de Vincent O’Sullivan (1937), recientemente nombrado Poeta Laureado de Nueva Zelanda. En 2006 recibió también el Premio Nacional de Literatura
Hojas
Las hojas empiezan a caer a lo largo del sendero.
La mañana es fría y el sol, seguramente,
no brillará hoy, y, es probable, tampoco mañana.
Amo este día por lo que me recuerda,
lo amo incluso sin que me recuerde nada.
Hace frío y las hojas caen, y yo me adentro en ellas.
Las hojas están frescas o acaso empiezan
a empaparse. El cielo, frío: y uno creería que
el hielo no puede estar lejos del lago,
ni lejos del borde azul de las desoladas colinas,
aunque tampoco esté ahí.
Desfallecer y morir y esperar: hojas sobre hojas.
Las hojas son de higuera y roble y las encrespadas
parecen como quemadas de abedules,
y las largas hojas amarillas del nogal todavía
aferradas al cielo, se niegan a caer.
Me recuerdan un lugar, un amigo, una joven
ya, ahora, mujer. No me recuerdan nada.
Están aquí.
Ventana
Ella está en la ventana, “Vendrá la lluvia”,
dice, sus dedos asidos al cordón de la persiana,
el verano e incluso el otoño
ya se han ido, son acaso una palabra.
Luego, dice: “¿lo viste en el periódico, ¿no?,
esa película no la exhiben más, en el Strand?”
“¿Querías ir?”
“No”, dice,
“Pero ya no está”, el periódico en su mano.
“Estaba equivocada sobre la lluvia” –la siguiente mañana-
“Debió haber nevado toda la noche, esta nieve”.
En la ventana, otra vez, su habitación ahora,
dice: “medio año más aún para las fresias”.
Su paisaje tiene otras estaciones,
detrás de la cortina, dentro de su cabeza.
Son ropas que se ha quitado.
En esquinas.
En el estrecho espacio debajo de su cama.
EXILES
HE sick crusader watches
Through the window the fall of snow;
She stands under the palm-trees watching
The slow black caravans go.
She sees him by the window watching
The vacant snow-flakes fall;
He sees her in the hot sun standing
Sorrowful, white, and tall.
She hears him through the snow telling her
All in his heart to tell--
Beneath the moveless palm-trees
In the dead glare at the well.
HE SINGS BECAUSE HIS WIFE HAS GONE OUT OF THE HOUSE
E sings because his wife has gone out of the house:
Bending over the table in the twilight of the room
He sings soft old things he sang when he was a boy,
And near his chair stays listening a grey mouse.
He sings because the gay loud woman is out in the town,
And in his heart there is a quiet, and the room is so still
That the grey mouse preens its whiskers far away from the wall,
For the man's voice is dreamy and kind like those who are very ill.
And he wonders if some day his wife will go out of the house
And leave him alone with the mouse, too still to feel more
Than the waves and the waves of quiet in the darkened room,
As he lies with the sun on his face through a chink in the door.
Plane people
Do I need to tell you it was a good reading?
It was a great reading. One hundred and twenty
nearly, we’d hoped for eighty at the most!
We hadn’t met since the Venice conference,
how many years is that? Robert just back
from the Sligo residency and the Faber
contract (Jenny his partner knows the Faber
crowd); Donald whose Italian came in handy
with the Rome apartment, a chance to wind
up the sequence on his minor baroque
composer; myself (stewing a bit I admit
about the Swaneck prize, the corrupt
Coventry shits log‑rolling, which they’re good at).
But the reception after the reading, my God,
don’t tell me poetry doesn’t have its devotees!
Robert says Sligo’s no further than a phone
call, of course use his name. Donald
confided over a Fosters (straight from
the stubbie, was ever – très working class!),
yes, Donald says he knows there’s limited
mileage in bringing off another Galuppi,
and had I – seeing I’m between books –
had I thought of Tamil boat folk as the totally
Autre? Elemental and human, he said,
you could take it the eco‑direction, or the fag‑end
maybe of Pilgrim lit? They’re mostly
Christians. Or Darwinian sideshow
even, the kaput end of the line?
It was a great reading apart from my losing
Rob’s card with the Sligo number. (A vegan
and not on e‑mail, Jesus!) Still,
the Perth gig’s coming up in October.
He’ll read the same poems but that’s OK.
I’ll catch the number then.
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