Kelli Russell Agodon
Kelli Russell Agodon (nacida en 1969 en Seattle, EE.UU.) es una premiada poeta americana, escritora y editora.
Se crió en Seattle, y se graduó de la Universidad de Washington, y la Pacific Lutheran University con una maestría. Vive en el estado de Washington. Su trabajo ha aparecido en el Atlantic Monthly, Prairie Schooner, del Norte American Review, Imagen, 5 am, Meridian, Cáliz.
Premios
Finalist for the 2010 Washington State Book Awards
2010 Book of the Year in Poetry from Foreword Magazine
White Pine Press Poetry Book Prize 2009 (judged by Carl Dennis)
2003 Floating Bridge Press Chapbook Award
Washington State Artist Trust GAP grants
2005 James Hearst Poetry Prize 3rd place [ 8 ]
Dorothy Rosenberg Poetry Prize
William Stafford Award
Carlin Aden Award for formal verse
Soapstone Writer's Residency
Puffin Foundation grant
Obras
"Sailing Lepidoptera," "The Half-Moon Couple , Adirondack Review
"Dord"; "Unintentionally Typing the Word Life Instead of Lips"; "?", Womb Poetry
"Sometimes I still dream about their pink bodies", Poetry Southeast
"How Killer Blue Irises Spread", The Atlantic
Geography . Floating Bridge Press. 2003. ISBN 978-1-930446-06-9 .
Small Knots . Wordtech Communications. 2004. ISBN 978-1-932339-27-7 .
An Alphabet Between Us . Pacific Lutheran University. 2007.
Letters From the Emily Dickinson Room , White Pine Press, 2010, ISBN 978-1-935210-15-3
Quizá debería haber venido sola.
Quizá si las nubes no parecieran
lápidas y yo hubiese traído algo
más alegre para leer
el océano no parecería tan final,
un pensamiento conducido hacia la costa
y después arrastrado,
lavando el mismo calcetín verde
una y otra vez.
Quizá si tomara la medicación,
o al menos hierba de San Juan,
quizá si tuviera una barra de chocolate
para comer entre una crisis nerviosa y otra
el grito de la gaviota sería más que un susurro
y las olas no parecerían tan azules.
Quizá tantas cosas. Quizá
si pudiera dormir dentro de la mente de Sylvia
separar las especias en su especiero,
ordenarlas por orden alfabético y quitarles el polvo.
Quizá entonces y entendería cómo
son esas pequeñas cosas que tiran de ti hacia abajo.
Small Knots, Cherry Grove, Cincinnati, 2004
Versión de Jonio González
AUTORRETRATO CON LECTOR
Crear no es suficiente.
Debemos vivir con el corazón
en nuestras manos, como María.
Debemos contener la roja sangre del corazón
y no sentirnos decepcionados cuando otros aparten la mirada.
Esta es la forma más simple
de decir sí. Decir, estoy aquí
temiendo
que te asustes cuando lo
sostengo en mis palmas.
Desaparecer si es necesario.
Desaparecer en las grietas
del mundo y llamarlo
un terremoto. Tememos
las sacudidas sobre nosotros y decidimos
cuánto podemos soportar.
Lector, quiero decirte
que nuestros corazones continuarán
palpitando incluso después de salir de aquí.
Ser la estatua sobre el salpicadero
viajando esperanzada,
incluso si lo que sostienes
gotea en el entarimado, incluso
si no tienes ni idea de adónde ir.
Versión de Carlos Alcorta
Crear no es suficiente.
Debemos vivir con el corazón
en nuestras manos, como María.
Debemos contener la roja sangre del corazón
y no sentirnos decepcionados cuando otros aparten la mirada.
Esta es la forma más simple
de decir sí. Decir, estoy aquí
temiendo
que te asustes cuando lo
sostengo en mis palmas.
Desaparecer si es necesario.
Desaparecer en las grietas
del mundo y llamarlo
un terremoto. Tememos
las sacudidas sobre nosotros y decidimos
cuánto podemos soportar.
Lector, quiero decirte
que nuestros corazones continuarán
palpitando incluso después de salir de aquí.
Ser la estatua sobre el salpicadero
viajando esperanzada,
incluso si lo que sostienes
gotea en el entarimado, incluso
si no tienes ni idea de adónde ir.
Versión de Carlos Alcorta
Vacationing With Sylvia Plath
Maybe I should have come alone.
Maybe if the clouds didn’t resemble
tombstones and I had brought something
more upbeat to read
the ocean wouldn’t seem so final—
an ongoing thought carried to shore
then taken away,
washing the same green sock
over and over again.
Maybe if I was taking medication
or at least St. John’s Wort,
maybe if I had a chocolate bar
to eat between breakdowns
the seagull’s cry would be more of a sigh
and the waves wouldn’t seem so blue.
Maybe a lot of things. Maybe
if I could slip into Sylvia’s mind,
sort out the spices in her spice rack,
alphabetize them and dust them off.
Maybe then I’d understand how
it’s the little things that pull you under.
Hike to God's Point
It's not summer, but autumn
running its bony fingers up my legs.
And the leaves falling on my hair?
A blessed-be crown for the pagan goddess
I didn't want to become.
Today, I would much rather be indoors
shopping at Saks for a long wool dress,
Donna Karan tights in forest green.
But nature has played its spirituality card
and I slip beneath maple trees,
sort out litter from leaves.
Sparrows sing, while I consider shades
of blush: Shallow Pink, Red Doubt,
Anxiety in Champagne Pink.
Sometimes I want not just happiness,
but the light blue box it arrived in
—Bleeding Heart nailpolish,
diamond rosary wrapped around
my cellphone—and I'm connected
without sacrifice, I view the field
without having to get my feet wet
in the dew-filled wildflowers below.
But where is my life?
I wander through it in new leather boots,
crushing the ladyslippers in my path.
When I come to a black bear munching
on berries to fatten up for winter, I pause.
We see each other
like two shoppers at the same sale rack,
each rummaging through, trying to find
what we think we need to fill us up.
From the Handbook for Emergency Situations
When we were in love
I read you How to Survive
If You Fall Through the Ice.
You were determined not to
listen. You plugged your ears when I read,
Face the direction from which you came.
You told me love could be confused
with drowning. I said, Use your elbows
to lift yourself onto the edge of the hole.
You never wanted to live
that coldly. You moved close, drank
peppermint tea. I read, Reach out
onto the solid ice as far as possible.
You said our chances were slim,
we lived in a temperate climate.
What if you knew then
that later we'd find reasons to dislike
each other's sentences, how many times
I'd look away when you wanted most
to meet my glance? What if we knew
the instructions—Kick your feet
as though you were swimming and pull yourself up
—could be useful when we were breaking up?
Or later, when we tried to reunite
how we should have listened—
Once on the icy surface, stay flat,
roll away from the hole.
New Telescope
I may never be happy, but tonight I am content.
Sylvia Plath
She turned knobs all evening.
Still the telescope remained
unfocused on the powder
of a satellite, a blur:
a moon, a moth.
Open maps of craters
papered the earth.
Bats looped from treetop
to treetop. She focused
full—attention—what was that?
A gunshot? Imagine,
someone's last sight—a clear night
and the halo of the moon. Or not.
A car backfired and a new galaxy
created from its exhaust. Clouds
appeared like curtains.
She aimed the scope at a star
with a name like Cancer or Columba,
or maybe she caught a plane
settling in the distance.
Her elbow slammed the tripod
and the telescope rocked,
reconnected with the earth.
Gravity-loving, sturdy little thing.
Through the eyepiece she peered
towards what she believed was Bliss
or Dove, jagged craters
sharpening one after another.
.
Hike to God's Point
It's not summer, but autumn
running its bony fingers up my legs.
And the leaves falling on my hair?
A blessed-be crown for the pagan goddess
I didn't want to become.
Today, I would much rather be indoors
shopping at Saks for a long wool dress,
Donna Karan tights in forest green.
But nature has played its spirituality card
and I slip beneath maple trees,
sort out litter from leaves.
Sparrows sing, while I consider shades
of blush: Shallow Pink, Red Doubt,
Anxiety in Champagne Pink.
Sometimes I want not just happiness,
but the light blue box it arrived in
—Bleeding Heart nailpolish,
diamond rosary wrapped around
my cellphone—and I'm connected
without sacrifice, I view the field
without having to get my feet wet
in the dew-filled wildflowers below.
But where is my life?
I wander through it in new leather boots,
crushing the ladyslippers in my path.
When I come to a black bear munching
on berries to fatten up for winter, I pause.
We see each other
like two shoppers at the same sale rack,
each rummaging through, trying to find
what we think we need to fill us up.
From the Handbook for Emergency Situations
When we were in love
I read you How to Survive
If You Fall Through the Ice.
You were determined not to
listen. You plugged your ears when I read,
Face the direction from which you came.
You told me love could be confused
with drowning. I said, Use your elbows
to lift yourself onto the edge of the hole.
You never wanted to live
that coldly. You moved close, drank
peppermint tea. I read, Reach out
onto the solid ice as far as possible.
You said our chances were slim,
we lived in a temperate climate.
What if you knew then
that later we'd find reasons to dislike
each other's sentences, how many times
I'd look away when you wanted most
to meet my glance? What if we knew
the instructions—Kick your feet
as though you were swimming and pull yourself up
—could be useful when we were breaking up?
Or later, when we tried to reunite
how we should have listened—
Once on the icy surface, stay flat,
roll away from the hole.
New Telescope
I may never be happy, but tonight I am content.
Sylvia Plath
She turned knobs all evening.
Still the telescope remained
unfocused on the powder
of a satellite, a blur:
a moon, a moth.
Open maps of craters
papered the earth.
Bats looped from treetop
to treetop. She focused
full—attention—what was that?
A gunshot? Imagine,
someone's last sight—a clear night
and the halo of the moon. Or not.
A car backfired and a new galaxy
created from its exhaust. Clouds
appeared like curtains.
She aimed the scope at a star
with a name like Cancer or Columba,
or maybe she caught a plane
settling in the distance.
Her elbow slammed the tripod
and the telescope rocked,
reconnected with the earth.
Gravity-loving, sturdy little thing.
Through the eyepiece she peered
towards what she believed was Bliss
or Dove, jagged craters
sharpening one after another.
.
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