Bruce Dethlefsen
Bruce Dethlefsen, poeta de EE.UU., nació en 1948. Bruce vivió en Kansas City con su familia hasta 1966.
Poeta Laureado de Wisconsin (2011-2012) cuenta con dos plaquettes de poesía , A Decent Reed y Something Near the Dance Floor. Su libro Breather, publicado por Fireweed Press, ganó el Outstanding Achievement Award in Poetry from the Wisconsin Library Association. Su reciente libro , Unexpected Shiny Things, fue publicado por Cowfeather Press. Bruce Dethlefsen es un educador y bibliotecario retirado que radica en Westfield, Wisconsin.
OBRA:
Poetry Collections
A Decent Reed , Tamafyhr Mountain Press, 1998
Something Near the Dance Floor , Marsh River Editions, 2003
Breather , Fireweed Press, 2009
Unexpected Shiny Things , Cowfeather Press, 2011
LA CASA DONDE SOMOS FANTASMAS
ES LA NUESTRA
Vagamos por los corredores
enmedio de la noche
en horas pequeñas
Me retuerzo
ella se voltea
en la cama sacudimos brazos y rodillas
pateamos las cobijas
las arañas nadan de torso en una alberca
Todo lo que necesito es tiempo para escribir
algún tiempo para pensar
para preparar mi manuscrito
tengo que mejorar mi escritura
esa es la respuesta
escribir mejor
ella nunca pensó que no tendría familia
vivir sin casarse
sin tener dinero
ser infeliz
las monjas tienen mejor vida sexual
ella regresa a la cama y me levanto
y luego regreso entonces ella se levanta
así nos pasamos toda la noche
trabajadores de turno en un molino de sueño abandonado
la casa habitada por fantasmas
somnolientos entramos
somnolientos salimos
separados descendemos la escalera que cruje
flotamos de un piso a otro nadamos de un cuarto a cuarto
vagamos y escribimos
checamos nuestro correo miramos televisión
quemamos palomitas con barras de mantequilla en un tazón
caminamos en el pavimento
buscando nuestro carro las llaves
en el estacimiento vacío ilumando por una luz amarilla
afuera de la fábrica silenciosa
las horas
las horas que se arrastran
las horas telaraña
parpadeando en la oscuridad
pocas palabras pasan entre nosotros
cuando estamos en la entrada de la cerca
ningún gesto
despedidas
ninguna insinuación
Chiflo y mezo mi bolsa del almuerzo de regreso al trabajo
Ella vuelve a la casa a la cama tibia
Somos fantasmas en la horas pequeñas
que pasan por la noche
Versión al español de Moisés Villavicencio Barras.
The House We Haunt Is Ours
we wander through the corridors
inside the middle of the night
in little hours
I toss
she turns
we flail our arms and knees in bed
we kick at covers
spiders do the backstroke in a pool
all I need is time to write
some time to think
to get the manuscript together
I have to write better
that’s the answer
writing better
she never thought she’d have no family
live unmarried
have no money
be unhappy
nuns have better sex lives
she comes back to bed and I get up
and I come back then she gets up
we alternate like this all night
shift workers at the abandoned slumber mill
the haunted house
sleepily we punch in
we punch out
separate we descend the creaky stairs
float floor to floor swim room to room
we roam and write
check e-mail watch tv
burnt popcorn treads butter in a bowl
we stroll the blacktop
looking for our car the keys
in the yellow lighted empty parking lot
outside the silent factory
the grinding little hours
the crawling hours
the cobweb hours
blinking in the darkness
so few words pass between us
at the gate in the chain link fence
no gestures
waves
no overtures
I whistle and I swing my lunch pail back to work
as she heads home alone to warm the bed
we haunt the little hours
that pass for night
Shiny Things
I hide coins for my son to find
drop nickels ‘round the playground swing
seed quarters under sawdust by the slide
place dimes beside the whirlawheel
I act surprised when he discovers
a penny along the woodchip trail
delight in the excitement on his face
his lucky smile finding unexpected shiny things
I seek objects that shine
collect and hold them in my hands
assorted coins that shimmer
crows so bright they start
the fire burning in the sky
my son his brilliant eyes
I turn them in the light
then hide them in my heart
Gone to Ground
it takes a patch of soil
some water and the sun
to raise a plant
you make decisions
how much this and that
you feed the youngster
clear the weeds
you tend to pay attention
now there he lies my son
fenced in and covered in the bed
his bandaged head
gauze white and crusted red
his eyes taped shut
a glut of tubes
around his nose and mouth
I make my three decisions
first no more resuscitations
save your breath stand down
go call the donor folks
it’s almost harvest time
and last at ease
unplug all those machines
please stop that awful hissing sound
what’s grown so loved is gone to ground
I try to find a place
a somewhere on his face
to plant my final kiss
Anniversary
I punch in contacts
and dial up my dead
son’s phone number
as I drive by
his house on admiral
where of course he doesn’t
live there any more
but cell phones are after all
miraculous devices
I park my car
and admire the lawn
green smooth clean cut
mown grass the smell
of grass just mown
the phone rings and rings
the edges of the lawn
are perfectly trimmed
how neat
how awfully admirable
Missing a Spot
I wipe and dry the casserole dish
that fancy one with the see-through glass cover
and as I reach to put it in the cupboard
I discover I remember aunt nancy
now she’s been gone forever
yet there she was
in the kitchen telling me
I missed a spot
they never really ever
go away do they
one touch recalls a thought
a thought a notion
the notion a feeling
the feeling an emotion
so then we cry or not or smile
mostly somewhere in between
and when you go
waterfall everything
will remind me of you
Wealthy
after my reading
a very serious sixth grade girl
asked me if I was wealthy
well I said I have twenty-two
dollars in my wallet right now
my purple truck has two hundred
and thirty-five thousand miles on it
I’m wearing clean and mended clothes
I’ll sleep in a warm bed tonight
I’ve got my health my hands my eyes
my family and friends who love me
and I can come here to sennett middle school
to read poetry to you guys for free
so yes I’m very wealthy
wealthy indeed
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