MICAH BALLARD [13.108]

Micah Ballard

Micah Ballard es un poeta nacido en Baton Rouge, Louisiana, el 23 de septiembre de 1975. Desde 1999 ha vivido en San Francisco con su esposa, poeta Sunnylyn Thibodeaux. 

Ballard asistió al Programa de Poética en el New College de California en San Francisco del Distrito de la Misión, donde trabajó con David Meltzer, Joanne Kyger, y Tom Clark. Desde 2000-07 dirigió el Programa de Humanidades.

Bibliografía 

COLECCIONES DE POESÍA COMPLETA DE LONGITUD

Waifs and Strays ( City Lights Books , 2011) ISBN 978-0-87286-544-0

Parish Krewes ( Bootstrap Productions , 2009) ISBN 978-0-9821600-1-5

CRÍTICA

Negative Capability in the Verse of John Wieners (Auguste Press, 2001)

Chapbooks

Darrell (Blue Press, 2007)

New Poems (Blue Press, 2006)

Evangeline Downs ( Ugly Duckling Presse , 2006)

Scenes from the Saragossa Manuscript (Snag Press, 2004)

Emblematic (Old Gold, 2004)

In the Kindness of Night (Blue Press, 2003)

Bettina Coffin (Red Ant, 2003)

Absinthian Journal (Old Gold, 2002)

Chandeliers from the Metairie Cemetery (Blue Press, 2001)

LIBROS DE COLABORACIÓN

Poems from the New Winter Palace with Michael Carr (arrow as aarow, 2010)

Easy Eden with Patrick James Dunagan (Push, 2009)

Death Race VSOP with Will Yackulic & Cedar Sigo (Red Ant, 2005)

Wrought Iron & Burgundy with Sunnylyn Thibodeaux (Auguste Press, 2004)

A Plywood Press Primer with Cedar Sigo (Plywood Press, 2000)

APARICIONES ANTOLOGÍA

Bay Poetics (Faux Press, 2005)

Evidence of the Paranormal (Owl Press, 2003)

ESCUELA NOCTURNA 

En las horas libres

habito un buró

& leo en olas para que las voces se hagan guerra

nombres muertos encendidos con un marcador

los más brillantes

son estrellas del mismo orden

duras miradas que se apartan cuando entran

nunca puedo ver sus caras

pero la música sigue ahí

un órgano resollante

& mi última deuda con la alta sociedad

criptas públicas que te saludan con una sonrisita

un diamante un corazón

el lugar perfecto para una película muda

me siento atrapado por las horas que arrastran

& me la juego con unas cuantas nociones propias

el olor de las tuberosas

hambrientas por un regazo

bastante con todos estos pliegos & volantes

ya no hay muchos sonetos como esos

arreglo preciso, contrastes & alivio

un aprecio fugitivo

que aprende a guardar el propio

practicás por años & hacés un pacto por instinto

para entregarlo todo

constelaciones enteras logradas en el matiz

luego notás otro dedazo

la consignación de las teclas

el último monumento a esta mano viviente.

(Traducción: G.A. Chaves, 2011)

Night School

 Off hours

I inhabit a roll top desk

& read in waves to let the voices war

dead names ignited with a pilot

the brightest ones  

are stars of the same order

hard looks that fall apart on entrance

I can never see their faces

but the music stays there

a wheezing organ

& my last debt to high society

public crypts that greet you with a smirk

one diamond one heart

the perfect setting for a silent movie

I feel caught by the hours dragging

& bluff it out with a few notions of my own

the smell of tuberoses 

starving for a shoulder

just enough all these sheets & ruffles

there aren’t many sonnets like that anymore

precise arrangement, contrasts & relief

a fugitive appreciation

learning to hold one’s own

you practice for years & make a pact on instinct

to surrender it all

entire constellations accomplished in nuance

then notice another typo

the consignment of the keys

the last monument to this living hand.

Sleev Notes

I am looking for a solidarity not deadening, a private view of chaos in a single stroke. Or an easy elegance enjoying its own revival, the best of the young (underpriced) before the affiliated years. The importance is in the passing, where one boldly swarms into life then forgets about it. If I’m less flourishing than my appearance indicates, give me time. I’ve lived here for fifteen years and have never been asked to read except for summers when they make you pay. I envy the strong minded who can dull their senses on demand. They are not far removed from emotion, but wouldn’t one rather the nerves take control? Enough about them. Tell me volumes and pour out everything. I want to enjoy every advantage without interruption of technology or its boring agents. Interest matters so long as it doesn’t disturb the room or dominate conversation. Only the old, deep company know how to create an honest diversion, where the words build a bridge and you never think about making it across or where you’ll wake up. Allow me the affectionate farewell. I took a cab then walked then caught a bus and now I’m on a train. Fine dinners, large quantities of wine, and delicate hands will find me and if they don’t then surely the world must be against me. Forgive us all. Self-mythologizing is a tired poet’s game. I am grateful for the silence but refuse to be in its service. There is much to see and so much more to admit.

Early Vapors

Cryptic scenes

a red triangle of arched vaults

chinese dens & anonymous ceremonies

held in nearby rooms. In spite

of their absence I suggested

the original might be purchased

forty cubes of white sewn into the seams

divine rites and a limping heart

to be drained between sinks

they kept saying “do not bruise the beast”

or “hard will be your pillow”

then a strange light would appear

between their eyes. It was hard

to predict the silence, scant solace

& bit of fluff for all the black

they were wearing. I wished a new delivery

parallel worlds of waiting assassins

or at least the dealers of yesteryear

a new inhaler in anticipation of

Cellophane

It goes on for days

& I am the result of a perforated feeling

A daunting inventory

Of stock footage

Densely layered into an array of tricks

Less iconic than the first lady

Bloody & presidential

Or the off-screen reportage

Found in this week’s tabloids

The power of names so narcotic & trancelike

A Night in Paris & the lovely blooms

That prank your chambers

A sequence of set backs

To dull the edges, strip the originals

Eventual aftermaths

That drives a wedge between what’s real

& what’s actually happening

I shall not feel their pains

I shall not see their shadows

Old illustrations famously corrupt

& self-serving, lost allure 

Departing glances reclusive in their telling

The Maids of Troy

Let us consider mummies

Or the Maids of Troy

Such soulful lites & easy on the lungs

Compared to these Camel wides

Dreamt from the Cairo visitor center

Ten bones a pack

But worthy as any torch

So long as The Temple of Doom keeps playing

Not BET or Ghost Hunters

That means “keep everything at a distance”

Inside the head of a typewriter

This is not to state the obvious

One trips regardless the dose

You will turn from understanding to celestial

Gush renewals worthy of attention

Siberia

A blue flame flattens me

its internal medicine calms the doors

I rub my hands against them

& pick at the scabs from Acheron

those who drink under the lamps

the lamps and their faces

what does it matter to wake on this train

my head on the hard marble table

a spectacle, unhinged, with my hood cut off

one must talk louder to keep warm

I think I am one of their children

we pick our teeth in black windows

Tribunals

The epilogue

rewinds in silence

grainy flash frames

then a little white

ghost holy to

its congregation

another lavish

production lacking

recognition and wormwood

heavy outlines

then a supervised walk

to hide the hatchet

cloud the drink

necessary alterations

this pale skin

we inhabit

a diminished vitality

reminiscent of Rimbaud

Ivory Cofers

Who heeds not

but falls heavy

to thy might

the summer cannibals

anemic and cool

their robes of saffron

a road of crimson

spread at your feet

not at all proud

like Hall & Oates

Live at the Apollo

or War Babies

Along the Red

Ledge of 1978

but held captive

by a thread of light

the olden dyes

of Hollywood gone

oh come back little

Sheba! Betty Blythe

has left the room