George Eklund
(Nueva York, 1953). Nació en Long Island, Nueva York, en 1953. Ha publicado diversos libros de poesía entre los que destacan: Infant Dawn (1972), First Sunrise (1982), Gone West of Sunrise Highway (1982), The Island Blade (2011) y Wanting to Be an Element (2012). Obtuvo la beca Al Smith Fellowship en 1990, el Iowa Arts Council Poetry Award y el Mississippi Valley Poetry Award. Es profesor en la Morehead State University desde 1989.
George Eklund has taught creative writing at Morehead State University for twenty years. His work as appeared in The American Poetry Review, Crazyhorse, The North American Review, and, most recently, The Iowa Review. His book The Island Blade (ABZ Press) and chapbook Wanting to Be an Element (Finishing Line Press) are forthcoming this fall. Eklund can be found on Facebook on Poems from Willow Drive. He currently resides with painter and poet Laura Eklund in Olive Hill, Kentucky.
Uno
Me gusta alimentar a las sombras en el parque
Para que las sombras me amen
Y recuerden mi cara y mi nombre
Cuando vaya envuelto en la tormenta
De pájaros ebrios.
Olvidar es morir en los brazos
De la niebla.
Me gusta alimentar preguntas implacables
Y a las sombras y a sus animales humanos
Nacidos de mi mente
Y lanzados a la noche del lenguaje.
Dos
Mírame y no te mueras con velos
De ángeles.
No te vayas sin hablar con la voz
Del jardín.
No te vayas sin descubrir tu primera herida,
La herida conocida solamente
Por las montañas blancas de la luna.
He esperado tu nacimiento sin esperanza.
Entonces no te mueras sin mi nombre,
No te mueras en ningún idioma.
Tres
El ojo se oscurece, rodeado de polillas verdes
Y lenguajes multiplicadores.
Quién sabe el verdadero nombre de tu alma.
Tú dices que tienes un lugar secreto
Que no es oscuro.
Cuando nos abrazamos, tú ya no estabas
Conmigo
Ahora sé a donde te fuiste.
Cuatro
Sin su rostro, la música no tendría color
Ni razón, ni existencia.
Esto es porque en los ojos de todas las mujeres
Duerme un abismo de amor y alegría.
El hombre aspira al borde de la ilusión
Nacida cada noche de la mujer.
Y por eso el espasmo busca un espasmo.
Cinco
Somos los ciegos
Que cantan en sus máquinas de niebla,
Tan ciegos somos que creemos en un futuro
De grandes banquetes junto al mar.
Las moscas que susurran en la tarde
Son nuestras hermanas.
Es posible que solamente los dientes
De sol y la luna
Nos parezcan verdaderos.
¿Qué es lo que vive dentro de los ojos
Brillantes y cerrados?
Tal vez un puerto de estrellas
O una noche hermosa
Llena solamente de canciones
Dentro de las máquinas de niebla.
HOMAGE TO JIM
At the broken gate
Of the supreme composition
He could not come to the phone.
The radiation had burned his throat.
I reasoned he didn't have to say a thing.
For the affected there is no plot.
The radiation had burned the cranial nerves.
And still they branch darkly
Out of L.A. to the sea.
Which could be nothing and anything.
The wooden spokes of a religion.
Rubrics of belief
Near to you, far from you.
There is no paradigm along the strand
Where the humans lose weight
Burning star to star,
Spot of blood to spot of blood.
They are dying to be restored and entertained
But not in the therapy that twisted his smile
And loosened his teeth,
Dropping one by one from his hands to the sea.
City by the Sea
The readers of old magazines
Can hear themselves breathe
In the cells of Lisbon
Nothing can be trivial.
Large plants grow dark roots
In the gut of the isthmus,
A soft pandemonium
Meant to save us, flowers
Brought to inertia.
In the seizures of the strand
The strollers have nothing
To say or offer to the empty faced
One feels lucky to feel the body
Pulled toward strange languages
The hand shakes
In the midst of constant news,
In thoughts of the journey
Where birds were thrown toward the sea
A city filled with its last customers,
Children without memories.
One of them will scribble
The final sketch—
A picture of the big mouse
In my head
Who has never betrayed me
And whom no one can destroy.
Essay After the Twentieth Century
The humans panic
When suddenly shaped by the beautiful storm
And the fields of gauze
A memory of a shave or some paintings
Or a walk through the poor district
To the eternity of an eyelash
Could you write a secret
In three words only
Watching the rain move in green
From the north across a grid that does not exist
I did not mind getting lost with you
The whales of the Atlantic were grateful
To have us whole and dreaming of them
The earth is ready to be done
With the last century
It seems the land knows little of itself
Erased by wind and water
But the new hour spins and the mind
Wants to know the voice
That held it all this time
And why it has remained.
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