Photograph: Esther Kennard
Luke Kennard
(United Kingdom, 1981)
Ganó un Premio Eric Gregory para su primera colección de poemas en prosa: The Solex Brothers, en 2005. Su segundo libro, The Harbour Beyond The Movie (Salt Publishing fue nominado para el Premio de Poesía Forward 2007. A los 26 años, fue el poeta más joven en recibir una nominación.
Bibliografía
The Solex Brothers, Stride Books, 2005 (reprinted by Salt, Cambridge, 2007)
The Harbour Beyond the Movie, Salt Publications, Cambridge, 2007
The Migraine Hotel, Salt Publications, Cambridge, 2009
Planet-Shaped Horse, Nine Arches Press, Rugby, 2011
EL ASESINO
Invito al asesino a tomar café.
“¡Asegúrate de no asesinar tu café!”
Yo bromeo. Le gustan mis bromas.
Más tarde arrojo algo sobre su cara:
Para que se sienta incómodo-
Esto forma parte del proceso de rehabilitación.
Gotea sangre de su boca como un grifo a medio cerrar.
Le gustan mis analogías. “¡Eh, Asesino!”
Le grito, “¿alguna persona asesinada recientemente?”
Al asesino le gusta jugar al bádminton.
Cuando pierde, yo digo: ‘Eso es lo que te pasa por ser un asesino. “
Cuando gana, digo, -
“Supongo que te mantienes en bastante
Buena forma asesinando a toda esa gente”.
Yo no voy a dejar que el asesino se olvide que es un asesino.
Cuando bailo con el asesino le dejo llevarme
Porque él es un bailarín más experimentado—
‘Sólo ten cuidado de no asesinarme!” Bromeo.
La cárcel despunta sobre el horizonte como un enorme cenicero -
Cuando viajamos le doy el asiento de la ventana.
“Eh, asesino, ¿quieres un emparedado?”-Digo,
“¿O prefieres asesinar a alguien?”
El asesino come su emparedado de jamón y queso.
“La previsión es de nieve,” le digo.
Versión de Carlos Alcorta
From: The Harbour Beyond the Movie
THE MURDERER
I take the murderer for coffee.
‘Make sure you don’t murder your coffee!’
I joke. He likes my jokes.
Later I swing a plank into his face:
This is to stop him enjoying himself –
Which is integral to the rehabilitation process.
His mouth trickles blood like a tap quarter-turned.
He likes my analogies. ‘Hey, Murderer!’
I yell, ‘Murdered anyone recently?’
The murderer likes to play badminton.
When he loses, I say, ‘That’s what you get for being a murderer.’
When he wins, I say,
‘I guess you got yourself in pretty good shape
Murdering all those people.’
I’m not about to let the murderer forget he’s a murderer.
When I dance with the murderer I let him lead
Because he is the more proficient dancer –
‘Just be careful not to murder me!’ I tease.
The prison sits on the horizon like a great ash-tray –
When we travel I give him the window seat.
‘Hey, murderer, would you like a sandwich?’ I say,
‘Or would you rather murder someone?’
The murderer eats his cheese and ham sandwich.
‘The forecast is for snow,’ I tell him.
From: The Harbour Beyond the Movie
THE FORMS OF DESPAIR
We returned from the war happier, arms around our shadows—
Who claimed to be older than us. They told great jokes
Lay around barefoot, hair precisely
Unkempt, cigarettes hissing and glowing like christmas lights.
Only our fiancées were tired and bothersome,
Having forgotten how to love, or vice versa.
Some had moved to factories in other cities,
Others, when pressed said, ‘No-one’s forcing you to put up with me.’
We went skating with our shadows,
Huddled under the fir trees drinking sausage tea.
Inquisitive sheep collected around our camp;
It was good to be among the ice storm and the believers.
We described the funny pages to Simon—who had lost both his eyes
But the jokes didn’t work so well in description.
From: The Migraine Hotel
MI AMIGO
Mi amigo, su irresponsabilidad y su infelicidad me divierten. Sus problemas financieros y el aumento de su cintura son una fuente constante de alivio. Me alegro que bebas más que yo y que no parezca que lo disfrutas tanto. Cuando percibo que eres arrogante y porfiado, mi corazón brinca. Tu nihilismo se está convirtiendo en la fuente más rica de significados de mi vida y es un placer verte hablando cruelmente de los demás. Cuando chismorreas acerca de nuestros amigos comunes reviento de satisfacción. Tu impaciencia pueril me maravilla. El día en que te enrabietaste en medio del supermercado fue el día más feliz de mi vida. A veces dices algo que confirma que eres bastante estúpido — y te quiero entonces, pero no tanto como cuando eres cruelmente manipulador. Tu promiscuidad es como la de un perro faldero. Cuando hablas sobre tus pequeños deslices intentas hacer que suenen grandiosos e importantes— aprecio tu torpeza y tu insensatez. A veces parece que no tienes sentido del humor: bendigo el día que te conocí. Intimidas a la gente más joven y más débil que tú —y cuando otros me hablan sobre esto, me satisface. A veces pienso que eres incapaz de amar — y estoy rebosante de alegría al despertar una mañana de sábado para darme cuenta de que no tengo que ir a trabajar. A menudo sospecho que no disfrutas como yo y mi risa se desborda como el agua de una cisterna llena.
Versión de Carlos Alcorta
MY FRIEND
My friend, your irresponsibility and your unhappiness delight me. Your financial problems and your expanding waist-line are a constant source of relief. I am so happy you drink more than I do and that you don’t seem to enjoy it as much. When I hear you being arrogant and argumentative, my heart leaps. Your nihilism is fast becoming the richest source of meaning in my life and it is my pleasure to watch you speaking harshly to others. When you gossip about our mutual acquaintances I sigh with satisfaction. Your childish impatience delights me. The day you threw a tantrum in the middle of the supermarket was the happiest day of my life. Sometimes you say something which reveals you to be rather stupid – and I love you then, but not as much as I love you when you are callously manipulative. Your promiscuity is like a faithful dog at my side. When you talk about your petty affairs, you try to make them sound grand and important – I cherish your gaucheness and your flippancy. At times it seems you are actually without a sense of humour: I bless the day I met you. You bully people younger and weaker than you – and when others tell me about this, I am pleased. Sometimes I think you are incapable of love – and I am filled with the contentment of waking on a Saturday morning to realise I don’t have to go to work. I often suspect that you do not even like me and my laughter overflows like water from a blocked cistern.
From: The Migraine Hotel
SPADE
Flat-faced clown of the gazebo,
Lever that punctures the world,
A see-saw we cleave to and see our fate
Rising on the other side.
Piano of the shed’s orchestra,
A stick fastened to an evil
cast-iron cartoon seagull.
The opposite of a knife:
You cannot be used accidentally.
The force and stance required
Renders us one animal.
When the earth is gravelly
We sound like a distant car starting.
When muddy, satisfying as a new word
Used surreptitiously in the right context.
Once the hole is dug the only thing
I cannot bury in it is you;
Tamping down the sewn earth
Like gunpowder in a canon.
Puppet on a blue-screen,
Dancing like a smug wand,
Suddenly disembodied,
From me, your erstwhile fossor,
Your mortal, flubby ballast,
Your spluttering engine.
From: The Migraine Hotel
HALÁTNOST
HALÁTNOST [Russian] noun. – literally, ‘dressing-gownness’ (HALÁT meaning dressing-gown), a state of detachment, inertia, procrastination, day-dreaming…
He sleeps! He sleeps! A whisper passes round;
His orchestra is tiptoeing away
From the four-poster bed in which he lies
When someone knocks a cello through a bank
Of clarinets; wearily the players
Return to their sheet-music; this will be
Another long night in his company.
It could be dawn before they stumble through
The wild gardens of this ancient house
Where he, behind a leafy window sets
Upon his education – like a cat
Preserved in amber in an attitude
Of fury. To be seen to learn’s enough,
He told his henchman in a rare display
Of trust (betrayed – the henchman told the cook).
Tomorrow he will reference his paper
On characters crushed by falling pianos
In tragedy or comedy – but now
He cannot sleep; he is sick with worry:
For what if he is evil, after all?
What if this insubstantial kindness is
Another weapon? His brow creases up.
A piano hitched to the ceiling creaks;
The strands of twine will snap in perfect fifths
Before it falls – Oh, let it fall on me.
A dead aunt from a war-torn city sends
Three children – who arrive next morning, with a note
Of introduction; two boys and a girl.
Something in their expressions is askew –
Like people in Nineteenth Century scenes
Who did not imagine their faces would
Affect the outcome of the photograph:
We have different eyes now, eyes casting round
For the nearest reflective surface.
There are horrible opinions everywhere:
Like oil slicks. They must be kept indoors,
These children – he prepares for each of them
A pair of slippers and a dressing gown.
From: The Harbour Beyond the Movie
MEN MADE OF WORDS
a rondeau
Men made of words live in migraine hotels
And talk not of music, but speaker cables;
Stay up to drink whisky with red lemonade,
Point out the mistakes one other has made –
Of pronunciation, directions and sales.
Some compare charts before prints of Kandinsky;
Some pick on the barmaid – Nebraskan and pretty –
Their guiding philosophy never needs telling;
The Fauvists, so colourful: what is it they’re selling?
Art never hurts for the men made of words.
So if you, like I, often let down your guard
When you’re drunk in the hush of a theatre courtyard;
Or, forced to find work beneath travestied arches,
You find yourself under the weight of their glances,
Make your excuse while the handshakes are hard
And run for your life from the men made of words.
NOTES:
‘A note on the form,’ says the wolf. ‘It is a rondeau.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You’ve written “A rondeau” underneath the title in
italics.’
‘You probably wouldn’t understand what a rondeau is,’ says the wolf,
‘because most of what you call poetry doesn’t even have line-breaks. This
is why I am frequently asked to provide poems for current affairs, peri-
odicals, commercial services and military organisations, whereas you are
asked to provide poems solely for personal gain and the sake of your so-
called career. The so-called status-quo rejects traditional form on grounds
that it is too traditional.’
‘It seems rather mean to businessmen,’ I say, ‘the poem, I mean.’
‘Businessmen are the diametric opposite of poetry,’ says the wolf.
‘Poetry is mud, businessmen are a hole.’
‘It’s just one of those poems where you try to make out that poets are
better than ordinary people because we’re more cultured and sensitive,’
I complain, opening a rocket lolly.
‘It may not be true in your case,’ says the wolf, ‘but then you are part
of the academic machine: you write favourable reviews of your friends
so they shortlist you for things and vice versa. And nobody buys your
books. Maybe you should try using a rhyme scheme once in a while,
that’s all I’m saying. Ooh, rocket lollies! Can I have one?’
‘This is the last one.’
From: The Migraine Hotel
NUT FACTORY
The unshelled peanuts pour down the flue
Like a throng of ecstatic bald men, dancing.
I put my hands into the flue and raise them.
I let the peanuts fall over my head.
I place a nut between my teeth.
It tastes of pencil lead.
I place the bad nut in an iron trough.
When the trough is full it is taken to the furnace.
The good nuts are portioned, weighed
And sealed into foil bags – but I am not involved in this.
We can eat as many nuts as we like.
We are all so sick of nuts we cry sometimes.
Friday mornings we leave the factory, dancing,
Like unshelled peanuts pouring down a flue.
From: The Harbour Beyond the Movie
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