Carolyn Kizer
Carolyn Ashley Kizer (Nació en Spokane, Washington el 12 Octubre 1925 y falleció el 9 octubre 2014), fue una poeta americana del noroeste del Pacífico, cuyas obras reflejan su feminismo. Ganó el Premio Pulitzer en 1985.
OBRA:
Poesía
Cool, Calm, and Collected: Poems 1960-2000 . Copper Canyon Press. 2001. ISBN 978-1-55659-181-5 .
Pro Femina: A Poem BkMk Press, University of Missouri-Kansas City, 2000, ISBN 9781886157309
Harping On: Poems 1985-1995 , Copper Canyon Press, 1996, ISBN 9781556591150
The Nearness of You , Copper Canyon Press, 1986, ISBN 9780914742968
Yin , Boa Editions, 1984, ISBN 9780918526441 — Pulitzer Prize winner [ 8 ]
Mermaids in the basement: poems for women , Copper Canyon Press, 1984, ISBN 9780914742807
Midnight Was My Cry: New and Selected Poems , Doubleday, 1971
Knock Upon Silence , Doubleday, 1965
The Ungrateful Garden , 1961; Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1999, ISBN 9780887482762
Prosa
Picking and Choosing: Prose on Prose , Eastern Washington University Press, 1995, ISBN 9780910055253
Proses: Essays on Poets and Poetry , Copper Canyon Press, 1993, ISBN 9781556590450
Traducciones
Carrying Over: Translations from Chinese, Urdu, Macedonian, Hebrew and French-African (Copper Canyon Press, 1986)
Como editora
100 Great Poems by Women HarperCollins, 1995, ISBN 9780880015813
The Essential Clare (1992)
Amoroso alimento
Voy a asesinarte con amor;
voy a sofocarte con abrazos:
voy a abrazarte, hueso por hueso,
hasta que estés del todo muerto.
Entonces cenaré con tu delicioso tuétano.
Te convertirás en mi Sahara personal
y me asolearé en ti, después de un solo trago
drenaré lo salobre que te quede.
Con mi cuchilla femenina tallaré mi nombre
en tu palma más ambiciosa
antes de talarla.
Luego inhalaré el último de tus oasis.
Y en el desierto total en que te convertirás
me habrás de ver estirada, de un horizonte a otro,
opulento espejismo.
Balcones de glicina goteando violetas.
Paisajes ardiendo en cristal, enlazados en oro.
Convocarás cada grano de arena
y avanzarás hacia mí en dunas ondulantes
hasta que arribes a un repentino azul de mar:
un Mediterráneo que acaricie tus orillas de polvo;
verdor obstinado deslizándose tierra adentro, desnudando veloz/
tus tierras áridas; las suculencias brotando por todas partes,/
la vida sorpresiva. Y yo seré aquel verde.
Cuando estés alimentado y rociado,
con retoños entramándose en las rejas, las cúpulas, los capiteles/
hasta que resucites como un campo en flor,
habré de devorarte, mi alimento natural,
mi amo, mi última cena en la tierra,
y comenzarás a morir de nuevo.
Traducción de Juan Carlos Garay
FOOD OF LOVE
Eating touch carried to the bitter end.
Samuel Butler II
I’m going to murder you with love;
I’m going to suffocate you with embraces;
I’m going to hug you, bone by bone,
Till you’re dead all over.
Then I will dine on your delectable marrow.
You will become my personal Sahara;
I’ll sun myself in you, then with one swallow
Drain your remaining brackish well.
With my female blade I’ll carve my name
In your most aspiring palm
Before I chop it down.
Then I’ll inhale your last oasis whole.
But in the total desert you become
You’ll see me stretch, horizon to horizon,
Opulent mirage!
Wisteria balconies dripping cyclamen.
Vistas ablaze with crystal, laced in gold.
So you will summon each dry grain of sand
And move toward me in undulating dunes
Till you arrive at sudden ultramarine:
A Mediterranean to stroke your dusty shores;
Obstinate verdure, creeping inland, fast renudes
Your barrens; succulents spring up everywhere,
Surprising life! And I will be that green.
When you are fed and watered, flourishing
With shoots entwining trellis, dome, and spire,
Till you are resurrected field in bloom,
I will devour you, my natural food,
My host, my final supper on the earth,
And you’ll begin to die again.
POSTALES DESDE ROTTERDAM
3
pensé
que cuando la luna estuviera llena
estaría nuevamente entre tus brazos.
Pero no.
Estoy en brazos de otro.
Y ni siquiera volteamos
a mirar la luna.
POSTCARDS FROM ROTTERDAM
3
I thought
When the moon was full again
I would be in your arms.
But I’m not.
I’m in somebody else’s arms.
We don’t even glance
At the moon.
Bitch
Now, when he and I meet, after all these years,
I say to the bitch inside me, don’t start growling.
He isn’t a trespasser anymore,
Just an old acquaintance tipping his hat.
My voice says, “Nice to see you,”
As the bitch starts to bark hysterically.
He isn’t an enemy now,
Where are your manners, I say, as I say,
“How are the children? They must be growing up.”
At a kind word from him, a look like the old days,
The bitch changes her tone; she begins to whimper.
She wants to snuggle up to him, to cringe.
Down, girl! Keep your distance
Or I’ll give you a taste of the choke-chain.
“Fine, I’m just fine,” I tell him.
She slobbers and grovels.
After all, I am her mistress. She is basically loyal.
It’s just that she remembers how she came running
Each evening, when she heard his step;
How she lay at his feet and looked up adoringly
Though he was absorbed in his paper;
Or, bored with her devotion, ordered her to the kitchen
Until he was ready to play.
But the small careless kindnesses
When he’d had a good day, or a couple of drinks,
Come back to her now, seem more important
Than the casual cruelties, the ultimate dismissal.
“It’s nice to know you are doing so well,” I say.
He couldn’t have taken you with him;
You were too demonstrative, too clumsy,
Not like the well-groomed pets of his new friends.
“Give my regards to your wife,” I say. You gag
As I drag you off by the scruff,
Saying, “Goodbye! Goodbye! Nice to have seen you again.”
A Muse of Water
We who must act as handmaidens
To our own goddess, turn too fast,
Trip on our hems, to glimpse the muse
Gliding below her lake or sea,
Are left, long-staring after her,
Narcissists by necessity;
Or water-carriers of our young
Till waters burst, and white streams flow
Artesian, from the lifted breast:
Cupbearers then, to tiny gods,
Imperious table-pounders, who
Are final arbiters of thirst.
Fasten the blouse, and mount the steps
From kitchen taps to Royal Barge,
Assume the trident, don the crown,
Command the Water Music now
That men bestow on Virgin Queens;
Or goddessing above the waist,
Appear as swan on Thames or Charles
Where iridescent foam conceals
The paddle-stroke beneath the glide:
Immortal feathers preened in poems!
Not our true, intimate nature, stained
By labor, and the casual tide.
Masters of civilization, you
Who moved to riverbank from cave,
Putting up tents, and deities,
Though every rivulet wander through
The final, unpolluted glades
To cinder-bank and culvert-lip,
And all the pretty chatterers
Still round the pebbles as they pass
Lightly over their watercourse,
And even the calm rivers flow,
We have, while springs and skies renew,
Dry wells, dead seas, and lingering drouth.
Water itself is not enough.
Harness her turbulence to work
For man: fill his reflecting pools.
Drained for his cofferdams, or stored
In reservoirs for his personal use:
Turn switches! Let the fountains play!
And yet these buccaneers still kneel
Trembling at the water's verge:
“Cool River-Goddess, sweet ravine,
Spirit of pool and shade, inspire!”
So he needs poultice for his flesh.
So he needs water for his fire.
We rose in mists and died in clouds
Or sank below the trammeled soil
To silent conduits underground,
Joining the blindfish, and the mole.
A gleam of silver in the shale:
Lost murmur! Subterranean moan!
So flows in dark caves, dries away,
What would have brimmed from bank to bank,
Kissing the fields you turned to stone,
Under the boughs your axes broke.
And you blame streams for thinning out,
plundered by man’s insatiate want?
Rejoice when a faint music rises
Out of a brackish clump of weeds,
Out of the marsh at ocean-side,
Out of the oil-stained river’s gleam,
By the long causeways and gray piers
Your civilizing lusts have made.
Discover the deserted beach
Where ghosts of curlews safely wade:
Here the warm shallows lave your feet
Like tawny hair of magdalens.
Here, if you care, and lie full-length,
Is water deep enough to drown.
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