Noelle Kocot
Poeta estadounidense. Es autora de seis colecciones de poesía. Kocot ha recibido numerosos honores por su poesía, incluyendo un NEA comunión y la inclusión en la mejor poesía americana antologías para 2001 y 2012 y la edición de 2013 de Postmodern American Poetry: Un Norton Anthology. Nació y se crió en Brooklyn, Nueva York y reside en Nueva Jersey.
BIBLIOGRAFÍA
Soul in Space (forthcoming from Wave Books , October 2013)
Poet By Default (translations of Tristan Corbière ) ( Wave Books , 2011)
The Bigger World ( Wave Books , 2011)
Damon's Room (a bibliographic pamphlet) ( Wave Books , 2010)
Sunny Wednesday ( Wave Books , 2009)
Poem for the End of Time and Other Poems ( Wave Books , 2006)
The Raving Fortune ( Four Way Books , 2004)
4 ( Four Way Books , 2001)
Si la tierra es una escuela
Está la parte
que te conecta con toda la creación.
Y está la parte
que te dice:
Andá al kiosco a comprar cigarrillos,
o tus alumnos son todos deformes
¿Vos qué parte sos?
Abro un agujero en el cielo
con mi cigarrillo,
mis alumnos son animales con alma
sin pastor.
No sé cuál es el buen camino,
ni entiendo de física.
Lo que entiendo es “tengo hambre”
y “necesito dormir”,
y todos los poetas y la poesía se me escapan
Especialmente yo misma y lo mío
Noelle Kocot x Marina Mariasch
Mientras escribo
Alguien adentro dice: “Ponéte a hacer algo”.
Pero hay citas que no puedo dejar,
tengo un amor abstemio por las ecuaciones hechas en un flash
mientras el día monótono desaparece diseñado.
Y los pómulos altos de la bella vida
soportan la mirada vaga de un calendario bajo la luz artificial.
Yo busco patrones en todas las cosas.
Yo estoy atada a los eslabones de la comprensión.
Pienso en cuán útil sería
perforar todas las manos de la tierra
y rodear los planetas rugientes con un juramente de alfileres
pero el talento y la superficialidad unidos por una costura
no son más que un pañuelo atado en la cabeza de un survivalista,
y alivia saber que los pies que se retuercen por un agujero
en el universo aterrizarán durante un instante
sobre los cojines de la oscuridad.
Y que después de marchar un espléndido kilómetro tras otro
todos daremos con el mismo poema garabateado en tinta invisible
pegado con cinta en la puerta de una habitación
en la que una justicia austera arde por nosotros.
Sobre ser artista
Saturno parece normal,
la forma en que se libera en el cielo
cuando no miramos.
Los árboles todavía me cantan en ese
tono, y añoro este mundo moteado.
Los patrones de la luz artificial sobre el cuero,
el sol, que escucha.
Hermano mío, hermana mía,
nací para contarte algunas
cosas, incluso si nadie
me quiere escuchar. Contestáme
como el pájaro que absorbe
todo el cielo arruinado
por el anochecer. Si puedo recordar
las palabras en la tormenta,
seré capaz de sentarme
aquí, con vos, por un rato.
Traducción colectiva de: Maria Queirel, Juliana Gore, Dani Zelko, Luisina Gentile y Cecilia Pavón
While Writing
Someone inside says, “Get busy.”
But I’ve got appointments to keep,
I have an abstemious love of equations calculated quickly
While the tepid day melts into design.
And the high cheekbones of the beautiful life
Bear the loose look of a calendar by lamplight.
I search for patterns in everything.
I am tied in knots of comprehension.
I think, how useful it might be
To pierce all the hands of the earth
With an oath of pins encircling snarling planets
But talent and shallowness sewn together
Is nothing but a kerchief tied around a survivalist’s head,
And it helps to know the feet wriggling through a hole
In the universe will land for an instant
Upon the cushions of the dark,
And that after marching one doozy of a kilometer after another,
We each come upon the same poem scribbled in invisible ink
Taped to the door of a room
In which an austere justice is burning for us.
On Being an Artist
Saturn seems habitual,
The way it rages in the sky
When we’re not looking.
On this note, the trees still sing
To me, and I long for this
Mottled world. Patterns
Of the lamplight on this leather,
The sun, listening.
My brother, my sister,
I was born to tell you certain
Things, even if no one
Really listens. Give it back
To me, as the bird takes up
The whole sky, ruined with
Nightfall. If I can remember
The words in the storm,
I will be well enough to sit
Here with you a little while.
del blog Poem a Day, 2014
The Peace That So Lovingly Descends
“You” have transformed into “my loss.”
The nettles in your vanished hair
Restore the absolute truth
Of warring animals without a haven.
I know, I’m as pathetic as a railroad
Without tracks. In June, I eat
The lonesome berries from the branches.
What can I say, except the forecast
Never changes. I sleep without you,
And the letters that you sent
Are now faded into failed lessons
Of an animal that’s found a home. This.
ENSOULED
A new truth. The great sky, the accomplishment,
No one’s here. I stood back in the reliable, and
I’ve seen the ruins with my own eyes. The material
Fact of grace, the doubts that runneth over like
Flame everywhere, we are galvanized on our veneers.
Mercury, sifting time after time after time, exchanging
Our poisons as we go. Petals tumbling, curled, our
One source of the fetal. What could be more safe?
The ruins toppling, the steel cities where you lie dreaming,
Why don’t you wake up? If I could see your trajectory
Burning out too swiftly for the silver hurry of anchor
And rain, if I could touch you over the great limbs of
Wire and ash, perhaps we could have an exchange, a flicker
Of drinking in this world, and softly sleeping because of it.
OUR ONLY CLAWS
With intensity comes the ironic. A
Cardinal’s angle in the mist, the hushed
Dirt below. Ignorance is the desert wind
Through a shattered mind. Pain gallops
Over the moonlight, pain gallops over
The moonlight, and our praises on the
Open door hurry like the night’s perfumes.
The torn universe, gothic with sense, on
Every altar history glows. Life filled with
Bureaucrats, naked, scrubbing paint flecks
Off the music, the roaring of a savage
Corpse is all you can hear. Wherever, whenever
We are gathered to understand, our silk suits
Show the coffee stains, and we collaborate
With our styluses, as our cameras brighten
Misunderstanding’s red heaven, our only claws.
THE PROBLEM OF EVIL
Church of white petals, there is no offense here.
There is a bit of understanding, not much, and
Some crumpled bright lottery tickets. You in
Your fragile coat of arms, you in your destiny,
You, you, you, a sharp-edged warrior, tell me, where
May I find the beginning? I’m forty-three years old,
And I’m talking to a kitchen bowl. The kingdom
Is in the waves of lapidaries vowing change and
Promise. In the scale of what we claim, there is
An unplanned landscape. Wind on a compass,
Light upon light, I have moved very carefully in
Your wake. Percussion floods the infernal mysteries,
And the veins torched with electricity no longer
Cry out. A decade’s failure, a wound, some music.
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