domingo, 3 de mayo de 2015

GENE GRABINER [15.841] Poeta de Estados Unidos


GENE GRABINER

Estados Unidos. Poeta.
La poesía de Gene Grabiner ha aparecido en Rosebud, Ilya's Honey, Blue Collar Review, J Journal, In Our Own Words (ezine), Earth's Daughters, HazMat Review, y otras revistas y antologías. Fue finalista en el Concurso Premio William Stafford, ha sido presentado en el Festival de Poesía de Jackson Heights, en Nueva York, ha leído en IFPOR en Toronto, y fue semifinalista en el "Discover" / The Nation national poetry competition, Unterberg Poetry Center, también en la ciudad de Nueva York. Grabiner vive en Buffalo, Nueva York y es un Distinguido SUNY Profesor Emérito.



LA HISTORIA VIVE

La memoria vive
en los nombres, los nombres
de las luchas eternas
contra Roma,
la antigua Roma y la nueva,
en los barrios de Nueva York,
en la calle 122, en la 123.

Pero han olvidado la historia, la memoria
que todavía vive
en los nombres―
Amílcar,
Aníbal: quiénes, desde Africa con elefantes,
abrieron la brecha
del muro de Alpes.

Los jóvenes no conocen ni a
Amílcar ni a Aníbal,
contra Roma,
la antigua Roma y la nueva;
sólo esto conocen― los nombres,
sin historia, sin memoria.
Sólo los nombres.

Traducido por Esteban R. López y Olga Mendell





LA HIENA

En el calor
del quieto verano
el llamado de la hiena
rebota de su recinto de concreto,
carambolea por el vecindario.
Un destello de algo doloroso.
Ella no es motivo de risa.
De hombros caídos,
inclinada espina, con la áspera piel manchada
y un pasado manchado. Su
atroz quijada gotea,
en la húmeda noche.

Y su voz ronca sube
por el aire espeso del llano
El terror que me mantiene cerca
de la selva cuando yo
bajo, tomo esos primeros
pasos tentativos que me alejan de los arboles.

Traducido por Esteban R. López





CONOZCO A UNA MUJER

Conozco a una mujer,
conozco a una mujer con
pelo de noche y
pelo largo así los ríos,
los ríos grandes y herméticos
Hay una mujer
esta mujer,
mi mujer,
tienes ojos profundos
con alma brava
con alma triste
con alma abierta
con alma honda

Traducido por Esteban R. López




GAMEBOY

…with drones, there are
no pilots to become casualties.
―NPR report, September 4, 2007


Some fast thumbs joystick
kid from Vegas in this windowless
desert room out by the Spring Range,
sits
in front of a huge quad array,
backlit vid screens.
Room in perpetual fluorescent daylight
just like casinos downtown.
Gets laser right on target,
on the money, on the button,
it’s a win.
Collateralizes that insurgent
Afghan wedding party.
Breaks for ham sandwich,
some pop and a smoke
before ducking down
in his bunker,
Creech Air Force Base.





ANNUAL CHECKUP

The Empire is so fat it’s thin.
Its ribs are showing,
Its hollow flanks.
The Empire is powerful
But its skeleton is cracking,
Internal organs collapsing
Under all that muscle.
The Empire is so rational
It’s mad, so protective,
All are in terror.
So robust
it’s consumptive,
So satiated
But ever-hungry,
So accumulative
It has no clothes,
So exceptional
That we take exception.
So free
It’s one vast prison,
So democratic
In its tyranny,
So caring,
It spies on everyone,
So pro-life,
It’s a charnel house.

All in all,
Another good year.






ALL EYES ARE UPON US

Mother, mother
There’s too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother
There’s far too many of you dying
--Marvin Gaye

then they stomped
John Willet

as he lay on the sidewalk
hands cuffed behind his back
and shot
Michael Brown


who was on his way this fall to college

Stop and frisk
Stop and frisk

and used a chokehold to kill

Eric Garner

who sold cigarettes one-by-one
on the street in Staten Island
and punched again, again
in the face
great-grandmother

Marlene Pinnock

as she lay on the ground
then they stood around while
an angry bartender
pushed vet
William Sager

down the stairs to his death;
maybe helped hide
the security videotape
then it was
unarmed
Dillon Taylor

in Salt Lake City, and
homeless

James Boyd

in Albuquerque

and Darrien Hunt

in Saratoga Springs, Utah--

how about that grandmother
92-year-old
Kathryn Johnston

shot to death in a SWAT team raid
gone bad?

then it was
unarmed, homeless, mentally ill

Kelly Thomas

clubbed to death by three Fullerton cops
left with pulp for a face

in ‘73 in Dallas
Santos Rodriguez

was marked by officer Cain
who played Russian Roulette
with the handcuffed 12-year-old
in his cruiser—
till the .357 fired; Santos’ blood
all over his 13-year-old handcuffed
brother David

and those cries of
19-month-old Bounkham Phonesavanh
in whose crib
the flash-bang grenade exploded—
his nose blown off

Shelter in place
Shelter in place

or 41 police gunshots at immigrant

Amadou Diallo
who died
right there
in the doorway
of his Bx. apt. bldg.

and that cop who shot and killed
7-year-old

Aiyana Stanley-Jones

as she slept
and those Cleveland cops who shot
12-year-old

Tamir Rice

who had a BB gun
and gave him no first aid--
watched him die

all those police
with gas masks and helmets in

Ferguson, Missouri

telling the people

don’t be on the streets after sundown

Ferguson— still a sundown town

maybe soon like a town near you

with M-16’s, MRAP’s,
armored personnel carriers—

in this war against the people

Lockdown
Lockdown 





Red Scare

We lived in Parkchester the summer they burned
those other Jews.
Mom stuck to the radio
fear in her face.
The neighbors spoke softly.
Dad came home worried—
they'd gone once to a commie camp
so the Senate might get them too
and the angel of death passed over our house.
In July the Times said a mother
plunged from a fifth story window,
infant daughter in her arms;
a doctor and his wife were found dead
after drinking “poison cocktails.”
Riding through the Midtown Tunnel,
Harvey from across the street warned:
pull up your socks,
the water might rise
and we'll all drown.
One day in August, Harvey,
who we thought had no elastic in his socks
made the front page,
shot his wife
and two sons
piled up on one side
of the bathroom door,
Harvey on the other
doing the government's work.





F ingered

When the slim disease came to Sing-Sing,
the hacks would shove in dinner
on metal trays with brooms:
a quarantine shuffleboard
He had blotches on his face, or his teeth rotted
or maybe he was queer, with a strange cancer—
worked in the kitchen
So when other cons
burned his cell, he got administrative segregation,
was sent to the hospital—
out of the narrow alleys
of their lives
One time, this lifer met with the counselor,
filled out a form,
handed back the pen
She just sat there,
pen untouched on the table
When the slim disease
came to Clinton, hacks in the yard
wore goggles, gas masks, gloves
In the beginning
AIDS fingered eight thousand when it came inside





Hardly S een

Monticello
At Jefferson's home, the slave quarter
foundations along Mulberry Row
are invisible
from his backyard, the Winding Lawn.

Cook-slave Edithe Fossett's
cave-room held eight of her children.
It swim under my feet on the South Terrace.
Our docent, who doesn't mention those places
must be prompted by a question.
The great man is buried
in the fenced-in family plot
an obelisk
guarding the memory
of the Declaration's author.
At the parking lot a plaque
by an open dirt patch
framed by a wood rail fence:
slave cemetery.
[s]lave cemeteries were the first black institutions
in America.
Next day, late morning at the hotel.
Most guests are gone, beds get tossed.
The familiar cart with towels, refuse bags, cleaning tools.
Briefly whisking in,
and out of the empty rooms—housecleaning,
two black ghosts, this man and this woman at work.


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