miércoles, 10 de junio de 2015

SALLY BLIUMIS-DUNN [16.223] Poeta de Estados Unidos

Sally Bliumis-Dunn 

Poeta. Estados Unidos
Enseña poesía moderna y Escritura Creativa en Manhattanville College. Recibió su licenciatura en idioma ruso y literatura por la Universidad de Berkeley en 1983 y su maestría en poesía en el Sarah Lawrence College en 2002. 

Sus poemas han aparecido en BigCityLit, Lumina, New York Times, Nimrod, The Paris Review, PBS News Hour, Prairie Schooner, Poesía Londres, Rattle, Rattapallax, Spoon River Poetry Review y probabilidad de un fantasma, una antología difundida por Helicon Nueve en 2005.

En 2002, fue finalista para el Premio Pablo Neruda Nimrod / Hardman. Su manuscrito, Talking Underwater, ha sido finalista en la Universidad de Arkansas Premio Press First Book en 2006, semifinalista para el concurso The Kenyon First Book en 2002, el brillante Hill Press en 2005 y finalista del Premio de Poesía Snyder Richard de Ashland Press en 2006, fue publicado por Wind Publications en 2007. En 2008, se la invitó a leer en el "Programa de poemas de amor" en la Biblioteca del Congreso. Second Skin fue publicado por   Wind Publications en 2010. Vive en Armonk, Nueva York con su esposo, John. Comparten cuatro hijos, Ben, Angie, Kaitlin y Fiona.

Reproducimos la columna de la semana del Poeta Laureado Ted Kooser llamada American Life in Poetry. En ella, cada semana publica un poema de algún poeta contemporáneo norteamericano junto a alguna observación suya. Se trata de un ejercicio que permite conocer el panorama actual de la poesía de Estados Unidos. Para esta entrega presentamos un poema de Sally Bliumis-Dunn llamado Corazón. La traducción de la columna y el poema corre a cargo de Andrea Muriel (Ciudad de México, 1990).

American Life in Poetry: Column 529

por Ted Kooser, Poeta Laureado, 2004-2006.

La gente habla de “flores y corazones” cuando están hablando de poemas con una sensibilidad predecible, pero aquí hay un antídoto para todos ellos: de Sally Bliumis-Dunn que vive en Nueva York. Su más reciente libro de poemas en Second Skin, Wind Publications, 2010.


Ella pintó sus labios
color rosa hibisco.
El labio superior se hunde
perfectamente en el centro

como un corazón de San Valentín.
Tiene sentido para mí–
que los labios, el abierto

ah de la boca
tenga más forma de un corazón
que el corazón humano real.
Recuerdo la primera vez que lo vi–

venoso y brillante
como el rezumar de una serpiente–
si esto fuera
lo que nos enseñaron a dibujar

que diferente habríamos
aprendido a amar.

People speak of “hearts and flowers” when they’re talking about poems with predictable sentimentality, but here’s an antidote to all those valentines, from Sally Bliumis-Dunn, who lives in New York. Her most recent book of poems is Second Skin, Wind Publications, 2010.


She has painted her lips
hibiscus pink.
The upper lip dips
perfectly in the center

like a Valentine heart.
It makes sense to me—
that the lips, the open

ah of the mouth
is shaped more like a heart
than the actual human heart.
I remember the first time I saw it—

veined and shiny
as the ooze of a snail—
if this were what
we had been taught to draw

how differently we might have
learned to love.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright © 2014 by Sally Bliumus-Dunn and reprinted by permission. Introduction copyright © 2015 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.

Tell It Slant

Have to sail at an angle, 
never directly into the wind – 
other things too –

can't look right at the sun, 
the world, only visible 
in the light that falls around it;

and in books as well, 
the best drawn characters most often 
evolve through indirection:

a lipstick smear on a collar, 
contents of a bedroom drawer.

I imagine, for some reason, 
a single two by twelve board 
I need to lean against a barn –

it won't even stand unless 
I place it at an angle.

I don't know how many other 
things like this are true,

but I like trying 
to see her words –

the tall right triangle the barn 
and board create together,

the purple tufts of clover 
slightly darker in the grass.

Poetry Kanto

What Brings Us Together

I dream I am building 
with beach glass – 
brown, green and white pieces, 
an occasional royal blue.

I glue each piece 
to the edge of another. 
What I am building is hollow, 
so light shows through;

it is wider at the base, 
and tapers to a point.

At first I am building 
on a tar-stained lot, 
then it switches to our lawn, 
and I see you 
walking toward me, waving 
something like a letter.

You don't ask what I'm making. 
And because it's a dream, 
I don't mind.

We are talking through 
the language of things.

Poetry Kanto

The Door

Through the bare trees 
along the property line, 
a woman in a field. 
She doesn't know I see her 
beating the horse with her crop, kicking it in its belly. And I don't

shout to try and stop her. 
I stand on the leafy trail 
as if all I can do

is let what's happening 
harden in me like a terrible stone. 
When she finally stops, 
it is still 
some moments before I can release

the screeching whistle 
from whatever was keeping it 
locked inside me. 

Her head jerks in my direction. 
as though I had opened a door 
she hadn't known was there.


Three O'Clock Slump

You know those afternoons: 
too drowsy, the head nods.

The lines in the book 
blur, the book

becomes a piece of driftwood

and your fingernails cake 
with moss and mud from 
trying to hang on.

The next thing you remember 
is the soft muddy bottom,

and you, looking dreamily 
up through the water 
at your own thoughts

as though 
at the underside of leaves,

that begin to look 
like flattened hands or paws

without the mass of a body, 
the orb of a head —

which is how you are 
beginning to feel

about your body and your mind.

They have floated so far 
away from each other.

The Same


The way you sway 
as you walk to me,

or froth the milk each morning, 
the ordinary always

becoming something else 
like an atmosphere

Let there only be a sweet

lingering in the air 
that pulls us from moment

to moment; and far off 
in the distance,

the old pain in starkest 

Let my body never 
memorize your body;

let our constant vanishing be 
the window we look through

and each of our steps vanish 
the one that came before.



The surface tension of the water –– 
what is light enough

to float there, glide –– the water bug, 
yes, but not the dragonfly.

Delicate floating, this a poem 
for you and for all that falls

below the surface of chest, thigh, sheets.

Lying on our bed, 
the streetlamp's orange light;

the lovely length of my husband 
flickering beside me.

The past falling through 
our bodies like a stone.

Guinea Pig

When the small hill 
of the mother's body stayed still, 
I knew she'd died.

Fanny sat in the woodchips beside her. 
When I returned with a ziplock bag,

she lay right on top of her, making 
a soft, almost inaudible sound –

her mourning strangely the same

as any other I've known – 
the same perfect limpness 
of one body thrown over another 
like a hopeless cloth,

and the sound of deepest sorrow, 
muffled as though it came 
from the center of a gigantic stone.

I couldn't bring myself to move her. 
All afternoon she lay 
on the sudden silence of 
her mother's heart

and on the slower news 
of the body, which still 
offered a fading warmth.

The Bellevue literary Review

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