X. J. KENNEDY
Nacido el 21 de agosto 1929, en Dover, Nueva Jersey, EE.UU. como Joseph Charles Kennedy, es un poeta, traductor, antólogo, editor y autor de literatura infantil y libros de texto sobre la literatura en Inglés y la poesía. Fue conocido como Joe Kennedy; pero, con el deseo de distinguirse de Joseph P. Kennedy, añadió con una "X" como su primera inicial.
X.J. Kennedy un poeta de gran prestigio, editor y educador, se convirtió en el ganador ganador del Premio Jackson de Poesía 2015, que entrega una bolsa de 50 mil dólares.
Kennedy de 85 años, es el ganador de este año del Premio Jackson de Poesía anunció la fundación literaria “Poets & Writers” este martes. El premio Jackson se le da a un poeta americano de “talento excepcional que merece un reconocimiento más amplio”.
Los muchos libros de Kennedy incluyen las colecciones “Nude Descending a Staircase”, “Cross Ties” y “The Lords of Misrule”.
Entre los ganadores previos del Premio Jackson se encuentran Elizabeth Alexander y Claudia Rankine. Poets &
Writers es una organización literaria sin ánimo de lucro fundada en 1970.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
POETRY; UNDER PSEUDONYM X. J. KENNEDY
Nude Descending a Staircase: Poems, Song, a Ballad, Doubleday (New York, NY), 1961.
Growing into Love, Doubleday (New York, NY), 1969.
Bulsh, Burning Deck (Providence, RI), 1970.
Breaking and Entering, Oxford University Press (New York, NY), 1971.
Emily Dickinson in Southern California, Godine (Boston, MA), 1974.
Celebrations after the Death of John Brennan, Penmaen (Lincoln, MA), 1974.
(With James Camp and Keith Waldrop) Three Tenors, One Vehicle,Open Places (Columbus, MO), 1975.
(Translator from the French) French Leave: Translations, Robert L. Barth (Edgewood, KY), 1983.
Missing Link, Scheidt Head (Secaucus, NJ), 1983.
Hangover Mass, Bits Press (Cleveland, OH), 1984.
Cross Ties: Selected Poems, University of Georgia Press (Athens, GA), 1985.
Winter Thunder, Robert L. Barth (Edgewood, KY), 1990.
Dark Horses: New Poems, Johns Hopkins University Press (Baltimore, MD), 1992.
Jimmy Harlow, Salmon Run Press (Chugiak, AK), 1994.
ARS POETICA
La gallina de los huevos de oro
Murió mirando su entrepierna
Para saber cómo funcionaba su esfínter.
¿Tú los pondrías bien? No mires.
Versión de Carlos Alcorta
TÓCAME
Tócame.
Una por una
En cada célula de mi cuerpo
Una chimenea se enciende.
Versión de Carlos Alcorta
NADA EN EL CIELO FUNCIONA COMO DEBERÍA
Nada en el cielo funciona como debería.
Las bifocales de Pedro, se han roto al sentarse sobre ellas;
Sus puertas bambolean con el cacareo de un gallo,
No retornan con un silencio de oro como Milton había pensado;
Bandas de inocentes masacrados siguen inspirando
El halo del Venerable Bede
Igual que un viejo diente de león produce semillas;
Y el beatífico coro continúa desafinando, tosiendo.
Pero el infierno, el sugerente infierno, no tiene ninguna sección libre:
Ninguno disfruta de su tiempo, ninguno acelera el ritmo.
Cualquiera pregunta «¿Por qué estás aquí, desdichado corazón?»—
Y él asignará un sitio para su rostro.
Oirás un clic instantáneo, una lágrima comenzará
A dejar huella como un resumen de su caso.
Versión de Carlos Alcorta
DESNUDO BAJANDO UNA ESCALERA
Pulgar sobre pulgar, una carne blanquecina,
Un amarillo dorado, la raíz y la corteza,
Ella filtra la luz del sol por la escalera
sin llevar nada encima. Tampoco sobre su mente.
Espiamos debajo de la barandilla
Un constante roce de muslo con muslo—
Sus bordes separados dejan pasar
la oscilante brisa entre ellos..
Una mujer de agua, desciende
Lentamente como una larga capa
Y haciendo una pausa en el final de la escalera,
Adapta el movimiento a su forma.
Versión de Carlos Alcorta
https://carlosalcorta.wordpress.com/
Ars Poetica
The goose that laid the golden egg
Died looking up its crotch
To find out how its sphincter worked.
Would you lay well? Don't watch.
A Brat's Reward
At the market Philbert Spicer
Peered into the bacon slicer—
Whiz! the wicked slicer sped
Back and forth across his head
Quickly shaving—what a shock!—
Fifty chips off Phil's old block,
Stopping just above the eyebrows.
Phil's not one of them thar highbrows.
Cross Ties
Out walking ties left over from a track
Where nothing travels now but rust and grass,
I could take stock in something that would pass
Bearing down Hell-bent from behind my back:
A thing to sidestep or go down before,
Far off, indifferent as that curfew's wail
The evening wind flings like a sack of mail
Or close up as the moon whose headbeam stirs
A flock of cloud to make tracks. Down to strafe
Bristle-backed grass a hawk falls—there's a screech
Of steel wrenched taut till severed. Out of reach
Or else beneath desiring, I go safe,
Walk on, tensed for a leap, unreconciled
To a dark void all kindness.
When I spill
The salt I throw the Devil some and, still,
I let them sprinkle water on my child.
The Devil's Advice to Poets
Molt that skin! Lift that face!—you'll go far.
Grow like Proteus yet more bizarre.
In perpetual throes
Majors metamorphose—
Only minors remain who they are.
Epigrams: Three Japanese Beetles
To Someone Who Insisted I Look Up Someone
I rang them up while touring Timbuctoo,
Those bosom chums to whom you're known as "Who?"
Two Lovers Make Love Despite Their Sunburns
With motion slow and gingerly they place
Their outward forms, broiled bright as carapace,
Like linesmen handling bared high-tension wires,
Dreading the surges of abrupt desires.
(No title)
None but the Spirit, moving and igniting,
Deserves the credit in Creative Writing.
Little Elegy
(for a child who skipped rope)
Here lies resting, out of breath,
Out of turns, Elizabeth
Whose quicksilver toes not quite
Cleared the whirring edge of night.
Earth whose circles round us skim
Till they catch the lightest limb,
Shelter now Elizabeth
And for her sake trip up Death.
Nothing in Heaven Functions as It Ought
Nothing in Heaven functions as it ought:
Peter's bifocals, blindly sat on, crack;
His gates lurch wide with the cackle of a cock,
Not turn with a hush of gold as Milton had thought;
Gangs of the slaughtered innocents keep huffing
The nimbus off the Venerable Bede
Like that of an old dandelion gone to seed;
And the beatific choir keep breaking up, coughing.
But Hell, sleek Hell, hath no freewheeling part:
None takes his own sweet time, none quickens pace.
Ask anyone, "How come you here, poor heart?"—
And he will slot a quarter through his face.
You'll hear an instant click, a tear will start
Imprinted with an abstract of his case.
Nude Descending a Staircase
Toe upon toe, a snowing flesh,
A gold of lemon, root and rind,
She sifts in sunlight down the stairs
With nothing on. Nor on her mind.
We spy beneath the banister
A constant thresh of thigh on thigh—
Her lips imprint the swinging air
That parts to let her parts go by.
One woman waterfall, she wears
Her slow descent like a long cape
And pausing, on the final stair,
Collects her motions into shape.
Ode
Old tumbril rolling with me till I die,
Divided face I'm hung with, hindside-to,
How can a peace be drawn between us, who
Never see eye to eye?
Why, when it seems I speak straight from the heart
Most solemn thought, do you too have to speak,
Let out a horselaugh, whistle as I break
The news to Mother that I must depart?
Moon always waxing full, barrage balloon,
Vesuvius upside down, dual rump roast,
Cave of the Winds, my Mississippi coast,
Cyclops forever picking up and chucking stone,
Caboose, poor ass I'm saddled with from birth,
Without your act, the dirty deed I share,
How can the stuck-up spirit in me bear
Coming back down to earth?
You Touch Me
You touch me.
One by one
In each cell of my body
A hearth comes on.
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