domingo, 2 de agosto de 2015

ROBERT MINHINNICK [16.673] Poeta de Gales


Robert Minhinnick

(Neath, Gales, Gran Bretaña, 1952).
Robert Minhinnick es un autor galés de reconocida trayectoria internacional (ganador entre otros del UK Forward Prize for Best Individual Poem); ha publicado ocho poemarios (el último, King Driftwood) y una novela Sea Holly (2007). Robert fue el editor durante nueve años de la revista Poetry Wales y combina su labor de escritor con la de asesor experto en desarrollo sostenible para Sustainable Wales.

OBRA: 

POESÍA:

The Yellow Palm (1998)
A Thread in the Maze (1978) C. Davies
Native Ground (1979) Triskele
Life Sentences (1983) Poetry Wales
The Dinosaur Park (1985) Poetry Wales
The Looters (1989) Seren Press
Hey Fatman (1994) Seren Press
Selected Poems (1999)
After the Hurricane (2002)
King Driftwood (2008)
After the Stealth Bomber

NOVELAS:

Sea Holly (2007) Seren Press

ENSAYOS:

Watching the Fire Eater (1992) Seren Press
The Green Agenda: Essays on The Environment of Wales (ed.) (1994) Seren Press
Badlands (1996) Seren Press
To Babel and Back (2005) Seren Press

TRADUCCIONES:

The Adulterer's Tongue: Six Welsh Poets: A Facing-Text Anthology (ed., transl.) (2003)




Un día y una noche en la república cruda


¿No hay ningún galés esta noche?.... ¿Ningún irlandés?.... ¿Ningún  pinche australiano?
(Kelly Jones, The Stereophonics, concierto gratuito al aire libre, Sydney, 18 de abril de 2010)


Y los murciélagos frugívoros
cruzan el escenario en donde está la banda,
pero Kelly Jones no pregunta si esta noche hay murciélagos frugívoros.
Kelly Jones no comprende a los murciélagos frugívoros.
Kelly Jones no ve los murciélagos frugívoros.
Kelly Jones no es D. H. Lawrence
aunque son casi del mismo porte,
enjutos como gavilanes.
Y Kelly Jones no pregunta si David Herbert Lawrence está esta noche, detrás de
los hules, en el crepúsculo índigo,
deslizándose por el escenario, o colgando de cabeza como cuelgan los murciélagos frugívoros.
Kelly no tiene ojos de lentejuela o una lengua para picotear el néctar.

Ahora el cielo se ha puesto
color de oxiacetileno. Pero Kelly Jones
no cambia de clave.

[Versión de Pedro Serrano]

Poesía galesa contemporánea, traducción y prólogo de Jorge Fondebrider, Pedro Serrano y Verónica Zondek; con Luciana Cordo Russo y Rhiannon Gwyn. Editará Trilce, México DF




A Day and Night in the Raw Republic

Any Welsh in tonight? …..   Any Irish? …..Any fuckin Australians? 
(Kelly Jones, The Stereophonics, outdoor free concert, Sydney, April 18, 2010)


And the fruit bats cruise over the stage where the band sits 
but Kelly Jones doesn’t ask if there are fruit bats in tonight.
Kelly Jones doesn’t understand fruit bats. 
Kelly Jones doesn’t see fruit bats.
Kelly Jones is not DH Lawrence 
although they are about the same size,
spare as sparrowhawks.
And Kelly Jones doesn’t ask if David Herbert Lawrence is in this evening, beneath the gum trees, in the indigo dusk,
gliding over the stage, or hanging upside down as fruit bats hang. 
Kelly Jones does not have sequin eyes or a nectar-nibbling tongue.

Now the sky turns the colour
of oxy acetylene. But Kelly Jones
does not change key.




The Rhinoceros by Robert Minhinnick

1.

Look at these.
Thaw sweat.
Smoke on the swale.
Swarf off a swollen sea.

2.

No.
These. World famous
footprints at low water. Nine
thousand years old, they say, but who’s
counting. Not me.
Yet maybe I am.

3.

A small man. Or woman. Outcast
or outlaw, hunter, flintknapper, cook.
All of these.
Yes, a woman, pregnant once again,
and coming home through the red mud.

4.

Or maybe she was dancing.
Yes, a woman, I guess,
who loved to dance
and paint her eyes with kohl and ochre
and squat to squint at herself
in some rock pool and ask
“what are you?”

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5.

At night before she slept
she would breathe her harsh
hashish and tell her story behind the flames
about the brine-bright animals
she had scratched into the sand:
her wolf,
her bear,
her rhinoceros.

Yes, an armoured rhino
like the torrent poured golden
and smoking from the blast furnace ladle,
a rhino where the glacier will be

and coming out of the sun,
a rhino she will picture
with her goatwillowstick
on the last morning she will wake.





The Yellow Palm by Robert Minhinick

As I made my way down Palestine Street
I watched a funeral pass -
all the women waving lilac stems
around a coffin made of glass
and the face of the man who lay within
who had breathed a poison gas.

As I made my way down Palestine Street
I heard the call to prayer
and I stopped at the door of the golden mosque
to watch the faithful there
but there was blood on the walls and the muezzin’s eyes
were wild with his despair.

As I made my way down Palestine Street
I met two blind beggars
And into their hands I pressed my hands
with a hundred black dinars;
and their salutes were those of the Imperial Guard
in the Mother of all Wars.

As I made my way down Palestine Street
I smelled the wide Tigris,
the river smell that lifts the air
in a city such as this;
but down on my head fell the barbarian sun
that knows no armistice.

As I made my way down Palestine Street
I saw a Cruise missile,
a slow and silver caravan
on its slow and silver mile,
and a beggar child turned up his face
and blessed it with a smile.

As I made my way down Palestine Street
under the yellow palms
I saw their branches hung with yellow dates
all sweeter than salaams,
and when that same child reached up to touch,
the fruit fell in his arms.








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