sábado, 14 de noviembre de 2015

CAMILLE T. DUNGY [17.505] Poeta de Estados Unidos

Camille T. Dungy 

Poeta. Nació en Denver. EE.UU.
Autora de Smith Blue, Suck on the Marrow, and What to Eat, What to Drink, What to Leave for Poison. 

Editora de Naturaleza Negra: cuatro siglos de poesía de naturales afro-americanos (Universidad de Georgia Press, 2009), coeditor de Del Fishouse: antología de poemas que cantan, rima, Resound, Syncopate, en el que se escribe usando aliteraciones, o simplemente “Gran Sonido” ( Persea, 2009) y es editor adjunto de Gathering Ground:: Celebración del Decenio Cave Canem (University of Michigan Press, 2006). 

Camille Dungy ha recibido becas y premios de la National Endowment for the Arts, de la Comisión para las Artes de Virginia, la Conferencia Pan Pan de Escritores, Canem Cueva, el Premio Dana, la Sociedad Americana de Anticuarios, y la Conferencia de Escritores de Sewanee. Estando en Rocky Mountain National Park, Dungy también ha recibido becas y residencias por la Corporación de Yaddo, el Centro de Virginia para las Artes Creativas, la Isla Norte / Este de la Frontera Sociedad, y la Fundación Ragdale. 

Sus poemas han sido publicados ampliamente en antologías y publicaciones impresas y en línea.

Recientemente, profesora en el Departamento de Escritura Creativa en la Universidad Estatal de San Francisco, y actualmente profesora en el Departamento de Inglés de la Universidad del Estado de Colorado.   

Su página en inglés: http://www.camilledungy.com
E-mail: camille @ camilledungy . com


               Entre las gotas de lluvia,
                              el espacio, ciertamente,
pero a todo lo llamamos lluvia.

          Cuelgo de los intervalos no empapados,
mientras Callie está durmiendo,
                    mi viejo yo necesario
e imperceptible como el aire.

(Traducción: G.A. Chaves, 2012.)


El silencio es una parte del habla, el grito de guerra
del viento por el desfiladero es otro.
La voz de un desconocido resonando por los valles
solitarios, la voz de un amante elevándose tan cerca
que es tu propia lengua. Estas son las claves para descifrar
la manera en que la clave del alto halcón abre la garganta
del cielo y el gimoteo del coyote golpea cerrándola.
La forma en que las campanas de los álamos se ajustan
a la brisa mientras los tambores de los rápidos definen
resistencia. La salvia habla con una voz, el piñonero
con otra. La piedra, el viento su mano, el agua
su pincel, embruja y luego esparce sus exigencias.
Algunas notas rasgan y ponen guijarros en nuestros caminos. Algunas notas nos unen a la ribera en la que trazamos nuestras

Translated by— Vanessa Rodriguez de la Vega
Aundrea Brewster
Seth Sartain


Silence is one part of speech, the war cry
of wind down a mountain pass another.
A stranger's voice echoing through lonely
valleys, a lover's voice rising so close
it's your own tongue: these are keys to cipher,
the way the high hawk's key unlocks the throat
of the sky and the coyote's yip knocks
it shut, the way the aspens' bells conform
to the breeze while the rapid's drums define
resistance. Sage speaks with one voice, pinyon
with another. Rock, with her hand, water
her brush, spells and then scatters her demands.
Some notes tear and pebble our paths. Some notes
gather: the bank we map our lives around.



Sing the mass— 
light upon me washing words 
now that I am gone.

The sky was a hot, blue sheet the summer breeze fanned 
out and over the town. I could have lived forever 
under that sky. Forgetting where I was, 
I looked left, not right, crossed into a street 
and stepped in front of the bus that ended me. 

Will you believe me when I tell you it was beautiful— 
my left leg turned to uselessness and my right shoe flung 
some distance down the road? Will you believe me 
when I tell you I had never been so in love 
with anyone as I was, then, with everyone I saw? 

The way an age-worn man held his wife’s shaking arm, 
supporting the weight that seemed to sing from the heart 
she clutched. Knowing her eyes embraced the pile 
that was me, he guided her sacked body through the crowd. 
And the way one woman began a fast the moment she looked 

under the wheel. I saw her swear off decadence. 
I saw her start to pray. You see, I was so beautiful 
the woman sent to clean the street used words 
like police tape to keep back a young boy 
seconds before he rounded the grisly bumper. 

The woman who cordoned the area feared my memory 
would fly him through the world on pinions of passion 
much as, later, the sight of my awful beauty pulled her down 
to tears when she pooled my blood with water 
and swiftly, swiftly washed my stains away.

Runaway     ran away

gone from a man claimed the girl
a man named the girl
       got the girl
                     stored up in his room
                                     ran away
                                      Dinah   gone
                                                                 19 years
                                     of age
         about five foot three inches
brown hair         a cask-shaped mark over her left eye
no one speaks          no speech
       just hatching

                                       thought he knew her well
when she was in there with him
                                   not a word was spoken
                who to trust now?
thought he knew
                                   presents a gap
between her upper foreteeth when she smiles

"Runaway ran away" from Suck on the Marrow. 

Almost Like They Wanted It

Because she'd heard him laugh through new moon darkness
and she knew he'd fallen and she knew, before she turned,
he'd be crawling, like a crawdad, rock to loam—

because she tried to love the straight back and neck
he'd erected to recollect the man he'd been
before—because she found herself adding up his usefulness

like some kind of auctioneer—she showed him
the dark coils areoling both her breasts and all the ways
she bent and lifted, bent and lifted, steady, strong.

She let him believe he was past due for a harvest
and her hands were the right ones, now, to hold onto the scythe.


She made quick work of pleasure. The boysmile bunked down
in his eyes, she claimed. Her tongue found the place in his mouth
where the teeth were gone—where he'd hold his corncakes

until they grew soft enough to chew. History had bedded him
in all of this—his own history and failures not his own.
Before he'd tramped in she'd watched another man—a man she'd thought

she'd hated—watched his body opened, opened, opened until
blood had married brine. She'd watch that man be whipped into something
good for nothing more than fertilizing clay and she'd thought

buckshot would have been a brand of kindness if sprayed into him
just then. But even after his hard going, she did not miss him very much.


Anyone she chose could be shucked like surplus property tomorrow,
but that hadn't been enough to warn her off of picking him that night.
Because she knew if she set her sight on nothing she'd get nothing

in return, she'd walked with him. But because the night progressed so
—because there were some clouds—no stars—no moon—he'd tripped
over the branch of a dead and down tree. In all that darkness,

there, without a moon, even then, she had not fallen. She thought
to say so, but she did not say so. She did nothing
but say she was sorry for him. She did not use her mouth

to say this. Could he not listen to her hands? They spoke softly,
articulating her condolences, to his torn and bleeding skin.

"Almost Like They Wanted It" from Suck on the Marrow. 


I will enter you as hope enters me,   
through blinding liquid, light of rain, and I   
will stay inside until you send me out;   
I will stay inside until you ground me.   
We cannot outrun the rain.   So many   
summers I have tried.   So many summers.   
But when the rumble calls after the spark   
there can be no escape.   No outstripping   
the drench soak, the wet sheath, the water caul.   
This is more than you want to hear.   Much more   
than I want to tell you.   Tabernacle   
transporting my life from the desert, you,   
the faith I am born and reborn into,   
you, rescuer, deliverer of rain.

"Ark" from What to Eat, What to Drink, What to Leave for Poison.

No hay comentarios:

Publicar un comentario