jueves, 26 de noviembre de 2015

GRETA BELLAMACINA [17.622] Poeta de Inglaterra


Greta Bellamacina

Greta Bellamacina. Londres, Inglaterra. Poeta, escritora y editora graduada en el Kings College de Londres, con una licenciatura en Inglés. Ha publicado los poemarios: Kaleidoscope (2011, Kindle Edition), Nature's Jewels (2014, MACK Publishing) y Contemporary British Love Poetry (Editied by Greta Bellamacina, Available from Fortnum & Mason, 2015 Faber & Faber)

Contacto:

http://gretabellamacina.com/
https://twitter.com/grbellamacina
https://www.facebook.com/greta.bellamacina




Young night, new year

Beauty will give shapes, by sides.
You will not meet these proportions,
Upon anyone but true love, like Jade.

To see, becomes a rumour in perfection.
Howl me small and marble
In the winds of the young night, all blue.

Do my words stand as tall as your tower
Your leaves, your air
Your child of paradise.
Over your ground, we make a castle as rich as a candlelight
To sleep.



Noche joven, año nuevo*

Por los costados , la belleza dará formas.
Tú no encontrarás estas dimensiones,
Sobre alguien. Pero sí amor verdadero, como Jade.

Para ver, se hace un rumor en la perfección.
Aullame, pequeño y de mármol
Todo azul, en los vientos de la noche joven.

Acaso tus palabras estén de pie tan alto como tu torre
tus hojas, tu aire
tu niño de paraíso.
Sobre tu tierra, hemos hecho un castillo tan lujoso como una  luz de la vela
Para dormir.



The Carry Me Away Moon

The carry me away moon
So afloat, a notation to the light
To see me, O starry eye.

To carry me in a curve
tilting your zone
awoken to grow like an oaktree.

Gold alight over the hills
Earths boarders loft.
But what is fear like love to fear, evergreen. 



La Luna que me lleva*

La luna que me lleva
Tan a flote, una notación a la luz
Para verme, O ojo centelleante.

Para llevarme en una curva
inclinando tu zona
despertada para crecer como un roble.

Oro encendido sobre las colinas   
Desván de huéspedes de Tierras.
Pero que para temer el miedo como el amor, siempreverde.




Eddie, dreams

Eddie, dreams for more wood
On the hillside, and breathes in all air,
his eyes settle like a rock.

We pass his grandma’s house, a cemetery, a junk yard,
His wall, a painting to celebrate his fastness
His deeds.

He asks for the sun, in the morning of winter.
Beyond the trees, beyond the roads
His dreams change like clouds.



Eddie, sueña*

Eddie, sueña por más madera
Sobre la ladera, y aspira todo el aire, 
Sus ojos se instalan como una roca.

Pasamos la casa de su abuela, un cementerio, un cercado de chatarra,
Su pared, una pintura para celebrar su rapidez
Sus proezas. 

Él pide por el sol, en la mañana de invierno.
Más allá de los árboles, más allá de los caminos
Sus sueños cambian como las nubes.

(*) Traducción al español por Amalia Gieschen.




Benevolent Pomegranate 

I take hold of it, 
I disappear with it.

Bloodshot womb caviar snow, 
A benevolent sender. 

I ripple its small diamond 
birthstones, fire-bombing
graceful grey.

It does not dare hide
Its throbbing emotion.

It wants to stain 
my swimming pool lip. 

Iris shaped 
All red, all between us. 

I verse its century face 
Imagine era.

I verse its sex
Imagine woman.

I verse its superstition
Imagine empty.

And It remains
A benevolent sender. 



Of The Many Ways You Can Marry In ‘high Windows' 

your arms are sunset sonnets 
made of pavement oak
filling the rain passing

altering the winds to the country tide.
eight hundred ways, manned by the atlas of longer worlds, 
your love it is skywards for

the holds of gentle eyes
that surround the river's skin
only to break deathstones for time in the sky.

Back to your house built to wood
back in the almost horizon sun, 
your love is the eve of.

Gazing down every street
In the beginnings to unmorninged heights
of the many ways you can marry in ‘high windows', 

read in windfelt light birds
of distanced swung skies 
that are left to you, which are setting. 



More Steps 

More steps, 
dirt roses 
rocks piled on rocks, 
onion skin flowers
flowers which flower over night
trodden steps of dirt, 
endless trails of rocks
rocks that are separated from the water
still waiting to be washed over, 
rocks that were once the fingers of waterfalls.
Sunshine on shadows, more dirt roses
the trees all facing inwards, 
the sunken space
speckle flowered light
space which exists behind rocks protecting its trembling heart
from the new cold winds and the
space which lays in the throat of cherry blooms. 
Mountain side dust meeting the wind
sand which is young
sand which is so close
sand which is faint.
More rocks, dangerous trailing mountainous rocks
the edges of land and then more below
the paleness of wood drift, 
the many poisons of sap
those trees which look like lace 
silhouetted in necks and waists of branches.
More steps, more steps
and the freedom of atmosphere 
inviting in all differing light and versions of peace
uniting in the poetry of olive trees.

Was France always the lover of Italy
And did they bring a lantern over the sky to face one another the first time. 



Birthday Years 

Pink smiles that make the candles dimmer
and the dutiful eye of a friend 
in the singularity of a birthday.

There are only single things in years, 
the mountains calling the mountains untouching.
The arch of the bridge higher than the stream, 
the singular wings of the arch still higher than 
the single sunshine flooding the floor.

The elegant shadow, the weeping shadow, 
the shadow that is a great impression to the sunshine itself.
That all used up beauty
and it is always 20 miles brighter than birth, 

where unbending candles make single wishes 
like mustard seeds of different types of weather, singled shapes on the ground, thrown out in harsh sunlight by rows and rows of trees which look like hands

breathing, and all those minds, all those greetings, all those smiles, don't meet the wind, they have their own sunsets, and their own years, their own birthdays. 




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