domingo, 27 de diciembre de 2015

HINEMOANA BAKER [17.820] Poeta de Nueva Zelanda


Hinemoana Baker 

Nacida el 19.03.1968, Christchurch, Nueva Zelanda
Poeta neozelandesa, músico, presentadora ocasional y profesora de escritura creativa. Su abolengo viene de varios tribus maoríes, además de Inglaterra y Bavaria. Su última colección de poesía, waha | mouth fue publicada en el 2014 (Victoria University Press). Reside actualmente en Alemania donde es Escritora en Residencia en Berlín con Creative New Zealand.

Escritora, músico, productora, editora, y profesora de escritura creativa. Su primer libro de poesía, Matuhi Needle, se publicó en Nueva Zelanda y Estados Unidos en 2004, y su nueva colección fue lanzada en julio de 2010. Ha producido dos álbumes de música original  uno de solista y otro con su dúo, Taniwha. Además de esto, ella ha lanzado dos CDs de la palabra hablada con grabaciones de campo que ella llama 'poemas sonoros.




mi melliza canta 

La manera en que enfocas tu atención en mí
es la manera en que una botella se hace más transparente

mientras el nivel del vino tinto desciende.
La manera en que me tocas levemente mientras conversamos
es la manera en que el río respira dentro de sus peces.
La arena devuelve la canción: Tienes sangre, tienes una voz, tienes
un hombre que al mediodía hace sonidos alegres y ruidosos en el agua.




papel de plata y los manguitos de los rotadores

Del suelo del vestuario sube un olor.
Acelgas frescas y aceite de la máquina de coser Singer.

El engranaje de mi hombro, dijo el fisio, quizá esté calcificado
(el trapecio, el músculo infraespinoso, el manguito de los rotadores).
En Finch Lane, calle abajo, miro las chimeneas. 
Imagino los pensamientos de los cazadores que vuelven a casa con las manos
    vacías.
A lo lejos las palmeras parecen una banda esperando salir a tocar.


Traducción de los poemas my twin sister sings y al foil and the rotator cuffs de Hinemoana Baker por Charles Olsen. Son del libro ‘waha | mouth’ (VUP, Wellington, 2014)
http://libropalabrasprestadas.blogspot.com.es/




the fossils

I feel
said the woman on the bus
like I’ve swallowed a branch.
Is this a new flu?
The bus-driver said
I feel like
I’ve swallowed a hurry.
Well I
said the depot manager
I feel like I’ve swallowed
a large white brick state house.
The brick isn’t real
it’s a kind of cladding.
At one corner
a nest of spiders is building.
We the shareholders
said the shareholders
feel like we’ve swallowed a bus – no
several buses, trolley buses
or trams which depend on electricity
for their volition and wave sparking
antennae up at the thick wires
which criss-cross our city
making every suburb
and hotspot accessible
without resort
to the motorcar and its
archaic fossil-fuel-burning
technologies.
We are a branch
say the fossils
of your family.



dismantling the crane

What is silver? Into this finger-space 
the kotuku appears, flying once only 
and far – to Holland, the vacated

apartment of your quiet friends 
beaded slippers for sale 
behind the silhouette

of the Moroccan woman whose feet 
have been hurting her all day. 
What is lost, here, where there was not

even eye contact, not even 
eyes? Here a woman floated half-
miserable above land clutching

a posy – now there are growing 
flowers, red with fat, sappy 
green stalks and spongy leaves

and beside them the neighbourly 
buttercups. Silver has become 
hammer and aluminium.

The star in her firmament makes her way
over Rarotonga murmuring
hoki mai, hoki mai . . .

Meanwhile, how can this tui 
be so violently black? White 
petals could be made of

icing sugar, he flutters his wattle 
with his two voice boxes. I sit here 
wearing my bottletop, my lips

the dome above me dewy 
with condensation. Outside 
men in orange vests prepare

to dismantle the crane 
its four ropes of chain rise 
like snakes from the bed

of a dusty truck, link after link 
on and on 
until the morning is over.




nanna

She walked around a lot in her dressing gown. 
When she got cancer she couldn’t say it, the word itself. 
Above the doorway was a thing in a frame: close up 
it was a large white blob, a black oblong, some triangles 
when you moved away, it was a pretty lady 
hair done up in a bun.


There is a way to draw a pretty lady, Nanna said 
a way to join the eyebrows to the nose, the angle the profile 
           should be. 
You don’t need to be looking at it to draw it, Poppa said.

We spent time talking about Hell 
a volcano, a bright blue crater lake 
eight hundred degrees – 
cook the meat off your bones. 
We played Scrabble, the Adjective Game 
we used God’s proper name 
we ate dark silverbeet, and my Poppa said

Hail Mary full of grass 
Holy Mary full of grass 
the Lord is with Thee.



what the destination has to offer

Like trees, there are rings 
in the small headbones of an eel 
we count the rings to find the age.

Each bone too small for tweezers 
my cousin plucks one up 
stuck to a bead of silicon

on the end of a wire. 
He is putting his bones under the microscope. 
He can tell you what they’ve been eating.

They go to Sāmoa to breed 
he tells me, probably Sāmoa 
or somewhere with water

so deep it crushes the sperm 
and eggs from their bodies. 
They die then

and the tiny glass eels 
make their way from Samoa 
back to the same river

in the Horowhenua. 
Salt, fresh, salt, he says. 
The opposite of salmon.

I threw out the clock 
the rubbish is ticking. 
On television

people are making alarming discoveries 
about the secret online lives 
of their loved ones, the daughter

and the cyanide, the no-reason. 
Our dishes smell of flyspray 
I wash them while the flies circle

the same flies that have flown 
the rooms of this house 
in formation for weeks

two zizzing pairs. 
Or perhaps they are 
different flies every day

replenishing themselves 
away from my gaze 
middle-aged state servants

in a timeshare, bored 
with what the destination has to offer 
the hydroslide

the boardwalk 
through the mangroves 
bitching at each other

they can’t settle 
they should have gone 
to Sāmoa instead.



our children have run away to fiji

Once a month you ask Where have the children gone? 
They’ve gone to Fiji. Our children have all 
run away to Fiji. Where are they now, all our precious

pronounceable children? One is standing beside the remnants 
of a Taukei taxi stand. Coral Sun speeds past her and a bitch 
dragging her teats in the dust. Our children have run away

to Fiji and when they get there they make entirely 
different noises. This one used to sound human, like a laugh 
now there is more of a yawn to him in the mornings

a knock, a vernacular; a measurement known mainly to those 
who live in America or Australia. But they were so human to us! 
Now they are so much more, so much has changed.

Oh, this child! On display like a giant clam at the Suva markets, 
the most coveted, the sweetest parts the most colourful, 
the intimate mucous. Her name is dirty, a filth not

of her own making. Where did she run away to? Surely 
not here, surely not under the towering coconut 
palms, waiting to be the one in seventeen, her skull

cracked by the dropping cannon balls, nothing 
at all has changed. This child is slicing up 
the giant clam, tossing sea grapes. Well

she is and she isn’t. That is certainly her hand 
holding the knife, making the portions small 
enough, dicing, then using the blade to push

the white, shining cubes aside. That is most definitely 
her silhouette against the window, her head turning 
to the cluck of the gecko, turning off the fan

saying I’d rather have the heat than the noise. 
What is it there, right in front of her? That same 
vast sea, the barking sewer, the yellow

indigenous hibiscus, the sewing, 
the woman who collects things and sure enough 
one day they do come in handy: sulu in lacquered

pink and blue, lotions for softening the skin 
which smell of tiare and frangipani, green 
coconut flesh a glossy white jelly once a day.

Our children travel to Fiji on one another’s 
tongues, rugged up against the altitude 
relaxing into the heat of the concourse

at the other end. The brother-in-law drags 
around like a motley dog, he wishes he hadn’t come, 
tries to forget the mangrove between her legs, the way

all poison enters the body through the skin or the mouth, 
watches through the magnifying glass of his dive mask 
the slow fish living their economical lives, all sprees

are killing sprees. Just who is in charge of our children here? 
In twenty years ivy will tension the walls 
of Suva Grammar and St Joseph’s, this one dressed

like the parrot, talks like the parrot, who does he 
think he is to be standing with his arms raised? 
And her – she acts like she has no relatives, wait

till her father hears about this, we will throw her 
up in the sky, she is a good soldier, a good 
soldier, our love moves towards her, around

her neck. But our children – so puzzling. So much older 
than they are now, they cast their light on us and it falls 
in beads and seashells, in eight-legged battalions.

Here it is more like a vehicle. Where are our children now 
and are they sleeping? Watching this green bird 
the size of a starling that sounds to us like a car alarm?

Soaking the seaweed that looks 
for all the world like a pile of human hair 
and watching it set, white, in the lolo?

This one is a river named after himself. 
This one got drunk and went swimming in the aquarium 
at the Trade Winds Hotel. This one

is still a child, and it’s been such a long day 
he’s been getting an early night 
waiting to swim, swimming for hours

learning to snorkel, finding the bird’s nest 
saying all the words at once 
sobo, isa lei, ota, umu

tulou, oi lei, vinaka vaka 
levu sara, and now he is tired 
this child is so tired he can’t dance

to the Fijian mariachi band playing 
Waltzing Matilda and Under 
The Boardwalk. In the stiff chair

under the fan he falls asleep 
a slow metronome 
above his plate of papadums.









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