Poeta de Estados Unidos. Vive en Chicago. Sus poemas han sido publicados en B O D Y, Boston Review, Fence, Gulf Coast, Iowa Review, Lana Turner, LIT, Poetry y Volt. Su primer libro es I AM YOUR SLAVE NOW DO WHAT I SAY (Canarium Books, 2012).
Poet Anthony Madrid is the author of the chapbook The 580 Strophes (2009) and the full-length collection I Am Your Slave Now Do What I Say (2012). He has written in forms such as the ghazal and rhyming quatrain, bringing a contemporary, associative, and surreal sensibility to received forms.
A PhD student in the University of Chicago graduate program in English language and literature, Madrid’s study of poetics and American poetry resulted in his dissertation “The Warrant for Rhyme.”
In April 2013, Madrid was a featured writer on Harriet.
traducción de Ezequiel Zaidenwerg
Había un viejo que, en su afán y ardor,
era imprudente como conductor.
Por ser poco flemático, no era muy emblemático
de lo deseable en todo gran señor.
Había cierto viejo de Pekín
que a los chicos mandaba en su jardín.
Con aire satisfecho se sentaba en el techo,
y bajaba al hallarse solo al fin.
Había un malandrín llamado Atila
conservado en un frasco de tequila.
Si en vida no fui recto, ¿merezco ser insecto?
parecía decir aquel gorila.
Había cierto artista del pasado
que con sus libros preparó un asado.
Le dijeron: “¿Por qué?”. “Es mejor que el parqué”
respondió aquel artista del pasado.
Había cierto anciano de Corea
que se pasó la vida en la pelea.
Discutió y se trenzó, pero al final pensó:
“Es mejor desistir de la pelea”.
I Too Have Been to Candyland
I TOO have been to Candyland, but I found myself missing the death cult.
I missed the spectacle of the wounded bones being opened and instrumented.
Bill Varner, when he was still just a boy, wrote a stunning line of Arabic verse.
He wrote: “The crescent moon is a scimitar; the sun, a severed head.”
¡Gran cantar! and this, when he still had to keep his books in a locker!
And he’d never even held hands with a girl—God! Penn State in the 1980s!
In those days, we all sat at the feet of a pig poet, deaf in one ear. One of these
Dreadful “white-haired lovers”—oh, but he knew how to touch fire to fuse!
That little stick of fire apt to launch a poetic career! But what is it now?
Merely a billowing cloud of humidity floating out of a tree.
Every turtle, snake, and bird is “born again”—oh, isn’t that so? The first time,
Out the fêted cloaca—and the next, through the top of the shell.
The “I” is Greek, the “it” Italian, and Dickinson is our Ghalib. But that
Ridiculous piece of dirt you’re kissing on can never be anything but.
Shut your eyes to what a worm he is, concentrate on his caress—but know
Every half-truth is bound to call up its suppressed synoptic double.
Close your eyes and moan softly, your head full of packed cotton—but know
Every hidden camera’s cockpit must one day be delivered of its black box.
Anthony Madrid, “I Too Have Been to Candyland” from I Am Your Slave Now Do What I Say.
It Is with Words as It Is with People
It is with words as it is with people: Actual beauty is rare.
We call things beautiful, not as such, but because of what they mean.
Because we commonly attribute beauty to whatever does us a favor,
We are reduced to puzzled despair whenever actual beauty says no.
Indeed, our calling a thing beautiful almost means it is not.
For how can we know it is beautiful until it betrays us?
A sage once said “The trouble with these great philosophers
Is their only way of doing honor to an idea is to say the idea is true.”
It is the same with words as it is with people: Actual beauty is rare.
Humiliated, we are no longer willing to call the beautiful beautiful . . .
Madrid is reading his poetry to a roomful of unearthed cultural relics.
He compares the white hair on their heads | to the flag that signals surrender.
Anthony Madrid, "It Is with Words as It Is with People."