Kenneth Pobo
Poeta de Estados Unidos.
Profesor de Inglés y escritura creativa en la Universidad de Widener.
A lo largo de su carrera, Pobo, un residente de Middletown, Pa., Ha publicado más de 25 libros de poesía y ficción corta, además de un sinnúmero de poemas y piezas de ficción flash en periódicos y revistas literarias. Es el ganador de 2009 Main Street Rag Poetry Chapbook Contest, the 2011 Qarrtsiluni Poetry Chapbook Contest and the 2013 Eastern Point Press Chapbook Award.
Pobo obtuvo su licenciatura en Inglés de Wheaton College y su maestría y doctorado en Inglés de la Universidad de Wisconsin-Milwaukee.
traducción de Lucas Mertehikian
UN VERANO CON MÓNICA, DE BERGMAN
En el trabajo ella es un juego
que los hombres juegan mientras cargan cajas,
su hogar, abarrotado, ruidoso.
Ella y su amante navegan
bajo un arco elevado
hacia un archipiélago,
un verano corto,
un fósforo que alguien sopla.
Acabada la comida ella regresa
al continente
con un niño. A lo oscuro.
Invierno. Aburrida,
busca hombres.
El sol, encarcelada en la nieve—
otros crían a su hija.
FLOR DE LUNA EN EL PORCHE
Sueño que estoy con otro hombre.
El que conocí en la sección de muebles
del Boscov’s
sobre un sillón color chicle.
Yo digo que ya tengo un tipo. Él dice
¿y qué? Sorprendido, me despierto,
todavía dormís. La vida
vuelve a la normalidad. Gatos. Café.
Los Dark Five Clark a un play de distancia.
El fantasma de una flor de luna
de fines de verano en el porche.
PESSOA SE ENCUENTRA CON WHITMAN
EN EL PATIO DEL CIELO
Buenas tardes, amigo. ¿Hace cuánto
estás aquí? ¿Más de 100 años?
Te entiendo. Y no te entiendo,
en partes iguales.
Somos camaradas.
¿No dormimos juntos, una vez,
compartimos un sueño, extático,
tenebroso? Quería que volviera
pero estabas en New Jersey,
corrigiendo.
¿Has visto a Dios ya?
Escuché que ni siquiera cambia
los ceniceros. Vi,
creo, a Pedro estrechando la mano
de algunos visitantes,
un político ganándose a la multitud.
¿Qué? ¿Extrañás Long Island?
Yo le di una patada en el culo a Lisboa,
Después la alimenté con las mejores naranjas. Veo
que alguien espera para hablarte,
es apuesto, también. Traigo tu libro escondido,
tengo toda la eternidad para leerlo.
Nunca lo terminaré.
UNA DOCENA DE AÑOS
Yo tendré 70, vos 72. Nos imagino
en el porche, los gatos, que probablemente
nos sobrevivan, están atentos a las polillas.
Después de que digas que nunca encontraste
el lugar perfecto para plantar tomates
yo diré que nunca encontré el lugar perfecto
para plantar dalias. Dejemos de
buscar lugares perfectos, en el momento
en que una mariposa se dobla sobre una buddleja púrpura,
y después vuela. Nosotros seguimos sentados.
Kenneth Pobo is a master at writing the essential poem—every word counts. With a Keatsian sensibility, he draws our attention to the natural world, its rich diversity, the human condition, and how the nineteenth century’s industrial paradigm has produced the worst global threats, the politics of greed and violence, of our times. As a poet, educator, gardener and social critic, Pobo’s sympathy for the victims of corporate exploitation are the materials of his poetic conscience. Imaginative, humorous, witty, ironic—Pobo uses his magic to wake the soul and stun the heart. Without being judgmental, academic or didactic, he reminds us of what we all sadly lost to some alarm: Our humanity. It’s always a pleasure to read and reread Ken Pobo’s work!
The above poems were selected from Kenneth Pobo's new book, Glass Garden (Word Press; www.Word-Press.com 2008. To order Crazy Cakes: http://www.scars.tv click Chapbooks.
Selected Poems from Kenneth Pobo's Glass Garden
and Crazy Cakes (chapbook)
The Call
At the window I check
for any sign of
a storm with tractor-sized
hail to plow fields
of roofs. And lightning
that spills a silverware tray
over the county. Sun
wobbles in, wind yawns,
and I go back to my book,
drop into a deep well
between chapters,
call and call.
Poetry Happens
Standing at our screen door,
we watch the poem walk
down Barren Road
not ugly,
but it thinks itself ugly.
Maybe in a store window's
reflection, the poem
sees no beautiful word
skin but a graveyard's
mossy stones
like those found Haworth
by the Bronte house.
The poem isn't strong
like a bodybuilder;
but strong like a single
feather that can stop
wind. Or make wind
think that it has stopped.
Fork, Spoon and Knife
Weary, bleak and deconstructed,
he fears he's become a flat tire,
but he stands before his eight o'
clock class, and lectures on some dead
poems he once loved but hasn't read
in years, wishes he could retire
but he's got twenty years to go,
his belly of ashes, not fire,
there's only so much literature
can do, he thinks, while preaching how
several texts have saved his life,
but he turned them into tenure
and spends most evenings alone now,
talking to his fork, spoon and knife.
Yellow Robe
I stand under a bald lamp
waiting for an aspirin
moon to sink into
midnight's glass. Wind curls
up underwear, flings
my robe's sash over asters
in an autumn garden—
covered by the vast umbrella
of a yellow dream,
we whistle as a train
rumbles out of
a sleeve.
Flowers
We breathe in
their brevity. Some
get only one day,
a single hour
with the sun just right,
wind silent
as a skull.
Others last longer:
the dahlia pitching
red on the sky,
candytuft clutching
earth's rattle.
They must go,
fall where no eye
can see,
without pity,
without color.
March Garden
Knees wet, I pull
winter's corpse off cold
leaves—a goofy Goliath,
I almost crush a daffodil shoot,
uncover a busy columbine
near purple sun-grabby crocuses.
The Mirandy rose sprouts
on many canes. Sweatpants
soaked, I lean over
thumb-sized stems—
four grape hyacinths
toss blue on overcast sky.
Iris
blooms
brief
uncringing
from hard
winters
preparing
a singular
shade
of purple
or apricot
so much fight
under snow
they know
they must
open
quickly
quickly
go
Soften
In the Iraq War,
women, kids,
killed,
whole faces
scraped off—
in living rooms
across "the greatest country
in the world,"
TV beams
gadgets, creams,
ways to soften
wrinkles.
Network War Coverage
When news personalities show up
at the bank to cash their paychecks,
tellers say, "Would you like that in blood
or bone?" Indignant as unfed venus flytraps,
they say, "We'd like it in American money."
"We have no money, not for you,
we're very sorry."
Cameras off, they march out of the banks
weeping—news personalities can't be
caught crying. Viewers want tough anchors.
After a good night's rest, they stop
at the bank on the way to the studio.
"Blood," one tells the teller.
"Bone," says another.
They load their trunks with their earnings,
think about how to ask the boss
for a raise.
U.S. Government Response to Katrina
Wow, what great news! You mean
a bunch of poor blacks
drowned and lost their homes? How many?
Fewer votes against us to worry about.
But what to do about the homeless
survivors? The Astrodome!
They're poor anyway
and like being together.
Most enjoy sports. They'll be fine.
I wish more storms would hit—if only
we could tilt them toward all cities,
wipe out the unchristians, minorities,
a buttload of Democrats. Let's pray.
Dear Jesus, please destroy our enemies.
Send bigger storms. We ask this
in your holy name, amen.
.
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