jueves, 14 de abril de 2016


Margaret Gibson 

Margaret Gibson (nacida en 1944 en Filadelfia, Pennsylvania) es una poeta americana.

Margaret Gibson se crió en Richmond, Virginia, y fue educada en Hollins Colegio y la Universidad de Virginia. Fue a Yaddo en 1975. 

Gibson ha sido profesora visitante en la Universidad de Connecticut desde 1993. 

Gibson está casada con el escritor David McKain, y vive en Preston, Connecticut . 


The Vigil, A Poem in Four Voices, a Finalist for the National Book Award in 1993
Memories of the Future, The Daybooks of Tina Modotti, co-winner of the Melville Cane Award of the Poetry Society of America in 1986-87
Long Walks in the Afternoon, the 1982 Lamont Selection of the Academy of American Poets
National Endowment for the Arts Grant
Lila Wallace/Reader's Digest Fellowship
Grants from the Connecticut Commission on the Arts
"Earth Elegy," the title poem of New and Selected Poems, won The James Boatwright III Prize for Poetry
"Archaeology" was awarded a Pushcart Prize in 2001


"Drifting Boat". Blackbird Magazine. Spring 2002.
"Fox Fire at the Changing Tree". Blackbird Magazine. Spring 2002.
"Next Morning Letter". Blackbird Magazine. Spring 2002.
"Summer Birds and Flowers". Blackbird Magazine. Spring 2002.


One body: poems. Louisiana State University Press. 2007.
Gibson, Margaret (2003). Autumn Grasses. LSU Press. ISBN 978-0-8071-2859-6.
Icon and Evidence. Louisiana State University Press. 2001. ISBN 978-0-8071-2709-4.
Earth Elegy, New and Selected Poems. Louisiana State University Press. 1997. ISBN 978-0-8071-2146-7.
Gibson, Margaret (1993). The Vigil, A Poem in Four Voices. LSU Press. ISBN 978-0-8071-1868-9.
Out in the Open. Louisiana State University Press. 1989. ISBN 978-0-8071-1518-3.
Gibson, Margaret (1986). Memories of the Future, The Daybooks of Tina Modotti. LSU Press. ISBN 978-0-8071-1309-7.
Long Walks in the Afternoon. Louisiana State University Press. 1982. ISBN 978-0-8071-1018-8.
Signs. Louisiana State University Press. 1979. ISBN 978-0-8071-0493-4.
Lunes: poems. Some of Us Press. 1973.


The Prodigal Daughter: Reclaiming an Unfinished Childhood. University of Missouri Press. 2008. ISBN 978-0-8262-1783-7.


Leon Stokesbury, ed. (1999). "Margaret Gibson". The made thing: an anthology of contemporary Southern poetry. University of Arkansas Press. ISBN 978-1-55728-579-9.
Joseph M. Flora, Amber Vogel, Bryan Albin Giemza, eds. (2006). Southern Writers. LSU Press. ISBN 978-0-8071-3123-7.

Barca a la deriva

Durante el banquete,
¿qué poema puedo yo decir para él
mientras la copa de vino viene
flotando por las sinuosas
aguas? Yo no soy una piedra

en el jardín, ni
un roble, ni una recia línea
de rocas de amarre nocturno.
Ni un barco sujeto a su ancla
ni el tesoro buscado en el mar.

Yo soy lo que significa
el ukifune errabundo,
una barca hace tiempo a la deriva
en el sonido del agua oscura.
Fuera de la casa en Uji,

donde me colocaron, oigo
la lluvia que azota y llama a los cerros
y el bramido del ciervo,
el ímpetu del agua al caer,
el lento repicar de una campana.

¿Quién está escuchando?
Tan suave, tan suavemente se desliza
mi barca que, si yo
me hundiera en el mar invernal,
¿haría alguna onda?

La nieve cae en los cedros.
La nieve se derrite de la rama también.
¿Quién está escuchando
el torrencial flujo y reflujo
en el corazón? ¿En el vino? ¿En la nieve?


Drifting Boat  
During the banquet
what poem can I say for him
as the wine cup comes
floating by on the winding
waters? I am not a stone

in the garden, nor
an oak, nor a stalwart line
of night-mooring rocks
Not a ship held at anchor
nor the treasure sought at sea

I am what it means
to wander—Ukifune
a boat long adrift
in the sound of dark water
Outside the house at Uji

where I have been put
I hear rain swept hills calling
and the cry of deer
the rush of water falling
the slow tolling of a bell

Who is it that hears?
So smoothly, so smoothly glides
my boat, that were I
to merge with the winter sea
would there be any ripple?

Snow falls on cedars
Snow melts from the bough also
Who is it that hears
the torrential ebb and flow
in the heart? In wine? In snow?

Losing It 

What little I know, I hold closer, 
more dear, especially now
that I take the daily
reinvention of loss as my teacher.
I will never graduate from this college,
whose M.A. translates
"Master of Absence,"
with a subtext in the imperative:
Misplace Anything.
If there's anything I want, it's that more
people I love join the search party.
You were once renowned
among friends for your luck
in retrieving from the wayside
the perfect bowl for the kitchen,
or a hand carved deer, a pencil drawn
portrait of a young girl
whose brimming innocence
still makes me ache. Now
the daily litany of common losses
goes like this: Do you have
your wallet, keys, glasses, gloves,
giraffe? Oh dear, I forgot
my giraffe—that's the preferred
response, but no: it's usually
the glasses, the gloves, the wallet.
The keys I've hidden. 
I've signed you up for "safe return"
with a medallion (like a diploma)
on a chain about your neck.

Okay, today, this writing, 
I'm amused by the art of losing. 
I bow to Elizabeth Bishop, I try 
"losing faster"—but when I get 
frantic, when I've lost
my composure, my nerve, my patience, 
my compassion, I have only
what little I know
to save me. Here's what I know:
it's not absence I fear, but anonymity.
I remember taking a deep breath, 
stopped in my tracks. I'd been
looking for an important document 
I had myself misplaced; 
high and low, no luck yet. 
I was "beside myself,"
so there may have indeed been
my double running the search party.
"Stop," you said gently. "I'll go
get Margaret. She'll know where it is."
"But I'm Margaret," I wailed.
"No, no." You held out before me
a copy of one of my books,
pointing to the author's photograph,
someone serious and composed.
"You know her. Margaret 
Gibson, the poet." We looked 
into each others' eyes a long time. 
The earth tilted on its axis, 
and what we were looking for,
each other and ourselves,
took the tilt, and we slid into each others' arms, 
holding on for dear life, holding on. 

Next Morning Letter 

Savoring each summer moment
lush and brief
I close my eyes to see
your white robe, falling open
as you call for your scroll 
and ink stone, a brush 
As your brush passes over the paper
my body shivers
How closely now you watch 
at the open lattice
as your servant hurries away
the next morning letter
tethered to
a spray of clematis
whose blossoms will not open
until they reach me
In the washbasin
your face is
the bridge that spans
the floating world of dreams
Now you are yawning 
Now you are reciting sutras
bowing to the wind
When the letter arrives
all the leaves of the maple
outside my window
are stirred
I read your words
just once, then once again
bringing my fingers 
to my lips, my hair
tucked back behind one ear
On the dawn's trellis
the scent of clematis
Now smell your fingers
The petals of my body
gather in your empty arms
How shall I respond?
The cry of the stag 
is so loud
the echo answers
from the empty mountains
as if it were a doe
I tell you only what you know
Clematis—the scent
of your teaching surrounds me
My empty arms fill
Come night, the fragrant petals
fall in a heap at my feet 

Autumn Grasses

In fields of bush clover and hay-scent grass
the autumn moon takes refuge
The cricket's song is gold
Zeshin's loneliness taught him this
Who is coming?
What will come to pass, and pass?
Neither bruise nor sweetness nor cool air
knows the way
And the moon?
Who among us does not wander, and flare
and bow to the ground?
Who does not savor, and stand open
if only in secret
taking heart in the ripening of the moon? 


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