CORNELIUS EADY [18.696]

Cornelius Eady

(Nacido en 1954) es un escritor estadounidense centrado en temas de la raza y la sociedad. Su poesía se centra en el jazz y el blues, la vida familiar, la violencia y los problemas sociales derivados de las cuestiones de raza y clase. Su poesía es elogiada por su lenguaje sencillo y accesible.

Cornelius Eady nació en Rochester, Nueva York y es autor de siete libros de poemas. En la mayoría de los poemas de Eady, hay una calidad musical extraído de los blues y jazz.

Bibliografía:

Kartunes Warthog Press, 1980; Warthog Press, 1986, ISBN 9780942292107

Victims of the Latest Dance Craze Ommation Press, 1986, ISBN 9780941240024 ; Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1997, ISBN 9780887482540

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM: A Chapbook , State Street Press, 1988

The Gathering of My Name Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1991, ISBN 9780887481154

You Don't Miss Your Water Henry Holt, 1995, ISBN 9780805036688 ; Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2004, ISBN 9780887484162

The Autobiography of a Jukebox: Poems Carnegie Mellon Press, 1997; Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2007, ISBN 9780887484704

Brutal Imagination . GP Putnam's Sons. 2001. ISBN 9781101143575 .

Hardheaded Weather . Penguin. 2008. ISBN 9780399154850 .

Translator: Alexander Best   |  https://zocalopoets.com/

Abril

De golpe, las piernas quieren un tipo diferente de empleo.

Esto es porque los ojos miran por la ventana

Y está llena de esperanza la vista.

Es porque están mirando por la ventana los ojos

Y la calle luce un quebrado mejor que el día antes.

Esto es lo que dicen los ojos a las piernas,

Y las articulaciones se vuelven embadurnadas con una savia fresca

Que echaría brotes si pegada a una rama diferente.

Las piernas quieren una clase de empleo diferente.

Es porque los oídos oyen lo que estaban esperando,

Lo que uno no puede trazar con palabras

Pero lo hace latir más veloz el corazón, como si

Uno había acabado de encontrar dinero en la calle.

Las piernas quieren actuar delante del mundo entero.

Quieren recuperar su garbo.

Esto es porque la nariz encuentra por fin el aroma correcto

Y ella jala el cuerpo protestando en la pista de baile.

Es porque las manos, estirando en su aburrimiento,

Rozan por casualidad las faldas del mundo.

Cuervos en el viento fuerte

Se van del techo los cuervos.

No pueden agarrarse;

También podría posarse en una fuga de petróleo.

Tal baile tan torpe,

Estos caballeros

Con sus chamarras negras moteadas.

Tal baile mareado,

Como si no supieran donde estaban.

Tal baile cómico,

Mientras intentan poner las cosas en orden

Al tiempo que el viento los reduce.

Y tal baile apesadumbrado.

El amor – tan embarazoso

Cuando se equivoca

En frente de todos.

(1985)

Un pequeño momento

Cruzo la entrada de la panadería de al lado de mi apartamento.

Estan a punto de extraer del horno algo de tostada con queso,

Y les pregunto: ¿Cuál es ese aroma? Soy siendo un poeta,

Estoy preguntando

Lo que todos los demás

Querían decir pero, de alguna manera, no habían podido;

Estoy hablando de parte de dos otros clientes

Que deseaban comprar el nombre de ese aroma.

A la mujer detrás del mostrador

Pido un porcentaje de su venta – ¿estoy coqueteando?

¿me vuelvo alegre porque se alargan los días? Y ésto es

Lo que hizo: ella toma su tiempo eligiendo las rebanadas.

“Estoy escogiendo las buenas,” me dijo.

Es el catorce de abril; la Primavera, con

Cinco a diez grados aún no llegan – pero vendrán.

Algunos días me siento mi deber;

Algunos días me encanta mi tarea.

(1997)

Un poeta baila con el objeto inanimado

(para Jim Schley)

El paraguas, en este caso;

Previamente, el taburete y

Los pilares de madera que

Soportan el techo.

Este cuate – sabes –

Danzará con cualquier cosa;

Le gusta la idea.

Pues recoge unas sandalias desechadas de alguna señora,

Las empuja contra su cabeza

– como caracolas – o

Orejas de un burro.

¡No hay nada

– declara su cuerpo –

Que está seguro de la danza de ideas!

(1985)

April

Suddenly, the legs want a different sort of work.

This is because the eyes look out the window

And the sight is filled with hope.

This is because the eyes look out the window

And the street looks a fraction better than the day before.

This is what the eyes tell the legs,

Whose joints become smeared with a fresh sap

Which would bud if attached to a different limb.

The legs want a different sort of work.

This is because the ears hear what they’ve been waiting for,

Which cannot be described in words,

But makes the heart beat faster, as if

One had just found money in the street.

The legs want to put on a show for the entire world.

The legs want to reclaim their gracefulness.

This is because the nose at last finds the right scent

And tugs the protesting body onto the dance floor.

This is because the hands, stretching out in boredom

Accidentally brush against the skirts of the world.

Crows in a Strong Wind

Off go the crows from the roof.

The crows can’t hold on.

They might as well

Be perched on an oil slick.

Such an awkward dance,

These gentlemen

In their spotted-black coats.

Such a tipsy dance,

As if they didn’t know where they were.

Such a humorous dance,

As they try to set things right,

As the wind reduces them.

Such a sorrowful dance.

How embarrassing is love

When it goes wrong

In front of everyone.

A Small Moment

I walk into the bakery next door

To my apartment. They are about

To pull some sort of toast with cheese

From the oven.   When I ask:

What’s that smell? I am being   

A poet, I am asking

What everyone else in the shop

Wanted to ask, but somehow couldn’t;

I am speaking on behalf of two other

Customers who wanted to buy the

Name of it.   I ask the woman

Behind the counter for a percentage

Of her sale. Am I flirting?

Am I happy because the days

Are longer?   Here’s what

She does: She takes her time

Choosing the slices.   “I am picking

Out the good ones,” she tells me.   It’s

April 14th. Spring, with five to ten

Degrees to go.   Some days, I feel my duty;

Some days, I love my work.

Poet dances with inanimate object

(for Jim Schley)

The umbrella, in this case;

Earlier, the stool, the

Wooden pillars that hold up

the roof.

This guy, you realize,

Will dance with anything—

—He likes the idea.

Then he picks up some lady’s discarded sandals,

Holds them next to his head like sea shells,

Donkey ears.

Nothing,

his body states,

Is safe from the dance of ideas!

A Small Moment

I walk into the bakery next door   

To my apartment. They are about   

To pull some sort of toast with cheese   

From the oven.   When I ask:   

What’s that smell? I am being   

A poet, I am asking   

What everyone else in the shop   

Wanted to ask, but somehow couldn’t;   

I am speaking on behalf of two other   

Customers who wanted to buy the   

Name of it.   I ask the woman   

Behind the counter for a percentage   

Of her sale. Am I flirting?   

Am I happy because the days   

Are longer?   Here’s what   

She does: She takes her time   

Choosing the slices.   “I am picking   

Out the good ones,” she tells me.   It’s    

April 14th. Spring, with five to ten    

Degrees to go.   Some days, I feel my duty;   

Some days, I love my work.

The Cab Driver Who Ripped Me Off

That’s right, said the cab driver, 

Turning the corner to the 

Round-a-bout way, 

Those stupid, fuckin’ beggars, 

You know the guys who 

Walk up to my cab 

With their hands extended 

And their little cups? 

You know their problem? 

You know what’s wrong with them? 

They ain’t got no brains. 

I mean, they don’t know nothin’ 

’cause if they had brains 

They’d think of a way 

To find a job. 

You know what one of ’em told me once? 

He said what he did, 

Begging 

He said it was work. 

Begging 

Was work. 

And I told him 

Straight to his face: 

That ain’t work. 

You think that’s work? 

Let me tell you what work is: 

Work is something that you do 

That’s of value 

To someone else. 

Now you take me. 

It takes brains to do 

What I do. 

You know what I think? 

I think they ought to send 

All these beggars over 

To some other country, 

Any country, 

It don’t matter which, 

For 3, 4, years, 

Let them wander around 

Some other country, 

See how they like that. 

We ought to make a 

National program 

Sending them off 

To wander about 

Some other country 

For a few years, 

Let ’em beg over there, 

See how far it gets them. 

I mean, look at that guy 

You know, who was big 

In the sixties, 

That drug guy, 

Timothy Leary? 

Yeah, he went underground, 

Lived overseas. 

You know what? 

A few years abroad 

And he was ready to 

Come back 

On any terms. 

He didn’t care if 

They arrested him. 

He said 

The U.S. is better 

Than any country 

In the world. 

Send them over there 

For a few years. 

They’d be just like him. 

This is the greatest country 

In the whole world. 

Timothy Leary 

Was damn happy 

To get back here, 

And he’s doing fine. 

Look at me. 

I used to be like that. 

I used to live underground. 

I came back. 

I think all those beggars got 

   a mental block. 

I think you should do something. 

I mean, you ought to like 

   what you do, 

But you should do something. 

Something of use 

To the community. 

All those people, 

Those bums, 

Those scam artists, 

Those hustlers, 

Those drug addicts, 

Those welfare cheats, 

Those sponges. 

Other than that 

I don’t hold nothin’ 

Against no one. 

Hey, I picked you up.

Charlie Chaplin Impersonates a Poet

The stage is set for imminent disaster. 

Here is the little tramp, standing 

On a stack of books in order 

To reach the microphone, the 

Poet he’s impersonating somehow 

Trussed and mumbling in a 

Tweed bundle at his feet. 

He opens his mouth: Tra-la!

Out comes doves, incandescent bulbs, 

Plastic roses. Well, that’s that,

Squirms the young professor who’s 

Coordinated this, 

No more visiting poets!

His department head groans 

For the trap door. As it 

Swings away 

The tramp keeps on as if 

Nothing has occurred, 

A free arm mimicking 

A wing.

.