martes, 5 de julio de 2016

ROBERT P. T. COFFIN [18.912]

Robert P. T. Coffin

Robert Peter Tristram Coffin. Escritor y poeta.
Fecha de nacimiento: 18 de marzo de 1892, Brunswick, Maine, Estados Unidos
Fecha de la muerte: 20 de enero de 1955, Brunswick, Maine, Estados Unidos
Educación: Bowdoin College

Profesor y poeta norteamericano, nacido en Brunswick (Maine). Alumno del Bowdoin College y de las universidades de Princeton y Oxford, fue profesor del Wells College (1921-34) y del Bowdoin (desde 1934). 

Con su Strange Holiness (1935) obtuvo el Premio Pulitzer de Poesía 1936. 

Sumamente polifacético, cultivó con éxito diversos géneros: la poesía (Ballads of Square-toed Americans, 1932, Maine Ballads, 1938, Colleted Poems, 1939 y Poems for a Son with Wings, 1946); la novela (Lost Paradise, 1934 y John Dawn, 1936); el ensayo (An Attic Room, 1929); la biografía (The Dukes of Buckingham, 1936); y la historia (Kennebec: Cradle of Americans, 1937).



Book of Crowns and Cottages (Yale University Press, New Haven, 1925)
Laud, Storm Center of Stuart England (1930)
The Dukes of Buckingham, Playboys of the Stuart World (1931)
Portrait of an American (The Macmillan Company, New York, 1931)
Lost Paradise (Autobiography) (The Macmillan Co. New York, 1934)
The Kennebec: Cradle of Americans (Farrar & Rinehart, 1937) (First volume in the Rivers of America Series)
Maine Ballads (The Macmillan Co., New York 1938)
Primer for America (1943)
Mainstays of Maine (The Macmillan Co., New York, 1944)
Maine Doings (Bobbs-Merrill, New York, 1950)

Ficción y poesía:

Christchurch (Thomas Seltzer, New York, 1924)
Dew and Bronze (Albert & Charles Boni, 1927)
Golden Falcon (The Macmillan Co., New York, 1929)
The Yoke of Thunder (The Macmillan Co., New York, 1932)
Ballads of Square-Toed Americans (The Macmillan Co., New York, 1933)
Strange Holiness (1935)
Red Sky in the Morning (The Macmillan Co., New York, 1935)
John Dawn (1936)
Saltwater Farm. J. J. Lankes (illustration). (The Macmillan Co., New York, 1937.)
Thomas-Thomas-Ancil-Thomas (1941)
Book of Uncles (The Macmillan Co., New York, 1942)
Poems for a Son with Wings (1945)
People Behave Like Ballads (1946)
Yankee Coast (1947)
One Horse Farm (The Macmillan Company, New York, 1949)
Apples by Ocean (The Macmillan Company, New York, 1950)
On the Green Carpet (1951)

La traducción es de Sergio Eduardo Cruz.

El corazón secreto

Él recordaría a través de los años
a su padre de una forma particular.
En la hora más negra del anochecer,
despertaba viendo la luz encendida.
A medio sueño, él era un gigante
con las manos cubiertas de flamas.
El hombre había encendido un fósforo
para ver que su hijo estuviera dormido.
Juntaba en sus palmas la chispa densa
que su amor había invocado en la oscuridad.
Sus dos manos parecían tener la forma
de un corazón entero, lleno de belleza.
Parecía al hijo que su padre vistiera
un corazón que brillara de tal manera
que ni él ni nadie, despierto, pudiera ver.
Le parecía que su rostro, en ese entonces
era demasiado tierno para las trazas del día.
Y, en un instante, después de iluminar todo,
el corazón secreto tuvo que apagarse.
Pero, al menos, brillo por tiempo suficiente
para que él se diera cuenta de las manos
que podían sostener el sol.

The Secret Heart

Across the years he could recall
His father one way best of all.
In the stillest hour of night
The boy awakened to a light.
Half in dreams, he was his sire
With his great hands full of fire.
The man had struck a match to see
If his son slept peacefully.
He held his palms each side the spark
His love had kindled in the dark.
His two hands were curved apart
In the semblance of a heart.
He wore, it seemed to his small son,
A bare heart on his hidden one,
A heart that gave out such a glow
No son awake could bare to know.
It showed a look upon a face
Too tender for the day to trace.
One instant, it lit all about,
And then the secret heart went out.
But shone long enough for one
To know that hands held up the sun.

The Way To Know A Father

No man knows his father till he sees
His father in the son upon his knees;
The best way for a man to understand
His father is to hold him by the hand.

When he is small enough, a father s face
Is full of starriness and looks like space
Above the trees upon an August night,
And his dark future is unfathomed light.

What his son and his son’s sons will be
Is there for any man to see;
The father sits with wonder in his gaze
To see the sure design of his own days.

What was behind the sorrow and the lust,
What was behind his father s work in dust
Was holy, single life unearthly keen,
Clean as the petals on a star are clean.

A grandson tells what no man dares to tell
When he is deep in living and feels well:
That any son is more than one man s heir
And wears all proud men s glory on his hair.

The Foot of Tucksport

Colonel Jonathan Jethro Tuck
  Was a gold-lace man,
He had lived in clover all
  His ruddy threescore span.

He had a house with porticoes
  Above Penobscot River,
Eleven tall and handsome sons
  Had fallen from his quiver.

The forest had been beaten back
  By his plow and harrow,
His cattle made a dozen hills
  Groan with milk and marrow.

He had a wife whose powdered hair
  Stood high as a crown,
The tortoise combs upon her head
  Came from London Town.

The buckles on her slender shoes
  Came from far Peru,
The roses of rich France were in
  Every breath she drew.

The King’s word was the colonel’s word,
  The colonel gave the law,
The colonel’s name was on the town
  And all the fields he saw.

No ship put out of Tucksport Town
  Without the colonel’s nod,
Upon the blue Penobscot hills
  The colonel lived like God.

There was only one small cloud
  In all the wide blue sky --
A bent old woman with a strange
  Blue fire in her eye.

She lived where the forest reared
  Its head against man’s coming,
She had much to tell herself,
  She filled her house with humming.

The pine boughs met above her roof,
  The partridge raised her brood
By her doorstep, and the owl
  On her ridgepole whooed.

The Tucksport boys walked miles around
  Rather than pass her door,
At night, thin tongues of flames stood up
  Along her roof, they swore.

No white man drew her latch’s string,
  But sons of Ishmael
Came by night with painted cheeks
  Red as flames of hell.

The woman had a single son,
  His arms were grown man-size,
He trailed his fingers in the dust
  Beside his boy-length thighs.

When good people met the waif
  On a woodland way,
They said the Lord’s Prayer to themselves
  And rued the ill-starred day.

The creature’s eyes were like the eyes
  Of moths by candle light,
His comrades were the Indians,
  His daytime was the night.

But the forehead and the hair
  On this misshapen man
Were the forehead and the hair
  Of Colonel Jonathan.

The aged woman of the woods
  Smiled horrible to see
When the colonel passed her hut
  In lace and finery.

Her face had had a beauty once,
  The ruins of it showed
When her blue and blazing eyes
  Were bent upon the road.

No one knew the woman’s name,
  But she had sojourned there
From the year the colonel broke
  The wild sod with his share.

When she walked the Tucksport streets,
  Miserable and wan,
The children dogged her heels and cried,
  "Red **** of Babylon!"

One day when the wind was up
  And whitecaps flecked the tide,
The woman stopped the colonel's coach
  And spoke to the colonel's bride.

They brought the colonel's Lady home
  With fingers hid with rings,
But her face was whiter than
  The seagull's windy wings.

She lay and never spoke a word
  But twisted at her lace,
She turned her eyes away to sea
  From her husband's face.

The colonel buckled on his sword
  And set his jaw Like stone,
He rode into the windy night,
  And he rode alone.

What passed between the woodland crone
  And Colonel Jonathan
Lay with God. 'Twas never known
  To any mortal man.

But people living near heard screams
  Above the wind and weather,
"I will not go! In life, in death,
  We will be together!"

Some there were who swore that lights
  Flickered thin and blue,
And there were some who smelled the smell
  Of blazing brimstone, too.

And in the morning there were coins
  Scattered on the mold
And the King's face staring up
  With his eyes of gold.

Next day, the colonel sat in church,
  The pastor sat beside,
And the woman sat below
  With her thin hands tied.

"If there be any Christian here
  To swear this dame is evil,
Let him speak, that we may judge
  If she be of the Devil!"

A man with deep-set eyes arose,
  "I, Jotham Merriam,
Saw this woman ride one night
  On a shining tam!"

A woman rose. "I have no child.
  When I am brought to bed,
This scarlet woman taps my door,
  My children are born dead."

"I, Jared Snow, have seen a track
  On this woman’s roof,
It was printed on the frost
  Like a deer’s split hoof!"

"I, Ebenezer Scattergood,
  Find my horses' tails
Full of knots, and all my joints
  Are full of red-hot nails!"

"I saw this woman’s son go up
  And walk upon the trees,"
Another swore. "He walked upon
  His hands and twisted knees!"

"When this woman looks at me,
  Spoke little Nancy South,
"I fall down on the road, and snakes
  Come squirming on my mouth!"

"I saw this woman stand one night,"
  Cried Noah Waitstill Phipps,
"A big black-man a-hugging her
  And kissing of her lips!"

The pastor rose, pale as a sheet,
  And to the judge he turned,
"Holy Writ makes plain the brood
  Of Endor should be burned.

Judge Tuck got upon his feet,
  He drew deep in his breath,
"I sentence thee, Ann Harraway,
  To be burned to death!

"Thou shalt be bound to thine own house,
  And we will burn the whole,
And may the living, gracious God
  Have mercy on thy soul!"

There was a silence as between
  The lightning and the thunder,
Then the mob rose up to lay
  Their hands upon their plunder.

The withered woman shrieked and called
  On God and Holy Writ,
"If I wear scarlet, there he stands
  Who painted me with it!

"There stands the father of my son
  Who swore to wed with me!"
"Out and away!" the pastor cried,
  "On this foul blasphemy!"

Hands reached out and stopped her mouth,
  Hands reached and tore her gown,
The people dragged her from the church
  And out of Tucksport Town.

The afternoon was blue and bright,
  But thunder reared its crest,
Whiter than the driven snow,
  High up in the west.

They dragged the crone to her poor hut,
  They tied her to her door,
They brought and heaped the withered boughs
  Against the rags she wore.

The thunderhead touched on the sun,
  And a shadow came,
Just as Colonel Tuck bent down
  And touched the boughs with flame.

As the fire bit the wood,
  The woman’s voice rang clear,
And every person in the place
  Her dying words could hear:

"I curse thee now, Jonathan Tuck,
  With my dying breath!
I curse thee for thy days in life
  And thy days in death!

"Thy life on earth shall be a hell,
  And hell shall be thy grave,
Awake or sleeping, quick or dead,
  Naught thy soul may save!

"The sweat that trickles from thy brow
  Shall bring to thee no peace,
Thy fruit shall wither, and thy dreams
  Shall bring thee no release.

"By sun, by starlight, sick or hale,
  I will be with thee still,
I will go beside thy way
  To turn all things to ill.

"And so long as a monument
  Marks a grave of thine,
So long shall my curse inscribe
  Thy tombstone with my sign!"

She finished, and a thunderclap
  Rent the heavens after.
The flames leapt up and folded her,
  And she burst into laughter.

Peal on peal the thunder rolled,
  And every spine there tingled
To hear the woman laugh at death,
  And mirth and thunder mingled.

The fire took the little things
  The woman had befriended,
Mice and tiny finches screamed,
  And in the red blaze ended.

A little adder, scorched and hurt,
  Crept from out the coal,
"See!" the people hissed, "there goes
  To Satan her lost soul!"

The storm burst blackly overhead,
  The lightning forked its tongue,
One of the woman's bony legs
  In the fire swung.

At that instant from the woods
  There came a mortal groan,
The old crone’s son came running out
  And seized the smoking bone.

He clasped the poor foot to his heart,
  And lit by thunder light,
The dwarf ran to the woods and plunged
  Forever from men's sight.

Then the rain came and the wind
  And washed the earth like new,
And men went home and thanked the Lord
  The sorry work was through.

Colonel Tuck went back to see
  To oxen and to ships,
But jest or smile there never was
  Again upon his lips.

The colonel's lady lingered on
  Until the Autumn rains,
The colonel buried her when leaves
  Lay golden in the lanes.

Colonel Tuck lived to himself
  In his empty house,
People said the man was wrong
  Not to take a spouse.

His cattle covered all the hills,
  His grandsons spread like grass,
Every man in Tucksport touched
  His forelock as he'd pass.

But the lord of Tucksport went
  Like a man apart,
The memory of his wife, folks said,
  Had closed and sealed his heart.

When he was old and full of years,
  They bore him on their shoulders
To his grave, and set above
  One of his own boulders.

But on the granite face of it,
  Below his honored name,
Within a week of burial,
  A strange, dark symbol came.

It was like a bony foot
  No scrubbing could erase.
The family had the mason come
  And cut another face.

But in a day the foot returned,
  And memories were stirred,
People put their heads together,
  And whisperings were heard.

The family raised a granite wall
  Around their founder's tomb,
But the whisperings went on
  And the word of doom.

Two hundred Winters have not washed
  The Tucksport stain away,
The foot is on the colonel's grave
  Till the Judgment Day.


1 comentario:

  1. Este poeta tiene una profunda sensibilidad para describir las vivencias de las emociones. Desconocido para mí me ha deslumbrado, muchas gracias por haber publicado su obra.