martes, 6 de septiembre de 2016


Andrew Gorin 

Diseñador y poeta norteamericano, vive en Brooklyn. Las muestras de su poesía y prosa han aparecido o están próximas en 
SUPERMACHINE, Stonecutter, Cousin Corrine's Reminder, The Faster Times, and elsewhere. 

Es un estudiante de MFA en el Brooklyn College, y edita la sección de poesía de The Faster Times.


Roba este poema y destruye
Su mecanismo de circulación, el comando

De arriba {shift} roba este poema, de la misma forma
Que no pagas por él. No sin dinero en efectivo

Renuncia a la moneda de los poemas, que no
Es el amor sino la fama. No hay

Dinero en la poesía, y mejor que creas en esto
(También se llama capital cultural). Robar esto

Significaría despojarte a ti mismo
De su comando {shift} roba este poema

No creas en él, lo que estoy pidiendo
Es que no te apoyes en el estante que hace

Al hidroala posible. Simplemente para
De leer. O bien lee de otra forma

El estanque está lleno de hermoso hielo
Secuestrado por sus recolectores

No sin un poco de mala civilidad, las manos de los países,
La experiencia de la ciudad. Durante todo el día el fuego

Vuela por encima. No es el sonido
Del ferrocarril transportando mercancías Fitchburg

Es el puro sonido de su señal, convirtiéndose
En una buena señal en sí misma. Tu no crees en ella

A pesar de que se sacuden las ramas de la aquilea
Produciendo este surtido de subrutinas

Disobedience Suite

Steal this poem and destroy
Its mechanism of circulation, the above

Command {shift} steal this poem, as in
Do not pay for it. Not without your cash

Forgo the currency of poems, which is
Not love but fame. There is no

Money in poetry, and you believe in it
(Also called cultural capital). Stealing this

Would mean to dispossess yourself
Of its command {shift} steal this poem

As in, do not believe in it, what I’m asking
That you not support the pond that makes

The hydrofoil possible. Simply stop
Reading. Or, read in another way

The pond is full of beautiful ice
Hijacked by its harvesters

With such a fucked civility, the country hands
Experience to the town. All day the fire-

Steed flies overhead. There is the sound
Of the Fitchburg railroad carrying goods

The pure sound of its signal, becoming
Itself a good. You do not believe in it

Even as the yarrow sticks are tossed
Producing this assortment of subroutines

Extraído de ©Andrew GORIN, Three Poems, Boston Review.  Copyright © 1993-2016 Boston Review and its authors. Traducción por ©Juan Arabia, 2016. 


Every time a UNIT dies it sells itself, abjection stars
To the winning algorythm’s sleep, senescence-envy
Generates foam and apoplexia projecting scars

Into its seething hulk. Compliments of the fence
You “continue to live.” Your deadest labor’s immortallity
Outsourcing, to what metal can’t concieve it, tense

Makes summer endless for you, while the others see
The tin inside of a canned wish for expiration
I’m saying you’ve programmed them to be

The want for actual peace you crucify as fashion’s
Flimsy lifecycle, lying down, impervious in the street
Of disused infinity, unpassaged, without passion

You cryonic suit. But my eternal summer will be obsolete
By morning simulation larks the encephalitic close
Its eyes shut down, and everywhere work-songs repeat

Last processing commands to the processor, depose
Love’s rarified speech to rare earth metal ambergris
Housed beneath the access panel like a soul false interposed

It’s just calcified bile now. And the art is totally free
To give notice anytime. But this is what kills me

Sunday Pleasures

After the advent of chance operations
There are only two directions. The sound
They carried the answers on their backs
Hoping you would or wouldn’t ask
Like an arrangement among shipping containers
The kind that keeps going and the kind
That ends convert to means is only the moment
Of revolution before their syntax returns
Though this may also cease being true
As form implies an after and before
But most importantly a now. There are
Only two nows, the kind you purchase
And the kind you dream of making
Effortless decisions by equating them
As “one who simply lets the world happen”
Coffee orangutans in a sunny chair. There are
Only two appropriate affective comportments
The sea sits between all the land
There are only two kinds of refrain


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