Sean Nevin
Nació en 1969. EE.UU. Enseña en la Universidad de Arizona, donde es asistente del director del Programa de Escritores Jóvenes y coeditor del 22 Across: A Review of Young Writers. Sus poemas han sido publicados en The Gettysburg Review y en el North American Review, entre otras revistas. Recibió la beca de literatura en poesía de la Fundación Nacional de las Artes y es autor de A House That Falls (Slapering Hol Press) y Oblivio Gate (Southern Illinois University Press) que ganó el premio a opera prima de Crab Orchard.
Sean Nevin
1969. Poet and teacher Sean Nevin is the author of A House That Falls (2005), winner of the Slapering Hol Press Chapbook Competition, and Oblivio Gate (2008), awarded the Crab Orchard Award Series First Book Prize.
Nevin has received fellowships from the Arizona Commission on the Arts and the National Endowment for the Arts. He directs the MFA Program in Poetry at Drew University.
Publicaciones y Premios
Libros: Oblivio Gate (Southern Illinois University Press, 2008), A House That Falls (Slapering Hol Press, 2005)
Antologías: Family Matters: Poems of Our Families (Bottom Dog Press, 2005)
Revistas: Blackbird , Gettysburg Review , Hayden's Ferry Review , Runes: A Review of Poetry , The Ledge
Premios: Nevin is the recipient of a Literature Fellowship in Poetry from the National Endowment for the Arts, a fellowship from the Eastern Frontier Education Foundation, as well as both a Poetry fellowship and an Artist Project Grant from the Arizona Commission on the Arts. His collections won The Slapering Hol Press Chapbook Prize and, Oblivio Gate, won the Crab Orchard Award Series First Book Prize (Southern Illinois University Press).
Otra vez, amanezco con el gnomo
Hay una casa en llamas
en algún lugar de la mente,
alguien intenta huir
alguien no permite que el otro escape.
Michael Burkard
La luz del día se destapa sobre el césped como una enfermedad
esta mañana, como un incendio que viaja sobre las vigas,
y el gnomo y yo escuchamos
el atroz aumento gradual de la crepitación y los escupitajos
de los vapores de la carcoma. Silban para producir
el siseo de los que todavía no mueren, de la zarpa violeta
recién mudada que quedó salpicando en la cacerola de manteca,
y acomodan todos los tablones desbordados sollozando
como lunáticos que tocan el flautín.
¿Qué tal si así sucede, si así perdemos
nuestra íntima fábula? Los huesos porosos,
como las ramas madereables que son, ya colapsando
sobre sí mismos. Los aleros encendidos, dispuestos
al desplome desde la súbita levedad del ser.
¿Qué tal si esto es mi vida, en llamas,
la mecha de ganglios y sinapsis encendida
chispeando como mancha de cenizas doradas
que destella y después se esfuma?
¿Qué tal si mi vida es el perro aullador del vecino
que ha destrozado las amarras y va de patio en patio
rogando que lo dejen entrar?
Traductor: Armando Ibarra
http://www.revistadepoesiaclave.com/
Hinged Double Sonnet for the Luna Moths
For ten days now, two luna moths remain
silk-winged and lavish as a double broach
pinned beneath the porch light of my cabin.
Two of them, patinaed that sea-glass green
of copper weather vanes nosing the wind,
the sun-lit green of rockweed, the lichen's
green scabbing-over of the bouldered shore,
the plush green peat that carpets the island,
that hushes, sinks then holds a boot print
for days, and the sapling-green of new pines
sprouting through it. The miraculous green
origami of their wings - false eyed, doomed
and sensual as the mermaid's long green fins:
a green siren calling from the moonlight.
A green siren calling from the moonlight,
from the sweet gum leaves and paper birches
that shed, like tiny white decrees, scrolled bark.
They emerge from cocoons like greased hinges,
all pheromone and wing, instinct and flutter.
They rise, hardwired, driven, through the creaking
pine branches tufted with beard moss and fog.
Two luna moths flitting like exotic birds
towards only each other and light, in these
their final few days, they mate, then starving
they wait, inches apart, on my cabin wall
to die, to share fully each pure and burning
moment. They are, like desire itself, born
without mouths. What, if not this, is love?
from Oblivio Gate, published in 2008 by Southern University Press.
—Norton Island, Maine
For ten days now, two luna moths remain
silk-winged and lavish as a double broach
pinned beneath the porch light of my cabin.
Two of them, patinaed that sea-glass green
of copper weather vanes nosing the wind,
the sun-lit green of rockweed, the lichen’s
green scabbing-over of the bouldered shore,
the plush green peat that carpets the island,
that hushes, sinks then holds a boot print
for days, and the sapling-green of new pines
sprouting through it. The miraculous green
origami of their wings—false eyed, doomed
and sensual as the mermaid’s long green fins:
a green siren calling from the moonlight.
A green siren calling from the moonlight,
from the sweet gum leaves and paper birches
that shed, like tiny white decrees, scrolled bark.
They emerge from cocoons like greased hinges,
all pheromone and wing, instinct and flutter.
They rise, hardwired, driven, through the creaking
pine branches tufted with beard moss and fog.
Two luna moths flitting like exotic birds
towards only each other and light, in these
their final few days, they mate, then starving
they wait, inches apart, on my cabin wall
to die, to share fully each pure and burning
moment. They are, like desire itself, born
without mouths. What, if not this, is love?
from Oblivio Gate, published in 2008 by Southern University Press.
Heart Of The Tyrant King
The carpenter bees leave their sawdust dunes
heaped on the porch beneath the wood railing
like ancient pyramids returning to sand,
and the damn termites have taken the walls.
Last night I dreamt I was the dead pharaoh,
the tyrant king mummified in his tomb.
A carved history fading from stone tablets
as looters filled satchels with gold. The worms
had already come and gone, picked the skull
clean. My chest was a winter honeycomb,
a bee's papery nest seized by hoarfrost.
While thieves sifted my organ jars for jewels,
I grinned jawbone through the din gauze. I felt
the hive stir, all the bloodless wings thrumming.
Losing Solomon
Things seem to take on a sudden shimmer
before vanishing: the polished black loafers
he wore yesterday, the reason for climbing
the stairs, even the names of his own children
are swallowed like spent stars against the dark
vault of memory. Today the toaster gives up
its silver purpose in his hands, becomes a radio,
an old Philco blaring a ball game from the 40s
with Jackie Robinson squaring up to the plate.
For now, it's simple; he thinks he is young again,
maybe nineteen, alone in a kitchen. He is staring
through his own reflection in the luster and hoping
against hope that Robinson will clear the bases
with a ball knocked so far over the stadium wall
it becomes a pigeon winging up into the brilliance.
And perhaps, in one last act of alchemy,
as Jackie sails around third, he will transform
everything, even the strange and forgotten face
glaring back from the chrome, into something
familiar, something Solomon could know as his own.
Alzheimer's
A blizzard, late in the season, arrives
with its sudden cannonading . . .
It sends a lost soldier wandering, alone
towards the center of what he perceives
as a vast clearing in a dense pine grove.
Snowdrifts will billow up past his thighs
and the chalk-blue terrain will forget
its own landmarks by nightfall. He will drop
his rifle and his rucksack on the snow,
hallucinate his dead mother
young again, then collapse. Then the moans,
the deep creak and clatter when the gray slab
of lakeice gives way. A braid of bottom grasses
will hold him down, a frost will heal the sky.
Solomon's Tool Shed
The three pine steps
have worn soft.
The sagging runners
bleached from sun
and rock salt,
warped and grain
tattered from boot
treads and spade tips
lifted then dropped
as walking sticks
at the tired end of a day.
The toll of winter's
hammer and grind
grows heavier
each year. Sunlight
worms through
cracked cedar shakes,
vermiculates the dark
clutter of workbench
and plywood wall,
where years of rusted
tools hang on nails
bent like bluefish
hooks. A coping saw
and its dust shadow.
The kitchen clock
whose hands, dizzied
and tired, have given up
the chase. And the one
crimped wood shaving
held in the block plane's
dull blade, furls
like a dried petal,
a forget-me-not.
A small tribute to the end
of beginning new projects.
A settling in, a settling in.
Montclair Vespers
The evening light of suburban New Jersey
has in it smears of newsprint and the Khaki
shades of trench coats slung over seatbacks.
Commuters descend, single file,
the concrete stairs at Watchung Station,
each hauling the glum luggage
of shadow hunkered at their clicking feet.
A train's whistle blares behind them,
scatters a murmuration of starling
that swoops down, banks, then doubles back
into themselves like a black shawl raised off
the shoulder, alive by wind. It's November
and the maples, having emptied their branches,
rake over their darkening plots of sky.
Sean Nevin
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