TONY LEUZZI
Tony Leuzzi. Poeta. EE.UU. Ha publicado los libros de poesía Tongue-Tied and Singing (Foothills, 2004), Radiant Losses (ganador del New Sins Editorial Prize en 2009 y publicado al año siguiente) y The Burning Door (Tiger Bark Press, 2014). Es autor también del libro Passwords Primeval (Boa Editions, 2012), una colección de entrevistas con 20 poetas americanos que tuvo una gran acogida de crítica y público. Trabaja como profesor en el Monroe Community College de Rochester (Nueva York).
Tres poemas de TONY LEUZZI de LA PUERTA EN LLAMAS
Hoy queremos compartir con vosotros tres poemas de TONY LEUZZI, del poemario The Burning Door (Rochester, NY, 2014), traducidos por Jorge Rodríguez Miralles y Mario Murgia en nuestra sección de TRADUCCIONES.
http://www.lagallaciencia.com/2016/09/tres-poemas-de-tony-leuzzi-de-la-puerta.html
For every
book
I have read there
are
more than a million
I haven’t including those I bought
thinking
a wise man should at least
own if not read them
possession
being the nine-tenths
of something and nearness the tenth
not thinking they’d roost like silent birds
on tall shelves that were once trees.
*
Por cada
libro
que he leído
hay más
de un millón
que no, incluyendo ésos
que compré pensando que un hombre sabio
no debe por lo menos poseerlos,
sino leerlos,
la posesión siendo nueve décimas de algo
y la cercanía la décima,
sin esperar que ellos fueran a posarse
como pájaros silenciosos en los estantes altos
que alguna vez fueron árboles.
*
Things stay green
for
such a short time.
Time
is a lousy word
for poems that are all about it
and most
poems certainly are.
Let’s try this again:
Things stay green
for such a short while
then turn disappear and return
in abundance as if “everywhere”
distracts the eye from “ever.”
*
Las cosas permanecen verdes
muy poco
tiempo.
Tiempo
es una palabra inútil
para los poemas sobre el tema
y la mayoría de los poemas
casi siempre lo son.
Intentemos otra vez:
Las cosas permanecen verdes
muy poco tiempo
y después desaparecen y regresan
en abundancia como si "a todos lados"
distrajera el ojo del "siempre."
*
Report
Welter of feather, absence of wing: from this we find
matter effusive, spirit
elusive—
as told by the body it left behind.
In other words, nothing new.
What did you expect? Some vertiginous theory
of essence? Or a black claw
stained bright red from tearing apart the gold bird of Form?
*
Relato
Agitación de pluma, ausencia de ala: por esto encontramos
la materia efusiva, el espíritu
elusivo---
como relatado por el cuerpo abandonado.
En otras palabras, nada nuevo.
¿Qué esperabas? ¿Alguna teoría vertiginosa de la esencia? ¿O una garra negra
manchada de rojo brillante
por destrozar el pájaro dorado de la Forma?
(Del poemario The Burning Door. Rochester, NY, 2014)
*Traducción de Jorge Rodríguez Miralles & Mario Murgia
___________________________________________________
Jorge Rodríguez Miralles (Miami, 1977) es poeta, crítico literario, traductor y activista por la paz y el medio ambiente. Se graduó en escritura creativa por la Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics de la Universidad de Naropa (Colorado) y ha publicado sus trabajos en importantes revistas como Ragazine, The Cimarron Review, Danse Macabre, TheThePoetry, Bombay Gin, Big Bridge o Metropolis. Algunos de sus poemas, traducidos por él mismo al español, fueron publicados por El coloquio de los perros en 2015. Actualmente ejerce la docencia en un instituto de educación secundaria, en el Miami Dade College y en la Universidad de St. Thomas (Florida). En 2014 apareció su libro de poemas Everything/Nothing.
Mario Murgia es traductor, poeta y crítico literario. Imparte clases de literatura inglesa en la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras de la UNAM, donde actualmente dirige la Cátedra Extraordinaria Virginia Woolf. Es miembro del Sistema Nacional de Investigadores y entre sus más reciente proyectos editoriales se encuentra la publicación del libro Versos escritos en agua: la influencia de El paraíso perdidoen la poesía de Byron, Keats y Shelley. Colaboró con la traducción de tres relatos para la nueva edición de Dublineses, de James Joyce (Nuestros Clásicos, UNAM, 2014).
Cuando se le preguntó sobre el contenido gay de sus poemas, Tony Leuzzi respondió:
"Cualquier hombre que admita su atracción por otro hombre se encuentra en una posición marginal en la sociedad. Es 2010 y todavía me encuentro con editores que no publicarán algunos de mis poemas porque son demasiado "explícitos". Una vez escribí un soneto que un editor rechazó basado en su contenido homosexual. Recuerdo las palabras exactas: "Tu soneto es muy impresionante. Pero estamos tratando de que nuestra publicación sea recogida por las bibliotecas universitarias. Lo siento.' ¡¿Qué?! ¿Estás bromeando con esto? Supongo que lo que estoy diciendo es que las representaciones del homoerotismo masculino siguen siendo bastante duras en los círculos de lectura principales. El hecho de que casi un tercio de esta nueva colección de poemas se ocupe directamente del deseo masculino gay es un riesgo. Es político." [ENTREVISTADO POR NOAH MICHELSON]
"Any man who admits his attraction to another man finds himself in a marginal position in the patriarchy. It’s 2010 and I still come across editors who won’t publish some of my poems because they are too ‘explicit.’ I once wrote a sonnet that an editor rejected based upon its homosexual content. I remember the exact words: ‘Your sonnet is very impressive. But we’re trying to get our publication picked up by university libraries. Sorry.’ What?! Are you kidding me with this? I guess what I’m saying is, representations of male homoeroticism are still pretty edgy in mainstream reading circles. The fact that almost one-third of this new collection of poems deals squarely with gay male desire is a risk. It’s political.”
Illumination (from Radiant Losses)
I
climbed
the stairs
to his room
and found him naked,
as promised, lying silently
upon the bed, and the bed itself quite promising.
I
stripped
quickly
and joined him
in the soft, semi-
darkness lit by two thin candles,
where our pale skin flickered in the flickering shadows.
But
when
flame ceased,
and he turned
on the lights so I
could gather back my clothes, I saw
before me, posed like gods, a pair of tall bronze statues.
THE MAN WITH THREE NOSES
I
would
not have
believed it
had I not seen him
for myself in a small café
along one of the persistently fashionable
streets
of
Paris
where women
wrapped in velvet scarves
and a cool air of elegance
pass like the still but extended wings of silent birds
and
svelte
boys in
close fitting
clothes gaze above their
steaming cups of coffee at a
distant thing—or nothing at all—their red lips parted.
POINT OF VIEW
A
bald
man in
an over-
sized army jacket
settles upon the scarred surface
of a bench in the park, then sinks slowly into sleep.
A
tall
boy with
tangled hair
bends before the man,
tweaks the lens of his thirty-five
millimeter, steps in once more, is about to shoot
when
he
and the
man are caught—
quickly—by the frame
of another man’s camera
for the “Living” section of the local newspaper.
APOLOGY
I
am
sorry
I woke you
before you finished
your dream in which you were a goat
and I the blue, luxuriant grass you nibbled on
all
day
and night
each day of
your life in a state
of perpetual contentment
because, apparently, some enzyme in me (the grass)
made
you
restful—
forgetful,
even, of the time
and life’s pressures and absences—
but I am hungry and it’s your turn to cook dinner.
ON RIBERA’S “LA MUJER BARBUDA"
She
is
not some
frightful hag
with a heavy beard
but a stout man with sturdy hands
and one enormous breast suspended from the center
of
his
chest like
a swollen
gourd soon to be plucked
and hollowed, then carefully strung
with gut for the lyre, on which a bard might weave weird tales—
a
breast
so soft
it startles
the infant at its
nipple into a deep, timeless
silence which resembles (but is not) awe or worship.
SPRING
One
day
in spring
when the brown
grass was hard beneath
our boots and every breath brought forth
a stream of brief but rolling cloud, we walked the train tracks
past
the
edge of
town. Brian
handed out the beer
and Jorge allotted each three smokes.
Tommy brought his lighter and a guy we didn’t know
named
Pete.
I brought
the silence—
which was needed when
we stopped to stare at gutted cars
and Pete for who knows what yelled “Look!” and started dancing.
from Cadae: The Pi Poems
1
The music
stopped
for a moment
then—
when we began
to savor in its absence silence—
started
again, maybe a bit
louder than before
or maybe
we only heard it
as such, a sudden intrusion
we had previously not noticed
and this is what disturbed us.
2
No matter
where
the city gays
there
confess their scene is
a sad huddle of hopeless bottoms
each one
wishing for some dream top
to plough him senseless—
an Eden
understood only
by those first barred who with an air
of almost tragic boredom insist
their loss is epidemic.
3
Imagine
some
body you would
love
to fuck then try to
find this body somewhere in the world
and while
you look and encounter
as you are bound to
encounter
one disappointment
after another imagine
just how thin and stripped of incident
your life would be otherwise
________________________________________________
Tony Leuzzi is a writer and teacher living in Rochester, NY. His second book of poems, Radiant Losses, won the New Sins Editors’ Prize. In November 2012, BOA Editions will release Passwords Primeval, a book of interviews with twenty American poets.
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