lunes, 29 de mayo de 2017



Anne Pierson Wiese (Nacida en 1964 en Minneapolis, Minnesota ), es una poeta americana.

Se crió en Brooklyn, Nueva York. Graduada de la universidad de Amherst y la Universidad de Nueva York. Trabaja y vive en Manhattan con su marido. 

El trabajo de Wiese ha aparecido en: 

The Nation, Prairie Schooner, Porcupine, Raritan, Atlanta Review, Southwest Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Quarterly West, Rattapallax, Hudson Review, Literary Imagination, Carolina Quarterly, South Carolina Review, West Branch, and Hawai'i Pacific Review.


2006 Walt Whitman Award 
2005 Fellowship in Poetry from the New York Foundation for the Arts
2004 Second Prize in the Arvon International Poetry Competition sponsored by the Arvon Foundation in Great Britain
2004 "Discovery"/The Nation Poetry Contest 
2002 First Place Poetry Prize in the Writers@Work Fellowship Competition.


"Columbus Park". American Life in Poetry: Column 130.
"Inscrutable Twist". American Life in Poetry: Column 199.
"The Radio Tells Us It's Snowing in Montauk". Virginia Quarterly Review: 195. Spring 2009.
"Thinking about Moss". Ploughshares. Winter 2007–2008. Archived from the original on January 28, 2016.
"Bay Ten". Del Sol Review.

Libros de poesía

Floating City. Louisiana State University Press. 2007. ISBN 978-0-8071-3235-7.

Obras de teatro

Lewis W. Heniford, ed. (1995). "Coleman, SD". 1/2/3/4 for the show. Scarecrow Press. ISBN 978-0-8108-2985-5. (produced 1982)


Kasdorf, Julia; Tyrell, Michael (2006). "Last Night in Brooklyn". Broken Land: Poems of Brooklyn. New York University Press. ISBN 978-0-8147-4803-9.

Today at Círculo de Poesía, we present the poetry of Anne Pierson Wiese. She is poet and graduated of the New York University at Writing Workshop. She has won some prizes through the years. In 2006, she won the Walt Whitman Prize for her book Floating city.

Spanish  versions by Adalberto García López.

Hoy en Círculo de Poesía: Anne Pierson Wiese. Es poeta, graduada de la New York University del Writing Workshop. Ha ganado diversos premios a lo largo de su trayectoria. En 2006 le fue concedido el premio Walt Whitman por su libro Floatin City. La traducción corre a cargo de Adalberto García López.

Parque Columbus

Tras el final de Baxter Street, donde está el suburbio
de Five Points solía estar, al norte de Tombs, un pequeño parque.
En estos días de verano las delgadas y verdes hojas de los árboles
permanecen pesadas igual que la niebla del atardecer sobre
las personas que juegan mah jong –más chinos
en el aire que ingleses. La ciudad está compuesta
de campos verdes; dependemos del lugar tailandés
de la esquina: sopa de pollo para un resfriado,
té de jazmín para la fiebre, calamar para el amor, pato
para la soledad. Afuera, el bosque de calor,
estrechas calles donde las personas luchan contra precipitados ángeles
no vistos; adentro, la frescura de una cascada y el paciente personal
con sus collares de azul claro ofreciendo agua.
Cualquier cosa que hayas o no hecho, hay un plato para ti
para llevar o comer ahí: picante para el coraje, dulce para el desazón.

Columbus Park

Down at the end of Baxter Street, where Five Points
slum used to be, just north of Tombs, is a pocket park.
On these summer days the green plane trees’ leaves
linger heavy as a noon mist above
the men playing mah jongg—more Chinese
in the air than English.  The city’s composed
of village greens; we rely on the Thai
place on the corner: Tom Kha for a cold,
jasmine tea for fever, squid for love, Duck Yum
for loneliness.  Outside, the grove of heat,
narrow streets where people wrestle rash and unseen
angels; inside, the coolness of a glen and the wait staff
in their pale blue collars offering ice water.
Whatever you’ve done or undone, there’s a dish for you
to take out or eat in: spice for courage, sweet for chagrin.

Esquisto de mica

El parque St. Nicholas de Harlem, es uno de los pocos lugares
en la isla de Manhattan donde puedes quedarte
en las terrazas de intacta roca desde que los hombres
con herramientas de topógrafos se pararon en ellas
para dar las malas noticias, antes, en el último
siglo, pero uno: señores, he aquí una sustancia
inamovible. Así que construyeron alrededor,
arriba y abajo, dejando este irregular
pedazo de tierra, rocas a la intemperie, en medio de árboles
como ballenas en los rayos del sol, sorprendidas de encontrarse
aisladas entre edificios, iluminadas
por la noche por farolas. Los viejos arces y robles,
sus raíces sondan la colina como los humanos no pudieron,
susurran lo que hay dentro: más rocas- más rocas –más rocas.

Mica Schist

St. Nicholas Park in Harlem is one of few spots
on the island of Manhattan where you can stand
on terraces of rock untouched since men
with surveyor’s tools stood on them
to deliver the bad news, back in the last 
century but one: Gentlemen, here is a substance
we cannot move.  So they built around,
below and above, leaving this uneven
pleat of ground, rocks surfaced between the trees
like whales in strips of sun, stunned to find themselves
landlocked among buildings, illuminated
at night by lamp posts.   The old maples and oaks,
roots plumbing the hill as humans could not,
whisper of what’s below: more rock—more rock—more rock.

Inscrutable Twist 

The twist of the stream was inscrutable. 
It was a seemingly run-of-the-mill 
stream that flowed for several miles by the side 
of Route 302 in northern Vermont— 
and presumably does still—but I’ve not 
been back there for what seems like a long time. 

I have it in my mind’s eye, the way 
one crested a rise and rounded a corner 
on the narrow blacktop, going west, and saw 
off to the left in the flat green meadow 
the stream turning briefly back on itself 
to form a perfect loop—a useless light-filled 
water noose or fragment of moon’s cursive, 
a sign or message of some kind—but left behind.

In the Beginning

There was the famous photographer, Walker Evans,
who started by photographing old signs and ended
by filling his bathtub with them and washing
himself in the kitchen sink.  There was the Harlem
man whose pet tiger cub grew so big that first
his family and finally he himself fled
the 12th-floor, three-bedroom apartment in the housing
project, returning every day to fling raw chickens
through a crack in the front door.  Love displaces

everything.  All over the city the signs peer
from beneath modern facades, fade in the sun and rain
high up on sides of buildings: BEST QUALITY TWINE.  Ghosts
on brick, cockeyed atop demolition dumpsters, tin
worn delicate as paper, pale lettered—mint,
INQUIRE ON PREMISES.  If you stare at them words
are faces; everyone who ever spelled them out,
ever debated whether to buy twine or rent
an apartment fades up into view wearing shadowy
Homburgs, black veils, parcels in their arms, the winter
air freshening for snow.  Or imagine the face
of a tiger waiting behind a thin metal door,
your furniture demolished, your family living
on friends’ floors, your neighbors smelling urine and fur
and losing their tolerance, a policeman
rappelling outside your windows with a dart gun.

Imagine a hunger for the invisible world
so deep it must have existed before you were born.

Profile of the Night Heron

In the Brooklyn Botanic Garden the night
heron is on his branch of his tree, blue
moon curve of his body riding low
above the pond, leaves dipping into water
beneath him, green and loose as fingers.
On the far shore, the ibis is where
I left him last time, a black cypher
on his rock. These birds, they go to the right
place every day until they die.

There are people like that in the city,
with signature hats or empty attaché cases,
expressions of private absorption fending
off comment, who attach to physical
locations—a storefront, a stoop, a corner,
a bench—and appear there daily as if for a job.
They negotiate themselves into the pattern
of place, perhaps wiping windows, badly,
for a few bucks, clearing the stoop of take-out
menus every morning, collecting the trash
at the base of the walk/don’t walk sign
and depositing it in the garbage can.

Even when surfaces change, when the Mom & Pop
store becomes a coffee bar, when the park
benches are replaced with dainty chairs and a pebble
border, they stay, noticing what will never change:
the heartprick of longitude and latitude
to home in on, the conviction that life
depends, every day, on what outlasts you.


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