Tony Tost
Tony Tost (nacido en 1975 ) es un poeta, crítico y guionista estadounidense. Su primer libro de poesía Invisible Bride ganó el premio Walt Whitman de 2003.
Tost nació en Springfield, Missouri, y se crió en Enumclaw, Washington. Graduado de Green River Community College en Auburn, Washington y el Colegio de los Ozarks en Point Lookout, Missouri. Tost se graduó con un Master of Fine Arts de la Universidad de Arkansas. Él también tiene un Ph.D. en inglés de la Universidad de Duke.
Es el editor fundador de la revista de poesía en línea Fascicle y anteriormente co-editor y co-fundador, con Zachary Schomburg, de Octopus Magazine. Sus poemas y ensayos han aparecido en las revistas literarias Fence, Hambone, Talisman, Mandorla, No: una revista de las artes, Denver Quarterly, Typo, Literatura Americana, Jacket, Verse, Open Letter y otros lugares.
En 2011, el libro de Tost sobre American Recordings de Johnny Cash fue publicado por Continuum Books en su serie de 33 1/3 en álbumes clásicos. El crítico Joshua Scheiderman escribió que el libro de Tost "pertenece en última instancia a la tradición larga y rica de textos como el humor americano de Constance Rourke.
Tost escribe para la serie de televisión A & E Longmire. Actualmente vive en Los Angeles, California.
Bibliografía
Invisible Bride (2004)
World Jelly (2005)
Complex Sleep (2007)
Johnny Cash's American Recordings (criticism, 2011)
En Círculo de Poesía presentamos un poema de Tony Tost (1975), poeta, crítico y guionista. Es editor fundador de la revista electrónica de poesía Fascicle. Tost escribe para la serie de A&E Longmire. En 2003, ganó el premio Walt Whitman por su libro The Invisible Bride. Las traducciones corren a cargo de Adalberto García López.
http://circulodepoesia.com/2017/05/american-poetry-tony-tost/
Doce autorretratos
1
La nieve es oscura y nada es triste y yo era, hace tiempo, un niño. Sabía lo que significaba el clima, se complejizó la forma en la que un niño, después de todo, es.
Los primeros diez años estuvieron llenos de lluvia. Vi a las sombras huir.
La nieve es algo más, esta noche, donde yo, crecido, desnudo (estoy en la sala, las luces están apagadas): invisible y llenándose.
2
Este soy yo, la lengua puesta firmemente en el subconsciente. Una lenta corriente subterránea, un respiro (torciéndose). Callado supongo, y triste.
Es mi momento (aquí, mi segundo autorretrato, estoy enfermo sin perdón y en mis primeros ochenta) y llamo a mi lado a mi gran círculo de paisajes e íntimos retratos y de buena gana me despido de ellos. También los marginales elementos míos: el artista callejero y el recluso, la cadera terminal y el niño perdido (sí, aún lo busco en los sueños de ese niño, manipulándolos, tratando de recuperar algo de la humanidad perdida en el proceso).
3
Igual que la de un nadador a punto de ahogarse, este rostro expresa anhelo y travesura. Estoy tratando de aludir a la soledad. Nosotros juntos podríamos, ella y yo, tomar un pedazo de su indumentaria para meditar cada cambio en su gesto mientras se iba ahogando. Alabaríamos su acto. En su rostro estaban ferrocarriles y bancos, molinos y piedad por las riquezas que ahí se encuentran. ¿Qué es lo que este rostro dice ahora? ¿Que todos somos flama azul y escarcha, todos leche y misterios? ¿Que cada uno de nosotros deberíamos respirar el aire superior? (Contemplo rostros actuales en horas de meditación y recuerdo que no somos transparentes a pesar de la tosca luz que brilla a través.)
4.
El dolor es la mayor conciencia del ser.
He aquí mi cuarto retrato, tocado por la mano del caos.
Ella está en él. Ella se encuentra frente a mí y desnuda tiempo y lamentación. Su mano derecha apunta al trayecto de las estrellas, a cada caballo indispuesto.
5.
En éste bosquejo para ella mi corazón herido. Exhaustos y mareados, somos elevados hasta que nuestras voces no están al nivel de lo que muerte está.
Mantenerse despierto es un castigo (todos los días estaba despierto este año). Antaño, ella me contó un historia fantasma: cómo ella golpeó a la oscuridad en la carretera una noche, cómo yo era la huella digital de aquel pequeño accidente.
6.
Este es mi retrato y yo soy uno de sus ciudadanos. Me despierto, tomo un ligero reposo, confieso un poco de dientes y garras, compongo e intrepreto una chiflido sacerdotal. Y ella me cree. Mis noticias son tolerables.
Todo lo que trago se vuelve mío, se vuelve bueno. Cualquier cosa que interese a mi voz, me interesa a mí: un vientre, un cuarto con extraños, una nube de humo. Ellos me están interrogando. Los escucho.
Estoy volviendo a esta habitación (para aclarar las cosas). Un cuarto es comandado por sus reyes así que he comenzado a dibujar coronas y enojarme fácilmente, lo que viene por preocuparse demasiado. A menudo el tamaño del corazón determina el tamaño de la emoción. Los pequeños placeres de las aves, por ejemplo.
7.
Hay una oración doblada en mi boca; como la noche, vagabundea en búsqueda de su novia. No hay atajos alrededor de esta montaña (una oración es una montaña, en busca de su novia). Pero ahí hay una montaña.
8.
Un puente será escrito- Hart Crane
Un rostro será escrito. Otro año será escrito, con cada uno de sus demonios hostiles. Una redención será representada como fue compuesta. Las alturas serán escritas aunque sólo sea por el esclavo de las lágrimas para mirarlas en la insatisfacción.
El esclavo de las lágrimas ya ha sido escrito.
Él habla por la habitación, el río, el aire. Él habla con las alturas porque él quiere. Un pequeño temblor será escrito. Las alturas serán escritas. Una respuesta será escrita, y un abrazo.
9.
Tal vez cada pequeña cosa debe ser recuperada si todo va a ser guardado. Aquí están mis ojos. Ellos no desean ser congelados por la luz invernal de la comprensión. Felizmente, yo (como una flama) no entiendo nada. A una hora de la conspiración, estoy parado debajo de loas abedules, en invierno, aprendido a cazar.
10.
Un retrato es también un camino hecho visible. El mundo es un aliado de lo visible.
Estoy sentado en la hierba del prado rascando duda y creencia. Pienso que muchas personas han crecido con un vistazo al futuro, con canciones jamás grabadas. Mi objetivo es sencillo: jugar matatena frente al dique. (Deseo ser no sólo elegante, sino visible. Útil. No deseo la sabiduría del gusano ni del anzuelo.) Para llegar a ser eterno.
¿Así que, en realidad, cómo morimos? ¿Y cuál es la exacta localización de la encrucijada? No estoy predispuesto hacia la elevación de las cosas más allá de lo que vemos y tocamos, pero por el momento me di cuenta que estaba cruzando este campo, sabía que el vivir debía comunicarse con la vida.
11.
El viaje en nuestros cuerpo es otro viaje, como la noche: largo como un acertijo. Cartílago y gracia. Cuando ella era una niña nadie le hubiera cortado su cabello. Le llegó hasta la cintura.
Mi infancia también fue un río, uno que arrastraba mi esperanza por su corriente; mi cabello flotaba en el agua, atrás de mí. Mis ojos estaban cerrados con pintura y las nubes eran botes.
¿Y ella permanece descalza aún, sin nada en sus manos? ¿Está vadeando por las nubes? (“Como Dios, sólo soñamos ríos.”)
Estoy tratando de dibujar bultos en nuestras gargantas. Aquellas que teníamos cuando nacimos, cuando morimos finalmente. Aquellas que dicen: No recordaré esto.
12
La nieve está dura y recién acabo de encontrar un lobo; un lobo de verdad. Lo llamé Espejo Roto. Puedo ver sus costillas. Lo llevo adentro y le enseño a contar. EL corazón del lobo es una cosa de ritmos, una cosa de arena. Lo llevo de habitación en habitación; el lobo parece que se está tragando su lengua. “Mi voz carga” –digo. “Cargará contigo.”
Twelve Self Portaits
1.
The snow is dark and nothing is sad and I was, once upon a time, a child. I knew what the weather meant, was hardened the way only a child, after all, is.
The first ten years are full of rain. I watched the shadows flee away.
The snow is something else, tonight, as I stand, grown, naked (I’m in the living room, the lights are off): invisible and filling up.
2.
That’s me, tongue placed firmly in the subconscious. A slow undercurrent, a breath (twisting). Silent I suppose, and sad.
It is my time (in this, my second self portrait, I am unapologetically ill and in my early eighties) and I call to my side my large circle of friendly landscapes and intimate portraits and willingly take my leave of them. Also, the fringe elements of me: the street performer and the recluse, the terminally hip and the lost child (yes I am still looking into the dreams of that child, manipulating them, trying to recover some lost humanity in the process).
3.
Like that of a swimmer amongst the drowning, this face expresses longing and mischief. I am trying to hint at solitude. We would together, her and I, grab hold a piece of his garment, if only to meditate upon each change of expression as he began to drown. We would praise his performance. In his face were railroads and banks, mills and pity for the riches found there. What is it this face says now? That we are all blue flame and frost, all milk and mystery? That we each should breathe also the upper air? (I gaze upon actual faces in meditative hours and am reminded that we are not transparent despite the brute light that shines through.)
4.
Pain is a higher awareness of self.
Here is my fourth portrait, touched by the hand of mayhem.
She’s in it. She stands before me and strips away time and lamentation. Her right hand points at the journey of the stars, at each unwilling horse.
5.
In this one I sketch for her my hounded heart. Exhausted and dizzy, we are lifted until our voices are no more rank to us than death is.
Staying awake is a punishment (every day I was awake this year). Once upon a time, she told me a ghost story: how she hit darkness on the highway one night, how I was the thumbprint of that tiny crash.
6.
This is my portrait and I am one of its citizens. I wake, take brief repose, confess a little tooth and claw, compose and perform a priestly shriek. And she trusts me. My news is tolerable.
All I swallow becomes mine, becomes good. Whatever interests my voice interests me: a belly, a room of strangers, a puff of smoke. They are asking me questions.
I hear them.
I’m coming back to this room (to get things straight). A room is instructed by its kings so I’ve begun drawing crowns and getting angry easily, which comes from caring too much. Often, the size of the heart determines the size of the emotion. The small pleasures of birds, for instance.
7.
There is a prayer folded in my mouth; like the night, it wanders as it searches for its bride. There are no shortcuts around this mountain (a prayer is a mountain, looking for its bride). But there is a mountain.
8.
A bridge will be written —Hart Crane
A face will be written. Another year will be written, with each of its hostile devils. A redemption will be performed as it is composed. The heights will be written, if only for the slave of tears to gaze at them in dissatisfaction.
The slave of tears has already been written.
He speaks for the room, the river, the air. He speaks to the heights because he wants to. A fine trembling will be written. The heights will be written. An answer will be written, and an embrace.
9.
Perhaps every little thing must be recovered if anything is to be saved. Here are my eyes. They do not wish to be frozen by the wintry light of understanding. Happily, I (like a flame) understand nothing. At a conspiring hour, I am standing under the birches, in winter, learning to hunt.
10.
A portrait is also a path made visible. The world is an ally of the visible.
I am sitting in the meadow grass scratching doubt and belief. I think a lot of people have grown up with a peek at the future, with songs never recorded. My goal is simple: to play jacks in front of the levee. (I desire to be not only graceful, but visible. Useful. I do not desire the wisdom of the worm, nor of the hook.) To become timeless.
So how do we die, really? And what is the exact location of the crossroads? I’m not predisposed towards elevating things beyond what we see and touch, but by the time I noticed I was crossing this field, I knew the living must communicate with life.
11.
The journey into our bodies is another journey, like the night: as long as a riddle. Gristle, and grace. When she was a child, no one would cut her hair for her. It went down to the waist.
My childhood was a river as well, one to drag my faith across; my hair floated in the water behind me. My eyes were painted shut and the clouds were boats.
And is she still barefoot, without a thing in her hands? Is she wading in clouds? (“Like God, we dream only of rivers.”)
I am trying to draw the lumps in our throats. The ones we had when we were born, when we finally die. The ones that mean: I will not remember this.
12.
The snow is thick and I have just found a wolf; it’s an actual wolf. I name it Broken Mirror. I can see its ribs. I take it inside and teach it how to count. The wolf’s heart is a thing of rhythms, a thing of sand. I carry it from room to room; the wolf seems to be swallowing its tongue. “My voice carries,” I say. “It will carry you.”
Tony Tost (1975), poet, critic and screenwriter. He is the founding editor of the online poetry magazine Fascicle. Tost writes for the A&E television series Longmire. In 2003 he deserved the Walt Whitman Prize for his book The Invisible Bride.
I Am Not the Pilot
I am not a pilot and do not have
the technical knowledge or training
to analyze complicated data.
I am not a pilot but I did spend
22 years keeping those AF jets
repaired and ready for flight.
I love to talk about aircraft
and about our Lord.
Since I am not a pilot
(I only drive my Mustangs)
I am wondering if this data is correct.
I have always been fascinated by aircrafts
(and cars...) but I am not a pilot myself.
I am not the pilot.
Please do not ask me those questions
as I am not part of their operation.
Although I am not a pilot
I've talked to a few seasoned professionals.
I am not a model nor an actor.
I am not a pilot nor a teacher.
I am not an athlete.
I, Nicholas Gurley, am not a pilot.
I've studied all of the books,
so I know the basics of hurling
large metal cocoons filled with people into the sky,
but I have not taken the test
that allows me to take over the controls as of yet.
I do, however, know about pilots.
I am not a pilot and I never asked for your message.
I think what pilots do is wonderful.
I am not a pilot, but would be interested
in helping out in other ways.
I would have a hard life as a pilot.
I could only kill in self defense.
I am not a pilot, so I guess I don't understand
that whole "brotherhood".
Q: You are a pilot? That is SO cool!
A: I am NOT a pilot.
Since I am not a pilot, I really cannot comment.
Mr. XXL does not know me; else,
he would have known that I am not a pilot.
I do not play Russian Roulette with airplanes,
or otherwise; I value my life.
No, I am not a pilot.
When I take off within the airplane
and feel beneath my feet
that lonely piece of the ground
mysteriously flying in the sky,
my only desire is to leave it ASAP
and fly "on my own".
I know how my parachute works
but know nothing about the strange sounds the airplane makes
sometimes,
what those dozens of airplane indicators mean,
what the pilot is thinking.
I am not a pilot but I am: [Select an option]
How realistic the sky is,
I just can't say, since I am not a pilot.
I am not a pilot, and I cannot assert anything with 100 percent
certainty.
Who's in charge then?
I am not a pilot.
I am not the pilot and I do not own the plane.
I am fairly proficient in martial arts, but I am not a pilot.
Repeat after me, 'I am not the pilot,
I will not attempt to fly the ship.'
Folks I am not a pilot and therefore
I am not at the glamorous end of the sword.
I have no feelings for the machine.
I know what pilots look like.
I am not a pilot but I am beginning to understand the pilot's cause:
it's the same one we all have.
Tony Tost
from 1001 Sentences
201-210
Every successful sentence lessens one’s reliance on memory.
What we do we do because of what we didn’t.
Erotic silence.
Unimportant themes are thrust forward to protect the more important ones.
The sun is also in the wrong.
I am assured that this poem is actually myself or at least that part of me which demands always to be before the camera.
Sometimes freedom is found in the teeth of the ladder.
My career is distinguished by how shamelessly I judge my enemy (the reader).
I see everything in you.
The center of all ignorance is found to pulsate a few miles behind your eyes.
211-220
A sentence is a theater in which the speaker is the actor, the critic, the stage, and the scene.
One would have to read this poem very quickly for it to appear to be a single whole.
There is no single essential poetic problem.
A sentence I needed to write less than I needed to read.
Armchair poet.
The poem does not create emotion so much as describe it.
One need not be a child to respond emotionally to a description.
An attempt at humor (chalk line around the dead dog).
Helplessly sleeping.
A poem is one means of scratching an itch.
221-230
None of us were astonished by the palace.
The poem I am offering you is complete.
Counting the number of movements necessary to tie, and then untie, a knot.
I have made myself small like the spider.
One must dig for symmetry.
The sentence is the web and the fly I have caught with it.
Children are often stupid.
“Speech with and without thought is to be compared with the playing of a piece of music with and without thought.”
I took the jet ski less damaged.
Complexity awakes to be cured again.
231-240
I believe that the person before me is incapable of processing emotions silently.
In life it is rarely poems that are needed.
One cannot travel by faith.
Mood surrender.
He was so proud of the heights he attained that he carried his ladder around with him.
I was expecting this poem.
The opportunity of a poem is an opportunity for breathing.
The quiet lifting of emotional weights.
My interest in how this poem may be read in memory is similar to a painter’s interest in how physical distance affects the eye’s processing of color and shape.
The shaking of this paper is one accompaniment to understanding.
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