J. MICHAEL MARTINEZ
J. Michael Martínez nació y creció en Greeley, Colorado, EE.UU. Graduado de la Universidad de Northern Colorado, y George Mason University, con un MFA en escritura creativa. Actualmente está cursando un Ph.D. en literatura en la universidad de Colorado en Boulder, y enseña literatura y estudios culturales allí. Premio Walt Whitman 2009.
Su trabajo ha aparecido en New American Writing, Five Fingers Review, The Colorado Review y Crab Orchard Review.
Premios
2006 Five Fingers Review Poetry Prize
2009 Walt Whitman Award from the Academy of American Poets.
Poesía
Heredities , LSU Press
Antología
Junta: Avant-Garde Latino/a Writing.
J. Michael Martinez. De un verso que crea una tensión poderosa entre el silencio y el habla en clave negativa, Martinez juega con un discurso que a momentos parece místico, yendo sin miedo al dominio de la teología lírica. Su poemario Heredities recibió el premio Walt Whitman, un libro que el juez Juan Felipe Herrera describió como un “exhilarante descenso a lo no enunciado”. Martinez actualmente trabaja en su doctorado en la Universidad de Colorado en Boulder.
Las traducciones corren a cargo por Esteban López Arciga.
http://circulodepoesia.com/2017/06/american-poetry-j-michael-martinez/
Rosary (Prayer One)
Wherein she martyrs the mirror:
this carnival of stone,
her lips dilate
the negation—space into starpoint
Wherein she, to be both sacrum & wrist—
neither the fugitive epidermis,
nor the unlocked ashblack—
sovereigns the shadow swell as love
Wherein she ardors the emptiness open,
proof the unanchored
Spirit of my silence,
her revisions clothing my brightest orgasm—
Wherein she says, I can hear you,
the seed under the belly’s flesh—love the far shore,
she says, For She withdraws the Spring wild
Thrust in her mother’s surrender,
iron ocean blackened to aurora.
Rosario (Primer oración)
Donde ella hace mártir de espejo:
este carnaval de piedra,
sus labios dilatan
la negación—espacio vuelto estrella
Donde ella, siendo sacra y muñeca—
ni la epidermis fugitiva
ni el oscuro abierto y cenizo—
hinchada gobierna sombra como amor
Donde ella vehementa el vacío abierto,
prueba el espíritu
a deriva de mi silencio,
el manto, sus revisiones, de mi orgasmo fulgor—
Donde ella dice, te escucho,
la semilla bajo la carne de panza—ama la costa lejana,
dice, Pues ella retrae al empuje salvaje
De primavera en caída de madre,
mar de hierro negro hasta la aurora.
White
as the meat
within the shell
as the shell before the caw
a bleached weed
a fig
dusted to sweet the skin
egg albumen of peacock
butterfly
held to the ivory of oxen hoof
pulling
the space
between sins I am
as I am so
the host on the tongue
God of Bread
complexion of conquest
the salt of Lot
as God is
a crown of thorn
diadem of wheat
so am I the echo
calling fossil back to name
amaranth ash spread across the light
Blanco
como la carne
de cascarón
como el cascarón antes de graznar
la hierba blanca
el higo
empolvado hasta dulce
clara de huevo pavorreal
mariposa
con la mano en el marfil del casco de res
jalando
espacio
entre pecados soy
como soy por
el huésped de lengua
Dios de pan
complexión de conquista
la sal de lot
como Dios es
corona de espinas
diadema de trigo
yo también soy eco
llamando al fósil al nombre
ceniza amaranta dispersa entre luz
J. Michael Martinez
J. Michael Martinez was born 1978 in Greeley, Colorado. He earned his BA from the University of Northern Colorado and his MFA from George Mason University. His first collection of poetry, Heredities (2010), received a Walt Whitman Award from the Academy of American Poets. Judge Juan Felipe Herrera chose the book for its “exhilarating descent into the unspoken” and noted, “[Martinez] gives voice to a dismembered continental body buried long ago.” Martinez is also the author of the chapbooks Pinned to a Quail’s Wings (2006), The Care With Which There Is (2007), and And also a Fountain (2008), with James Belflower and Anne Heide. The Autumn Orchard, an opera for which he wrote the libretto, was performed by Colorado University’s New Opera Workshop.
Cofounder and coeditor of Breach Press, Martinez is currently pursuing a PhD in literature at the University of Colorado-Boulder.
In April 2014, J. Michael Martinez was a featured writer for Harriet.
The Gospel of Ometéotl, the Brown Adam
People walk through you, the wind steals your voice,
you’re a burra, buey, scapegoat,
forerunner of a new race,
half and half — both woman and man, neither —
a new gender.
—Gloria Anzaldúa
Jasmine garlands thin
for the rib’s cartilage ring.
The heart shudders with pure mission.
She spreads
& knows herself as Adam,
Ometéotl,
but through himself,
Omecíhuatl,
he is Eve.
He knows but what the garden gives:
the garden’s soot
awakened tongueless in root.
Cerise chrysantha
coils around his leg.
Gathering the tides
of the seas to his side,
she conceives
where impossibilities seed.
Clarity burning coal, he takes two knots
of grass
& strings
four birds-of-paradise
through the ceiba’s rotted leaves:
she fashions the sorrows
from winter’s purse,
sea
& sun
sifted for sum.
Entrammeled, Ometéotl rises
one among one
body stitched in strange altar.
Water Poppies Open as the Mouth
The Body as Nature, History
All motivations intermingle as the core of history, the internal becomes external... all as parts of the body.
—maurice merleau-ponty
i. the positing of space, corporeal history
medium of my body
bent to narrow rivers,
touching of the touch
commits
totem to shape:
jasmine buds,
water poppies open as the mouth.
Propolis and juniper oil
resinous viscera
embowered in trees,
life wholly aware of itself
unbound and unsealed.
ii. into the language of seeing
eyes gather seed—
perception as hive
a bud of gold, a gold of blood
apportioned in time
four wings fastened by a row of resolutions
reeved through revelation,
place-world awoken,
obscurity bonded to light.
Heredities (1) Etymology
When she was seven, my grandmother suffered from fever and swollen glands. The doctors believed her tonsils were inflamed, that she needed surgery. Instead, she went to a curandera. The curandera divined that a jealous relative had cast a curse on her and, now, her language of kindness was bound to her throat, the unspoken swelling her glands.
As a child my grandmother spoke to santitos with a voice like a chestnut: ruddy and warm, seeds dropping from her mouth. The santitos would take her words into themselves, her voice growing within them like grapevines.
During the tonsillitis, when the words no longer fell like seeds from her lips, the santito's vineyards of accent and voice grew vapid, dry as a parched mouth. They went to her tongue and asked why silence imprisoned the words of the child, why lumps were present under her chin, why tears drew channels down her cheeks.
I asked my grandmother how her tongue replied. After touching my cheek, she told me she had a dream that night: She was within her lungs and she rose like breath through the moist of her throat. She remembered her tonsils swinging before her like fleshy apples, then a hand taking them into a fist, harvesting their sound. She told me her throat opened in two spots like insect eyes and the names of her children came flying through her wounds like peacocks.
Patting my thigh, she said, "That is why the name of your mother is Maria, because she is a prayer, a song of praise to the Holy Mother." She told me this, then showed me two scars on her throat—tiny scars, like two eyelids stitched closed.
-
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario