JONATHAN THIRKIELD
Thirkield nació y se crió en la ciudad de Nueva York. Se graduó de la Universidad de Wesleyan, y fue compañero de Truman Capote en el taller de los escritores de la Universidad de Iowa.
Su colección The Waker’s Corridor ganó el premio Walt Whitman en 2008, año de su publicación. Su trabajo se caracteriza por explorar la voz confesional y el monólogo dramático, sosteniendo un lenguaje lírico complejo que hace uso de las tradiciones formalistas, seleccionado por Linda Bierds y presentado por la academia de poetas americanos.
Sus poemas han sido presentados en varias revistas, incluyendo WebConjunctions, The Colorado Review, y American Letters & Commentary, entre otros.
Obras
The Waker's Corridor , LSU Press
La traducción es de Sergio Eduardo Cruz.
http://circulodepoesia.com/2017/06/american-poetry-jonathan-thirkield/
Design for a Silver Box in the Shape of a Melon, 1918
after Peche
In sheet metal or silver shallows
filled with these:
hollow, floating
where some assumed votives
would be lit. Or
lanterns.
Do you see the time of day? With still
some red to
flush the waders,
scatter against a few
boats, and fire
cannons
Distantly, first. When we see the flare,
we listen.
Sand buries at
our ankles. They appear,
the apples or
melons
Printed along the wallpaper, half
submerged in
their setting, brushed
dark with stems, the silver
flats folded in
fans. Too
Many of the waders grasp the stem
and pull off
the top of an
apple or melon, so
the base fills with
water
And sinks. Silver leaves from the stem. One
small woman’s
pearl earring drops
like so many others
in the shallows.
Eardrops.
I met a woman in Viennese
glass. What was
in her jewel case?
A shade that turns over
a blue trellis.
Flower
Theater (or garden) on the flattened
silver wall,
a gray screen where
boats fire, the blush falls
and dyes a cherry
chime.
Diseño para una caja plateada con forma de melón, 1918
en referencia a Peche
Cuencos de hojalata, o plata
llenos de esto:
hueco, flotando
donde algunos votivos posibles
deberían encenderse. O, acaso,
linternas.
¿Puedes ver la hora? Aún
algo de enrojecimiento
puede correr por las botas,
dispersarse contra
algunos botes, o disparar
cañones
distantes, al inicio. Donde vemos
la mecha, escuchamos.
Nuestras piernas se entierran
en la arena. Aparecen
manzanas, o
melones
impresos en el tapiz, medio
sumergidos en su
contorno, llenos
de raíces hasta oscurecer, pantanos
plateados doblados entre
ventiladores. Muchos
nadadores se aferran a las ramas
y arrancan
la cabeza de una manzana
o un melón, para
que la base se llene de
agua
y se hunda. Hojas de plata desde la rama. El arete
de perla de una mujer
pequeña se cae
como tantos otros
en la laguna.
Se oyen lágrimas.
Conocí a una mujer de cristal
vienés. ¿Qué había
en su joyero?
Una sombra que se cierne
sobre el enrejado azul.
Un teatro
de flores (o un jardín) en el muro
plano
de plata, una pantalla gris donde
arden los botes, el sonrojo cae
y pinta
campanillas.
Jonathan Thirkield
Born and raised in New York City, Jonathan Thirkield graduated from Wesleyan University and the University of Iowa’s Writers’ Workshop where he was a Truman Capote Fellow.
In 2008, his collection The Waker’s Corridor was selected by Linda Bierds for the Walt Whitman Award, presented by the Academy of American Poets.
He lives in New York.
Your Journey (4:111)
Boat toy boat law boat low in Melodie’s arms. She blows green water ripples, she squeezes humming blots from bows, her lungs. She goes
No. No honey. She bolts high birds filled with fancy over her pale Melodie. Now darling leave, let it set. Let it boat now. Mother links
Me, Melodie lapsed on a string. The watches are stirring with scissors. Low boats in the sing. She bleats and she pushes the paper pink
Boat, sail first, into green. It swallows her fists. The water is thick. With boats seasick with boats. Where lime dyes eddy she rows.
Abend (10:101)
In Köln, each triangle picks at the dome; spines work their way, out of the scaffolds and stainless girders, into spires.
A brown even sky with light fixtures in the dents; her mouth overlaid by a few beads of frost on the train window in transit.
The station’s metal wrists. Traced white with snow. A ministry of interstice. Of atoms tensed inside a crystal lattice.
The fiberglass shudders. She holds down his knee to steady them. Pins the other against the side rail. You were sleeping.
Are we there?
We pass as two shapes may assume a form of love. If just in passing. In the seats across a slender man bends over a book placed
At his knees. His daughter rests a flashlight on his shoulder, her ear pressed firmly to his jaw. Should he be whispering?
A tree. Lit momentarily in the passing. Train lights. Quickly it grows. Ductile. And cannot hold to its shape. What sound
Now grows with you? I am not standing. In a steel extension of when snow. Was not heavy before metal. But light on one spoon.
The overlook passes. The cathedral arrows. From the small lungs inside her. A coughing; it crowns. To the rounded south.
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