miércoles, 7 de junio de 2017


Photo: Star Black


Sally Van Doren (nació y creció en St. Louis, Missouri, EE.UU.). Estudió en la Academia Phillips y en la Universidad de Princeton, además de recibir el MFA de la Universidad de St. Louis Missouri. Van Doren mereció en 2007 el Premio Walt Whitman por su primer libro titulado Sex at Noon Taxes. Su tercer libro de poemas, Promise, será lanzado en agosto de 2017. Sally enseña en la calle 92 en Nueva York.


Van Doren recibió el Premio Walt Whitman 2007 de la Academia de Poetas Americanos por su primera colección de poemas, "Sex at Noon Taxes", que fue publicado en la primavera de 2008 por LSU Press.

Fue semifinalista en el 2006 "Discovery" / The Nation Poetry Contest.

Van Doren recibió el Premio Kenneth O. Hanson en 2013 de la revista Hubbub por su poema, “Color Theory.”.  Es ganadora del Premio Loy Ledbetter del Centro de Poesía de San Luis. También fue finalista en el Premio Poets Out Loud en 2012-2013. 


"Roadside Condo Unit # 4; On Belay" . Homestead Review . Hartnell College. 18 (1). Fall–Winter 2001.
"Bagged; Girlhood" . 2river review . 11.2 . Winter 2007.
"All, Free, Clear; Fight" . 2river review . 11.4 . Summer 2007.
"Metronome", Verse Daily
Van Doren's poetry has also been published in several magazines and journals, including American Letters and Commentary, Cimarron Review, 5AM, Hubbub, Lumina, Mudlark, The New Republic, The Normal School, poets.org, Rhino, South Carolina Review, Tinge, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and Western Humanities Review. 

Libros de poesía 

Sex at Noon Taxes . Louisiana State University Press. March 2008. ISBN 978-0-8071-3311-8 .
Possessive . Louisiana State University Press. December 2012. ISBN 978-0-8071-4488-6 .

La traducción de los poemas es de Adalberto García López.


I remember the hour
you stole time from me

and here in these late pages
I try to collect back

the kisses in the parking lot
that erased my history

next to that green F-150
when you became my future.


Me acuerdo del momento
en que robaste mi tiempo

y en estas páginas ulteriores
trato de recuperar

los besos del estacionamiento
que borraron mi historia,

al lado de aquel F-50 verde,
cuando te convertiste en mi futuro.

Anxiety of Influence

My friend, Wendy, no,
she’s not anyone you might
have heard of, at least not
a famous poet whose name
I drop all the time (I would
never stoop to such a blatant
expression of insecurity, constantly
projecting through my writing
and art that I run with the right crowd,
all of us desperate for attention,
all of us trying to close off access
to our inner circle)…Wendy says
the trick to moving forward is not
to look back.

Ansiedad de la influencia

Mi amiga, Wendy, no,
ella no es nadie que podrías
haber escuchado, al menos no es
una famosa poeta cuyo nombre
menciono todo el tiempo (nunca
me inclinaría a tan descarada
expresión de inseguridad, constantemente
la proyecto a través de mi escritura
y de mi arte que corro con el público correcto,
todos nosotros desesperados por atención,
todos nosotros tratando de cerrar el acceso
a nuestro círculo cercano)… Wendy dice
que el truco para salir adelante es
no voltear atrás.

Sally Van Doren

Sally Van Doren was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri. Her most recent book is Possessive (LSU Press, 2012). Her first poetry collection, Sex at Noon Taxes, won the 2007 Walt Whitman Award, and the title’s palindrome hints at the generous and witty wordplay the volume contains. About her work, August Kleinzahler has said, “There are no dead moments, no fill: even the conjunctions, prepositions and assorted connectives carry a charge. The language is alive. The movement of language is alive.” Van Doren’s poem “Preposition” twists and revises grammatical roles as it earnestly addresses a relationship, demonstrating that, as Sabne Raznik wrote in a review, “This is a poetry of deep emotional substance even in the midst of play.” 

Van Doren teaches at the 92nd St Y in New York City and has taught in the past at Washington University in St. Louis, the St. Louis Poetry Center, and in the St. Louis Public Schools. She divides her time between Connecticut and New York.

“Sally Van Doren’s poetry is everywhere alive. There are no dead moments, no fill: Even the conjunctions, prepositions, and assorted connectives carry a charge. The language is alive. The movement of language is alive. The mind at work here is all points quick, full of play and bite.”   - August Kleinzahler

Call Us

Let’s use our nicknames
When we apply for this next job
Even though it’s past our bedtime
And our current paycheck

Can’t shut up the muse
Who mewls at the dinner table
Begging for a crust of bread
To sate the nightly terrors.

For they come, don’t they,
Leaving empty spaces numbers
Are supposed to fill. Buddy
And Chip loaded their coffers

Before the hard freeze.
The ice burns our tongues
As we swallow prosperity
One parched drop at a time.


I chart the psyche,
observing how I 
force myself to speak
to you, imagining that
together we might
transform a life.  

Why this need
to document change,
to reverse a mood, 
to carry forward the time
when magnolias bloom?

Let’s follow the itinerant we
up and over the jonquil’s back,
treading on its spilled bullion.


For Phyllis Diebenkorn

When you pasted paper on paper
did your blue tattoo conclude
the hunt for melody?  I was
engendered by your dominant
crayon.   Rusty themes in
diagonals cut through all my
misnomers for composition.
I cried and cried with the bassoons.
Yellow greens on linen pulled
my ears from piccolo to constellation.
In the acrylic encore, I pushed
colleagues off the stage to condemn
the single chime.  But the percussion’s
flesh tones revived me after each one
of your solos.  The arrow pinned
my gauze to your gouache.  
Why are we prey to ether’s whims?
Draw me a triangle from your 
blurred crescendo to my cobalt spill.
My accidental diva, my acoustic
untitled hypnotic premier.



From the ghost town’s
fencepost, my lariat ropes
your palindromic peak
and hauls it to our bedroom,
where the timbers arch to hold off
the mountain’s hooves --- no 
avalanche turns snowfall into
uncorraled horseshoes.
The steeds bear us upslope.
We reach the muddy cleft
between Maroon Bells
and Crested Butte, gnawing 
on caribou and warmed
liver of once noble elk.

Sex At Noon Taxes


We have been there before,
but one orange line can’t 
keep us from breaking through
the silver popple hovering

over some kind of hour
we tell to stay put,
to glimmer only when we
wait for it, there, where

blue rests on the bottom 
of the page, where
discoveries choose to find us.
Then and there we skim

through every inch.
Is it stillness? The yellow mt.
leaks through grey sky.
The monster leads us.


Now that we have established
who she’s not, what I really 
meant to paraphrase was
her assertion that you, we, one
must not expect to reclaim
a happy past that sits beyond
redemption there over my right
shoulder.  Wendy’s not
an apologist either.  Charge
ahead, she says, with back numbing
syringes that ease the pain
toward an improved
prognosis.  We can’t say we
know for sure what we will
reproduce.  Our systems
falter, our peccadilloes loom
large, our enemies flout
their phonic dominance from
the tops of this megalopolis
built on macadam and market
appeal.  Can you recognize
my wrinkled face peering down
at you from the parapet?
I hope so.  I’ve just been
crowned the crone queen.

When Wendy and I find ten minutes
to write a poem, we do, because we
both know all too well that life
is short when it comes to responding
to cues from the universe.  We felt
a rhythm under the pads of our
fingertips on top of the page.
We could have checked on the laundry 
or called our accountant, but instead
we bit off more than we can chew,
graphite, ink, erasers, not to mention
lactating and perimenopause and
everything in between.  How do 
we account for all of this?  We can
pause and look back but we can’t
really remember what it was like and
tomorrow’s demanding in its own way,
even to someone in their fifties, a woman
no less, who has raised a few children. 
(When will we be done with that?) Not
yet, we surmise, our own mothers
in their 80s, asking us to get their wool
sweaters from the plastic box under the bed
because they can’t get down there themselves. 
We bend over. We straighten up. We howl.


Wendy is not the person to call
when you are considering 
whether or not to put your dog
down.  She adores her Havanese
Belle and thinks dogs are a central
component to any effort to achieve
domestic bliss.  But our twelve-year-old
Labradoodle Bert has two incurable tumors
and a urinary tract infection. God, he’s
a handsome dog, and fit for his years.
But he strains and strains every time
he goes number two which he’s
trying to do with increasing frequency.
He’s lying on the floor next to me in the sun
quite contentedly now, but we wonder
every morning when we wake up if he
will wake up. Our son lies down on the floor
next to his best friend and I take a picture
of this time of our lives coming to an end.


If you don’t mind, I would
like to invite Wendy into the
conversation one more time
mostly since we appear to be
sitting on a fulcrum between
the before and the after and I
don’t want to be accused of
kvetching all by my lonesome.
Wendy’s moniker is a mono-
chromatic needlepoint crest
symptomatic of an only
child who is unknowingly linked
genetically to my anthems.
She takes one stitch at a time
and calibrates the threat of
tomorrow next to today’s
disappointment.  You’ll find
the difference incremental, 
but the pigments she chooses
to depict the morning light
in late May…these are unsurpassed.
So we sit in our comfy chair
and ransom ourselves to the future.


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