Chelsey Minnis ( Nacida en Dallas, Texas 1970). Poeta norteamericana
Premio de Poesía Alberta.
Bibliografía:
Zirconia. New York, NY: Fence Books, 2001.
Foxina. Los Angeles: Seeing Eye Books, 2002.
Bad Bad. New York: Fence Books, 2007.
Poemland. Seattle: Wave Books, 2009.
Prefacio #4
Sólo puedo escribir poesía que sea como una tuba cubierta de sangre....
Ni asilos, picaderos, cárceles, coches de autostop, zanjas o vertederos
de cuerpos son para mí!
Si hallo un pedazo de cuerda... debo usarlo para atarme a los postes de la cama...
Si encuentro las rosadas píldoras de caballo, etc.
Esto no es una miniarma para darme un tiro.
Si quieres puedes decir muchas cosas sucias sobre la poesía...
Pero Chelsey entiende lo que se espera de ella!
Versión de Santiago Matías
Preface #4
I can only write poetry that is like a tuba covered with blood...
No asylums, crack-houses, jails, hitchiker’s cars, ditches or body dumps for me!
If I find a piece of rope...I must use it to tie myself to the bedposts...
If I find the pretty pink horse pills etc.
This is not a mini-gun with which to shoot myself.
You can say many nasty things about poetry if you like...
But Chelsey understands what is expected of her!
Clown
It seems like I'm growing more and more like a clown. First of all, I'm always
sad. Secondly, all my knives are made out of rubber. Thirdly, it's like my house
is on fire.
No, I'm definitely becoming more like a clown. I have a tendency to want to put
on clown clothes. As soon as I put the clown clothes on I feel faintly happier...
Another sign is that I constantly feel like I'm alone in a dressing room. Most
of the time I feel amused. Anyway, the only thing good about the circus is
the tigers.
I realize that I could get both legs cut off by the circus train or get frightened
by an elephant. But it's very depressing to sit around in a clown suit and think
about death.
Sometimes I don't feel happy unless I'm in my clown suit. And I enjoy hitting
people on the head with a foam club. I really do...
When people see me they realize that it looks very sophisticated to wear a clown
suit and smoke a cigarette. This is how I get all the ladies because they think I'm
very droll.
People don't understand how you turn into a clown. You turn into a clown
because you feel more and more like putting on a clown suit. When you're
around people you sense a kindliness. It makes you so nervous you can't
stay calm. Which is why it feels perfeectly normal to wear orange pants.
Plus, it's very subversive to wear bow ties. You can't imagine how jolly
everything is. And the fright wigs... I don't want to be a clown but I'm
sure to be one. My mother was a clown.
Chelsey Minnis, "Clown" from Bad Bad, published by Fence Books. Copyright © 2007 by Chelsey Minnis.
Chelsey Minnis
Poemland
Poemland (Wave Books 2009) comes without a table of contents or index of first lines, but with plenty of barcodes. No individual poems have titles (if there are individual poems) but every so often there will be a fully inked page (and barcode) that creates a sort of divider. By looking around online, it seems that each page contains a discrete poem (usually four or five lines long), though ideas continue across several pages. I’m fascinated by the whole thing, and the seeming randomness of application and tone. Here are a few poems (I think), as example. They all come from the same section (if it’s a section!), early in the book.
I like to live a hard life but I know I shouldn’t do it . . .
I should live an easy life or I am a fool!
The sea-crabs try to cling onto anything.
The crab fishermen don’t even want all the crab . . . they want money . . .
Even though their mustaches are covered with ice . . .
+ + +
If you are a person you can also be someone’s goat . . .
I can tell you about it for free . . .
I can long remember a nastie thing . . .
If it is well done . .
+ + +
I look to the left and right with my eyes and then I swing the sharp thing . . .
As you rise out of a cloud on a mechanized contraption . . .
If you open your mouth to start to complain I will fill it with whipped cream . .
There is a floating sadness nearby . . .
+ + +
Don’t try to walk away from a little girl like me!
This is a recollection of flopped happiness . . .
And it is a fistfight in the rain under a held umbrella . . .
There is a way to smoke your cigarette and look out the window but you’ll never get enough of it.
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