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miércoles, 28 de noviembre de 2012


Erin Belieu
(Omaha, EEUU, 1967)
Sus poemas han aparecido en las principales revistas estadounidenses. Licenciada en Poesía por la Ohio State University y la Universidad de Boston, en la actualidad ejerce la docencia en la Florida State University. El Boston Book Review ha escrito que la de Belieu es «una voz que parece en parte Emily Dickinson y en parte Courtney Love, pero que siempre está lista para sorprender, asombrar y, en última instancia, desafiar cualquier comparación». 


1994 National Poetry Series, for Infanta, selected by Hayden Carruth
Ohioana Award
Society of Midland Authors Award.


"For Catherine: Juana, Infanta of Navarre", AGNI 56, 2002
"The Last Of The Gentlemen Heartbreakers"; "In Ecstasy"; "Of The Poet’s Youth", Reading Between A&B, Fall 2007
"Two Weeks On The Island", electronic poetry review
"The Birthmark", Ploughshares, Spring 2003 [dead link]
Infanta. Copper Canyon Press. 1995. ISBN 978-1-55659-101-3.
One Above and One Below. Copper Canyon Press. 2000. ISBN 978-1-55659-144-0.
Black Box. Copper Canyon Press. 2006. ISBN 978-1-55659-251-5.


Rita Dove, David Lehman, ed. (2000). The Best American poetry, 2000. Scribner. ISBN 978-0-684-84281-3.
Michael Collier, ed. (2000). "Radio Nebraska". The new American poets. UPNE. ISBN 978-0-87451-964-8.
Glennis Byron, Andrew J. Sneddon, ed. (2008). "Tick". The body and the book: writings on poetry and sexuality. Rodopi. ISBN 978-90-420-2422-9.
William J. Walsh, ed. (2006). Under the rock umbrella: contemporary American poets, 1951-1977. Mercer University Press. ISBN 978-0-88146-047-6.

Traducción y nota: Natalia Carbajosa


la criatura de nuestro más provechoso sacramento…

Llega la comadre de la grosella,
el trasgo del desbarajuste.

Llega un amuleto negro, cocido, con lazo
y todo, en la tarta virgen.

Llega el aborigen a las sedas y a
los paños menores humeantes de sudor.

Llega con la moneda hallada.

Llega un diablillo moldeando ampollas
en el pie de la suerte.

Llega la mujer del pescador con su berrinche y el silencio
deforme, el déspota Plantagenet malgastando su reino.

Llega el ulceroso
y peligroso en persona.

Llega extrañamente engatusado, humilde
ideal descorchado.

Llega el cubo boca abajo, trofeo
de cromo escondiendo su galaxia de agujeros.

Llega ambivalente como la sábana
que cuelgas chapucera,

el glifo rampante
anunciando nuestra sangrienta nueva (2).

de black box (Copper Canyon Press, 2006)

Epithalamion (1)

the creature of our most commodious sacrament…

Comes gooseberry yenta,
goblin of misalignment.

Comes a black charm, baked, ribbon
and all, into the virgin cake.

Comes aboriginal into the silks and
sweat-fumed underthings.

Comes penny-headed.

Comes a fiend waxing blisters
into the lucky food.

Comes fishwife of tantrum and crooked 
silence, Plantagenet despot wasting his reign.

Comes ulcerous
and dangerous in person.

Comes strangely beguiled, humble
uncorked ideal.

Comes the upended bucket, chrome
trophy hiding its galaxy of holes.

Comes ambivalent as the sheet
you hang botched,

the glyph rampant
heralding our bloody news.

   (1) Título claramente alusivo a los poemas nupciales del poeta isabelino Edmund Spenser.
     (2) En el inglés original, sangriento (bloody) se refiere tanto a la arcaica costumbre de exhibir las sábanas manchadas tras la noche de bodas, como a la acepción coloquial del término (como en la expresión bloody hell), que en español es imposible de reproducir. [N. de la T.]

Against Writing about Children

When I think of the many people
who privately despise children,
I can't say I'm completely shocked,

having been one. I was not
exceptional, uncomfortable as that is
to admit, and most children are not

exceptional. The particulars of 
cruelty, sizes Large and X-Large, 
memory gnawing it like

a fat dog, are ordinary: Mean Miss
Smigelsky from the sixth grade;
the orthodontist who 

slapped you for crying out. Children
frighten us, other people's and 
our own. They reflect

the virused figures in which failure
began. We feel accosted by their
vulnerable natures. Each child turns

into a problematic ocean, a mirrored
body growing denser and more
difficult to navigate until

sunlight merely bounces
off the surface. They become impossible
to sound. Like us, but even weaker. 

Legend of the Albino Farm

Omaha, Nebraska They do not sleep nights
but stand between

rows of glowing corn and
cabbages grown on acres past

the edge of the city.
Surrendered flags,

their nightgowns furl and
unfurl around their legs.

Only women could be this
white. Like mules,

they are sterile
and it appears that

their mouths are always
open. Because they are thin

as weeds, the albinos
look hungry. If you drive out

to the farm, tree branches will
point the way. No map will show

where, no phone is listed.
It will seem that the moon, plump

above their shoulders, is constant,
orange as harvest all year

long. We say, when a mother
gives birth to an albino girl,

she feigns sleep after
labor while an Asian

man steals in, spirits
the pale baby away. 

For Catherine: Juana, Infanta of Navarre

Ferdinand was systematic when
he drove his daughter mad.

With a Casanova's careful art,
he moved slowly,
stole only one child at a time
through tunnels specially dug
behind the walls of her royal
chamber, then paid the Duenna
well to remember nothing
but his appreciation.

Imagine how quietly
the servants must have worked,

loosening the dirt, the muffled
ring of pick-ends against
the castle stone. The Duenna,
one eye gauging the drugged girl's
sleep, each night handing over
another light parcel, another
small body vanished
through the mouth of a hole.

Once you were a daughter, too,
then a wife and now the mother
of a baby with a Spanish name.

Paloma, you call her, little dove;
she sleeps in a room beyond you.

Your husband, too, works late,
drinks too much at night, comes
home lit, wanting sex and dinner.
You feign sleep, shrunk
in the corner of the queen-sized bed.

You've confessed, you can't feel things
when they touch you;

take Prozac for depression, Ativan
for the buzz. Drunk, you call your father
who doesn't want to claim
a ha!fsand-niggergrandkid.
He says he never loved your mother.

No one remembers Juana; almost
everything's forgotten in time,

and if I tell her story,
it's only when guessing
what she loved, what she dreamed
about, the lost details of a life
that barely survives history.

God and Latin, I suppose, what she loved.
And dreams of mice pouring out
from a hole. The Duenna, in spite
of her black, widow's veil, leaning
to kiss her, saying Juana, don't listen... 

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