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sábado, 17 de noviembre de 2012


Robert Cording
Nacido en Englewood, Nueva Jersey, Estados Unidos en 1949 el poeta Robert Cording obtuvo una licenciatura en Montclair State University y un doctorado en la Universidad de Boston. 
Influido en parte por el poeta George Herbert, Cording escribe poemas que dedican a la fe espiritual, el dolor y la gracia. Hablando de su acercamiento a la escritura en una entrevista para la revista Holy Cross, Cording, dijo, "es auto-reflexiva sobre su relación con la mortalidad, el mundo, las preguntas fundamentales: ¿Quiénes somos? ¿A dónde vamos? ¿Por qué estamos aquí? Eso es lo que me empezó a escribir-ese tipo de preguntas "
Cording ha recibido numerosos premios por su poesía, incluidas las becas de la Fundación Nacional para las Artes, la Comisión de las Artes de Connecticut. 


Life-list  (1987), which won the Ohio State University Press/Journal award; What Binds Us to the World  (1991); Heavy Grace  (1996); Against Consolation  (2002); and Common Life  (2006). His latest collection, Walking with Ruskin , is due out in October 2010. 


Año tras año, calladamente,
he venido apreciando

cómo aguantan en pie las viejas casas

—bajo las lluvias de noviembre
o la reconfortante luz de junio—

como si hubieran alcanzado un acuerdo
en el que el curso de los días ya no es
cuestión de sufrimiento o de regocijo.

He venido apreciando
cómo adoptan el color de la lluvia o del sol
cuando insisten en mantener su vigilia

sin necesidad de un signo, sin esperar nada

más que los pájaros que cantan en los aleros
y el frío paralizante que estremece y hace crujir las vigas.

[Versión al castellano: Jesús Jiménez Domínguez]


Remember those Saturday morning cartoons—
A safe creeping up the side of a building 
On ropes meant to break and a man 
Strolling below, whistling, blissfully unaware, 
But blessedly inches out of reach 
When the ropes give way just as expected, 
The safe planting itself in the sidewalk
Like a down payment on another life. 

Well let’s say the man is a guy I know, 
A good husband and father of two 
And that he’s just come up 
From the subway into the splendid sun
Of an autumn day and he’s dawdling, 
Drinking a second cup of coffee, 
Maybe enjoying the angle of the sun
Falling between buildings and the blue

Prospect undisturbed by clouds,
When a plane explodes into the building 
Where he works and, as he watches, 
His entire building collapses. 
In the months to come, his odd luck
Teaches this sane and orderly man
That his life is neither sane nor orderly.
He is a good man, kind and loving,

But, though he tries to return to life
Just as before, he cannot stop believing 
He must change his life. A year later
He leaves his wife and kids with plenty 
Of money, and tries to begin again. 
He travels for a while, saves time 
For himself, reads more novels, joins 
A Buddhist Center. Two more years go by. 

The shock has worn off. The man
Has resettled thousands of miles away 
In another city much like the one he left. 
He still stops at Starbucks for a second cup. 
He’s remarried—a second wife hardly different
From the first. He’s back doing the same 
Kind of work, getting in some golf
On the weekends. That’s the story 

He tells me one afternoon inside the dark 
Of his favorite bar where he’s holding up 
A cell phone. The leaves are turning colors 
Again. We hoist a few, fall into the ball game
On the TV, waiting for a couple of players
To get on base, or someone to hit one out. 
But it’s a pitcher’s battle, lots of beginnings 
Turning out as repetitions and zeroes

On the scoreboard. We’re both 
Pretty drunk when he looks into his drink
Like he’s reading entrails for a doomed 
Empire. He says he can’t stop feeling
That there’s a giant hole in the middle of
Everything. In his dreams, he’s always
At the edge of the hole and looking down. 
He knows nothing can ever fill it.

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