ROBERT CORDING [8582]

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. 

OBRA:

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. 

VIEJAS CASAS

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]

LIFE CHANGES

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.