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lunes, 3 de diciembre de 2012


Eamon Grennan (Nacido en 1941 en Dublín) es un poeta irlandés. Ha vivido en los Estados Unidos, excepto por breves períodos, desde 1964. 
Fue el Dexter M. Ferry Jr. Profesor de Inglés en Vassar College hasta su jubilación en 2004.
Aunque las raíces irlandesas son claras en su poesía, Grennan tiene un sentido internacional de la tradición literaria. Ha citado como influencias poetas americanos como Robert Frost y Elizabeth Bishop. Además de escribir poesía, ha traducido a Giacomo Leopardi y con su esposa, Vassar clasicista Rachel Kitzinger- Sófocles 's Edipo en Colono .
Grennan estudió en el University College de Dublín, donde conoció a los poetas Derek Mahon y Boland Eavan, y en la Universidad de Harvard, comenzó a enseñar en Vassar en 1974. 


Matter of Fact. St. Paul, MN: Graywolf, 2008.
Out of Breath. Gallery Books, 2007.
The Quick of It. St. Paul, MN: Graywolf, 2005.
Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus. Trans. with Rachel Kitzinger. Oxford, 2004.
Renvyle, Winter. Philadelphia: Pointed Press, 2003.
Still Life with Waterfall. St. Paul, MN: Graywolf, 2002.
Selected & New Poems. Dublin: Gallery Press, 2000.
Provincetown Sketches. Aralia Press, 2000.
Facing the Music: Irish Poetry in the Twentieth Century. Omaha: Creighton University Press, 1999.
Relations: New & Selected Poems. St. Paul, MN: Graywolf, 1998.
Selected Poems of Giacomo Leopardi. Trans. Princeton: Lockert Library of Poetry in Translation, Princeton University Press, 1997.
So It Goes. St. Paul, MN: Graywolf, 1995.
As If It Matters. St. Paul, MN: Graywolf, 1992.
What Light There Is and Other Poems. New York: North Point Press, 1989.
Twelve Poems. San Francisco: Occasional Works, 1988.
Wildly for Days. Dublin: Gallery Press, 1983.
Cat Scat North Point Press, 1988.
In early 2007 he visited St.Paul's High School in Brooklandville, Maryland to discuss poetry.
"Soul Music: The Derry Air" The New Yorker 60/48 (14 Jan 1985) : 

Los pintores de cavernas

Sosteniendo sólo un manojo de luz
ellos se apretujaban en la oscuridad, en cuclillas
hasta que la gran cámara de piedra
florecía a su alrededor y se paraban
en un enorme vientre de
luz parpadeante y penumbra, un lugar 
para comenzar. Manos alzadas proyectaban sombras
sobre las formas más elegantes del resplandor.

Dejaron atrás el mundo de clima y pánico
y siguieron, dibujando la oscuridad 
en su estela, pulsando como una sola vibración
hacia el centro de la piedra. Los pigmentos mezclados en grandes caparazones
minerales molidos, pétalos y pólenes, bayas
y los jugos astringentes que destilaban
de las cortezas elegidas. Las bestias

comenzaban a formarse desde manos y matas de hojas
(empapados en ocre, manganeso, garanza, blanco malva)
trazando sobre la roca agreste, permitiendo a cuestas y contornos
moldear aquellas formas por azar, convenciendo
a inclinaciones rigurosas, pliegues y bultos
prestarse para ser cuellos, vientres, ancas hinchadas
una frente o un giro de cuerno, colas y melenas
encrespándose en un loco galope.

Propósito y humanidad, ellos atan
al mineral, vegetal, animal
reino de sí mismos, inscribiendo
la única línea continua
todo depende de, desde 
ese centro impenetrable
hacia los espacios intangibles de luz y aire, hasta
la velocidad del caballo, el miedo del bisonte, el arco
de ternura que esta vaca panzona
curva sobre su ternero-eje, o el ritual
de muerte con lanzas
que se eriza en la ijada golpeada
del ciervo. En esta línea ellos dejan
una figura humana hecha con palos, cabeza de pico
y una pequeña mano calcárea.

Nunca sabremos si trabajaron en silencio
como gente rezando- la forma en que nuestros monjes
Iluminaron sus propias eras oscuras
en sombreados claustros de roca,
donde ideaban un conectado
laberinto de encendidas afinidades
para discernir en el encaje y fábula de la naturaleza
su consciente, deslumbrante sexto sentido
de un dios de las sombras- o si (como pájaros
trazando su gran linaje alrededor del globo)
sostuvieron un constante chisme
de alabanza, estímulo, reclamo.

No importa: sabemos
ellos fueron con canales de luz
hacia la oscuridad; acordaron
con el mundo dado; debieran haber tenido
-cuando sus manos se movían incesantemente
a la luz de la telaraña- un deseo que 
reconoceríamos: ellos -antes de seguir
más allá de la zona limítrofe, ese ningún lugar
que está ahora aquí- dejarían detrás algo
erguido y brillante, en la oscuridad.

The Cave Painters from Out of Sight: New & Selected Poems. 
2010 by Eamon Grennan

Versión: Marina Kohon

The cave painters 

Holding only a handful of rushlight
they pressed deeper into the dark, at a crouch
until the great rock chamber
flowered around them and they stood
in an enormous womb of
flickering light and darklight, a place
to make a start. Raised hands cast flapping shadows
over the sleeker shapes of radiance.
They’ve left the world of weather and panic
behind them and gone on in, drawing the dark
in their wake, pushing as one pulse
to the core of stone. The pigments mixed in big shells
are crushed ore, petals and pollens, berries
and the binding juices oozed
out of chosen barks. The beasts
begin to take shape from hands and feather-tufts
(soaked in ochre, manganese, madder, mallow white)
stroking the live rock, letting slopes and contours
mould those forms from chance, coaxing
rigid dips and folds and bulges
to lend themselves to necks, bellies, swelling haunches,
a forehead or a twist of horn, tails and manes
curling to a crazy gallop.
Intent and human, they attach
the mineral, vegetable, animal
realms to themselves, inscribing
the one unbroken line
everything depends on, from that
impenetrable centre
to the outer intangibles of light and air, even
the speed of the horse, the bison’s fear, the arc
of gentleness that this big-bellied cow
arches over its spindling calf, or the lancing
dance of death that
bristles out of the buck’s
struck flank. On this one line they leave
a beak-headed human figure of sticks
and one small, chalky, human hand.
We’ll never know if they worked in silence
like people praying—the way our monks
illuminated their own dark ages
in cross-hatched rocky cloisters,
where they contrived a binding
labyrinth of lit affinities
to spell out in nature’s lace and fable
their mindful, blinding sixth sense
of a god of shadows—or whether (like birds
tracing their great bloodlines over the globe)
they kept a constant gossip up
of praise, encouragement, complaint.
It doesn’t matter: we know
they went with guttering rushlight
into the dark; came to terms
with the given world; must have had
—as their hands moved steadily
by spiderlight—one desire
we’d recognise: they would—before going on
beyond this border zone, this nowhere
that is now here—leave something
upright and bright behind them in the dark.

you search behind the haze of dust
and find the boy peering from behind
his father’s half-shaven face
whitewashed with lather. The bathroom

isn’t big enough for the two of them,
but he still stands there staring
at those framed features, something
of his own dark eyes in the father’s
burning through the bright glass


Scattered through the ragtaggle underbrush starting to show green shoots 
lie the dark remains of rail sleepers napping now beside the rusted-out wreck 

of a Chevy that was once sky-blue and now is nothing but shattered panels and
anonymous bits of engine in the ditch by a path that was once a railway line

cut between small hills whose silence hasn't been broken by the rattle and 
lonesome-blown whistle of a train for fifty years and whose air hasn't filled 

for ages with my childhood's smell (set by Seapoint on the coastal line) of coal 
smoke and hot steam puffed up in great cloud-breaths out of a black-sooted chimney. 



Watching it closely, respecting its mystery, 
is the note you've pinned above this heavy Dutch table 
that takes the light weight of what you work at, 
coaxing the seen and any mystery it might secrete
into words that mightn't fall too far short, might let you
hear how the hum of bees in the pink fuchsia 
and among the buttercups and fat blackberries
is echoed by that deep swissshhh sound that is 
your own blood coursing its steady laps 
and speaking in beats to the drum of your left ear.


When you watch the way the sycamore leaf curls, 
browns, dries, and drops from the branch it's lived on 
since spring, to be blown by a soundless breeze 
along the seed heads of the uncut grass, then
the mystery that is its movement—the movement, 
that is, from seed to leaf-shard and so on 
to fructive dust—holds still an instant, gives a glimpse 
of something that quickens away from language
into the riddling bustle of just the actual as you
grab at it and it disappears again, again unsaid. 

On A Cape May Warbler Who Flew Against My Window

She's stopped in her southern tracks
Brought haply to this hard knock
When she shoots from the tall spruce
And snaps her neck on the glass.

From the fall grass I gather her
And give her to my silent children
Who give her a decent burial
Under the dogwood in the garden.

They lay their gifs in the grave:
Matches, a clothes-peg, a coin;
Fire paper for her, sprinkle her
With water, fold earth over her.

She is out of her element forever
Who was air's high-spirited daughter;
What guardian wings can I conjure
Over my own young, their migrations?

The children retreat indoors.
Shadows flicker in the tall spruce.
Small birds flicker like shadows--
Ghosts come nest in my branches. 

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