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jueves, 13 de diciembre de 2012


Joshua Corey   (Evanston, Illinois, Estados Unidos)

Se graduó en el Vassar College en 1993 y obtuvo una maestría en literatura Inglesa y un MFA en escritura creativa de la Universidad de Montana. Le concedieron una beca Stegner en escritura creativa de la Universidad de Stanford en 1999, y recibió su Ph.D. Inglés en la Universidad de Cornell en 2007. 
One of the Academy of American Poets' Notable Books for 2011.
Es profesor en Lake Forest College en Illinois. 

Ha publicado:
Selah (Barrow Street, 2003), Fourier Series (Spineless Books, 2005), Severance Songs (2011) and two chapbooks.


Ella ha olvidado lo que olvidó
esta mañana: sus llaves, la tostada en la tostadora que ennegrece
el interior de cráneos amados, pequeños planetarios
que proyectan constelaciones cada vez más
incompletas y extravagantes: el Culo
Grávido, la Rueda Mesozoica, la Gran
Barba de Chivo, el Ínfimo Fascista. Al otro lado de su ventana
se congrega un gentío que bulle en blanca confusión
como leche que hierve hasta secarse en la sartén—algunos
alzan dedos para apuntar en esta o aquella dirección
con certeza saltimbanqui pero
ellos están demasiado cerca para todas
esas manos voladoras, de manera que botan anteojos
y sombreros—disculpas inaudibles, alguien ofrece
un puño, la reyerta inunda el exiguo tráfico
de bicitaxis y camiones repartidores llenos hasta el copete
de lechugas que se pudren. Mientras, por encima de todo,
ella prepara las cosas del té: taza y plato de cerámica,
cucharita de peltre, tetera de hierro enguijarrado, un pedazo
de Sara Lee. Espera recordar
encender la radio, escuchar cuando venga el ascensor, cuando
se cierre el candado o alguien llame
a la puerta. Dentro de poco ella lo dejará todo
en la misma configuración
que hay en el fondo de un limpio fregadero blanco
con su grifo goteante.
Nosotros, que observamos esto, ya medio vueltos
hacia jardines soleados o hacia el semirremolque que se 
sin ser el que está muerto pero tampoco exactamente vivo.
La piel es un guante que se arruga al tensarse.
Lo mismo el cerebelo. Una partida
de ajedrez entre juanpalos—me refiero a los insectos
esos que parecen de madera. Yo digo que aparentamos
a partir de fotos y repeticiones
lo que nos jugamos en estos nombres sin peso.

versión del poeta y traductor costarricense G.A. Chaves

Cognitive Deficit Market

She has forgotten what she forgot
this morning: her keys, toast in the toaster blackening
the insides of beloved skulls, little planetariums
projecting increasingly incomplete
and fanciful constellations: the Gravid
Ass, the Mesozoic Cartwheel, the Big
Goatee, the Littlest Fascist. Outside her window
a crowd gathers, seething in white confusion
like milk boiling dry in a saucepan—some
lift fingers to point this way and that
with herky-jerky certainty but
they’re standing too close for all
those flying hands so that eyeglasses and hats
fall—apologies inaudible, someone hands
a fist, the brawl overwhelms the meager traffic
of pedicabs and delivery trucks stacked high
with rotting lettuce. Meanwhile above it all
she’s setting out the tea things: ceramic cup and saucer,
little pewter spoon, pebbled iron pot, a slice
of Sara Lee. Waiting to remember
to turn the radio on, listen for the elevator, for
the lock to turn or a knock
on the door. In a little while she’ll put everything
away in the same configuration
at the bottom of a clean white sink
with its faucet dripping.
We who watch this, half-turned away already
toward sunny gardens or the oncoming semi—
being not the one dead but not exactly alive either.
The skin is a glove that wrinkles as it tightens.
The cerebellum’s the same. A game
of chess between walking sticks—I mean the insects
made up to resemble wood. I say we dissemble
from photos and repetition
our stakes in these weightless names.

A Fine Romance

I can explain: the sea is not ice. It is a salinity that resists
slippage, that cannot thaw or be resolved,
that will not stalk its own surface,
that can’t extratheistically transform its peculiar substance
without alluding to buggery, misconduct, pandered memory
(viz. Lot, Lot’s wife). But

I slip on some ice. I cantilever off
the frozen boardwalk; I careen into plasma’s low centigrade,
I am in the salt water 
one hand strikes through the glass, another hand, there can’t be three;
I am drowning, I invite the blood cousin
into the fibrous failed Egyptian brachia
of my lungs, I am swallowing the whale, its protesting flukes,

opening mouth, eyes, admitting the fat moon slack
of belly, fins, volcanic ash settling
around my ears, I’m submerged—how long can this
go on? You realize of course that these means yearn.

But you’re so sly behind
the buttons of your blouse. You are not open
or closed. The cat neither dead nor alive. And
the revealed thing we can’t call heart or beat or
even the loyal bone—damp clod stuck
to the back of a tamping shovel. We mustn’t. We’ll be caught. We’re

caught in a coil of rope—
constricted by red hemp—
twisting under zirconium—
lidded by an ocean—


Gut of static hush the single voice venturesome and small
signal to noise the toe-tap adjustment
a Turner reality a Whistler’s frost of decadence
filming whipped grays and blacks indicative of sea
fog rushing the viewer’s 3D-glasses slack
planked lines for a ship a dislodged mast
for the ear to cling to sirens mob the horizon
somersaulting breathless in radioactive waves
exultant the listener at the proper remove
rent by slow chords adjusted for inflation
triangular perspective which my vector identifies
with the black swan’s soar atavistic capture
snapshot kingdom that friends me virtually
corrugated void so you feel every bump or
as they used to say ribbed
for her pleasure for your trapdoor undershorts
surprised by sin by fishy pomposity by spill
like a rainstorm overwhelming clogged gutters smearing
the window the power goes out alone in the shiphouse
after forty days the canned goods and dry cereal are gone
you try hooks from the windows baited with mucilage
roast what you catch in a fire built from carpet strips
gaunt hairy crazed passing the time by solitaire
the bodies in your basement have all floated away
so when the dove finally returns with the sun beached on Ararat
a whole neighborhood of suspicious shutters surrounds you
you know no one staggering to the post office
but there’s plenty of mail
as for friends and family they can’t even communicate
what it is to fall in love with your own private wormhole
to be lost in an abstract sea that might be world-historical
floundering or else mere drift of generational ressentiment
but it comes again plinking the solitary piano
spotlit on a stage introducing gradual compatriots
the human voice an instrument blunt or thrusting or edged
a knuckle of bells following the syllables of Hopelandic
out the auditorium tunnel to the huge double doors
that swing out over that sea
rising and falling with the crests of synthetic emotion
in touch with dry salvage tidal wave of time’s future
endless lyric moment posing as epic bearing down
death to sandcastles and mandalas and ephemera posing as life
children rocketing away through the curtain of water
that comes down at last like the fist of my imagination
and when the thunder’s passed and the a/c kicks back on
the commuter train blurs by and it’s time again for dinner
the vision of the ear again safely caged
three of its four feet shackled as they say in irons
and sorrow wrinkling the brow and savage jaws
of this lion my aging body hunched concealing its kill
I give you this little thing this devouring mouth of ribs
feasting on my own heart
nipples blind as pennies stunned by perpetual sun
beard of the shriveled groin unacommodated by old age
climb the lookout’s ladder to the peak of shipmates’ roll
ritual dunking and drunking crossing the fabled Line
each man alive to living knowledge
of resistless forces and the matter we commend our souls to
as if the mind were a body hurtled through the windshield
into a desert intersection with bullet-riddled stop signs
I don’t care I need it to be this emphatic
aria of the alone Werner’s opera in the jungle
Caruso floating magnificent on a barge of severed heads
the ruins are spectral interlaced with open sky
the serpent like a satellite telephone slithers into her palm
sin calling sin to beam us up and out of here
pinging the party’s moral location in geosynchronous orbit
subsiding like the forest itself into fields of farting cattle
like boots crushing gravel in the expanding situation
engulfing our increasingly limited faith in opposing troubles
a tired optimism keeps us limping trustfully along
while new eyes glimmer in the fronds all around
it’s a necessarily incoherent space I call a landscape
consenting bridging one last time the amplified storm
from lifted voice to lowering
and a sense of potable water amongst the tumbled rocks
if a scorpion is necessary a bleached coral reef’s waterfall
I fall gladly on sharp grass a paradise alone
the red face is rising pushing out from leafy territory
a brown face a pale face a face with no humanity
but a stunted sort of pity makes it possible to look
without seeing fresh capabilities in the crumbling of infrastructure
to carry us far down like a victim drowning his rescuer
fundamental to utterance are lips teeth and tongue
food for the ear with ears to hear
that’s survival’s reach and even it’s not enough
I am free in the face of each fully manifested disaster
and that feeling’s an addiction I mainline it nightly
we’re all hooked on phonics spinning appetite for destruction
for as long as we insist on a beyond to the face
that regards us now cruelly or with a show of compassion
it’s only a sea gone white as blindness
and the sea is not a desert
and the desert is no jungle
and what I must see when I behold the stars
is static of the city city
dictating to and for me
what gives our freedom to its law.

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