MATTHEW SWEENEY [9364]

Matthew Sweeney

Nació en Donegal, Irlanda, en 1952. 

BIBLIOGRAFÍA:

Poetry

A Dream of Maps, Raven Arts Press, Dublin, 1981

A Round House, Raven Arts Press, Dublin, 1983

The Lame Waltzer, Raven Arts Press, Dublin, 1985

The Chinese Dressing-Gown, Raven Arts Press, Dublin, 1987

Blue Shoes, Secker & Warburg, 1989

Cacti, Secker & Warburg, 1992

The Flying Spring Onion, Faber and Faber, London, 1992

The Snow Vulture, Faber and Faber, London, 1992

The Blue Taps, Prospero Poets, London, 1994

Fatso in the Red Suit, Faber and Faber, London, 1995

Penguin Modern Poets 12: Helen Dunmore, Jo Shapcott, Matthew Sweeney, Penguin, 1997

The Bridal Suite, Cape, London, 1997

A Smell of Fish, Cape, London, 2000

Selected Poems, Cape, London, 2002

Fox, Bloomsbury, London, 2002

Sanctuary, Cape, London, 2004

Stories, Cape, London, 2006

Black Moon, Cape, London, 2007

Pendulum: The Poetry of Dreams (contributor), Avalanche Books, 2008

As editor

Emergency Kit: Poems for Strange Times (editor with Jo Shapcott), Faber and Faber, London, 1996

Beyond Bedlam: Poems Written Out of Mental Distress (editor with Ken Smith), Anvil Press Poetry, 1997

One for Jimmy: An Anthology from the Hereford and Worcester Poetry Project (editor) Hereford and Worcester County Council, 1992

Selected Poems of Walter de la Mare (Poet to Poet series) (editor), Faber and Faber, London, 2006

For children

Up on the Roof: New and Selected Poems, Faber and Faber, London 2001

Irish Poems, (editor) Macmillan Children’s Books, 2005

The New Faber Book of Children’s Verse (editor), Faber and Faber, London, 2001

Anthologies

Emergency Kit: Poems for Strange Times (with Jo Shapcott) Faber and Faber, London 1996 

Beyond Bedlam: Poems Written Out of Mental Distress (with Ken Smith) Anvil Press Poetry, London 1997 

The New Faber Book of Children’s Verse (editor) Faber and Faber, London 2001 

Non-fiction

Writing Poetry (Teach Yourself Series) (with John Hartley Williams) Hodder & Stoughton, London 1996

La lechuza blanca

Por sobre las cabezas del pelotón de fusilamiento

voló una lechuza blanca, que ululó dos veces

antes de que tiraran del gatillo

y cuando la mujer se desplomó en las cuerdas,

y su vestido blanco se salpicó de sangre,

la lechuza aterrizó en su hombro,

ululó otra vez y recorrió con su mirada

de enormes ojos a los uniformados,

uno de los cuales le iba a apuntar pero el capitán

le desvió el rifle de un manotazo

mientras la lechuza picoteó la sangre

del pecho de la mujer, ensuciando

las plumas de su propio pecho, y luego

fijo su vista en los pasmados hombres

antes de despegar de súbito apenas salvando

la cabeza de uno y obligándolos a todos

a voltear y verla alejarse planeando, y recibir

el eco de un último ulular desde el cielo.

Traducción de Carlos López Beltrán y Pedro Serrano

En el polvo

Y luego en el polvo él dibujó un rostro,

el rostro de una mujer, y le preguntó

al hombre que bebía whisky junto a él

si la había visto alguna vez, o si la conocía,

sin quitar nunca la vista de ella, como si

esto pudiera hacerla surgir toda entera. Y luego,

mientras negaba con la cabeza, hizo que su bota

la disolviera en una nube de tierra.

Arrojó un leño más al fuego,

vació su vaso y lo llenó nuevamente,

mirando que su perro se levantaba

para gruñir de cara al camino de barro

que se extendía, pleno, en un accidentado horizonte.

Un disparo acompañó el primer ladrido del perro,

se duplicó, se triplicó, se convirtió en una balacera

que paró sin que nada apareciera, entonces se dispuso

a confrontarlo, pero ni siquiera el viento

rozó su cara, ni una sombra,

y cuando su perro había callado ya, una mano

lo ayudó a sentarse y a retomar su vaso.

Versión de Carlos López Beltrán y Pedro Serrano

In the dust

And then in the dust he drew a face,

the face of a woman, and he asked

the man drinking whiskey beside him

if he’d ever seen her, or knew who she was,

all the time staring down at her, as if

this would make her whole. And then,

at the shake of the head, he let his boot

dissolve her into a settling cloud.

He threw another plank on the fire,

drained his glass and filled it again,

watching his dog rise to its feet

and start to growl at the dirt-road

that stretched, empty, to a hilly horizon.

A shiver coincided with the dog’s first bark,

that doubled, trebled, became gunfire

that stopped nothing coming, so he stood

to confront it, but not even a wind

brushed his face, no shape formed,

and after the dog went quiet, a hand

helped him sit down and rejoin his glass.

El frío

Tras la interminable borrachera, 

y la insulsa acrimonia,

se lanzó a pie hacia el mar, 

una milla al menos bajo el viento,

entre hileras de coches estacionados 

en zig zag y el sonsonete de la disco, dejando 

atrás farolas, aunque de requerir luz

las estrellas le habrían bastado:

bajó a la playa bamboleándose, 

una lata de cerveza en cada bolsillo,

y se sentó sobre una roca a beber,

y pensar en su matrimonio, 

y cuando ambas latas estuvieron vacías

se quitó los zapatos para meterse 

tambaleándose en el mar 

y coger rumbo a Islandia,

pero el Atlántico lo mandó de vuelta a casa,

no un cadáver, ni un fantasma, 

a despertar a su esposa

y quejarse del frío.

The Ice Hotel

I’m going back to the ice hotel,

this time under a false name

as I need to stay there again.

I’ll stand in the entrance hall,

marvelling at this year’s design,

loving the way it can’t be the same

because ice melts and all here is ice – 

the walls, the ceiling, the floor,

the seats in the lobby, the bed.

Not that I lay on naked ice,

but on the skins of reindeers,

piled high, as on a sled.

First, though, I went to the bar – 

no beer, only vodka – 

and I met my sculptor there,

or I should say, my ice sculptor

whose pieces were on display

in every room in the ice hotel,

and who told me his name was Thor.

We stood in that ice-blue light

swapping whisper after whisper,

drinking vodka after vodka

till we agreed to go to bed,

and neither of us slept that night.

Let me tell you about that bed –

ice pillars, two foot high,

each with a lit candle on top,

and wedged in the middle of each

the four corners of an ice sheet

three, maybe four inches thick.

On this the pelts were laid, 

then the Polar Survival bag

that the two of us climbed inside.

Next morning, over Arctic char,

he offered me any sculpture

but which could I take home?

And I didn’t want to go home

but I went. Now I’m going back – 

back to the latest ice hotel

with its blue ice, its silence,

its flickering candlelight,

its sculptures I can claim.

The Snowy Owl

Over the heads of the firing squad

flew a snowy owl, who oohooed  twice

just before they pulled their triggers

and as the woman slumped on her ropes,

blood splattering her white dress,

the owl landed on her shoulder, 

oohooed again, and swivelled its big-

eyed gaze over all the uniformed men,

one of whom raised his rifle

but the captain knocked it away

while the owl pecked at some blood

on the woman’s breast, smearing

its own breast feathers, then glared, 

it seemed, at the transfixed men,

before swooping off, barely missing

the head of one, making them all

turn to watch it glide away, and hear

one more oohoo echo through the sky. 

The Hat

A green hat is blowing through Harvard Square

and no one is trying to catch it.

Whoever has lost it has given up – 

perhaps, because his wife was cheating,

he took it off and threw it like a frisbee,

trying to decapitate a statue

of a woman in her middle years

who doesn’t look anything like his wife.

This wind wouldn’t lift the hat alone,

and any man would be glad to keep it.

I can imagine – as it tumbles along,

gusting past cars, people, lampposts – 

it sitting above a dark green suit.

The face between them would be bearded

and not unhealthy, yet. The eyes 

would be green, too – an all green man

thinking of his wife in another bed,

these thoughts all through the green hat,

like garlic in the pores, and no one,

no one pouncing on the hat to put it on.