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domingo, 24 de marzo de 2013


Michael Benedikt
Michael Benedikt nació en 1935 en New York City, EE.UU. Recibió su licenciatura en la Universidad de Nueva York y obtuvo una Maestría en Literatura Inglesa de la Universidad de Columbia. Fue asistente editorial de Prensa desde 1959 a 1962, y en 1963-64 se desempeñó como Jefe de Redacción de las revistas literarias Locus Solus.

Antes de publicar su primer libro de poesía, Benedikt co-editó tres antologías de 20th Century Theatre poética desde el extranjero: francés moderno Teatro: La Vanguardia, el dadaísmo, el surrealismo(1964); posguerra alemana Teatro (1966) y Modern Theatre español(1967). Su antología de obras de teatro del siglo XX de América, Experimento Theatre, fue publicado en 1968. Es también el editor de dos antologías históricas de la poesía del siglo XX: la poesía del surrealismo (1974), y el poema en prosa: una antología Internacional (1976).


The Badminton at Great Barrington; or Gustave Mahler & The Chattanooga Choo-Choo (University of Pittsburgh Press, l980)--a sequence of poems about the joys & sorrows of love; & with Wesleyan University Press Night Cries (prose poems, l976); Mole Notes (prose poems, l971); Sky (l970); and The Body (l968). His work appears in ca. 70 anthologies of US poetry.  Relatively recent poetry in Agni, Iowa Review, Jerusalem Review, Lips, Michigan Quarterly Review, The New Republic, New York Quarterly, Partisan Review, The Paris Review & Washington Square.

Amor Divino

Un LABIO que había permanecido estólido, ahora se mueve
Gradual en torno al lado de la cabeza
Como ojo
El ojo se torció en la punta del dedo de alguien, y gira
Alrededor del sol, su oreja,
Y el cerebro arriba sobre el lago del rostro-
Cerca de la catarata del cuerpo-
Como cúmulo agrandado antes de una tormenta:
Un sonido 
Que crece gradualmente en el Este
Conduciéndolo todo antes de esto: ganado y arco iris y amantes
A la mesa del cuerpo a la que cinco hombres y dos mujeres
Se han sentado casualmente a comer

Versión de Pedro Gandía

[Poems from Part I of The Body]


Air, air, you're the distantmost thing I know. 
Not even the songs of whales tracing patterns 
On top of or beneath the sea, are more inscrutable or beautiful, to me; 
You carry sails of travelers to interesting places 
And adventurers, sailors, or just plain traders; 
You encourage the bicyclist to mount his apparatus 
And you're ever-present around swimming-pools 
So that when the excessively-dedicated swimmer may emerge
From the water an instant, he'll freeze; 
And air, you're famous for hanging around fetid places 
Also, ready to clear the dank atmosphere 
With a breath of yourself--I’ve found you in 
The slums of the intellect even, about to puff 
When the mind’s tired after too much travel, 
Or choking after contact with unthinking people 
And you’re present in poems rescuing one when one’s feeling somewhat stifled 
Poised like a bouquet there, sprightly and colorful.


[Poem On Extended Vacation. To Return Anon]


Tired of poultry, the experimental chemist
Slouched under the laboratory light.
His assistant, Phyllis, for whom he had
An eye, had crept out at exactly five
Leaving the mad old man there
Beneath all the flourescent tubes.

Soon, through the window, the lunar
Rays shone. The landscape brilliantly
Lit up, by the reflections from frost.
But the old man lay among the poultry
Droppings, a victim, as local police termed it,
Of  "Desperate, Unrequited Love."

Phyllis' life was changed by the event.
No sooner had she attended Georg's
Funeral, than she abandoned her staid old ways.
Parties all night, festivals at which
Her nudity glittered with the aspics,
Poetry readings in little cellar bars!

--Her life was changed. She bought a dog.
In the park, for free, they
Fondled her near The Fountain. Enough
Had soon happened to fill a lifetime.
Then, tired of the Arts & Sciences of Men,
Phyllis crept home to gentle Peoria.

In Peoria, Phyllis was somehow unsatisfied.
Her restless ways became apparent
To her parents, and one day, as she
Was returning from the corner soda parlor
With the local plumber, her parents
Drew her aside. "Our dear Phyll," they

Said, "you are insufficiently happy here.
You are not the little girl we knew
Who went wincing up to the attic
Tenderly, when struck, and would not
Come down for a week; you seem more hip
Now, and very unlikely to stay

More than an unhappy few months more here.
Why don't you get out and leave now?"
Phyllis filled her bags with their money
And went down the highway, a victim
Of inherited kindliness, troubled
By remembrances of recent events....

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