Foto: Nicole Capello
Heather McHugh (San Diego, California, EEUU, Agosto 20, 1948). Poeta, traductora, ensayista.
Ha publicado entre otros títulos:
Dangers. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1977
A World of Difference. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1981
To the Quick, Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 1987
Shades. Middletown: Wesleyan University Press. 1988.
Hinge & Sign: Poems 1968-1993. Middletown: Wesleyan University Press. 1994.
The Father of the Predicaments. Middletown: Wesleyan University Press. 1999.
Eyeshot. Middletown: Wesleyan University Press. 2003.
Upgraded to Serious. Copper Canyon Press. 2009.
EL FILÓSOFO PIDE CERDO CRUJIENTE
Amo tanto a esta criatura, Dios quiera
que la hayan tratado bien. Pagaría cuanto
consideren apropiado los amantes del cerdo
por asegurarle al menos eso. En cuanto
a su grasa, daría años sí años
de mi propia vida por
un prójimo así de tragable.
(Mi vida! Tal y como es! Esta
liberalidad de hojas! Después
de todo, el mundo no extrañará esos
diecisiete poemas de más, habiendo
tan pocos temas que tratar. Tres
si por tema nos referimos a cualquiera
que esté sujeto a la voluntad
de otro. Dos si por tema nos referimos
a una materia. Uno si debido a la muerte acabamos
refiriéndonos al amor. Y ninguno si un tema
necesariamente conlleva
la propia indulgencia de la floritura.
(Publicado originalmente en inglés en la revista Poetry, Julio/Agosto 2008, p. 292. Traducción de G. A. Chaves.)
La máquina de escribir es de la variedad...
La máquina de escribir es de la variedad
de gris pesado poco común en estos días,
y buena para apoyarse en ella. Me siento
frente a ella, con desgarrados
agujeros en mis significados, o un corazón
repleto de complicaciones que incluso no puedo
comenzar a comenzar. En
la radio un solo de violoncelo, y al dar la hora
las noticias son comprendidas. Cruzo mis brazos
sobre la máquina de escribir, apoyo mi cabeza
sobre mis brazos, y respiro y
respiro y respiro, y allí
está toda la fresca
inmutabilidad que un afiebrado
humano necesita, su flujo murmurando constante
como la velocidad de la luz o la realidad
del agua (hay muerte
en la tierra en este momento, hay
muerte en la tierra en este momento… Siempre
es ya está sucediendo). Entonces
puedo pararme, y dedicarme
a mi trabajo, que es amar el ver
la interminable imposibilidad de salvación del mundo.
[Traducción Esteban Moore]
Better or Worse
I.
Daily, the kindergarteners
passed my porch. I loved
their likeness and variety,
their selves in line like little
monosyllables, but huggable—
I wasn't meant
to grab them, ever,
up into actual besmooches or down
into grubbiest tumbles, my lot was not
to have them, in the flesh.
Was it better or worse to let
their lovability go by untouched, and just
watch over their river of ever-
inbraiding relations? I wouldn't
mother them or teach. We couldn't be
each other's others; maybe,
at removes, each other's each.
II.
Each toddler had a hand-hold on
a loop of rope, designed to haul
the whole school onward
in the sidewalk stream—
like pickerel through freshets,
at the pull of something else's will, the children
spun and bobbled, three years old and four
(or were they little drunken Buddhas,
buoyant, plump?). They looked
now to the right, now to the sky, and now
toward nothing (nothing was too small)—
they followed a thread of destination,
chain of command, order of actual rope that led
to what? Who knew?
For here and now in one child's eye there was a yellow truck,
and in another's was a burning star; but from my own perspective,
overhead, adult, where trucks and suns had lost their luster,
they were one whole baby-rush toward
a target, toward the law
of targets, fledge
in the wake of an arrowhead;
a bull's-eye bloomed, a red
eight-sided sign. What
did I wish them?
Nothing I foresaw.
“Better or Worse” from Hinge & Sign: Poems, 1968-1993.
Reprinted with the permission of Wesleyan University Press.
Constructive
You take a rock, your hand is hard.
You raise your eyes, and there's a pair
of small beloveds, caught in pails.
The monocle and eyepatch correspond.
You take a glove, your hand is soft.
The ocean floor was done
in lizardskin. Around a log or snag
the surface currents run
like lumber about a knot. A boat
is bent to sea—we favor the medium
we're in, our shape's
around us. It takes time.
At night, the bed alive, what
teller of truth could tell
the two apart? Lover, beloved,
hope is command. Your hand
is given, when you take a hand.
“Constructive” from Hinge & Sign: Poems, 1968-1993.
Reprinted with the permission of Wesleyan University Press.
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