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sábado, 27 de julio de 2013


Laura Kasischke (Estados Unidos)
Laura Kasischke, nacida en 1961, es una escritora premiada, vive en Michigan, escribe poesía y novelas. 
Nació en Grand Rapids, Michigan. Kasischke asistió a la Universidad de Michigan (MFA 1987) y la Universidad de Columbia. Vive en Chelsea, Michigan, con su esposo e hijo.
También es actualmente Allan Seager Profesora Colegiada del Idioma Inglés y Literatura,   y del Colegio Mayor de la Universidad de Michigan en Ann Arbor, Michigan.
Obras literarias de Kasischke se han reconocido y destacado en la Universidad del Estado de Michigan en su Michigan Writers Series. 

Su novela The Life Before Her Eyes se convirtió en la película del mismo nombre, dirigida por Vadim Perelman, y protagonizada por Uma Thurman y Evan Rachel Wood. El trabajo de Kasischke está particularmente bien recibido en Francia, donde es ampliamente leída en sus traducciones. Su novela A moi pour toujours (Be Mine) fue publicada por Christian Bourgois, y fue un éxito de ventas nacional.


Kasischke fue galardonada con el 2011 National Book Critics Circle Award in poetry for Space, In Chains. 
Su trabajo ha recibido el Premio Juniper Prize, the Alice Fay di Castagnola Award from the Poetry Society of America , the Pushcart Prize , the Elmer Holmes Bobst Award for Emerging Writers, and the Beatrice Hawley Award . She is the recipient of two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, as well as several Pushcart Prizes. In 2005 she was The Frost Place poet in residence and in 2009 she was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship in Creative Arts - Poetry 


Wild Brides ( New York University Press, 1991)
Housekeeping in a Dream (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1995)
Fire and Flower ( Alice James Books, 1998)
What It Wasn't (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2002)
Dance and disappear. Univ of Massachusetts Press. 2002. ISBN 978-1-55849-352-0. Retrieved 29 May 2013.
Gardening in the dark. AUSABLE Press. 2004. ISBN 978-1-931337-22-9. Retrieved 29 May 2013.
Lilies Without. Copper Canyon Press. 25 December 2012. ISBN 978-1-61932-072-7. Retrieved 29 May 2013.
Space, in Chains. COPPER CANYON. 2011. ISBN 978-1-55659-333-8 . Retrieved 29 May 2013. 


Suspicious River (Houghton Mifflin, 1996)
White bird in a blizzard . Hyperion. 1999. ISBN 978-0-7868-6366-2 . Retrieved 29 May 2013.
The Life Before Her Eyes . Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. 11 November 2002. ISBN 978-0-547-54145-7. Retrieved 29 May 2013 .
Boy Heaven. HarperCollins. 17 March 2009. ISBN 978-0-06-188057-5 . Retrieved 29 May 2013.
Be Mine (Mariner Books, 2007) ISBN 9780547906843
Feathered. HarperCollins. 5 May 2009. ISBN 978-0-06-190950-4 . Retrieved 29 May 2013 .
In a Perfect World . HarperCollins. 6 October 2009. ISBN 978-0-06-194182-5 . Retrieved 29 May 2013.
Made In Michigan Writers: Eden Springs . Wayne State University Press. 2010. ISBN 978-0-8143-3533-8. Retrieved 29 May 2013 .
The Raising: A Novel . HarperCollins. 15 March 2011. ISBN 978-0-06-204238-5 . Retrieved 29 May 2013.

La segunda semana de mayo

Qué compraremos con el dinero de Judas?
Quién vivirá en la casa de Hitler? Qué

haremos con este velo robado
a la novia asesinada, esta
sábana hurtada al niño durmiente?

Compraré caramelos, dice la querida.
Creceré aquí, la prímula canta.

La levedad de la seda en una brisa

perfumada, blanda
como cashmere, rosa pálido.

Dónde podremos construir

la casa de la primavera,

la única construida
en una clara conciencia, la única
en la que ningún inocente

civil ha sido muerto jamás?
Sí, imagina.
Cada día
en una cocina limpia, cada noche en una almohada

Pero es Mayo, y la lila
susurra a la wisteria,
La sombra de quién usaré
este año en la fiesta de estudiantes?
La chalina blanca de quién

cosida desde la última respiración de una virgen
es ésta?

Publicado en Michigan Today Poetry
Traducido del inglés por Myriam Rozenberg

Your Last Day

So we found ourselves in an ancient place, the very
air around us bound by chains. There was
stagnant water in which lightning
was reflected, like desperation
in a dying eye. Like science. Like
a dull rock plummeting through space, tossing
off flowers and veils, like a bride. And

also the subway.
Speed under ground.
And the way each body in the room appeared to be
a jar of wasps and flies that day - but, enchanted,
like frightened children's laughter.

The key to the tower

There was never
There was never
A key to the tower

There was never a key to the tower, you fool

It was a dream
It was a dream
A mosquito's dream

A mosquito dreaming in a cage for a bird

It's October
It's October
The summer's over

Your passionate candle in a pumpkin's head
And the old woman's hand in this photograph
Appears to be nailed to the old man's hand

And the sky
And the sky
And the sky above you

Is a drunken loved one asleep in your bed

And the tower
And the tower
And the key to the tower

There was never a key to the tower I said

And this insistence
This insistence
It will only bring you sorrow

Your ridiculous key, your laughable tower

But there was
There was
A tower here

I swear

And the key
And the key
I still have it here somewhere

After Ken Burns

The beautiful plate I cracked in half as I wrapped it in tissue paper—
as if the worship of a thing might be the thing that breaks it.

This river, which is life, which is wayfaring. This river,   
which is also sky. This dipper, full of mind, which is   

not only the hysterical giggling of girls, but the trembling   
of the elderly. Not only   

the scales, beaks, and teeth of creatures, but also   
their imaginative names (elephant, peacock) and their   
love of one another, the excited   
preparations they sometimes make   
for their own deaths.

It is as if some graceful goddess, wandering in the dark, desperate with thirst, bent down and dropped that dipper   
clumsily in this river. It floated away. Consciousness, memory, sensory information, the historians and their glorious war . . .
The pineal gland, tiny pinecone in the forehead, our third eye:   Of course   

it will happen here. No doubt. Someday, here,   

in this little house,   
they will lay the wounded side by side. The blood
will run into the basement through the boards. Their ghosts are already here, along   
with the cracked plate wrapped in old paper in the attic,   

and the woman who will turn one day at the window to see   
a long strange line of vehicles traveling slowly toward her door, which

she opens (what choice does she have?) although she has not yet been born.


That dream of a cricket
in the dark of the night
at the foot
of the gallows tree.

cricket. Little, hopeful
shaped face
lit up by the moon.

Little, hopeful, insistent
about the future
to a hanged man’s boots.


I thought we were playing a game
in a forest that day.
I ran as my mother chased me.

But she’d been stung by a bee.
Or bitten by a snake.
She shouted my name, which

even as a child I knew was not
“Stop. Please. I’m dying.”

I ran deeper
into the bright black trees
as she chased me: How

lovely the little bits and pieces.
The fingernails, the teeth. Even
the bombed cathedrals
being built inside of me.

How sweet
the eye socket. The spine. The
curious, distant possibility that God
had given courage
to human beings
that we might
suffer a little longer.

And by the time

I was willing to admit that
all along
all along
I’d known it was no game

I was a grown woman, turning
back, too late.

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