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jueves, 8 de agosto de 2013


Pattiann Rogers
Pattiann Rogers (nacida en 1940) es una poeta americana, y es parte del cuerpo docente del programa MFA bajo residencia en Escritura Creativa en la Universidad del Pacífico. 
Nació en Joplin, Missouri, y se graduó Phi Beta Kappa con un título de licenciatura de la Universidad de Missouri en 1961. Obtuvo una Maestría en Artes de la Universidad de Houston en 1981. Fue profesora en la Universidad de Texas, la Universidad de Montana, y en la Universidad de Washington en St. Louis.

Firekeeper fue elegido por Publishers Weekly como uno de los mejores libros publicados en 1994, fue uno de los cinco finalistas para el Premio de Poesía Lenore Marshall (otorgado por la Academia de Poetas Americanos) en 1994, y recibió el Premio de Poesía Natalie Ornish del Texas Institute de las Letras. , NH, y en 2004 fue juez de la Serie Nacional de Poesía.


The Grand Array , Trinity University Press, 2010, ISBN 978-1-59534-067-2
Wayfare . Penguin. 2008. ISBN 978-0-14-311334-8 .
Generations . Penguin. 2004. ISBN 978-0-14-200450-0 .
Song of the World Becoming, New and Collected Poems, 1981 - 2001 , Milkweed Editions, 2001, ISBN 978-1-57131-413-0
A Covenant of Seasons , a collaboration with the artist Joellyn Duesberry , Hudson Hills Press, 1998, ISBN 978-1-55595-155-9
The Dream of the Marsh Wren, Writing as Reciprocal Creation , Milkweed Editions, 1999, ISBN 978-1-57131-228-0
Eating Bread and Honey , Milkweed Editions, 1997, ISBN 978-1-57131-406-2
Firekeeper, New and Selected Poems Milkweed, 1994; Milkweed, 2005, ISBN 978-1-57131-421-5
Geocentric , Gibbs Smith Publisher, 1993, ISBN 978-0-87905-551-6
Splitting and Binding . Wesleyan University Press. 1989. ISBN 978-0-8195-1173-7 .
Legendary Performance (Ion Press, 1987)
The Tattooed Lady in the Garden Wesleyan University Press, 1986, ISBN 978-0-8195-6149-7
The Expectations of Light Princeton University Press, 1981, ISBN 978-0-691-01386-2


Best Spiritual Writing in 1999, 2000, 2001
Prentice Hall Anthology of Women's Literature, Verse and Universe
Poets of the New Century
The Measured Word (on poetry and science)
Stand-Up Poetry
David Wagoner, David Lehman, ed. (2009). "A Blind Astronomer in the Age of Stars" . Best American Poetry . Simon and Schuster. ISBN 978-0-7432-9976-3 .
Leon Stokesbury, ed. (1999). "In Order to Perceive" . The Made Thing . University of Arkansas Press. ISBN 978-1-55728-579-9 .
The Discovery of Poetry


Permití que la gata perdida de un desconocido
entrara en casa. Llevaba un cascabel
y cargaba consigo el extraño
sentido de sí misma, investigaba las premisas,
la intención, la inquietud, vagando debajo
de fregaderos y agujeros de ratón con telarañas
en armarios de escaleras, en ocultos
escondrijos del sótano, saltaba a la salvaje
luz solar del cedro y al movimiento del roble
desde el umbral de la cocina, ella y su cascabel,
al volcarse a lo largo de pretiles y orillas del trinchador,
al deslizarse suave por las jarras de jengibre en el mosaico
sobre la chimenea, alrededor de la exquisita
cerámica de Pierrot, el San Francisco
tallado en piedra.

El sonido de su cascabel, de ruido suave,
suave como su movimiento, se convirtió en el primer
cascabel vivo del colchón, el único
conjunto de cascabeles entre el arcón y el cofre moldeados
en la atmósfera estática del desván,
el único matiz del tañido que se introdujo en las silenciosas
alacenas, en los pilares de barandales apagados.

Frunciendo, arrugando la felpa de colchas
y cojines estampados, de pronto se detuvo
en nuestro sofá de terciopelo para echarse,
informe y alargada, una bolsa deshuesada
de somnolencia pura. Callado y tranquilo,
el cascabel se volvió el tañido silencioso
de su sueño tan sagrado y armónico
que renunció al nombre de su anfitrión.

Ya partió y ahora nadie aquí
es totalmente el mismo, nadie está exento
de infección de gata, traslación de gata, rincón
y vigor de gata. La cabecera de la mesa
es un pedestal de gata; el fleco de la cortina,
cordeles, marcos adornados, son presas de la gata.
La veta de madera de paredes se mueve

Como el movimiento líquido de la gata al enrollarse
en los cordeles vacíos. Y la ventana
exterior donde la gata se encaramó
brevemente, incluso el nido del pinzón que observo
ya no es autónomo, al ser,
además, pinzón en los ojos de gato,
el único pinzón que un gato puede ver.

Los pasillos y los ecos
de mi casa, modelada por el gato regalado
e ido, labran al gato perdido y recobrado.
Inesperado reordenar la llegada curiosa
la próxima vez, lobo, mariposa, perezoso, babosa,
espectro, viento...

Traducción: Uriel Martínez 

Counting What the Cactus Contains

Elf owl, cactus wren, fruit flies incubating
In the only womb they'll ever recognize.
Shadow for the sand rat, spines
And barbary ribs clenched with green wax.
Seven thousand thorns, each a water slide,
A wooden tongue licking the air dry.

Inside, early morning mist captured intact,
The taste of drizzle sucked
And sunsplit. Whistle
Of the red-tailed hawk at midnight, rush
Of the leaf-nosed bat, the soft slip
Of fog easing through sand held in tandem.

Counting, the vertigo of its attitudes
Across the evening; in the wood of its latticed bones--
The eye sockets of every saint of thirst;
In the gullet of each night-blooming flower--the crucifix
Of the arid.

In its core, a monastery of cells, a brotherhood
Of electrons, a column of expanding darkness
Where matter migrates and sparks whorl,
And travel has no direction, where distance 
Bends backward over itself and the ascension
Of Venus, the stability of Polaris, are crucial.

The cactus, containing
Whatever can be said to be there,
Plus the measurable tremble of its association
With all those who have been counting.

In General

This is about no rain in particular,
just any rain, rain sounding on the roof,
any roof, slate or wood, tin or clay
or thatch, any rain among any trees,
rain in soft, soundless accumulation,
gathering rather than falling on the fir
of juniper and cedar, on a lace-community
of cobwebs, rain clicking off the rigid
leaves of oaks or magnolias, any kind
of rain, cold and smelling of ice or rising 
again as steam off hot pavements
or stilling dust on country roads in August.
This is about rain as rain possessing
only the attributes of any rain in general.

And this is about night, any night
coming in its same immeasurably gradual
way, fulfilling expectations in its old
manner, creating heavens for lovers
and thieves, taking into itself the scarlet
of the scarlet sumac, the blue of the blue
vervain, no specific night, not a night
of birth or death, not the night forever
beyond the frightening side of the moon,
not the night always meeting itself
at the bottom of the sea, any sea, warm
and tropical or starless and stormy, night
meeting night beneath Arctic ice.
This attends to all nights but no night.

And this is about wind by itself,
not winter wind in particular lifting
the lightest snow off the mountaintop
into the thinnest air, not wind through
city streets, pushing people sideways,
rolling ash cans banging down the block,
not a prairie wind holding hawks suspended
mid-sky, not wind as straining sails
or as curtains on a spring evening, casually
in and back over the bed, not wind
as brother or wind as bully, not a lowing
wind, not a high howling wind. This is
about wind solely as pure wind in itself,
without moment, without witness.
Therefore this night tonight--
a midnight of late autumn winds shaking
the poplars and aspens by the fence, slamming
doors, rattling the porch swing, whipping
thundering black rains in gusts across
the hillsides, in batteries against the windows
as we lie together listening in the dark, our own
particular fingers touching--can never
be a subject of this specific conversation

Nearing Autobiography

Those are my bones rifted
and curled, knees to chin,
among the rocks on the beach, 
my hands splayed beneath my skull
in the mud. Those are my rib
bones resting like white sticks
wracked on the bank, laid down,
delivered, rubbed clean
by river and snow.

Ethereal as seedless weeds
in dim sun and frost, I see
my own bones translucent as locust
husks, light as spider bones, 
as filled with light as lantern
bones when the candle flames.
And I see my bones, facile,
willing, rolling and clacking,
reveling like broken shells
among themselves in a tumbling surf.

I recognize them, no other's,
raggedly patterned and wrought, 
peeled as a skeleton of sycamore
against gray skies, stiff as a fallen
spruce. I watch them floating
at night, identical lake slivers
flush against the same star bones
drifting in scattered pieces above.

Everything I assemble, all
the constructions I have rendered 
are the metal and dust of my locked
and storied bones. My bald cranium
shines blind as the moon.

Stone Bird

I remember you. You’re the one
who lifted your ancient bones
of fossil rock, pulled yourself free
of the strata like a plaster figure
rising from its own mold, became
flesh and feather, took wing,
arrested the sky.

You’re the one who, though marble,
floated as beautifully as a white
blossom on the pond all summer,
who, though skeletal and particled
like winter, glimmered as solid as a bird
of cut crystal in the icy trees.

You are redbird—sandstone
wings and agate eyes—at dusk.
You are greybird—polished granite
and pearl eyes—just before dawn,
midnight bird with a reflective
vacancy of heart like a mirror
of pure obsidian.

You’re the one who flew down
to that river from the heavens,
as if your form alone were the only
holy message needed. You were alabaster
then in the noonday sun.

Once I saw you rise without rising
from your prison pedestal
in the garden beneath the lime tree.
At that moment your ghost
in its haunting permeated every
regality of the forest with light,
reigned with disdain in thin air
above the mountain, sank in union
with the crosswinds of the sea.

I remember you. You’re the one
who entered in through my death
as if it were an open window
and you were the sound of the serenade
being sung outside for me, the words
of which, I know now, are of freedom
cast in stone forever.

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