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viernes, 2 de agosto de 2013

SARAH ARVIO [10.334]


Sarah Arvio 
(Filadelfia, EE.UU., 1954) 

Poeta. Ha vivido en Nueva York, París, Caracas, Roma y México. Durante muchos años, fue traductora para las Naciones Unidas en Nueva York y Suiza, y recientemente ha enseñado la poesía en Princeton.
      Sus poemas son ampliamente publicados en revistas como The New Yorker, The New Republic, Literary Imagination, Boston Review, The Kenyon Review and Poetry Kanto and in many online reviews.
        Compositores han puesto sus poemas a la música: Miriama Young set “Cote d’Azur” as “Inner Voices of Blue”; Steve Burke set “Armor” for the song cycle “Skin”; and William Bolcom set “Chagrin” for the song cycle “The Hawthorn Tree.”


Anthologies:

Women’s Work  “Starlings” 
The KGB Bar Book of Poems  “Mirrors”
The Best American Erotic Poems: from 1800 to the Present   “Mirrors”
The Best American Poetry 1998  “from Visits from the Seventh”





¿Llamarías a esto guerra o riña?

Entonces hablé dentro en la espiral de tu oreja
No es esto amor oh mi brujo mi señor
¿Llamarías a esto guerra o riña?

Todas estas arduas palabras se escucharon en mis oídos
Nuestra palabra acumulada es más dura que un hacha
Más pesada que un corazón sobre un camino de guerra

No dije que tú me emputecieras no nada de eso
Puedo oírte tosiendo en el amor guerra
La deformación de nuestras palabras en el campo de guerra

Cómo me tendrías si yo te tuviera
Cómo me dejarías si yo te dejara
Tocando mi cabeza y mi sien

Manoseando mi copete mientras tocas mi piel
Me pregunto si un cuchicheo es justificado
¿Me escucharás si hablo en tonos bajos?

Un grito y llanto ¿me escucharás si grito?
aquí aquí quiero decir me tendrás aquí
ensartando el espacio con el sonido de la palabra

Con el amor acumulado oído en tu oreja
esto es amor ¿no lo es? una guerra en tu oreja
amor amor una palabra en la espiral de tu oreja
_____
Traducción de Víctor Manuel Mendiola





WOOD

The last thing I ever wanted was to
write again about grief did you think I
would your grief this time not mine oh good

grief enough is enough in my life that is
enough was enough I had all those
grievances all those griefs all engraved

into the wood of my soul but would you
believe it the wood healed I grew up and
grew out and would you believe it I found

your old woody heart sprouting I thought
good new growth good new luxuriant green
leaves leaves on their woody stalks and I said

I’ll stake my life on this old stick I’ll stick
and we talked into the morning and night
and laughed green leaves and sometimes a flower

oh bower of good new love I would have it
I would bow to the new and the green
and wouldn’t you know it you were a stick

yes I know a good stick so often and then
a stick in my ribs in my heart your old
dark wood your old dark gnarled stalk

sprouting havoc and now I have grief again
and now I’ve stood for what I never should
green leaves of morning dark leaves of night







OETRYNECK

That isn’t done Grabbing your girlfriend’s neck
isn’t done I mean it is done by god
often enough but not when I’m the girl

or the friend I love you with all my soul
and all my I don’t know what else to say
my friendliness and my girlishness

but by god my friend do not grab my neck
Neck with me nestle your neck into mine
I’ve been watching the necks of the geese

my geese our geese flying over our heads
and I’ve said goose wander in my chamber
You goose don’t be a gander and don’t be

a geek Be a Greek be a pagan be
a lover of life of me of my neck
Grab my neck my shoulder or my breast

but sweetly if you must my sweet goose
or I’ll call the police Not that the Greeks
were any better at love than we are

always stabbing at their men and their gods
but my god better than the Romans
and their strikes at the neck their split necks

All they did was say do not do do not
do that and thwack off with their head
So if you ask me what Greek is I say

give me a Greek over a Roman
Oh romance romance it’s Greek to me
it was Greek to the Romans and to me

to my roaming heart and my Grecian
gods to my friends and my gods and you
you my silly goose and my strangler






Matter

I was what mattered in the end. Or if I didn't matter then nothing mattered, and if I mattered, well then all things did. 

O miracles and molecules, dust, rust. It was always a matter of matter. It might be meat or else it might be love 

(if I was meat, if I was fit to eat). What had never been matter would never matter: you might say this was a moot point. 

Clay and dust, ash and mud and mist and rust, blood-orange sunsets and turning maples, apples and cherries, sticks and trash and dust, 

rumpled papers blowing across a street (dead letters sent to him that lives away). There was life, there was loss, there was no such 

thing as loss -- there was nothing that wasn't both life and loss. No, it had to be said, in questions of matter, nothing was lost. 

It might be a matter of carnal love. This was textual and material, and for once the facts-of-the-matter were 

both heartfelt and matter-of-fact. (Oh, matter of course was always the mother.) These were the facts of life, this was my life, 

and there I was, right at the heart of it my own heart -- at the heart-of-the-matter. And did I matter now or in the end? 

O mother, maintainer and measurer, mud and fruit of the heart, meat of the heart, the question might be asked, what was the end.










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