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sábado, 3 de agosto de 2013

TOM PICKARD [10.366]

Tom Pickard   Poeta, nacido en 1946, en Newcastle upon Tyne , Inglaterra fue un iniciador importante del movimiento conocido como el renacimiento de la poesía británica .Trabajó en radio y realizó documentales.  De 1963 a 1972 dirigió las lecturas de poesía en Morden Tower -en la que leyeron Allen Ginsberg, Robert Creeley y Ed Dorn- y de 1963 a 1973 llevó adelante la libería Ultima Thule.



High on the Walls, Fulcrum Press, 1967 , Horizon Press, 1968.
New Human Unisphere, Ultima Thule Bookshop, 1969.
An Armpit of Lice, Fulcrum Press, 1970.
The Order of Chance, Fulcrum Press, 1971.
Dancing under Fire, Middle Earth Books, 1973.
Hero Dust: New and Selected Poems, Schocken, 1979.
OK Tree, Pig Press, 1980.
Domestic Art, Slug Press (Vancouver), 1981.
In Search of "Ingenuous," Vancouver, 1981.
Custom and Exile, Allison & Busby, 1985, Schocken, 1986.
Shedding Her Skirts, Bloodaxe, 1985.
Tiepin Eros: New & Selected Poems, Bloodaxe Books, 1994.


Guttersnipe (stories), City Lights Books, 1971.
(Editor) Tony Jackson, The Lesser Known Shagg, Ultima Thule Bookshop, 1971.
Serving My Time to a Trade, Paideuma (Orono, ME), 1980.
Jarrow March (political history), Schocken, 1981.
We Make Ships, Secker and Warburg, 1989.
Tiepin Eros, Bloodaxe (Newcastle upon Tyne, England), 1994.
Fuckwind, Etruscan (Buckfastleigh, England), 1999.
Hole in the Wall, Flood Editions (Chicago, IL), 2002.
Thrice and a Half (poems) T. Clark (Brightlingsea, England), 2003.
The Dark Months of May, Flood Editions (Chicago, IL), 2004.

Rosa blanca

me entregaste una rosa blanca 
colocaste la lámpara sobre la estufa 
se prendió fuego 
el I Ching dijo 
trueno sobre el lago 
rayo en Baker Street

encendí la hornalla
y explotó una mecha
resplandor azul
la experiencia entera
es eléctrica


you gave me a white rose 
put the lamp on the stove 
it caught fire 
the I Ching said 
thunder above the lake 
lightning in Baker Street

switched on the cooker
and blew a fuse
blue flash
you see
the whole experience
is electric


toma esto 
para despertar

y que la serpiente 

el pensamiento 
con gracia

deja que esta herramienta cotidiana 
afine la costumbre

que le dé
a la mano un papel

la conciencia
una intervención digital

soné una vez
que una lapicera escribía

tinta iluminada 
como neón

que tus palabras
resplandezcan como la corriente de un río
después de la lluvia

de tanto en tanto 
piensa en mí 
cuando lo sostengas


take this 
to awake

and snake 

with grace

let this common tool 
fine tune custom

make such 
apart of hand

a digital audit

I once dreamt 
a pen wrote

illuminated ink 
like neon

may your words 
glow a river rush 
after rain

think of me when 
you hold it

(Traducción: Matías Serra Bradford)


Lark & Merlin

Read the Q & A


a wren,
perched on a hawthorn
low enough to skip
the scalping winds,
sang a scalpel song

seafrets drift
sheer along shorelines

listening to hail spray glass
and wind
and a waitress laugh
in a cafe without customers
I fell to fell thinking

                         * * *

a sullen light through vapor
thins a line of hills

the edge of everything is nothing
whipped by wind

watched on a webcam
bound to a bedpost
gag on my shaft

rose blush of road-kill rabbit
insides out on tarmacadam

                         * * *

cumulus in a tarn
its fast shadow
flees far hills

a wave of sleek grass
skiffs mist

my hand thought of her
a photograph
waiting to happen

                         * * *

this come-to-kill wind
rips at the root

here she comes
and there she goes
rushes bow to rime

I should shut down
close off
if I could

how quick the mist
how quick


my lover, the assassin,
is beautiful

she has come to kill me
and I concur

just now she sleeps
but when she wakes I’m dead

her eyelids flitter
as I prepare her potions,
her delicious poisons

                         * * *

as she flew past a lick
of her melodic nectar
stuck to my wing,
making flight, for an instant,

but nothing preening couldn’t fix

                         * * *

she asked about my heart,
its evasive flight;
but can I trust her with its secrets?

and does the merlin, in fast pursuit of its prey,
tell the fleeing lark
it is enamored of its song?

or the singing lark turn tail
and fly into the falcon’s talons?

                         * * *

my heart, the cartographer, charts
to the waterline,
is swept back as the tide turns
wiping the map blank, wave
after moon-drawn wave

but it beats, my heart,
of its own volition

a lark sings winds rush reeds
walking home I stride these tracks
with her tread

the blurred thumbprint
of a smudged moon


it has gone on for days

strumming rushes
taking up tales,
taking them on

the fall of my foot,
on tufts

a stroke of light along a law lain in under a long cloud

I accrete—lichen to limestone
sphagnum to peat

                         * * *

late shadows gather in the dark

words unwrite
as they are written
as they are spoken

songs sprung
from heart and lung
to tongue


                         * * *

drunk winds stumble over shuffling roofs
shake his sleep who dreams
a lost love
will not

recurring swirls
of old gold
blown light

you can’t help
but be in it

as it opens
and falls back on itself
unfolds and unsays

I do not want to die
without writing the unwritten

pleasure of water

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