Patricia Spears Jones
(Arkansas, EEUU, 1951)
Vive en Nueva York desde 1970 y es un miembro activo de su incesante actividad literaria.
Ha publicado tres libros de poesía:
Painkiller: Poems (Tia Chucha Press, 2010)
Femme du Monde (Tia Chucha Press, 2006)
The Weather That Kills (Coffee House Press, 1995)
HonorES Y pREMIOS:
Included in The Best American Poetry 2000 edited by Rita Dove.
National Endowment for the Arts, 1994
También es autora de dos obras de teatro producidas por Mabou Mines:
Mother (1994)y Song for New York: What Women Do when Men Sit Knitting (2007) y tres colecciones de relatos, siendo la más reciente Swimming to America (Red Glass Books, 2011). Cuenta con premios nacionales de poesía y ha ejercido como profesora en diversas instituciones académicas y culturales. Además, es editora de Think: Poems for Aretha Franklin’s Inauguration Day Hat (BOMB Books, 2009) y Ordinary Women: An Anthology of Poetry by New York City Women (Ordinary Women Books, 1978) así como coeditora de BOMB Magazine y columnista de Calabar Magazine, revistas publicadas en Brooklyn, NY.
Estos dos poemas aparecen en el volumen Mujeres a los remos: Antología de poetas estadounidenses contemporáneas. Edición bilingüe. (Tlalepaque, Jalisco: Mantis Editores, 2012).
Traducción y nota: Natalia Carbajosa
http://www.elcoloquiodelosperros.net/numero32/esp32pa.html
La gata sobre el tejado de zinc o Liz en ropa interior
En la época en que solo había aire acondicionado en cines
y hospitales, el plató de la casa está lleno de ventiladores.
Un gran remolino en lo alto que arroja luz y sombra a partes iguales.
Atmosférico. Nobleza sureña en el último romance.
Sudor, sofoco, el tintineo del hielo en cristal bien tallado.
Dinero fresco y buena iluminación. Y con suerte, el film rebosa
de Elizabeth Taylor en sujetador y bragas
con su masa de cabello negro bien cardado sobre su regia cabeza.
Lustrosa cual pantera
Ojos violeta y carmín en los labios.
La apoteosis de la bella en el baño.
La gata sobre el tejado de zinc en luz y sombra.
La luz invade la mansión donde gruñe Papá Grande,
otra clase de gato. Está sufriendo.
La toma recorre un dormitorio bien amueblado
en el que un Paul Newman de saludable aspecto
procura parecer borracho y tullido
por algún descuido del guión. Está sufriendo.
Y luego está Liz en reluciente sujetador y bragas.
Parece salida de un anuncio de revista:
“Soñé que lanzaba mil espasmos en…” (1)
¡Oh, qué dama! Acaricia, chilla y ronronea.
Todo el mundo es un gato en este film.
Al principio parece que esto va de S.E.X.O.
cada vez que Liz y Paul se marcan el uno al otro
su considerable territorio escénico
pero entonces brama Papá Grande y va de C.A.N.C.E.R.
De la nada surge la cuñada embarazada
y muchos niños bien vestidos y sin gracia que provocan
desdeñosos comentarios de la desesperada Maggie;
mejora el guión.
Todas estas criaturas felinas de brillante belleza
se lamen a sí mismas a la espera de mayor recompensa:
la Gran Mansión, la Gran Vida, pero antes han de cruzar la Gran Mentira.
Así que ahí está Liz en su apogeo acariciando al reticente Brick.
Él tiene su botella y su muleta y su recuerdo de un pobre imbécil
que murió joven (¿en sus brazos?).
Tanta culpa, y tan poco tiempo.
El pobre Brick, cuyo nombre en pantalla anticipa multitud
de nombres masculinos de telenovelas
sucumbirá a la magnífica Maggie antes de la escena final.
Maggie quiere su bebé y dinero y un mejor decorador
para esta Casa del Sufrimiento.
Mientras tanto, Jack Carson hace el papel de su vida,
pero nadie se da cuenta porque Liz luce ropa interior ceñida.
Cual espectros, los criados Negros van y vienen,
todo lo ven, todo lo saben, esconden la vajilla de porcelana y la plata de ley.
Cobrarán su paciencia y sus secretos y se irán al Norte.
Se comprarán una finca en Kansas o en Wisconsin
y disfrutarán de largos días de tormenta y nieve.
—————
(1) Referencia claramente erótica que es a su vez eco de un anuncio de televisión sobre sujetadores donde una Helena de Troya comercial decía: «I dreamed I launched a thousand ships in my Maidenform Bra».
de Femme du Monde (Tia Chucha Press, 2006)
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or Liz in Lingerie
In the era when air conditioning was placed only in movie theaters
and hospitals, the house set is filled with fans.
Big overhead whirling casting light and shadow in equal parts.
Atmospheric. Southern nobility in a last romance.
Sweat, swoon, the clinking of ice cubes in well-cut crystal.
New money and good lighting. And if lucky, the movie fills up with
Elizabeth Taylor dressed in slips and bras
with masses of black hair piled high on her regal head.
Sleek as a panther
Violet eyes and red lipstick.
The bathing beauty apotheosis.
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in light and shadow.
Light fills out the big house where Big Daddy growls,
another kind of cat. He’s in pain.
The camera pans a well-appointed bedroom
where a very healthy looking Paul Newman
tries to look drunk and crippled
by some accident of bad writing. He’s in pain.
And then there is Liz in shimmering bra and slip.
She looks as if she stepped out a magazine advertisement
“I dreamed I launched a thousand jerk offs in my ...”
Oh what a dame! She strokes, screams and purrs.
Everyone’s a cat in this movie.
At first this seems to be about S.E.X.
whenever Liz and Paul mark each other’s
considerable scenic territory
but then Big Daddy roars and it’s about C.A.N.C.E.R.
Out of nowhere arrives the pregnant sister in law
and many well-dressed, unappealing children who occasion
snide remarks from the desperate Maggie,
the writing gets better.
All these feline creatures with their shining surface beauty
are licking themselves in anticipation of some greater reward
the Big House, the Big Life but first they have to get past the Big Lie.
So there is Liz at her loveliest stroking the reluctant Brick.
He’s got his bottle and his crutch and his memories of some poor schmuck
who died young (in his arms?).
So much guilt, so little time.
Poor Brick, whose screen name anticipates a multitude
of male nom de soap operas
will succumb to the magnificent Maggie before the final scene.
Maggie wants her baby and money and a better decorator
for this House of Pain.
Meanwhile, Jack Carson gives the performance of his career,
but no one notices because Liz wears clinging lingerie.
As if spectral, Black servants come and go
see all, know all, stash the good china and the heavy silver.
They’ll cash in their patience and their secrets and move north.
They will buy property in Kansas or Wisconsin
and enjoy long stretches of storm and snow.
Albada
Parece tu mano derecha infantil: puño cerrado
agarrando el latir del corazón
La última copa de anoche robó a tu lengua su pericia habitual
y aun así trajiste una tormenta más rápida y más dura
a mi interior, y otra vez, sí, ésta alcanzó a mi corazón.
Miro cómo te despiertas y levantas
ni siquiera lágrimas esta vez.
Un Sinsonte señala su presencia
por los patios traseros de Brooklyn.
Se abren tus manos y me acarician la espalda.
Tu boca encontró la mía a medianoche.
Ahora está tu boca seca de tanto beber, de tanto vino.
Esta mañana nuestros dos rostros ajados por la falta de sueño.
Este es el lento destejer, la reincidencia que sabíamos que podría suceder.
Tu rostro se ha relajado, el niño más presente que el hombre,
y se aquieta el dolor de mi alma, más mujer que la niña.
Jugueteando en lo oscuro, es la nuestra una música de solos mutuos.
A la luz del alba comenzamos de nuevo a practicar la sensatez.
La radio de mi vecino pregona malas noticias.
Te marchas.
Me voy a trabajar.
de Painkiller (Tia Chucha Press, 2010)
Aubade
Your right hand is infant like–balled fist
holding heart’s sound
Last night’s drink stole your tongue’s usual ease
And yet you brought a storm moving faster, harder
inside me, and yes again, my heart was taken.
I watch you wake and move away
not even tears this time.
A Mocking Bird makes his presence known
across Brooklyn’s backyards.
Your hands open and stroke my torso.
Your mouth found mine at midnight.
Now your mouth is dry from all that tasting, all that wine.
This morning both our faces rough from poor sleeping.
This is the slow unraveling, the backslide we knew could happen.
Your face has quieted, the boy more present than the man,
and my heartache diminishes, more woman than the girl.
Fooling around in the dark, ours is a music of mutual solos.
By dawn’s light we begin again to practice wisdom.
My neighbor’s radio screams bad news.
You leave.
I go to work.
All Saints Day, 2001
The floating lights ofthe emergency vehicles circle wind .
We walk immune to Sirens shrieking.
What if the circling lights were pink or yellow, not blue and white?
Who is the Saint of fog?
Who is the Saint of
our city decelerated in thick humidity, intemperate heat?
Who is the Saint of
smiling eyed pretty girls wearing tiny heeled shoes and short skirts
prowling loud pubs on 2nd avenue or the gray hooded Black guys
smoking weed, talking trash in the shadows of Grand Central?
Who is the Saint of
the Black woman in the pizza parlor who, after too many noise complaints
unheeded, declares I own a 9 millimeter, legal,
if I shoot your dog what are you going to do about it?
Who is the Saint of
the boys in my “hood”
who call each other “son”
peer to peer father to father.
Where’s daddy
Where’s mama
Where’s the good old days?
Is this the new catechism
and where is the handsome priest to answer?
By rote : do we sing a possible peace?
Shall we venture into this destroyed world thinking
charm, glee, proverbial opportunity
Shall we gather the names of the lost
then watch them float like feathers on the dirty wind
Shall we gather at the altars of old gods
and whine about our lives
Shall we watch the shadows watch us back
Now that clocks pulse instead of tick
are the streets safer for the wretched, the damned?
In what cinema are the dreams of mass destruction
so dear as ours?
Painkiller
I can taste the metal
lose my desire for red meat
relax, every muscle
relax
emotion
relax
the time of day
I can give you
the time of day
What I talk about is how
love eludes me
No what I talk about is
what’s wrong with me
No what I talk about is
what will happen to me
Fear
is the secret.
Always fear.
What you get from me is
the edge of a trace of shadows
and that’s all you’ll get
I can’t give anymore
I don’t want to
Everything hurts
This hurtle into living space
and that swift slide out of it.
You want secrets
I say every reckless act
results from a moment of fear.
While compassion is the simple recognition
That what is done cannot be undone,
may not be forgiven.
And a recognition that the murderer and the martyr
the adulterer and the healer can at any moment
change positions, become the other.
It simply depends on how much pain
You need to kill.
What I Have Not Done for Love
I have not torn my hair in a public place
Or worn a dress the size of a dime
Once I spoke in a French accent, but it sounded
Lithuanian
I have not denounced my family
or let the back of my hand slap a cousin’s cheek
I have not found the perfect strand of pearls
Or made a gift of sudden beauty
I have yet to consult
the Fortune Telling Chicken
in Chinatown
I admit a fondness Jack Daniels and Cosmopolitans
And the ease with which Arkansas wrecks my
my quick New York speech
On nights when stars brightly pattern the Brooklyn sky
I search for your hand and find a drift of wind.
Beloved of God
Dixie cups and bullet marks—a man’s body gone to the morgue,
tiny bombs exploding limbs, organs. Bullet marks and Dixie cups.
A winter scene suddenly hot with summertime choler.
A young man’s gone to Paradise.
His body is bomb site.
His assassins out of breath, out of control, out of depth.
What was there, what scent? One night
one light going out, one noise that did not sound right.
41 bullets across the plane of his body. 41 bullets scattered dust and the smell of snow.
Alive, thinking about what–the rent,
a party, the pretty girls that did or did not smile his way.
Then the fusillade.
Amadou, Amadeus, Beloved of God. Gone to Africa, back to glory.
The fusillade . Beloved of God. Young men, young women shout your name.
Justice plucks off her dirty blindfold, joins the hue and cry.
Beloved of God. Prince of the city. Scion of Africa.
Sweet face. Hardworking. Laughing. Friendly. Biding his time.
Dixie cups cloak the breathe of damage, the depth of duty
four white men walking away. Alive. Bullets spent
What rent their good sense from finger on the trigger?
The easy gift of gun and badge?
Light bulb shatters. Someone falls as if shot. Another shoots
and this young man whispers I am free here. I am free here.
His mother will bring her sweet voice, her steely spine and her beautiful angry eyes
to bear on the city he had grown to call home. Beloved of God. Bombed body.
His father will shelter his final journey back to Africa in a shroud of pride and rage.
Beloved of God.
Gone to glory. Gone to Paradise.
Away from this most predictable of American stories-e.
41 times across the hardscrabble of a Bronx street, bullets patter
like marbles, four killers walk away, tears in their eyes, perhaps.
Justice , re-knots her dirty blindfold across dull eyes,
giving them room to breathe—
A Black man dead,
Four white men walking home
again.
Last day of Passover, April 2006
It is one of those soft days, girls are snapping gum
And flinging their scent-
Boys look their way defiant interested and if you see them at a certain angle terrified.
Oh New York City, eternal dramas of teenagers in love lust mad
Money in this whirl
And their Mamas and Papis tired. Long days at the MTA the office the factory
That will close sometime next year globalization builds up one set of poor people
Tears down another.
And why am I listening to Milton Nascimento unfolding a silk curtain
of sounds Brazil, the late 1970s the world dreams a freedom
for Africans in the New World,
north and south and Milton is one
to sing those dreams to me. Oh Saxophone. Oh Trumpets.
Oh rhythms Southern African Indian the New World honored.
Oh first kisses and last goodbyes.
I pray for friends in grief their Mamas and Papis sick and dying.
I pray for my own heart stunned too often by love’s promise, then
Left to heal somehow.
I pray for you now gone, more than a year.
Many days and nights long ago, we parted
Our New Orleans washed away
Washed away.
Someone some where bum some sage for me
Drums liberate senses remember
Remember
Spring is the season that demands an abandonment of innocence;
Demands we tease out sadness from our petty hormonal clowning
Demand we walk among the ghosts our hopes
Calling fierce names, soft names, loved names, lost names
In language as liquid as Portuguese or as supple as English.
In memory of Ahmos Zu-Bolton
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