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sábado, 2 de agosto de 2014


Suji Kwock Kim

Suji Kwock Kim

(Nacida en 1969) es una americana nacida en Corea, poeta y dramaturga.

Se graduó de la universidad de Yale, los Talleres de Escritores de Iowa, Universidad Nacional de Seúl, donde fue becaria Fulbright y la Universidad de Stanford, donde fue becaria Stegner. 

Su trabajo ha sido publicado en The New York Times, el Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, PIZARRA, The Nation, The New Republic, The Paris Review y de la National Public Radio, reimpresa en 24 antologías y traducida al coreano, japonés, ruso, español, italiano, alemán, árabe y bengalí.


Lucille Medwick Award from the Poetry Society of America, 2012
George Bogin Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America , 2011 and 2012
Addison Metcalf Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters [ 3 ]
Walt Whitman Award from the Academy of American Poets
Bay Area Book Reviewers Award
Griffin Poetry Prize International shortlist
Whiting Writers' Award [ 4 ]
The Nation / Discovery Award
National Endowment for the Arts grant
Blakemore Foundation for Asian Studies grant
Association of Asian American Studies grant
Korea Foundation grant
Japan-US Friendship Commission grant


Notes from the Divided Country . Louisiana State University Press. 2003. ISBN 978-0-8071-2873-2 .
Private Property (multimedia play, Edinburgh Festival Fringe)
Opera with Mark Grey, TBD (libretto; Los Angeles Philharmonic and Los Angeles Master Chorale, forthcoming)
"hwajon," "Flight," "Looking at a Yi Dynasty Rice Bowl" (texts for choral compositions by Mayako Kubo, Tokyo Philharmonic Chorus, 2007)
"Occupation," "Fragments of the Forgotten War," "Montage with Neon" (texts for compositions for voice and piano by Jerome Blais, Dalhousie University, Halifax, Nova Scotia, 2007)


"American Religious Poetry," ed. Harold Bloom. (Library of America, 2007)
"American War Poetry: 1794-2004," ed. Lorrie Goldensohn. (Columbia University Press, 2006)
"Asian-American Poetry: The Next Generation." (University of Illinois Press, 2004)
Backpack Literature, ed. Dana Gioia (Longman, 2006)
Berliner Anthologie (Alexander Verlag, in association with Internationales Literaturfestival Berlin, 2006)
Century of the Tiger: 20th Century Korean Literature (University of Hawaii Press, 2003)
Contemporary American Poetry (Penguin, 2004)
Contemporary American Poetry in Russian Translation (OSI, Moscow, 2008, in association with the National Endowment for the Arts and US Embassy in Russia)
"Crossing State Lines" (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011)
Echoes Upon Echoes: New Korean American Writing (Temple University Press, 2003)
The Future Dictionary of America, ed. Dave Eggers and Vendela Veda (McSweeney's, 2004)
The Griffin Prize Anthology. (House of Anansi Press, Toronto, 2004)
Inside Literature. (Longman, 2007)
An Introduction to Poetry. (Longman, 2012)
"Language for a New Century: Contemporary Voices from the Middle East, Asia and Beyond." (Norton, 2008)
"Legitimate Dangers: American Poets of the New Century." (Sarabande, 2006)
Lineas Conectadas: Nueva Poesia de los Estados Unidos (Sarabande, 2006, in association with the National Endowment for the Arts and US Embassy in Mexico)
Literature: A Pocket Anthology (Penguin, 2007)
Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing (Longman, 2012)
A Mingling of Waters (Supernova P&D Pvt. Ltd., Kolkata, India , 2008, in association with the US Embassy in India, USKLE, and 2008 Kolkata Book Fair )
"The Paris Review Book for Planes, Trains, Elevators and Waiting Rooms." (Picador, 2004)
Poetry: A Pocket Anthology (Penguin, 2004)
Poetry For Students (Thomson Gale, 2006)
Poetry On Record, 1888-2006: 98 Poets Read Their Work (Shout Factory/ Sony BMG Music , 2006)
Poetry 30 (University of West Virginia Press, 2005)
"The Koreas," Charles Armstrong (Routledge, 2006)

Entre guerras

("Mujer con el cuello cortado" - 
Alberto Giacometti)

No podés escucharla.
Mirá cómo está tirada
            debajo tuyo, el cuerpo una herida
a través del espacio: como si la carne fuera una herida

            al espacio, ser desgarrada
en tiras de cuero cabelludo, nervios,
            huesos, llanto.
El hierro fundido es cruel, borra

            casi todas los signos de lo humano.
Pero algo atraviesa
            el fuego, la boca del horno-
Una cabeza carbonizada lanzándose

            como hacia el pasado,
un brazo retorciéndose hasta que la mano se retuerce
hasta ser la abrupta garra de una bestia.
Sobrevive sólo lo suficiente

            para devolver la mirada; de otra manera
los pechos de metal no sobresaldrían
            como pechos, y el tajo
donde su garganta se desgarra

            no sangraría
con un silencio casi humano…
            Escuchá, algo se revuelve,
se desenrosca. Un hormigueo. Un crujido de heladas

            alas invisibles-
y el rasguñido a través del aliento
            que no está ahí,
un grito que quiere ser oído,

            quiere nacer
en el oído del corazón del corazón.
            Sus dientes me carcomen.
Su sangre se siente fresca; su cuerpo todavía

            se marchita, sellada
en un final de bronce, congelado para siempre
            en el momento
en que el cuchillo invisible lo atraviesa-.

            Afuera es 1932:
“nada sólido, nada dura”.
            Por qué habría de durar esto.
Por qué piernas retorcidas alrededor de la espina,

            burlando la forma del sufrimiento
que dura. Qué se supone que deba
            mirar, por qué ella nunca
va a hablar. Esto está más allá de la desnudez.

            Le tengo miedo a su llanto.
Escuché los agudos cueros cabelludos de otras aguas
            haciendo espuma en la orilla:
una helada ola de nada, y nada.

            Lo que sea vuelve
para encontrar una voz, para abrir
            el mundo dentro de la palabra-
impronunciable, su congelado espacio abriéndose. 

Versión de Tom Maver

Between the wars

(“Woman with her throat cut”, Alberto Giacometti)

            You cannot hear her.
See how she lies
            beneath you, body wound
through space: as if flesh were a wound

            to space, to be stripped away
in peels of scalp, nerve,
            bone, cry.
The cast-iron is cruel, erasing

nearly all signs of the human.
But something passes through
            the fire, the oven’s mouth-
a charred head hurtling back

            as if into the past,
an arm flinching until its hand withers
into a beast’s jagged claw.
Just enough survives

            to return your gaze: otherwise
the metal breasts would not bulge
            like breasts, and the gash
where her throat rips open

            would not bleed
an almost human silence…
            Listen, something stirs,
uncoils. Caul-slither. A rustle of icy,

            invisible wings-
and clawing through breath
            that is not there,
a scream wants to be heard,

            wants to be born
in the ear at the heart’s heart.
            Its teeth gnaw at me.
Her blood feels fresh; her body still

            writhes, sealed
in a gunmetal finish, forever frozen
at the moment
the unseen knife cuts through-.

            Outside it is 1932:
“nothing solid, nothing durable”.
            Why should this endure.
Why legs twisted around the spine,

            mocking the shape of lasting
suffering. What was I meant
            to see, why she will never
speak. This is beyond nakedness.

            I’m afraid of her cry.
I hear the sharp scalps of other waters
            foaming on no shore:
a cold wave of nothing, and nothing.

            What is it comes back
to find a voice, to unseal
            the world within the word-
unspeakable, its icy space opening.


If the angle of an eye is all,   
the slant of hope, the slant of dreaming, according to each life,
what is the light of this city,
light of Lady Liberty, possessor of the most famous armpit in the world,
light of the lovers on Chinese soap operas, throwing BBQ’d ducks at each other   
                                                             with that live-it-up-while-you’re-young, Woo Me kind of love,
light of the old men sitting on crates outside geegaw shops
                                                             selling dried seahorses & plastic Temples of Heaven,
light of the Ying ‘n’ Yang Junk Palace,
light of the Golden Phoenix Hair Salon, light of Wig-o-ramas,
light of the suntanners in Central Park turning over like rotisserie chickens sizzling on a spit,
light of the Pluck U & Gone with the Wings fried-chicken shops,
the parking-meter-leaners, the Glamazons,
the oglers wearing fern-wilting quantities of cologne, strutting, trash-talking, glorious:
the immigrants, the refugees, the peddlars, stockbrokers and janitors, stenographers and cooks,
all of us making and unmaking ourselves,   
hurrying forwards, toward who we’ll become, one way only, one life only:   
free in time but not from it,
here in the city the living make together, and make and unmake over and over
Quick, quick, ask heaven of it, of every mortal relation,
feeling that is fleeing,
for what would the heart be without a heaven to set it on?
I can’t help thinking no word will ever be as full of life as this world,   
I can’t help thinking of thanks.   

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