1.10.11

Ojo con Laura Kasischke





Una elogiosa reseña en la revista L’Express (pueden verla aquí: "El mundo hipócrita de las universidades estadounidenses") me llama la atención sobre esta aún joven escritora y ama de casa estadounidense, nacida en 1961. Ganadora de varios premios de poesía y de novela, LK ha sido merecedora también de la Beca Guggenheim, y una de sus novelas, The Life Before Her Eyes, fue llevada al cine por Vadim Perelman, con el protagónico de Uma Thurman y Evan Rachel Wood.

Al parecer, esta escritora tiene mucha pegada en Francia, pues todas sus novelas traducidas han sido éxitos de crítica, sobre todo por su visión ácida del mundo académico de EE. UU., la cual tiene su cumbre en el libro, traducido como Les Revenants, que reseña para L’Express André Clavel.

Por lo pronto, los dejo con un par de poemas de la escritora:



Kitchen Song


The white bowls in the orderly
cupboards filled with nothing.

The sound
of applause in running water.
All those who've drowned in oceans, all
who've drowned in pools, in ponds, the small
family together in the car hit head on. The pantry

full of lilies, the lobsters scratching to get out of the pot, and God

being pulled across the heavens
in a burning car.

The recipes
like confessions.
The confessions like songs.
The sun. The bomb. The white

bowls in the orderly
cupboards filled with blood. I wanted

something simple, and domestic. A kitchen song.

They were just driving along. Dad
turned the radio off, and Mom
turned it back on.


"Twenty-Ninth Birthday"

Suddenly I see that I
have been wearing my mother's body
for a long time now. It all
belongs to her, here where the skin
is softest and here
where it puckers in disgust -- each
inch. The very nails that pounded
her body to pieces
build me one just like it
and I have been wearing it
like a terrible house
and never noticed -- all of it
hers, except this mole on my arm --that
belonged to my father's mother
and it was left to me
to remind me that I
am one of those
witches, too, praying
in the dry face of the moon
while I walk around with death
in my big breasts, like them, full
already of my future scars
and pain and hallucinations
that shriek ahead like train tracks
past this naked house
across the self-pitying
pleasureless decades left.
I have turned my face to the wall to hide it
while you slip my father's
angry face over yours.

1 comentario:

  1. Anónimo3.10.11

    http://www.larepublica.pe/03-10-2011/la-poesia-moderna-y-sus-poetas-fundamentales

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