jueves, 30 de marzo de 2017

VÍCTOR HUGO FERNÁNDEZ UMAÑA [20.056]


VÍCTOR HUGO FERNÁNDEZ UMAÑA

Nació en San José (Costa Rica), el día 07 de Agosto del año 1955. Es poeta y ensayista  aunque incursiona en la novela. Escribió una obra teórica sobre la danza: El cuerpo no tiene memoria. Suele escribir en el periódico La Nación, en el suplemento Áncora.

NOVELA

1.   Los círculos del cuerpo: 1993

POESÍA

1. Calicantos: 1993
2. Las siete partes en que antiguamente se dividía la noche: 1989


La única novela de Víctor Hugo Fernández, escrita hasta hoy, la publicó en el año 1993.1

Es una novela sencilla, de estructura lineal y de escasos personajes, prácticamente solo uno, Lupita Pola. El narrador omnisciente se acerca a la perspectiva de ella y lee, interpreta sus pensamientos, sus proyectos, sus anhelos y como el cieguito que está detrás de Miguel Ruiz, va construyendo la voz de Lupita, la dirige, la codifica como si fuera su propia voz. Nunca le da independencia, libertad, ella en sus manos, es su monigote, su símbolo. Es una de las muchas novelas de la literatura costarricenses yoísta.

Este narrador enfrenta dos facetas del mismo problema: Las voces de América con La musa de América. Lupita encarna el papel de la fanática de los cantantes populares de América que se entrega sexualmente a ellos, les da vida, les hace sentirse hombres, les recuerda que son machos y ella disfruta haciéndolos felices, realizados en su cuerpo. También ella vive para ellos, se complementa en ellos, no existe sin ellos, vive para ellos pero exige únicamente una condición, que le canten al oído sus canciones, sin ella, de nada sirven sus otros atributos. Es la amante de la voz de ellos, el clímax lo alcanza en el susurro de las canciones. No importa que ellos sean niños, estén cansados, vacíos, superficiales, tontos. Su valor radica en la voz.

Lupita es millonaria, bellísima, independiente y liberal. Solo existe para encontrarse con los vocalistas, nunca con los que forman sus comitivas, los espera, los busca, paga enormes cantidades de dinero en hoteles y discotecas, hasta que llega la noche del encuentro. Se entrega con pasión, sin restricciones, da y siente cada una de las caricias y disfruta hasta de lo imaginado, soñado, esperado y repasa los recuerdos de esos momentos sublimes de amor. No anhela otra cosa que poseerlos, ser de ellos, ser la musa, eternizarse en el recuerdo de ellos, las letras de sus canciones. Por ello deja de lado las fiestas familiares, las amigas conservadoras, de novios de escuela, de solo un hombre. Abandona todo, hasta su misma familia en pos de ese ideal: ser la musa de las Voces de América. Ellos, por el contrario, buscan su cuerpo, su entrega, su pasión, su orgasmo, su aventura.

El final para ella es trágico. Se entrega a Miguel Ruiz, lo ha esperado tanto tiempo, sin límites pero no es feliz, siente que se muere, no se realiza, a pesar de tener todos los atributos de un joven bien formado y buen amante. Se da cuenta que él no le canta al oído, cuando la ama,  la penetra, casi no le habla. Se lo hace saber y recibe la más inesperada respuesta que la envilece y la hace sentirse, ahora sí, como una puta. Él no canta, solo finge que lo hace, es su secreto. No tiene voz. Lupita guarda silencio y lo abandona, huye desconsolada en busca del mar para purificarse, para lavarse de la impureza de haberse entregado a un falso cantante, un intruso, un suplantador. De camino escucha la voz de un locutor radial que anuncia la próxima llegada al país de Durango y eso le trae nuevas ganas de vivir.

Esta novela es una especie de ironía a la hipocresía de la sociedad, al machismo, a la superficialidad de una joven millonaria pero con un ideal que aunque estúpido, por lo menos cree en algo y unos hombres que se convierten en falsos héroes, mitos, seres vacíos, niños adultos, hijitos de papi, incultos, aventureros, personajes sin madurez que aún no se han destetado y que de pronto amanecen en la gloria de la fama superficial, por no ser nada, ni siquiera hombres. Lupita era capaz de entregarse por un ideal, ellos ni siquiera tenían alguno.

1 Fernández, Víctor Hugo. Los círculos del cuerpo. Ed. REI Centroamérica, San José, 1993.


ELEGÍAS AL HERMANO

l

Mi hermano se llamaba Jorge
ahora se llama duermevela,
se acostó a dormir hace unas noches
y desde entonces navega en mi memoria.
Tenía la cálida presencia
del mes de abril entre las flores
su brazo de arcángel no alcanzaba a los más próximos,
siempre comprometido con los ajenos.
Conversaba con la enfermera
que hacía guardia en los pasillos del hospital
donde se fue a morir desconsolado.
Tenía aires marciales en todo lo que hacía,
blandía la espada sin otro afán que afirmarse,
pero era incapaz de herir, a pesar de su hoja afilada.
Pensaba que bastaban solamente las palabras
para abrir zanja y conminar al día.
Era general retirado, oficial del servicio secreto
mitómano convencido,
de esos que bajan las estrellas con solo mencionarlo.
Mi hermano decidió morirse cuando menos lo esperaba,
Aún le faltaba conquistar el Everest
Y descender a las profundidades
De su propia inocencia.


ll

Los hermanos son ese otro que nunca fuimos
pero que llevamos dentro.
En ellos nos miramos como en un espejo,
nos asusta su independencia.
Tienen su propia sombra,
Se quejan de una sed ajena
Pero no pueden ocultar nuestros gestos.
En su sonrisa se esconde una alegría
Tan propia como la piel con que salimos a la calle.
Las horas pasan por sus cuerpos
Y parece ser que un reloj muy diferente
Determina el ciclo de sus días,
Pero en ellos nos miramos como en un espejo.
Son el agua bendita que protege la liturgia de los días,
Los hermanos son lo que nunca fuimos,
La boda con alguien desconocido,
Los hijos que nunca tuve
La profesión que nunca me interesó
La mar espléndida que desemboca
En la bahía donde me espera la bondad ajena.
Los hermanos son un dolor en el pecho,
Una pérdida dolorosa cuando menos lo esperamos.


lll

Tiene la marca en la frente
La cruz de ceniza anuncia su partida.
Despliega su mirada triste
Los ojos perdidos en la inmensidad oscura
De los caminos que se aproximan.
Llora en silencio,
Como lo hacen los hombres buenos
Como lo hacen los que saben que no hay retorno
Como lloran los que se rehúsan
A aceptar su destino inexorable,
Porque vivir es siempre una apuesta con los pájaros
Que vuelan lejos del invierno de los días.
El dolor lo habita y lo consume
No le da tregua
Le arrebata la poca energía
Que ya se le extingue.
La muerte se avecina,
ya se encuentra estacionada entre sus huesos,
hace escala en las vértebras
se anida en los pliegues de la carne
y se asoma cuando ya casi
se le agotan las palabras.
Tiene la marca en la frente
No dispone de brújula que lo oriente
Pero insiste en abrazarnos
Como si al hacerlo,
Acorralara a las moiras
Que bailan indiferentes,
Sobre la agonía de su historia.









-

DANIEL JONES [20.055]

Foto por Sam Kanga / Handout



DANIEL JONES

Daniel Jones nació en Canadá, en el distrito obrero de Hamilton, en 1959. En 1977 se trasladó a Toronto para estudiar en la universidad y fue merecedor de dos premios Norma Epstein en poesía antes de abandonar sus estudios y convertirse en escritor y editor. Su única colección de poemas, The Brave Never Write Poetry (1985), del que provienen los poemas aquí incluidos, apareció cuando su autor contaba apenas con 26 años de edad. Jones fue colaborador de varias publicaciones canadienses como Piranha, What!, y Paragraph, de la cual fue editor en jefe. Escribió las novelas Obsessions: A Novel in Parts (1992), y la póstuma 1978 (1998), sobre el fin de la escena punk en Toronto.



Daniel Jones se suicidó el 13 de febrero de 1994, a la edad de 33 años, dejó atrás una colección publicada de poesía, una novela publicada, y un puñado de pliegos. Su legado, sin embargo, todavía estaba siendo escrito. Un libro de historias enlazadas, The People One Knows, se publicó poco después de su muerte, mientras que su novela de 1978 se publicó póstumamente en 1998. Estos libros, y todo lo demás que Jones escribió, con el tiempo se agotó, y estaba en peligro de ser olvidado. 



Estas versiones están a cargo del poeta costarricense G.A. Chaves.  
http://circulodepoesia.com/2017/03/poesia-canadiense-daniel-jones/



Los valientes nunca escriben poesía

Los valientes toman un tranvía a sus trabajos
temprano en la mañana, tienen accidentes de tránsito,
roban bancos. Los valientes tienen hijos, relaciones,
hipotecas. Los valientes nunca escriben estas cosas
en sus cuadernos. Los valientes mueren & quedan
muertos

Hay que tener cojones para ver televisión,
arreglarse el cabello, hacer una barbacoa. Hay que tener cojones
para volarse la fábrica de bombas de Canadá & declararse culpable
arriesgando veinticinco años

Josef Brodsky estuvo en el exilio por su poesía & ahora él
vive en la tierra de los valientes. Ahí a la gente
le gusta su poesía. Pero los valientes no la leen &
en Moscú hay gente haciendo cola en las calles
para comprar comida. Hay que tener cojones para conocer algo de felicidad
& no escribir un poema al respecto

& solo en mi habitación
clamo ahora a alguien, a quien sea. Deme alguien
la fortaleza para ser & no cuestionar el ser. Alguien
deme la fortaleza para no asomarme a los cafés &
a las bibliotecas. Deme alguien la fortaleza para no enviar solicitudes
al Consejo Canadiense para las Artes. Alguien
deme la fortaleza para no escribir poesía

Pero nada. Nadie. Las calles no han
reventado. Los tranvías pasan. El reloj se ha
movido otra pulgada

Ernesto Cardenal no escribirá poemas mientras
los EE.UU. hagan guerra en su país. Esto lo leo
en la revista Playboy. Al rato miro la imagen
de una mujer desnuda, sus piernas abiertas sobre
el desplegable & comprendo, mientras corre el semen por mi mano,
que ella nunca escribiría poesía

Es primavera en Toronto. Estoy enamorado.




Mejor calidad de vida gracias a la química

Toronto ya empezaba a cansarme,
me sentía asediado, aburrido,
tal vez hasta homicida. Fui a ver
a un loquero
                    “¿Y como qué sería
el problema?”, me preguntó
                                          “Bueno”, dije yo,
“la cosa es esta: toda la gente que conozco parece
escribir poesía. Están en todo lado,
me sofocan, no se imagina lo
terrible que es eso”.
El loquero se recostó
en su silla & cerró sus ojos. Luego
de un rato se sacudió & empezó a murmurar:
                                                    “Um…
paranoia esquizofrénica… stelazine”.
                                              Firmó
una prescripción, me dio la mano & volvió 
a su cuaderno. Al levantarme para irme

lo miré de reojo: estaba escribiendo un poema.
Corrí a la farmacia.

                              Fui a un café
un par de semanas después. Había
unas treinta personas sentadas, bebiendo
té herbal, con cara de aburridas, dobladas sobre
cuadernos & maletines. Una a una fueron
hasta el micrófono & leyeron de sus trozos
de papel:
              la mujer de un tipo lo había dejado & él
no podía encontrar a otra;
              alguien más había experimentado
algún tipo de iluminación existencial mientras
olía una bellota;
                        una mujer rememoró,
con lágrimas en sus ojos, la muerte
de su abuela.

                     Todo fue muy hermoso. Yo
me sentía de maravilla. Entoné una suave alabanza
a la stelazine. No había ni un poeta entre el gentío.




Un breve amorío

Salí de la cama & me fui a
orinar. Al regreso, ella estaba en
su escritorio, escribiendo en un diario. Al
rato, ella fue a orinar. Abrí
su diario:

31 de diciembre de 1984:
Sexo con Jones. Fue razonablemente
atento. Bastante agradable.

Nos fumamos un cigarrillo & nos dormimos,
espalda contra espalda. Por la mañana me fui a
casa & escribí este poema.




Chamba

Tomé una chamba temporal con la Liga
Canadiense de Poetas & la noche antes
de empezar pedí veinte dólares prestados
deducibles de mi salario & salí a beber

Al día siguiente desperté enfermo &
llegué una hora tarde. Mi escritorio estaba repleto de
libros que debía empacar & enviar
por correo. Me fume un par de cigarrillos
& leí algunos de los libros. La gente no paraba
de moverse de aquí para allá hablando de becas para artistas
fechas de entrega & problemas varios con la
fotocopiadora. Yo encendí otro cigarrillo &
empecé a empacar los libros. Luego de
armar como tres paquetes bajé para ir
a la oficina de correos. De camino entré
a una taberna y pedí una chela. Me la bajé
rápido & pedí dos más
Cuando volví
a la oficina, el teléfono estaba sonando. Lo
contesté: un poeta de la U de Montreal
no iba a poder venir a una lectura:
‘no se preocupe,’ le
dije, ‘de por sí nadie iba a asistir’
Sonó otra vez el teléfono: que ella había escrito
un libro de poesía & quería saber qué
hacer con él ahora. Le di la dirección
del poeta de la U de Montreal & sugerí que se lo
hiciera llegar

La otra gente en la oficina
me miraba con extrañeza
      ‘Me voy a almorzar,’
dije & salí de allí

     Me fui de vuelta a la taberna
& me tomé dos chelas más. Debería comer algo,
me puse a pensar, pero ya era muy tarde: salí
de la taberna & vomité sobre
la nieve fresca & unas palomas se acercaron al punto
        Fue
un bonito y soleado día. Se sentía bien otra vez
tener chamba



Nuestra generación

Al final lo que nos jodió fue
el miedo a la aniquilación.
La vasta mayoría nunca superó
la segunda guerra & lentamente se derritió
frente a sus sets de televisión. Para los demás
el proceso fue aun más lento. Fue la pérdida
de esperanza lo que nos agarró al inicio &
luego las peleas entre nosotros. Les dimos la espalda
a nuestros desunidos tractos & en soledad
murieron nuestros hígados. Ya no dormíamos o
dormíamos demasiado. Pronto se fue nuestra osadía &
nuestras extremidades temblaban visiblemente. Los ojos,
locos & sueltos en sus cuencas, se nos querían
salir. Nuestras mentes se fusionaron en
una nada repetida. Colapsamos desde
adentro. Habíamos olvidado cómo amar
así que no hubo niños. Sólo quedaron
las cucarachas & unos pocos poemas dispersos, testamentos
de esta ceguera nuestra.




One Short-Short Fiction & Two Poems 
by Daniel Jones - Urban Graffiti

Daniel Jones was born in Hamilton, Ontario in 1959. He died by his own hand in Toronto on Valentine’s Eve, 1994. In between, he worked as a dishwasher, cook, caretaker, editor, and writer. He left behind several volumes of highly acclaimed and controversial fiction and poetry. His work continues to appear in several magazines and anthologies, the most recent of which include Concrete Forest: The New Fiction of Urban Canada (McLelland & Stewart, 1998) and Burning Ambitions: The Anthology of Short-Shorts (Rush Hour Revisions, 1998). He posthumously published punk novel, 1978, was recently reprinted by Three O’clock Press, and Coach House has reprinted his 1985 book, The Brave Never Write Poetry.



Death Valley Days

The TV was straight ahead. In my hand was the remote control. I was pretending it was a gun.

A person flashed across the screen. I pressed a button, shooting him dead.

Another face appeared. There were twelve buttons on the remote control. I pressed them one after the other.

Oprah Winfrey. “Bang! You’re dead.”

Family Feud. “Bang! Bang! Bang!”

Vanna White. “Bang! Gotcha.”

I had won the TV in a raffle six days ago. I had been lying on the sofa ever since. I hadn’t slept. I hadn’t bathed. Bags of potato chips and jujubes littered the floor. I had filled a Giant Slurpee with piss.

Ed Broadbent. “Bang!” I killed without discrimination.

Someone walked into the living room. It was Linda home from work. She stood glaring at me.

“Bang!” I got her right between the eyes.

Linda dropped her briefcase on the floor. “When are you going to stop this?” she asked.

“Not until I’ve killed every last one.” I stuffed some peanuts into my mouth, dropping Tom Selleck with my other hand. I fired again.

“I’m undercover with Miami Vice. Bang!

“I’m the Ayatollah. Bang! Bang!

“I’m a Contra, a Vietnam vet, a crazed Maoist revolutionary blowing the heads off bourgeois pigs, I’m The Texas Remote Control Massacrer. Bang! Bang! Bang!

“I’m Bernie Goetz. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!”

I had just wiped out the cast of Sesame Street.

Linda took the remote control from my hand. She aimed it at the dead centre of the TV.

“And I’m George Bush,” Linda said, “and Margaret Thatcher, Mikhail Gorbachev, P.W. Botha and Yitzhak Shamir.”

Faces crackled. The image silently exploded into a million coloured dots of light. Then the screen went black.

Linda handed me the remote control and walked out of the room.

I sat staring at the blank tube, and then at the device in my hand, scratching the top of my head in wonder.



May Day 1986

We came to read poems of revolution and love,
but the workers couldn’t make it.
“Maybe everyone had to work,” Keith says,
to the five or six poets who have gathered.
“Or maybe they’re home resting with a beer,” says Enzo,
opening a bottle of beer.

We read the poems we have read and heard before.
This one is now dedicated to the ghosts of the Haymarket
martyrs,
another to the damned in factories and picket lines
everywhere.
The words drift among empty chairs,
echo against the dirty glass of the store front.
We can barely hear above the passing streetcars.
We, the committed poets, applaud ourselves loudly.

Outside the Queen Street hospital,
an anorectic punk bums a cigarette, and I think of Nicky,
barely twenty, hitchhiking to Chicago with his sister
and brother anarchists.
Our differences seem like wisps of tobacco smoke
in the cool May dusk.
Our typewriters are not guns, but machines.
We work hard, each for some similar end.

In the tavern Keith dances with a young poet
he has met this night.
Enzo’s head rests on the surface of the table,
his long hair wet with spilled draught.
Lost in the noise and smoke, I stare up through a window,
one with many, underneath an ever rolling moon.




After the Reading

The toilet had overflown into the back of the gallery,
and Linda was moping the floor.
Harris and I stacked chairs and emptied the ashtrays.
Enzo placed the remaining beer on the table and sat
muttering about the small audience for his reading.
“Everyone’s probably home watching the hockey game,”
he said.
Linda sat and opened a bottle of beer.
“Maybe poetry readings are obsolete,” she said.
Enzo thought about this. “That’s heavy, man,” he said,
finally.
He started to tell a story about the year
he had hung out at Rochdale.
We had heard it before, but the woman next to him said
she had lived in Rochdale that year.
“Did you know Meat Axe?” the woman asked.
Enzo was staring into his empty bottle of beer.
“Was he a friend of Butch’s?”
“He might have been,” the woman said.
“Yeah, I knew Meat Axe,” Enzo said.
He started another story about the time he had played bass
with a blues band in Yorkville twenty years ago.
“Everyone knew everyone else in the sixties,”
the woman said.
“I’ll drink to that,” Enzo said. And he did.
Across the table someone was having a conversation
with no one in particular.
He was saying how he had written poetry for ten years
but never shown his poems to anyone.
During the reading he sat in the back corner,
scribbling in a notebook.
“I feel poetry is a private act,” he said.
Enzo pounded the table with his fist,
spilling several bottles of beer.
“Poetry is a vehicle for social change,” he said.
“How are you supposed to change anything if no one shows
up?”
On the wall was a painting of the poet Mayakovsky.
Enzo pointed to that as if to illustrate his point.
Harris had been sitting quietly,
chain-smoking my cigarettes.
“I always thought the vehicle for social change was a tank,”
he said.
I felt something seeping into my shoes.
Linda looked up from the pad
in which she had been sketching the group around the table.
“Whose turn to mop?” she asked.
Closing my eyes, I heard water pouring
over the side of the toilet bowl
and splashing down onto the floor.
And then the sudden loud crash.
Enzo had fallen out of his chair. 


Daniel Jones is brought back to life

Por Mark Medley 

One evening late last month, the poet Kevin Connolly took the stage at Revival, a club in Toronto’s Little Italy, and proceeded to read some poems. The work was gritty, honest, and caustic. Many of those packing the venue were writers or poets themselves, so when Connolly ended his set with a short piece entitled “The Brave Never Write Poetry,” in which the speaker pleads “Someone give me the strength not to/apply to the Canada Council for the Arts. Someone/give me the strength not to write poetry” there were more than a few nervous laughs.

The funny thing is, Connolly isn’t the author of these poems. In fact, many in the crowd weren’t even alive when those words were written.

When Daniel Jones committed suicide on February 13, 1994, at the age of 33, he left behind one published collection of poetry, one published novel, and a handful of chapbooks. His legacy, however, was still being written. A book of linked stories, The People One Knows, was published shortly after his death, while his novel 1978 was posthumously published in 1998. These books, and everything else Jones wrote, eventually went out of print, and he was in danger of being forgotten by the city he chronicled.

That’s why the current resurgence of interest in his work is interesting. His seminal 1985 collection, The Brave Never Write Poetry, which he published at the tender age of 26, was just re-released by Coach House Books, while 1978 is being re-issued by Three O’Clock Press. And later this week, at a bar in Parkdale, his life and work will be celebrated by a cross-section of Toronto writers and musicians.

“It’s kind of bittersweet,” says his former girlfriend Moira Farr, author of After Daniel: A Suicide Survivor’s Tale, an excerpt of which, coincidentally, appears in the just-released Penguin Book of Memoir. “The renewal of interest in his work is great. I’m quite happy — well, I wouldn’t say happy. I don’t think it’s a happy thing when someone so talented [dies] so young, but what he left is clearly still speaking to people.”

Sarah Wayne, the publisher of Three O’Clock Press and one of those people who wasn’t alive when Jones started publishing, thinks the circumstances surrounding his death have overshadowed his writing. “I’ve always kind of felt that a lot of people took that up as the story, but I think that there’s a lot more to see in his work.”

The poems in The Brave Never Write Poetry are set in crowded bars and quiet cafes, the backseats of streetcars and unmade beds, drunk tanks and psych wards. Reading it is like stumbling over someone’s opened journal — the work is that intimate and raw. The book, says Connolly, “speaks to being young and powerless and addicted.” The collection was almost universally panned — The Globe and Mail said “Jones makes a fair bid to become the poet laureate of puking” — except by Connolly, who reviewed it in long-gone rag What!

“At the time, I just think people didn’t know what to make of it,” says Connolly, now poetry editor at Coach House. “Here’s this guy writing about throwing up and getting drunk and psycho wards as if he knew them. And, as it turns out, he did know them.”

When he was in his early 20s, Jones writes in the book’s introduction, he found himself alone, drinking too much, dirt poor, and in debt. In early 1984, he wound up “in the psycho ward of Toronto Western Hospital.” Jones wrote the majority of these peoms after he was discharged. He was sober for the rest of his life, though constantly battled depression. (“Think of the most depressed person you’ve ever met,” says Connolly. “He was about twice that.”)

Jones seems conflicted about being a poet. On one hand, he describes his work as “piles of scribblings” and sneers at the prospect of becoming a “career poet.” On the other hand, it seems to have saved him. In “A Funny Thing Happened When I Pointed A Gun To My Head” he considers blowing off his head, before deciding to write a poem instead.

“I really do think that it was art that saved him,” says Connolly. “He plays the sort of tough, Bukowski-esque, hard-drinking, world-weary poet persona, but also he has no faith in it at all. He’s constantly undermining himself, constantly undermining poetry, making fun of it — and yet it was all that he had.”

After the publication of The Brave Never Write Poetry, Jones abandoned the form and turned to fiction. In stark contrast to his emotionally-overwrought poems, Jones’ prose is sparse — so minimalist “it was almost brittle,” says Connolly. 1978 follows a cast of broken characters through the early days of Toronto’s punk scene. The reissue of 1978 is part of a surge of renewed interest in Toronto during this time: In 2009 Liz Worth published Treat Me Like Dirt: An Oral History of Punk in Toronto and Beyond; in March, Jennifer Morton published Dirty, Drunk and Punk, about D.I.Y. Toronto punk provocateurs Bunchof–kingoofs; while this month sees the release of Don Pyle’s Trouble in the Camera Club: A Photographic Narrative of Toronto’s Punk History 1976 – 1980. Jones has become one of the era’s patron saints.

Connolly isn’t sure what his friend would make of all this attention, but last month, on the night of the reading, Connolly found himself at the corner of Grace and College streets, standing in front of the apartment where Jones lived and ultimately died.

“Part of me wonders if he’d be mad at me for re-releasing the book, because he hated it so much,” wonders Connolly. “But I figured we were within 500 metres of where he lived and died, in a club called Revival, so if there was ever a better moment for an angry ghost, it would have been that, and nothing seemed to happen.

“So I think we’re OK.”

• The Brave Never Writer Poetry by Daniel Jones is published by Coach House Books, while 1978 is published by Three O’Clock Press. A tribute will take place Wednesday, May 18, at The Stop (at Parts & Labour) 1566 Queen St. W. at 7:30 p.m.







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miércoles, 29 de marzo de 2017

GIEDRÈ KAZLAUSKAITÈ [20.054]


GIEDRÈ KAZLAUSKAITÈ

Giedrė Kazlauskaitė (Kėdainiai, Lituania  1980) es poeta, narradora, ensayísta. Estudió Literatura Lituana en la Universidad de Vilnius. Su primer libro Sudie, mokykla (Adiós, escuela), que consta de dos relatos, se publicó en 2001. El libro Postilės (Postillas) (comentarios de evangelias) vio la luz en 2010 en colaboración con el padre Julius Sasnauskas. Desde el 2011 trabaja en el semanario cultural Šiaurės Atėnai (Atenas del Norte). Hasta el día de hoy ha publicado tres poemarios: Heterų dainos (Canciones de Heteras) en 2008, Meninos (Las Meninas) en 2014 y Singerstraum en 2016. Dichos poemarios obtuvieron varios premios locales, algunos de sus textos se han traducido a idiomas extranjeros.


En el marco del dossier de poesía de Lituania preparado y traducido por Dovile Kuzminskaite, presentamos una muestra de la poesía de Giedrė Kazlauskaitė
http://circulodepoesia.com/2017/03/poesia-lituana-giedre-kazlauskaite/ 



Aprendiendo a coser

Estas costuras se parecen tanto a la línea del camino,
tenía cuatro años, mi madre me llevaba a la ciudad, en la que, quizás,
tenía la vaga esperanza de encontrarse
con mi padre deambulando por las calles.

A mí, contradictoriamente, frente a esta esperanza me entraban náuseas,
vomité en el autobús.

Las mismas costuras;  me sentaron delante para que las mirara,
así cosí largo tiempo con una invisible máquina de coser
la línea del medio de la carretera.

La ropa vieja en el ático;
remozando alguna cosa bastaría
hasta el final de la vida.

Claro, no tiene sentido hacerlo,
a no ser por razones ecológicas.

Las texturas que tocaban nuestros cuerpos,
a veces ya muertos; las líneas de las calles
marcan los zigzags de las partículas de Braun
controladas por una mano inmemorial.
Por eso tengo que aprender a coser una vez más,
para que no me den náuseas, para que me cubra
con viejos harapos cual caballera
con su armadura de historias.

Temblad, molinos de locura,
armada con la lanza de aguja
vengo a caballo sobre las puntadas.

¿creará un negocio? – en la tienda de las máquinas de coser
preguntó el dependiente.

no, me dedicaré a crear



La escalera de la biblioteca

Durante las horas de insomnio
procuraba imaginarme las botellas
que me tocó beber.

Puestas en fila en la habitación no cabían,
así que me iba a dormir al balcón.

Me apresaba un gran temor de muerte,
que vivo tanto
sin resultado alguno, solo desperdicio.

Siempre había querido ser costurera –
un trabajo tan meditabundo, en la mente
puedes ir escribiendo una novela.

Tenía amigas que cosían,
parecían tan originales, pero hoy
ya no querría ser así.

Sin embargo, sigo escuchando el trapalear de la máquina de coser;
gruesos y delicados los tejidos de los sueños siguen deslizándose
por los dedos encallecidos.

Basta, en otros libros – si los hubiera –
nada de madres, nada de psicoterapeutas.

Pero por las mañanas a la biblioteca venían
las doctorandas con los ojos desorbitados,
que habían dejado sus niños llorando en las guarderías.

Subía por la escalera de unos cuatrocientos años
y rezaba; aquí estoy, una eterna doctoranda.

Señor, te agradezco por no ser como esta gente – bella, decente, bondadosa,
Porque gracias a no se sabe quién (¿a ti?) no nací en una familia de bien.

Porque por esta escalera solo suben los eternos,
porque el número de las botellas nadie lo sabe.
porque en el balcón donde duermo
por la noche trapalean las frases de una novela.

Como en la infancia, me columpio en el pedal de madera,
manejando una rueda de metal.

Incluso si nunca llegara a escribirla,
por lo menos una cremallera habré cosido.

Por esta escalera doy vueltas una y otra vez sobre un eje desconocido –
con las costuras que sobrevivirán a las venas.



Singer Serenade

El año pasado en Navidad recibí
Singer Serenade –  fanfarroneó
una compositora conocida.

Me puse a imaginar como ella
le escribe una serenata; hace un tiempo, de adolescente,
me explicó en la cantina que todo el tintinear
de  las cucharas de aluminio,
los pasos, el traqueteo de los platos,
los fragmentos de las conversaciones y otros sonidos
eran música.

Qué pasa aquí, por qué se ha puesto
tanto de moda este hobby
para calmar los nervios.

En el ático encontré ropa de muñecas,
hecha probablemente con una máquina de coser antigua
a base de los patrones para muñecas.

También hallé dos máquinas de juguete:
mamá tenía una así, roja,
muy pesada, de metal, con esa romántica
rueda para girar,
yo, una de un modelo más nuevo,
con un pedal eléctrico, traída de RDA.

Un juguete caro para escribir serenatas;
me imaginaba cómo por las noches
trapaleaba en el ático la bruja con la máquina de coser antigua,
haciendo bolsas para secuestrar a los niños.

El tren de la plaquita solo marcha,
en lugar de los asalariados psicólogos
invertí en una máquina de coser.

El amor es una manera aséptica
para matar a alguien; las serenatas de las cucharas
tristemente lo confirman cada día.



Giedrė Kazlauskaitė, poetess, literary critic, essayist.

She was born 21 March, 1980 in Kėdainiai.

In 2004 she finished her studies of Lithuanian language and literature at Vilnius University and in 2007 she got her Master's degree. She worked in a bookstore, and at magazines for youth “Lux”, “Birutė”, also “Bernardinai.lt”, “Verslo žinios”, National Television and Radio (LRT) and “Mažoji studija”. She has published a lot of reviews and essays in cultural press. Her poems were published in various almanacks and collections. She is and editor at editorial office of “Šiaurės Atėnai” since 2010.

A member of Lithuanian Writers' Union since 2011.


B i b l i o g r a p h y :
Sudie, mokykla: two novellas. – Vilnius: Lietuvos rašytojų sąjungos leidykla, 2001.
Heterų dainos: poems. – Vilnius: Lietuvos rašytojų sąjungos leidykla, 2008.
Postilės (together with J. Sasnauskas): commentaries of gospels. – Vilnius: Tyto alba, 2009.
Meninos: poems. – Vilnius: Lietuvos rašytojų sąjungos leidykla, 2014.

P u b l i c a t i o n s   i n   a l m a n a c k s   i n   f o r e i g n   l a n g u a g e s :
Six young Lithuanian poets / selected and translated by Kerry Shawn Keys. – Vilnius: Vaga, 2002.
Up and coming young Lithuanian writers / selected by Agnė Jurčiukonytė. – Vilnius: Books from Lithuania, 2006.
Under the Nothern Sky 2008: almanac of the European Literary Days in Šiauliai / edited by Marcus Roduner. – Šiauliai: Saulės delta, 2008.
Poetinis Druskininkų ruduo 2011. Druskininkai Poetic Fall 2011 / Selected by Marius Burokas. Translated by Ada Valaitis. – Vilnius: Vaga, 2011.
Coeurs ébouillantés, dix-sept poétes lituaniennes contemoraines. Nuplikytom širdim, septyniolika šiuolaikinių lietuvių poečių / Traductrices: Diana Sakalauskaitė et Nicole Barriére. – Paris: L‘Harmattan, 2012.
How the Earth Carries Us. New Lithuanian Poets / Selected and translated by Rimas Užgiris, Marius Burokas and others. – Vilnius: Lithuanian Culture Institute, 2015.

P u b l i c a t i o n s   i n   l i t e r a r y   p r e s s   i n   f o r e i g n   l a n g u a g e s :
Vilnius: literaturnaja panorama Litvy. – 2009, vesna / leto, Nr. 177 (perevod Georgija Efremova).
Arterie 16: kwartalnik artystyczno-literacki. – 2013, Nr. 2 (przełożyli Vytautas Dekšnys, Roman Honet, Zuzanna Mrozikowa).
Washington Square. – 2014, winter / spring (translated by Ada Valaitis).

A w a r d s :
2009 Young Yotvingian Prize for poetry book “Heterų dainos”.
2014 Poetry book “Meninos” was nominated in the Book of the Year Campaign and included into the list of twelve most creative books of the year.
2015 Jurga Ivanauskaitė literary award for poetry book “Meninos”.



POETRY
by Giedrė Kazlauskaitė
translated by Anna Halberstadt


Meaning of Life

To go somewhere, to see something.
A WOMAN ON THE BUS ON THE PHONE


If he is at least, well-to-do, then automatically–an idiot.
I doubt if he agrees to go with her to a so-so show.
Here I stand,  Martin Luther.

Oh she is so classy, that  bows 
descending in air on vertical viola strings-funicular cables
form her Cartesian coordinate system.

She could be working as a therapist
trying to have young women articulate
their life goals.

If I were born in Ancient Greece
I could be a potter
I'd be interpreting eyes
looking into themselves.

If I were born before the revolution
maybe I'd be a libertine, servicing Napoleon's men
(only war turns these shmucks into men.)
If I were born over a hundred years ago, in a Žemaitė story
I wouldn't have lasted longer than twenty five,
would have died from appendicitis.

What would I want to do this weekend?
Watch  some stupid movies on TV,
weep when emotional tensions reach catharsis, knit.

More than tomorrow, I wish I had lived yesterday.



Running in the Park

Snails on the road: some smashed by cars and bicycles.
Still can't run by them indifferently, I tear them off from the asphalt, 
push them aside, interfere with their karma. I'm really afraid of them bypassing 
me. Mom's silk  dress: brown, with polka dots
I  used to hold on to it before I was born.
I used to count the dots, but did not finish counting.
Like acacia petals they are in the ground: they.
It seems,  I've experienced all kinds of feelings, I no longer desire
people applauding, a locket with a lock of hair, a knight to  fall in love with me and a gold
cage  for a talking parrot, in which I could sing;
Stroking (including against fur), shoes with Achilles' heels.
Instead of counting polka dots, I am dialing letters slowly
in an old fashioned phone dial, and it helps to annihilate
senselessness.

I no longer desire many things, that I used to long for so much–
I no longer need the sea, foreign countries, a home,
some type of music- I can do without it altogether.
I no longer want to learn languages, to meet 
Interesting people, live like a exquisite hetaera or a noble ascetic.
I no longer need children, feel more distant from them and closer 
to the  useless Internet isolation.
I no longer buy those books , that I was dreaming about; delicacies that I could not afford to buy.
I no longer get nosebleeds from playing  the flute.
Great passions are all in the past, nothing grandiose under the sun 
will take place: knowing and understanding also seems like  breach of privacy.
I no longer desire to love God with an open heart, I don't doubt His existence, I don't 
observe his commandments: don't look for new stars on the shoulder-straps of my greatcoat,   
don't wait for the boldly arriving spring.
When I jump in the river from the bridge, that I often see in my dreams
looking for my symbolic rebirth, diving back into the amniotic fluid surrounding the embryo,  going back into the womb and getting baptized again—
I desire only to feel: I am alive
and water is  washing over my soul. 



Dresses Waiting for Their Hour

It's so banal to congratulate on birthdays
repeat wishes in the Teletubbies manner
show off by attaching emoticons.
You can't stand stuffed animals, even shiver with disgust
in the shopping center, having to cross
this department of love corpses,
the shelf with childhood caskets.

Dresses from fabrics, that are almost extinct
flower petals and leaves of tobacco, wrinkled 
old candy wrappers, found on the road
we used to dress pebbles in them, because dolls were too banal
from velvet, cremplene and silk
from souls of beliefs
Dresses in the  closet at the summerhouse.

Dresses that are inherited from one generation by another, as body measurements
they have absorbed the light of years and decades—
plaid, or with flowers or dots.
So beautiful, but the time for them did not come yet.
You are still not ready, still did not change your outlook on life,
you have to somehow represent yourself
not through your clothes, not through your children
or other domestics' beauty and accomplishments. 
Even the red corset, with down sown to it,  from your  adolescence
 God knows from  where, maybe a thrift shop
is dreaming of the time, when you buy a poodle or another 
cute dog to dress up.
O my beloved ones, I need you to be my muses,
but you are missing from my wardrobe.




Translated by J.C. ToddJ.C. Todd 


Antipoet 

I don't read anything, I don't write poems
I'm picking up the bodies of starved mice

knotting them together by their tails, twirling them in air
I'm the hardened snob, the face I show, arrogance

I toss into the air the corpse-copter of boy-mice
and am left behind, virgin among flax

so tall, sky is in them 
as in a cornfield, I'm lost in the flax

I'11 die here without a sign that I've lived
that I dangled by their tails my only child

just the rumbling rotor of the dead wreath 
the mice flying over the broad fields 



Night insect, the one who cannot burn 

The Prodigy: “Music for the Jilted Generation. ” At 4 a. m.
      
Brown guy— he can't read— on the keyboard (oh, if only it were a piano) creeps 
from the keys' squared mountains toward the programmable chips. (I obey blindly,
pushing the keys he has tapped.)
      
A nation of shepherds has walked out of Egypt. One giant, pursuing, has pricked 
the sole of his foot on a pyramid's tip. Into the footprint he tramped, the Red Sea drips.
      
To die. But for the insect, there is no hope of death.
      
When the sheep herders stopped to rest at the end of the dark, a column of fire, 
colossal, shot up from the night-blackened sand.
      
The wings of night's insect cannot be singed although he rests, respectful, against 
the screen, flogging himself and flaming in reading's cool passion. 





Translated by Rimas Užgiris




Poems from the book „Singerstraum“


Anna Lee Fisher, the first mother in space –
In flight, I contemplated her photograph, black and white.
Dressed in a spacesuit, an icon: beautiful, famous, a woman.

Maybe, in some sense, I could launch myself as well?
Maybe gravity is not so universal as it seems?

Apparently, one can leave one’s children on earth,
sending oneself out into orbit for some time.
Yet here I was, afraid to fly across the ocean...
(For who will raise my child when the plane goes down?)

In my dream, they were training me to be an astronaut –
I had to slide through the narrow intestines 
of water park attractions, to eat live meat
without vomiting – impossible, but I passed the tests.
I was ready for the ether now, or at least for the army.

Awaking, I understood these are powers in which I cannot believe,
but secretly, I felt them: in the thought-written world.

And I knew that world is safe, made ready
for our lives and those of our children.

*

At one time or another, it’s going to happen.
Alcoholics will quit, the economic crisis will end.
The child will speak, and walls will open for me;
I’ll quit watching Lithuanian TV,
and begin to speak in forgotten tongues.

Little by little, I’ll begin to think politically, rejecting
the myth of higher education, growing an urge
to live in Washington, where tulips remind me of gender;
so many women politicians here, and by my house –
sleeping lions (melancholic, cement)
in this Lazarus love garden.

I had lived as if wound hard around a spool,
or as a ball of thread that no one
unsews. The time came, all the same,
when I was caught up in a Jacquard weave.

A Jewish custom, where lamenting women
cut and rip their clothes – in this way
I proclaimed the mourning of my home,
shredding swaddling clothes with a vengeance.

It’s liberating, like removing diapers from a child –
I crawl through my dream naked and without shame.



Old New Vilnia

The social class of snobs
calls it Provence style –
yellowish Stalin-era homes:
peeling, dilapidated.

I saw a silly television show
where they babbled about how
this style can alter not only your interior,
but your relationships as well.

Winter mornings, on the way to kindergarten,
by a building like a locomotive
(a building we wanted once to buy 
in order to live next to the trains) –
dawn reddened the sky,
and by the doors of the wooden orthodox church,
trampled by inhabitants of the land of headscarves, 
the snow began to shine.

We were separated for the day by river and rail,
and that, for sure, can alter a relationship.

It’s quite pretty here – even when 
the river bank lies grey and black
like a monochromatic Cézanne.

On the other side of the Provencal homes,
in the hospital’s park, as evening arrived
we made politically incorrect snowmen 
to mimic those watching from windows.

Their brains were being eaten by pills,
but that didn’t stop them from shouting
and making signs – they declared
their permanent addresses 
in my poems.

At night, wherever I now happen
to rent another apartment,
I hear the trains from childhood 
that sewed themselves into my blood.
Even the smell of oil paint lingers.

After all, Provence is just a province.



Singer Serenade

Last Christmas, I got 
a Singer Serenade – bragged
my composer friend.

I began to imagine how
it writes her a serenade – once,
in the high school cafeteria I was told 
that all the clinking of aluminum forks,
the footsteps, the clatter of dishware, 
the fragments of conversation and other sounds,
are music.

What is going on these days
that this hobby is so trendy 
for relieving stress?

In the loft I found doll’s clothing,
sewn with an old-fashioned sewing machine
according to cut-out patterns.

And two toy machines:
mama had the red, heavy metal one
with that romantic hand-turned 
wheel, and I had a newer model,
an electric motor, driven
all the way from the GDR.

An expensive toy for writing serenades;
I used to imagine how, at night, a witch
would clatter in the loft on her old-fashioned 
sewing maching, stitching bags for kidnapping kids.

This train runs on and on on pedals –
instead of hiring pshychologists,
I invested in a sewing machine.

Love is a sterile way 
to kill someone; spoon serenades
prove it every day.



The Monk Tent Fest

This garden – I dreamt
two hundred years ago –
before I had children.

The people are all the same, like me
in youth when I was still a prude –
ugly, untalented, and good.

They’re not so different from 
the silly society of glossy magazines:
especially when they speak about meaning.

The one and the other practice 
the same techniques for suppressing madness:
eat, pray, love.

#NotInMyName

If I were to listen to them,
my faith would be smaller 
than a poppy seed.

Having grow old, I would drop
out of my very own eyes.

And from the loudspeaker, 
they might just as well play the voice
of the dictator from Chaplin’s film.

He ought to be saying how the wretched,
bumping each other on the bus each day,
are the real communion.

Or how under apartment blocks, on benches,
the elderly chatting all day – someone
goes by, now someone comes this way,

someone sticks a head out of a window –
how these are the invisible tents, this
the festival of monks without vows.

It’s funny, at the very same time,
in the very same park,
some hopeless newlyweds
hold their photo session.

I couldn’t find anyone to ask
if love endures this posing.



The Pretender Writes Back on the Philology Wall

That fall I read Sappho’s poem instead of my own. 
In tune with the words, losing consciousness out of love,
I collapsed on the floor.

That semester, we studied stress patterns in words –
I hated it, skipped it, and always snuck into
lectures at the Art Academy instead,
carrying home my portfolio
of worthless sketches.

Where, I wonder, could those people be
whom I drew with sanguine and charcoal?
Perhaps in the state next door?

I still think about women’s gender 
like the stresses on words, and my insides roil.

We four Lithuanian poets, wandering America,
should secretly agree to transfer the philology department
to Trakai Castle so we could have our elective 
sailing class like at UW-Madison.

We could found a Sappho sorority, writing
Greek letters over the door.

With the fire of our blood, we’d burn our poems into stone houses,
and we’d forgive ourselves for others’ sins. No one would be depressed –
not like once before, in a grim cafeteria
with matronly meatballs of self-flagellation,
separately and secretly, breaking down words.






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