martes, 20 de noviembre de 2012

PHILIP WHALEN [8.476] Poeta de Estados Unidos

                                                    Foto:Nancy Victoria Davis

Philip Whalen

Philip Whalen Glenn (Nació el 20 octubre 1923 y murió el 26 junio 2002) fue un poeta, Zen budista, y una figura clave en el Renacimiento de San Francisco en nombre de la generación beat.

Nacido en Portland, Oregon, ESTADOS UNIDOS. 
Whalen creció en The Dalles desde los cuatro años hasta que regresó a Portland en 1941. Sirvió en la Fuerza Aérea del Ejército de EE.UU. durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial. Asistió a la Universidad de Reed en el GI Bill. Allí, conoció a Gary Snyder y Lew Welch  y se graduó con un BA en 1951. Leyó en la famosa lectura Six Gallery en 1955, que marcó el lanzamiento de los beats de la costa oeste a la luz pública. Aparece, en forma apenas novelada, como el personaje "Warren Coughlin" en Jack Kerouac 's The Dharma Bums  incluído en un relat. En Big Sur es llamado "Ben Fagan". La Poesía de Whalen fue presentada en Donald Allen's antología The New American Poetry 1945-1960.


The Calendar, a Book of Poems. Reed College, thesis (B.A.), Portland, Ore. 1951.
Self Portrait from Another Direction. Auerhahn Press, San Francisco 1959.
Memoirs of an Interglacial Age. Auerhahn Press, San Francisco 1960.
Like I Say. Totem Press/Corinth Books, New York 1960
Monday in the Evening, 21:VII:61. Pezzoli, Milan 1964
Every Day. Coyote's Journal, Eugene, Oregon 1965
Highgrade: Doodles, Poems. Coyote's Journal, San Francisco 1966
On Bear's Head. Harcourt, Brace & World/Coyote, New York 1969
Scenes of Life at the Capital. Maya, San Francisco 1970
Enough Said: Fluctuat Nec Mergitur: Poems 1974-1979. Grey Fox Press, San Francisco 1980.
Heavy Breathing: Poems 1967-1980. Grey Fox Press, San Francisco 1983
Canoeing up Cabarga Creek: Buddhist Poems 1955-1986. Parallax Press, Berkeley 1996.
Overtime: Selected Poems by Philip Whalen. Penguin, New York 1999.
The Collected Poems of Philip Whalen. Wesleyan University Press, Middletown, Connecticut 2007.
Both the Collected and Selected Poems were edited by Michael Rothenberg.


You Didn't Even Try. Coyote, San Francisco 1967. (novel)
Imaginary Speeches for a Brazen Head. Black Sparrow Press, Los Angeles 1972. (novel)
Off the Wall: Interviews with Philip Whalen. Donald Allen, editor. Grey Fox Press, Bolinas, California 1978.
The Diamond Noodle. Poltroon Press, Berkeley 1980. (memoirs)
Two Novels. Zephyr Press, Somerville, Mass. 1985.
Goof Book (for Jack Kerouac). Big Bridge Press, Guerneville, Calif. 2001. (journal)

Philip Whalen: unos jaikus

Despierta un momento
La mente sueña de nuevo
Rosas rojas pétalos de bordes negros

Principios de primavera

El perro escribe en la ventana 
con su nariz


Falso Senryu

Una tos
espera el autobús


¿Dónde estaba?

El escritorio nuevo, la silla vieja
Desesperadamente los miro
¿Dónde está el hombre que ahí 

de Marcos Canteli, Blog

El café Champ Clair de jazz moderno

El viejo Miles Davis y Thelonius Monk
producen el sonido
de un plástico congelado.
Esto quiere decir
que en alguna parte
se está desatando el invierno.

“Querido Presidente,
El amor y la poesía
Salen ganando – siempre:
La guerra es siempre
Una importante y gran pérdida.
Yo soy poeta y
Amo y gano  -

¿Y usted?”

( Vietnam Blues)

A Vision of the Bodhisattvas

They pass before me one by one riding on animals
"What are you waiting for," they want to know

Z—, young as he is (& mad into the bargain) tells me
"Some day you'll drop everything & become a rishi, you know."

I know
The forest is there, I've lived in it
    More certainly than this town? Irrelevant—

    What am I waiting for?
A change in customs that will take 1000 years to come about?
Who's to make the change but me?

    "Returning again and again," Amida says

Why's that dream so necessary? walking out of whatever house alone
Nothing but the clothes on my back, money or no
Down the road to the next place the highway leading to the   
From which I absolutely must come back

What business have I to do that?
I know the world and I love it too much and it
Is not the one I'd find outside this door.

Complaint: To the Muse

You do understand I've waited long enough
There's nobody else that interests me more than a minute
I've got no more ambition to shop around for poems or love
Come Back!
               or at least answer your telephone
I'm nowhere without you

    This is the greatest possible drag
    Slower than the speed of light or always
    A little less than critical mass

    The energy the steam the poop is here
    Everything is (by Nature) Energy, I myself
    A natural thing & certainly massive enough

    A block of lead (the end of all radiation)
    I don't even reflect much daylight, not to speak of
                            glowing in the dark
    I'll never get it off the ground


This room is full of 1 fly & an alarmclock
It is uninhabitable


If I wasn't drunk & blowing wine-fumes & peanut breath in your face
Maybe you'd be nice to me.


You do understand
I'd much rather listen, Lady
Than go on babbling this way, O rare gentle
& wise, it isn't enough that your face, your body
Are uniquely beautiful—I must hear you tell me
                   about the weather
We might even quarrel if nothing else

You know the answer & don't, won't quit kidding me along
Hanging me up like Sir John Suckling
                  in a tag of lace or muslin

I can see right through all those veils
But you can run fast & I've got a bum knee

& you been a long time gone

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