viernes, 14 de marzo de 2014

DIANA DER-HOVANESSIAN [11.220]



Diana Der-Hovanessian 

Poeta estadounidense de origen armenio, nacida en New England.  Ameritada en dos instancias Profesor Fullbright de Poesía Americana, es la autora de más de 25 libros de poemas y traducciones.  

A lo largo de su carrera ha recibido importantes reconocimientos, entre ellos:  el National Endowment for the Arts, Poetry Society of American, PEN/Columbia Translation Center, National Writers Union, Armenian Writers Union American Scholar y Ministerio de Cultura Armenia.  Publicó sus poemas en Agni, American Poetry Review, Revista Ararat, CSM, Poetry, Partisan, Prairie Schooner, Nation, etc., y en antologías como Against Forgetting, Women on War, On Prejudice, Finding Home, Leading Contemporary Poets, Orpheus and Company, Identity Lessons, Voices of Conscience and Two Worlds Walking.   

Cuenta también con importantes trabajos en dramaturgia que relatan la historia armenia con poesía y música: The Secret of Survival y Growing Up Armenian.  En la actualidad se desempeña como poeta invitada y también como docente en cátedras de Poesía Americana, Poesía Armenia en traducción como también la literatura de los derechos humanos en varias universidades de los Estados Unidos y el extranjero.




MOVIENDO AL SOL
(Shifting the Sun) 

           

 Cuando tu padre muere, dicen los irlandeses,
Pierdes el paraguas que te protege del mal tiempo,
Que su sol sea tu luz, dicen los armenios.

 Cuando tu padre muere, dicen los galeses
Te entierras un pie más adentro en la tierra
Que heredes su luz, dicen los armenios

 Cuando tu padre muere, dicen los canadienses
Se te acaban las excusas.

Que heredes su sol, dicen los armenios

 Cuando tu padre muere, dicen los hindúes,
El regresa como los truenos

Que heredes su luz, dicen los armenios

 Cuando tu padre muere, dicen los rusos,
Se lleva tu infancia con él.

Que heredes su luz, dicen los armenios

 Cuando tu padre muere, dicen los británicos
Te asocias a su club al que juraste nunca entrar

Que heredes su sol,  dicen los armenios.

 Cuando tu padre muere, dicen los armenios
Tu sol se mueve para siempre.

Y tú caminas en su luz.

Traducción libre del inglés:  Violeta Balián






THANKSGIVING

“Love is not all. It is not food nor drink.” Edna St. Vincent Millay


Nor is food love, but palate’s sport alone.

Even with ceremony, without toast or vow, 

it is just means of keeping flesh on bone. 

But table and altar are confused somehow. 

We substitute our food, again, again 

for rites of love.  Look how this buffet sinks 

with golden fowl and platters of grain 

and candles for our eyes to drink.  


Love is not food, but in the name of those 

with parched throats, who could not eat 

or pray, whose empty mouths have closed 

whose bellies swelled with pain not meat 

we call it sustenance when it is shared. 

And sharing we call prayer.



ANGEL IN SOMERVILLE 

Once Sona gave me an angel. Or I should say
a drawing of one sprinkling stars
like snow, inscribing it, "Diana scattering
light."  Not mother, not mommy, not mom —
she used my name.  I taped it to the door
of her old room and there it stayed until

it came to life today.  Walking in Somerville
I saw a woman in an empty parking lot
scattering crumbs St. Francis style 
to swarming pigeons at her feet,
Sona’s angel strewing stars, chatting as regent,
angel, queen, — bag lady no more, but mother
feeding her children, dispensing grace.



DAUGHTER 

I was the child who swallowed whole
the sight of showmen eating fire,
flying rabbits on piano wire,
every happy ending told,
sure that straw could spin to gold. 

I grew older. Gold spun back to straw.
I learned miracles could lie
only in the beholder’s eye.
Stayed jaded until the day I saw
two eyes fill with my old awe.



SHIFTING THE SUN

When your father dies, say the Irish
you lose your umbrella against bad weather.
May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Welsh
you sink a foot deeper into the earth.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians

When your father dies, say the Canadians
you run out of excuses.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Indians
he comes back as the thunder.
May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Russians,
he takes your childhood with him.
May you inherit his light say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the British,
you join his club you vowed you wouldn’t.
May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

When your father dies, say the Armenians,
your sun shifts forever
and you walk in his light.




OPEN POEM

death lies beside each sleeper
that day wakes up
stalks every step
puts down the heel
that pace picks up again
and exhales every breath
except where love breathes in



THE BLUE LOUISIANA HERON DREAM

A blue heron
is bending in the rain
fishing for summer
in the river.

A boy walks
with pail and pole
across this dream
toward his own
drowning.

I will wake
in a little while
old and in the north.

A blue heron
will be bending outside
in the snow.

  
HOW I ENTERED POETRY

I saw it shining
in the snow
outside the used car
display store
and asked the salesman
what it was.
"A Porsche Poem,"
he said, "What's more, 
it's not for you.
Too much power.
It goes too fast.
But uses very
little gas."

"I'll take it. It's my car!"
I said, placing a down
payment down and fled.

Driving,
when other cars
passed by
I'd laugh, knowing, 
if I chose...
I fly.









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