Peter Olds
(Nueva Zelanda, 1944) ha publicado varios libros de poesía. Su influencia en la generación de jóvenes poetas neozelandeses, principalmente de los setenta, fue de considerable importancia. Sus poemas han sido incluidos en antologías canónicas y su obra poética fue reunida en It Was a Tuesday Morning: Selected Poems 1972-2001, que reúne casi tres décadas de su poesía. En 2005 fue uno de los dos ganadores del primer Premio Literario Janet Frame.
En versión del poeta, narrador y ensayista Rogelio Guedea (1974), dos poemas de Peter Olds (Nueva Zelanda, 1944). Es uno de los poetas más influyentes de su país. Sus poemas han sido incluidos en antologías canónicas y su obra poética fue reunida en It Was a Tuesday Morning: Selected Poems 1972-2001, que reúne casi tres décadas de su poesía. En 2005 fue uno de los dos ganadores del primer Premio Literario Janet Frame. [http://circulodepoesia.com/]
Y sé que en la mañana lloverá
En la habitación a la que acabamos de mudarnos
tenemos como adornos
los despojos
de los anteriores ocupantes,
quienes huyeron despavoridamente
a otra ciudad a la busca de sus almas.
Me siento en la silla que abandonaron
y miro tu rostro nervioso
desmoronándose extrañamente sobre la repisa de madera de la radio.
Observas los insectos imantados
por la luz eléctrica y la ventana,
y entonces sé que pronto me dirás:
este cuarto está muy tétrico
y el cielo parece nublado
porque las palomillas han invadido, otra vez, la habitación.
Pero la razón por la que estás con los nervios de punta
no es porque mi máquina de escribir esté enmohecida
de poemas que no he escrito
o por los adornos que no sirven para nada
sino porque no tenemos un boiler que podamos encender
cuando llegue el invierno.
Sí, veo el talco espolvoreado en tus pechos
y cuento el número de veces que te estropeas la piel
y golpeas el piso.
Veo cómo te cepillas el pelo nada más para librarte
de la turbia noche
y cómo bebes la última taza de té tibio
antes de que el cansancio te venza.
Presiento, esta vez,
que el sueño ha de llegar demasiado tarde.
Alcanzo el frasco de Valium,
y sé que en la mañana lloverá.
Las casas derruidas
Para Heather
Tú cuidas una orilla de la calle
y yo la otra.
Nada ni nadie escapa a nuestra vista:
gatos, niños intrusos
luces innombrables,
cartas sin destinatario.
Los ancianos vecinos
con las piernas adoloridas y los televisores parpadeantes
en sus departamentos
necesitan nuestra guardia,
los escandalosos de la casa de dos pisos
al final de la cerrada,
siempre de fiesta
y manejando sus estruendosos coches arriba y abajo
de la calle que parece suya
necesitan nuestra guardia,
el vendedor de mariguana (no mencionaremos
su nombre) y el patrullero que hace sonar su sirena
en la calle los jueves en la noche
necesitan nuestra guardia,
la gente de la iglesia sobre la cerca de la casa grande
donde regentean el banco de alimentos
esos que nunca paran de decir “buenos días”
necesitan nuestra guardia,
las casas derruidas de la granja abandonada
detrás del campo de golf
la que mira hacia Blackhead y el salvaje océano del sur
(donde una vez te asustaron los eucaliptos)
necesitan nuestra guardia.
Cuando la calle está apacible
vengo a tu departamento
a mirar la tele, compartir un bizcocho y algunas preguntas:
¿qué cenaste ayer en la noche?
¿saliste a caminar esta tarde?
¿cómo te fue con el terapista?
No me quedo mucho tiempo
nunca lo hago:
yo soy ese niño
que corre a todo lo largo y ancho
de tu jardín
persiguiendo
luces innombrables.
Peter Olds was born in Christchurch in 1944. His father was a bee-keeper and Methodist minister. Educated at Seddon Memorial Tech in Auckland, at fifteen he left school for a variety of odd jobs. In the mid-60s he settled in Dunedin, where his interest in guitars led him to attempt song writing. After meeting James K. Baxter, he concentrated on literature. While employed building stage-sets for the Globe Theatre he wrote a one-act play, which was subsequently directed by Patric Carey. In 1968 Olds suffered a breakdown, and underwent ECT treatment at a mental hospital. Upon his release he joined Baxter at the Jerusalem commune, returning to Dunedin in 1971 in order to write his first book Lady Moss Revived (1972). Active on the reading circuit, he was awarded the Robert Burns Fellowship in 1978. His work has been represented in The Penguin Book of New Zealand Verse (Penguin); An Anthology of New Zealand Poetry in English (Oxford); Big Smoke (AUP) and Best New Zealand Poems 2001 (IIML).
Bibliography
Lady Moss Revived (Caveman Press, 1972)
The Snow & the Glass Window (Caveman Press, 1973)
Freeway (Caveman Press, 1974)
Doctor’s Rock (Caveman Press, 1976)
Beethoven’s Guitar (Caveman Press, 1980)
After Looking For Broadway (One Eyed Press, 1985)
Music Therapy (Earl of Seacliff Art Workshop, 2001)
Oh, Baxter Is Everywhere (Square One Press, 2003)
It Was a Tuesday Morning: Selected Poems 1972-2001 (Hazard Press, 2004)
E Flat
I’ve got this flat, see,
& it’s got in it this piano
which I don’t play,
but I’ve got a guitar –
you know, the lonely instrument –
& I use the piano’s E Flat string
(which happens to be the only one that works)
to E Flat tune the guitar’s 6th string.
Now, the guitar’s got 6 strings
& a piano’s got about one thousand and two,
while, on the other hand, this room
in this flat has no strings,
not even semi-attached.
I guess the E Flat string
must be the loneliest note I know…
But I’m not silly, see –
when I play the guitar
I always pick the chord of D –
well, D sharp, actually.
[BG, Caveman, 1980]
Small Pictures of Dunedin
(for Eion Stevens)
1
How fast summer comes.
How magnificent the gorse
and yellow flower.
Hills three miles thick, light
as a feather, soft
with light.
Spiders crawl into my room.
Outside, thick rose bushes
and rust-red petals.
Dark hidden things
thick with dark.
As quickly as summer comes
it goes, with a sudden southerly,
like a cricket ball
straight through the sticks.
2
A sun –licked day –
God’s warm tongue…
Outside a grocer shop
a dog tied to a post
barks two-tone.
In the browning park,
girls in dark glasses
warming in the thinning trees –
summer fading from their eyes.
Orange-thin haze.
Purple-blue.
Not a pine in sight.
Not one waterhole.
3
This afternoon I took a walk
to Halfway Bush;
low cloud and mist moved in
flattening Flagstaff, blocking
from view its tussock-rock crown
and the old fat pines
that on brighter days
look like smudged eyes –
searching, yearning,
I cannot tell.
Sometimes when the sun sets
the earth swims in a pink universe.
4
The moon sits in the middle of the window.
Autumn trees rattle in the warm wind.
Twilight sky already full of purple frost.
Three months of the year gone.
Last night I heard a possum scream;
louder now
as each night grows longer.
5
In Dunedin
there are no afternoon newspapers
for insomniacs.
6
Tonight, walking home
hunched and greasy from chips and beer,
old dreams rose and grumbled behind me.
I ran the lost block in fear.
Pausing on the steps near home
I saw the victorious moon rise beyond
dark North East Valley;
sky cool and pale
from long afternoon rains.
Above the house, gusts of wind
rip through the town-belt trees.
Spouting by the window bangs
like an unbolted gate.
Inside the house I find my flatmate
beside the hot coalrange eating stew.
He belches some New Zealand Brewery fumes
over a hot spud…
In my room I wade through rubbish
three feet deep looking for pen and paper
to write this drivel.
7
Lunch in the park.
The sun moves quietly among bathing bodies
like a photographer, catching each
falling leaf.
This small group of bathing people
grabbing the last warm offering
from a tired, half-shuttered sun.
8
A huge hand, it seems, with
fingers spread wide, has scratched
blood-like shapes
across the sky.
For a few moments I think
the sun is going to die,
and that tonight the wind
will not gust from the trees
and rattle my door,
and I will not be able to find
what it is that I am looking for:
one specific pine tree,
a melting snow-flake,
a funny window,
the yellow eye of a possum,
coalsmoke drifting from dark-wedged
North East Valley,
singing powerlines.
[BG, Caveman, 1980]
The Broken Houses
(for Heather)
You guard one end of the street
& I the other.
No one or thing escapes our notice –
cats, trespassing children
unidentified lights
unclaimed mail.
The elderly neighbours
locked in their flats
with leg-sores & blinking television
need our watching,
the noisy people in the two storied houses
at the end of the cul-de-sac
forever partying
driving their rowdy cars fast up & down
the street like they own it
need our watching,
the marijuana dealer (we won’t mention
his name) & the policecar that screams up
the street on Thursday nights
need our watching,
the church people over the hedge in the big house
where they run the food bank
always busy doing something
never stopping to say hello
need our watching,
the broken houses of the abandoned farm
behind the golf-course
overlooking Blackhead & wild southern ocean
(where you were once frightened by bluegums)
need our watching…
I come to your flat at night
when the street is quiet
to watch TV, to share a biscuit & thought –
‘What did you have for tea tonight?’
‘Did you go for a walk this afternoon?’
‘How was therapy?’
I don’t stay long
I never do –
I’m like a child
running across your lawn
chasing unidentified lights.
[MT, EOSAW,2001]
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