domingo, 8 de noviembre de 2015

ALEX DIMITROV [17.423]


Alex Dimitrov 

Nacido el 30 de noviembre de 1984, en Sofía, Bulgaria, es un poeta americano y el fundador de Wilde Boys, un salón de la poesía gay en la ciudad de Nueva York.  

En 2014 inició Night Call un proyecto poético multimedia mediante el cual él lee poemas online a extraños en la cama. Dimitrov es también fundador de Wilde Boys.Sus poemas han sido publicados en Poetry, The Yale Review, Kenyon Review, Slate, Poetry Daily, Tin House, Boston Review y en the American Poetry Review, que lo premió con el premio Staley kunitz en 2011. 

Es editor de contenido en the Academy of American Poets e impate clases de escritura creativa en Rutgers University.

Dimitrov se crió en Detroit, Michigan. Asistió a la Universidad de Michigan en Ann Arbor, donde estudió con la poeta Anne Carson, y recibió una licenciatura en Inglés y Estudios de Cine en 2007. En 2009 recibió una maestría en la poesía de Sarah Lawrence College, donde estudió con la poeta Marie Howe.

Bibliografía:

American Boys, 2012 (Floating Wolf Quarterly)
Begging for It, 2013 (Four Way Books)


Fe Americana

Te preguntas si esta ciudad te matará.
Como el chico triste metiéndose cocaína cuelga
sus piernas sobre la cornisa de otro tejado
y tu canción favorita del verano termina
o está empezando – Parece demasiado breve como para que importe.
La vida de alguien es una luz roja o azul en la distancia.
Nada de esto te desgarrará como te gustaría.
Sabes que viniste aquí por razones equivocadas,
así que dime, ¿si Nueva York fuera una palabra,
sería dinero o ambición?
Si eres afortunado, el amor te dejará olvidarte de una de las dos.
Piensas sobre esto
mientras observas a alguien hermoso
meter  una pastilla en tu boca
y un sentimiento pasajero en tu cuerpo.
Y el amor –el amor otra vez –
como una sirena nocturna, pasa.
¿Por qué entrar en detalle?
América va de encontrar algo a lo que adorar.

*Traducción de Elisa Alaya
http://traducciones.lagallaciencia.com/



American Faith

You wonder if this city will kill you.          
The way the sad boy doing cocaine dangles
his legs over the ledge of another roof
and your favorite summer song ends
or is it beginning—it feels too brief to matter.
Someone's life is a red or blue light in the distance.
None of this will strip you down the way you'd like.
You know you came here for the wrong reasons,
so tell me, if New York was a word
would it be money or ambition?
If you're lucky, love will let you forget about one of the two.
You think about this
while you watch someone beautiful
put a pill in your mouth
and a temporary feeling in your body.
And love—love again—
like a night siren, passes.
Why go into detail?
America is about finding something to worship.




Lines for People After the Party

And whenever they couldn’t speak they looked at each other.
How long should I look at the world before I go home?
It’s a moody life like Debussy on a weekend
and all the appointments and money and drinks they do go.
So with our beautiful coats we went back to that mess
and what happened? Someone found what they wanted
by night, by mistake. In the car it felt like summer
and we lived with no sun    . . .    just metals and leather.
A lot of   Mondays. A lot of you in the grass I go to and touch.
Oh and Los Angeles for its slow light. Rome for when it gets late.
You. Not you, but you who are reading   . . .
what won’t you ask for and want?
Of course I remember it differently because I was broke
and it feels like I’m broke still.
The cabs lined up but no one took him
where he wanted to go. Those months shared a face
and the face of a dog on a street was the only thing
that really saw you (for a long time).
Then I heard you were traveling, I heard you were somewhere,
I heard you were nowhere anyone looked for at all.
French stationery. Construction. Sent then deleted. Missed you
so sorry next time press yes to continue press now.
And I stood on Barrow then Greenwich then Allen
then all streets, every street, all the time, everyone.
There was a check you used just to drive out there.
There was a storm that brought a gold door in front of their shoes.
You know, it doesn’t get easier with the lights on.
It doesn’t get easier to watch the play with an end.
On the way out someone said, what a terrible way to portray life.
But about us. Hide all week then some place
we go empty the dark in. In the dark
with our vices and best shirts and history’s dress.
Then you could find me anytime. And then there’s right now.
Where wouldn’t we go to be no one and those people again?




The Last Luxury, JFK, Jr.

Born of the sun, we traveled a short while toward the sun.
Where there were seasons and sky. Where there were monuments.
Like a single engine plane in a July haze.
Or our nights that pile up like shoes in a guest room.
I would talk about the weather when I’m in the right weather but when.
At the Stanhope Hotel, just hours before, they were people.
The Navy divers found them lying under one hundred and sixteen feet of waves.
Or a small body of water meeting a new, larger body.
Healthy body. Nobody. We just couldn’t decide.
Spatial disorientation occurs when you don’t refer to your 
instruments
and begin to believe the whatever inside you.
When I punished the Austrian roses by forgetting about them
I knew that they couldn’t keep beauty and they couldn’t keep time.
The day of his father’s funeral: November 25, 1963, was also his third birthday.
Then — sometimes: the urge for new windows.
A color other than black for the best days.
In fourteen seconds plummeting at a rate beyond the safe maximum.
The safe maximum at the office, bedroom, or bar.
On the way there, somewhere between floors, no velocity could recover us.
And again. Sometimes the right music,
sometimes lucky to be in good light.
Once a week I go into a room and pretend to have similar interests.
Every day I wake up and brush to the left.
We’re the good people, the bad people, and the people we aren’t.
Socialite, journalist, lawyer. Americans. These Americans.
They always button their coats when they see luck.
Dear Johnny boy, thanks for asking me to be your mother
but I’m afraid I could never do her justice.
My eyebrows aren’t thick enough, for one.
But you know, it was like eating the best grapefruit.
Being here. Here. (Here and then what.)
“ ... yet once you start answering those questions ... where do you stop?”
The old photograph of a young salute.
That one send-off to death, family; the beginning of character.
Maybe you know it’s the last year of the century. So come late and leave early.
(Others flying similar routes reported no visual horizon.)
It’s the last luxury. To go early and never come back.




Together and by Ourselves

I opened the window so I could hear people.
Last night we were together and by ourselves.
You. You look and look at Diver
for Crane by  Johns and want to say something.
In the water you are a child without eyes.
Yesterday there was nothing on the beach
and no one knows where it came from.
There’s a small animal lodged somewhere inside us.
There are minutes of peace.
Just the feel.   Just this once. Where does the past,
where should the period go?
What is under the earth followed them home.
The branch broke. It broke by itself. It did break, James.
We were there and on silent. We were delete, shift, command.
Slow — in black — on an orange street sign.
Missing everywhere and unwritten — suddenly — all at once.
Him. He misses a person and he is still living.
I haven’t missed you for long and you are so gone.
Then he stepped away from the poem midsentence    . . .
we must have been lonely people to say those things then.
But there are rooms for us now and sculptures to look at.
In the perfect field someone has left everything
including themselves. You. You should stay here.
It’s a brutal and beautiful autumn.
With his hands in the sand, on the earth, under time
he touched something else.
People are mostly what they can’t keep and keeps them.
And inside the circular cage of the Ferris wheel you saw the world.
In the steam, on the mirror: you wrote so so so    . . .
so if   you’re looking for answers you’re looking
at every water tower around here.
Why does the sea hold what it loves most below?
Fear. Hopeless money. All the news and the non-news.
How could anyone anywhere know us? What did we make?
And the leather of   your chair   . . .    it has me marked
so good luck forgetting. The world was a home.
It was cruel. It was true. It was not realistic.
Make sure you date and sign here then save all the soft things.
Because everyone wants to know when it was,
how it happened — say something about it.
How the night hail made imprints all over.
Our things. Our charming and singular things.



Este não é um poema pessoal

Este não é um poema pessoal.
Eu não escrevo sobre a minha vida.
Eu não tenho vida.
Eu não faço sexo.
Eu não experienciei a morte.
Não tome isso como pessoal mas
eu também não tenho quaisquer sentimentos.
Os sentimentos que eu não tenho não controlam a minha vida.
Eu tenho imaginação. Eu estou imaginando agora.
Este poema está preocupado com a linguagem em um nível bem simples.
Este poema roubou essa linha de John Ashbery.
Este poema quer que você o curta,
por favor clique em "curtir".
Este poema foi escrito durante uma recessão.
Eu sou tão politicamente consciente
que a palavra "política" está no meu poema.
Este não é um poema novaiorquino.
Não há lugar o bastante para todas as guerras neste poema.
O casamento gay agora está neste poema.
Você já curtiu este poema?
Foi escrito em 2011 em Nova Iorque e postado há 11 minutos.
Você dormiria com o poeta que escreveu este poema?
Você compraria o livro dele? Clique aqui.
Este poema ama a linguagem.
Este poema dormiu com outros poemas
escritos por poetas que amam a linguagem.
Todos os poetas amam a linguagem.
Vamos falar sobre linguagem enquanto as pessoas morrem.
Este poema se preocupa muito, mas quer que você
pense que ele não se preocupa de verdade.
O orador deste poema pode ter
nascido em um antigo país Comunista.
Isso pode ou não importar.
Eu tive um orgasmo antes de escrever este poema.
Eu estou usando meus óculos de sol enquanto leio este poema.
Todo mundo vai morrer,
por favor não tome isso como pessoal.
O mundo. O mundo.
O mundo é quente como o sangue e pessoal.
Eu roubei essa linha de Sylvia Plath.
Coloque seu dinheiro neste poema.
Eu amo a cena do facial.
Este não é um poema pessoal.
Este poema é somente sobre Alex Dimitrov.

(tradução de Rubens Akira Kuana)



This is not a personal poem 

This is not a personal poem.
I don’t write about my life.
I don’t have a life.
I don’t have sex.
I have not experienced death.
Don’t take this personally but
I don’t have any feelings either.
The feelings I don’t have don’t run my life.
I have an imagination. I’m imagining it now.
This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level.
This poem stole that line from John Ashbery.
This poem wants you to like it,
please click “like.”
This poem was written during a recession.
I’m so politically conscious
the word “politics” is in my poem.
This is not a New York poem.
There’s not enough room for all the wars in this poem.
Gay marriage is now in this poem.
Have you liked this poem yet?
It was written in 2011 in New York and posted 11 minutes ago.
Would you sleep with the poet who wrote this poem?
Would you buy his book? Click here.
This poem loves language.
This poem has slept with other poems
written by poets who love language.
All poets love language.
Let’s talk about language while people die.
This poem cares a lot but wants you
to think that it doesn’t really care.
The speaker of this poem may have been
born in a former Communist country.
It may or may not matter.
I had an orgasm before writing this poem.
I have my sunglasses on while reading this poem.
Everyone is going to die
please don’t take it personally.
The world. The world.
The world is blood-hot and personal.
I stole that line from Sylvia Plath.
Put your money on this poem.
I love the money shot.
This is not a personal poem.










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