Todos nosotros

Viviría mi vida otra vez?

¿Con los mismos errores imperdonables?

Sí. A la mínima posibilidad que tuviera.

un ensayo sobre la vida y la obra de Emily Dickinson, recuerdo haber leído que sus poemas surgen hasta tal punto de las necesidades del alma que violentan el concepto de poesía como artificio lingüístico.

el café hará que el corazón se nos pare cualquier día.

¿Quién no se sintió alguna vez desarmado ante la poesía que exige mucho menos de lo que nos entrega con absoluta generosidad?

RUINA
Veintiocho, un vientre velludo que me sobresale
de la camiseta (insolvente)
tumbado en mi lado
del colchón (insolvente)
escuchando el extraño sonido
de la voz de mi mujer (también insolvente).
Somos unos recién llegados

escribes un poema sobre ello.
lo titulas un poema para tu hija
y trata del perro al que atropella una furgoneta,
de cómo te ocupaste de él,
lo llevaste al bosque
y lo enterraste hondo, muy hondo,
y el poema sale tan bien
que casi te alegras de que hayan atropellado
al pobre perro, si no, no habrías
escrito nunca ese poema.
entonces te sientas a escribir

Es agosto y no he
leído un libro en seis meses
salvo una cosa titulada The Retreat From Moscow
de Caulaincourt.
Sin embargo, soy feliz
cuando voy en coche con mi hermano
bebiendo una pinta de Old Crow.
No vamos a ningún sitio,
conducimos sin más.
Si cerrara los ojos durante un minuto
no sabría dónde estoy
y me tumbaría encantado a dormir para siempre
a la orilla de la carretera.

YOUR DOG DIES

it gets run over by a van. / you find it at the side of the road / and bury it. / you feel bad about it. / you feel bad personally, / but you feel bad for your daughter / because it was her pet, / and she loved it so. / she used to croon to it / and let it sleep in her bed. / you write a poem about it. / you call it a poem for your daughter, / about the dog getting run over by a van / and how you looked after it, / took it out into the woods / and buried it deep, deep, / and that poem turns out so good / you’re almost glad the little dog / was run over, or else you’d never / have written that good poem. / then you sit down to write / a poem about writing a poem / about the death of that dog, / but while you’re writing you / hear a woman scream / your name, your first name, / both syllables, / and your heart stops. / after a minute, you continue writing. / she screams again. // you wonder how long this can go.

YOUR DOG DIES

it gets run over by a van. / you find it at the side of the road / and bury it. / you feel bad about it. / you feel bad personally, / but you feel bad for your daughter / because it was her pet, / and she loved it so. / she used to croon to it / and let it sleep in her bed. / you write a poem about it. / you call it a poem for your daughter, / about the dog getting run over by a van / and how you looked after it, / took it out into the woods / and buried it deep, deep, / and that poem turns out so good / you’re almost glad the little dog / was run over, or else you’d never / have written that good poem. / then you sit down to write / a poem about writing a poem / about the death of that dog, / but while you’re writing you / hear a woman scream / your name, your first name, / both syllables, / and your heart stops. / after a minute, you continue writing. / she screams again. // you wonder how long this can go

celebrar la cotidiana inmediatez de sentirse vivo.