Bryant Park (behind the New York Public Library on 42nd Street/Fifth Avenue)
Martes 12 de Mayo, 7:00pm
NUEVA YORK: Con el sol y la primavera vuelven también las lecturas en el Bryan Park, hermosas pausas en la vida diaria que devuelven a la ciudad su dimensión humana.
El próximo martes, en un evento organizado en colaboración con Dos Madres Press, leerán sus poemas los escritores Daniel Shapiro, Michael Heller, Rick Mullin y Anne Whitehouse.
Word for Word Poetry será la ocasión propicia para escuchar versos extraídos de los libros This Constellation Is A Name: Collected Poems 1965-2010 de Michael Heller; Sonnets from the Voyage of the Beagle de Rick Mullin, The Red Handkerchief and Other Poems de Daniel Shapiro y The Refrain de Anne Whitehouse.
Para que vayan pregustando el evento aquí tienen algunos de los poemas de los autores:
Their Poetics (Michael Heller)
They remind me
of all sorts of things
I’ve pitched into the weathered world,
the endless habitats of meaning.
What furies, and who slams rutted desk
and rides out
animate impressions of the world
in justified emblems,
as though tradition
was indeed a beggary of sense
or at least fought
against the settled weather of the usual,
and like one’s loves,
kept themselves alive
by constant surprise of endlessness.
Evening Crossing (Rick Mullin)
Near Colonia del Sacramiento, November 14
This horse will have to swim across the river.
I am amazed at how the others passed
one hundred yards at least, all but this last
dark gelding that will only buck and shiver
as he’s mounted by a gaucho stripped
from head to foot. They ride into the shallows
under crimsoned clouds until the river swallows
horse and horseman. But the rider’s slipped
into the current now, his black braid floating
near the horse’s tail, to which our swimmer
clings with one hand, splashing with another
at a gaping muzzle. Now they shimmer
as the man remounts and we begin our boating.
How well the horse and human suit each other.
Near Colonia del Sacramiento, November 14
This horse will have to swim across the river.
I am amazed at how the others passed
one hundred yards at least, all but this last
dark gelding that will only buck and shiver
as he’s mounted by a gaucho stripped
from head to foot. They ride into the shallows
under crimsoned clouds until the river swallows
horse and horseman. But the rider’s slipped
into the current now, his black braid floating
near the horse’s tail, to which our swimmer
clings with one hand, splashing with another
at a gaping muzzle. Now they shimmer
as the man remounts and we begin our boating.
How well the horse and human suit each other.
Disguise (Daniel Shapiro)
Tonight at the mirror,
I admire my upper lip,
the stubble growing darker each day.
I keep dreaming of disguises—
thick handlebars of hair,
the great Fu Manchu,
one like Gable’s, pencil-thin,
to make women swoon.
In old photos, my father was his double
until his face got recast
into long Russian jowls and an apple nose,
a black brush just beneath it.
He was a man who scribbled
faces on his eggs
before releasing the yolks,
in the bowl the floating globes
like twin suns.
Now I imagine mine becoming his
no matter how I disguise it,
I see his nose jutting out of
my brow in ten years,
hair becoming yellow-gray and thin.
I keep glancing behind me,
into the mirror:
my face blank as an egg.
from Blessing XIX (Anne Whitehouse)
I woke…longing for such a touch
to caress my mind and free my thought,
bringing into expression
the frail idea in danger of perishing,
the flight of the mind
that moves without movement
to the stillness that is not death,
from life to the fullness of life.