de la extrañeza de vivir y añorar

The Kingdom of Ordinary Time. What the Living Do. The Good Thief. Son los tres títulos de sus libros de poemas, que traduzco como El reino del tiempo corriente, Lo que hacen los vivos y El buen ladrón, de más reciente a más antiguo. Su hermano John murió de SIDA y de ahí salió lo que salió. Pero su mirada, la de la hermana, debía tener una formación previa, por más que ella afirme que la vida y la muerte de él cambió su estética completamente.

What the living do
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil
     probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes
     have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we
     spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight
     pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here
     and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the
     bag breaking,
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying
     along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my
     wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to
     pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and
     then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the
     window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a
     cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m
I am living. I remember you.
Marie Howe

Aquí hay un análisis muy interesante, por si alguien quiere más.

otra visión del estrecho de Mesina, no más optimista


En medio del temor y las sospechas,
con espíritu agitado y ojos de pavor,
nos consumimos y planeamos cómo hacer
para evitar el seguro
peligro que así terriblemente nos amenaza.
Y sin embargo estamos equivocados, ése no está en nuestro camino:
falsos eran los mensajes
(o no los escuchamos, o no los entendimos bien).
Otra catástrofe, que no la imaginábamos,
repentina, violenta cae sobre nosotros,
y no preparados -de dónde tiempo ya- nos arrebata.

C. Kavafis.
Traducción de Miguel Ángel Castillo

qué fea es la gente, Juan

Take the national express
When your life's in a mess
It'll make you smile
All human life is here
From the feeble old dear
To the screaming child
From the student who knows
That to have one of those
Would be suicide
To the family man
Manhandling the pram
With paternal pride
And everybody sings ba, ba, ba, da
We're going where the air is free
On the national express
There's a jolly hostess
Selling crisps and tea
She'll provide you with drinks
And theatrical winks
For a sky high fee
Mini-skirts were in style
When she danced down the aisle
Back in 63
(Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
But its hard to get by
When your arse is the size
Of a small country
And everybody sings ba, ba, ba, da
We're going where the air is free
Tomorrow belongs to me
When you're sad and feeling blue
With nothing better to do
Don't just sit there feeling stressed
Take a trip on the national express