Richard Blanco skriver om nycklarna till identitetssökandet, utifrån kulturell, nationell och sexuell synvinkel. Och han gör det otroligt bra!
Han har faktiskt bara gett ut tre diktsamlingar. Men som jag tidigare har tagit upp i bloggen så fick han framföra en uppläsning vid Barack Obamas andra presidentinstallation. Snacka om kometkarriär.
De tre utgivna böckerna är: City of a Hundred Fires (1997), Directions to the Beach of the Dead (2005) och Looking for the Gulf Motel (2012).
Jag har läst den sistnämnda. Den innehåller både fina prosadikter och lite längre dikter på fri vers. Hans språk är så följsamt och ömsint att det är lätt att ta till sig texterna. Jag kan varmt rekommendera hans dikter till såväl tonåringar som till en vuxen publik. "Looking for a Gulf Motel" är så här långt den bästa samling jag läst under 2015. Det var oerhört svårt att välja ut dikter från den. Men här får ni en fantastisk betraktelse om favoritrummet i barndomshemmet.
El Florida Room, by Richard Blanco (f. 1968)
(from Looking for a Gulf Motel. Pittsburgh, Pa. : University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012.)
Not a study or a den, but El Florida
as my mother called it, a pretty name
for the room with the prettiest view
of the lipstick-red hibiscus puckered up
against the windows, the tepid breeze
laden with the brown-sugar scent
of loquats drifting in from the yard.
 |
| Lipstick-red Hibiscus |
Not a sunroom, but where the sun
both rose and set, all day the shadows
of banana trees fan-dancing across
the floor, and if it rained, it rained
the loudest, like marbles plunking
across the roof under constant threat
of coconus ready to fall from the sky.
Not a sitting room, but El Florida, where
I sat alone for hours with butterflies
frozen on the polyester curtains
and faces of Lladró figurines: sad angels,
clowns, and princesses with eyes glazed
blue and gray, gazing from nehind
the glass doors of the wall cabinet.
Not a TV room, but where I watched
Creature Feature as a boy, clinging
to my brother, safe from vampires
in the same sofa where I fell in love
with Clint Eastwood and my Abuelo
watching westerns, or pitying women
crying in telenovelas with my Abuela.
Not a family room, but the room where
my father twirled his hair while listening
to eight-tracks of Elvis, read Nietzsche
and Kant a few months before he died,
where my mother learned to dance alone
as she swept, and I learned salsa pressed
against my Tía Julia's enormous breasts.
At the edge of the city, in the company
of crickets, beside the empty clothesline,
telephone wires, and the moon, tonight
my life is an old friend sitting with me
not in the living room, but in the light
of El Florida, as quiet and necessary
as any star shining above it.
***
Jag måste ge er en dikt till. Jag kunde ha valt den utmärkta beskrivningen av fördomarna han mötte från äldre kubanska släktingar när han var klar över sin sexuella läggning. Jag kunde ha valt den avslutande förklarande dikten till varför han blev författare. Men jag valde följande prosadikt om kärlekens betydelse för valen vi gör.
Thicker than country, by Richard Blanco
(from Looking for a Gulf Motel. Pittsburgh, Pa. : University of Pittsburgh Press, 2012.)
A Cuban like me living in Maine? Well,
what the hell, Mark loves his native snow
and I don't mind it, really. I love icicles,
even though I still decorate the house
with seashells and starfish. Sometimes
I want to raise chickens and pigs, wonder
if I could grow even a small mango tree
in my three-season porch. But mostly,
I'm happy with hemlocks and birches
towering over the house, their shadows
like sundials, the cool breeze blowing
even in the summer. Sometimes I miss
the melody of Spanish, a little, and I play
Celia Cruz, dance alone in the basement.
Sometimes I miss the taste of white rice
with picadillo - so I cook, but it's never
as good as my mother's. I don't miss her
or the smell of her Cuban bread as much
as I should. Most days I wonder why, but
when Mark comes home like an astronaut
dressed in his ski clothes, or I spy him
planting petunias in the spring, his face
smudged with this earth, or barbequing
in the summer when he asks me if I want
a hamberg or a cheezeberg as he calls them -
still making me laugh after twelve years -
 |
| Bald Mountain, Camden, Maine |
I understand why the mountains here
are enough, white with snow or green
with palms, mountains are mountains,
but love is thicker than any country.
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