***
Följande dikt har hämtat inspiration från dikter av Brenda Shaughnessy och Megin Jimenez Arcana.
Poeten och essäisten Laura Cronk vann Lexi Rudnitsky First Book Prize, 2011. Hon samordnar The Summer Writers Colony, the Riggio Writing & Democracy Program och andra verksamheter på The New School, Manhattan och är poesiredaktör för The Inquisitive Eater. Källa: lauracronk.com
Thirst, by Laura Cronk
(Published in poets.org, 2015.)
Unclouded third eye and lush
red wings. I’m pouring water
from cup to cup.
This is the water we are meant
to drink with the other animals.
There are daffodils by the water,
a road leading from the water
to the shining crown of the sun.
My white hospital gown—
off-the-rack and totally sane.
My foot unsteady, though,
heel held aloft, missing its stiletto.
Nine months sober emblazoned
on my flat chest in red
below girlish curls and mannish chin.
You can’t see my eyes.
You’ve never seen them.
***
Simone Muench växte upp i Louisiana och Arkansas men är nu bosatt i Chicago, IL. Hon har publicerat fem diktsamlingar: The Air Lost in Breathing, som dikten är hämtad från, vann Marianne Moore Prize for Poetry.
Efter att ha fått sin doktorsexamen från University of Illinois i Chicago, blev hon samordnare för Writers Program vid Lewis University där hon är professor i engelska och undervisar i kreativt skrivande och filmvetenskap. För närvarande fungerar hon även som fakultetens handledare för den studentstyrda journalen Jet Fuel Review. Källa: simonemuench.com
When we breathe, by Simone Muench
(from The Air Lost in Breathing. Helicon Nine, 2000.)
Our breath is the color of absence,
sleet, the frozen pond behind a house
where catfish and water moccasins weave in
and out of the watery door of melting ice
like strands of hair, the delicate
husks of dead loves.
Clouds shift across the sky
in broken ice floes; sleet filters
through the silver pores of a screen door
with a wide gap where the wire frays—
a baseball thrown off course by a young boy
with wavy hair and a lopsided smile.
These are the entrances, exits
of our everyday lives where the boy
drowns, his forehead tapping against ice, while
a woman with white hair, unaware, chops
onions and a man lingers behind her, humming
a song that’s never had words.
***
Alasdair Paterson erhöll Eric Gregory Award för sin poesi, 1975 och publicerade flera samlingar under mitten av 1980-talet, bland annat: The Floating World (Pig Press) and Brief Lives (Oasis Books), men hade sedan ett tjugoårigt uppehåll innan han gav ut 'on the governing of empires' (2010). Källa: Scottish Poetry Library
Nedanstående dikt är hämtad från hans senaste bok, "Elsewhere or Thereabouts".
Age of fire, by Alasdair Paterson
(from Elsewhere or Thereabouts. Bristol: Shearsman, 2014.)
Don’t let it bring you down.
It’s not the smoke
from funeral pyres,
not crematorium deposit
on childhood games,
not another city burning,
not here, not tonight
though someone whispers
all fires are the fire.
It’s not oil flares
at the refinery,
not a red dwarf
tracked from the observatory,
not the sfumato
of Last Judgements;
just another humdrum done
day rolled to the furnace
in best sunset pinks and blues,
just another deathbed conversion
to the quattrocento.
Then there’s black space
and mouthfuls from our flask,
each one a five minutes’ heartbeat;
all fires the stolen fire
I think, as we walk
under the lamps
towards our own blaze.
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