Hon var den av de tio utvalda statspoeterna som jag var mest tveksam till på förhand. En del tvivel försvann när jag läste Jane Hirshfields kommentar på bokomslaget. Resten blåstes bort efter den sjätte dikten, den som inspirerat till bokens titel.
**
Scene: Hotel, Interior / Elizabeth Austen
(from Every dress a decision. Yakima, WA : Blue Begonia Press, 2011.)
he holds over his head her dress
vacant and anonymous her body
folds her mind a curtain dropping
the soundtrack next door
porn's percussive
dialogue laughter
the dress a banner over his head
a blank flag a page he turns
from a script her body won't recite
a houseful of locks
clicks shut her refusal
a body between them
she takes the dress from his hand
fills the dress with her decision
wraps her arms over her clothed breasts
he empties his eyes the dress
a mistranslated subtitle a trailer
with no feature
he offers one foot to each pant leg
accepts the sigh of his zipper a clock
gathers their silence
***
Som tonåring började Elizabeth Austen skriva poesi, men skrivandet var inte i fokus för henne förrän hon var i trettioårsåldern. "Jag ville bli klassisk skådespelare som barn. - Jag tränade som en klassisk skådespelare, och det var så jag började uppskatta ett rikt språk och så fick jag träna poetry out loud", berättade hon för Seattles författarmagasin.
I intervjun berättade hon lite om hur diktsamlingen kom till.
"I had always wanted to go to Peru and Ecuador and Bolivia, so I sold my car one day and bought a one-way ticket to South America. I traveled around for six months in the Andes region. I wrote a lot and journaled," she said. "When I came back, I planned to do another dance theatre performance, but then my eldest brother died - he was 37 years old and living in Prague. It threw my family into a crisis."
Tidsperspektiv är temat för följande dikt, och den är jag mycket förtjust i.
Leaving the island, by Elizabeth Austen
(from Every dress a decision. Yakima, WA : Blue Begonia Press, 2011.)
ferry from Orcas to Anacortes
 |
| Orcas Island ferry |
Mist-colored knots of sea glass. A moss-clot
cadged from the trail’s edge. The truce
fished word by word from beneath the surface,
still unspoken. We carry what we found
what we made there. Three days you and I
let the currents direct our course, slept
on cool sand, let woodsmoke flavor us.
What’s left? Slow travel over cold water.
Toward home and days ordered by clocks
instead of tides. We watch through salt-scarred
windows, hoping the dark shapes will rise
beside us, will grace us. We know too well
what can’t be willed, only missed
if we look away too soon.
***
När man läser hennes intervjusvar tycks det som om det kan dröja länge tills hon har nya bokprojekt på gång. Det känns helt otillfredsställande, för redan efter första genomläsningen av Every dress a decision så önskade jag mig mer.
More, one more / Elizabeth Austen
(from Every dress a decision. Yakima, WA : Blue Begonia Press, 2011.)
I claim I’ll go still
full of curiosity.
But darling we both know
I always want one more
kiss, another drag
off the scent of your neck.
No reason to think I’ll die
differently than I live —
hungry for one more mouthful
of honey, craving another blossom’s
cargo of yellow, more,
one more bass note
caressing my sternum, one more
saltwater swim.
I’m sure to try
to pull along some
cone or frond,
grain of sand
in my swimsuit, pistachio
stuck in my teeth —
to praise this world
by hauling what I can
into the next.
Darling, sweet pants,
don’t stand
too close
at the end.
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