Lectura poética – Charles Bukowski
las
lecturas de poesía han de ser de las cosas más tristes y terribles
la
reunión de los hombres del clan y las mujeres del clan
semana
tras semana, mes tras mes, año
tras
año,
envejeciendo
juntos
leyendo
para pequeños grupos
siempre
esperando que su genio
sea
descubierto,
grabando
cintas juntos, discos juntos,
sudando
por el aplauso
leen,
básicamente, por y para ellos mismos
no
pueden encontrar un editor en Nueva York
o
uno
a
millas de distancia
pero
ellos leen y leen
en
los agujeros de la poesía en América
sin
intimidarse
sin
considerar nunca la posibilidad de que
su
talento sea
tenue,
casi invisible,
ellos
leen y leen
frente
a sus madres, sus hermanas, sus maridos,
sus
esposas, sus amigos, los otros poetas
y un
manojo de idiotas que cayeron
allí
de
la nada.
me
avergüenzo por ellos,
me
avergüenza que deban auparse unos a otros
me
avergüenza el ceceo de sus egos
su
falta de agallas.
si
estos son nuestro creadores
por
favor, por favor denme algo más:
un
plomero borracho en un bowling,
un novato
en cuatro rounds,
un jinete
guiando su caballo a lo largo de
la
barrera,
un
barman en el último turno,
una
mesera sirviéndome café,
un
borracho durmiendo en un portal desierto,
un
perro royendo un hueso seco,
un peo
de elefante en la carpa de un circo,
el
congestionamiento de una autopista a las 6
p.m.
el
cartero contando un chiste soez
lo
que sea
lo
que sea
pero
no
éstos
(traducción
mia)
Poetry Reading - Charles Bukoswki
poetry readings have to be some of the saddest
damned things ever,
the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,
week after week, month after month, year
after year,
getting old together,
reading on to tiny gatherings,
still hoping their genius will be
discovered,
making tapes together, discs together,
sweating for applause
they read basically to and for
each other,
they can't find a New York publisher
or one
within miles,
but they read on and on
in the poetry holes of America,
never daunted,
never considering the possibility that
their talent might be
thin, almost invisible,
they read on and on
before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,
their wives, their friends, the other poets
and the handful of idiots who have wandered
in
from nowhere.
I am ashamed for them,
I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,
I am ashamed for their lisping egos,
their lack of guts.
if these are our creators,
please, please give me something else:
a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,
a prelim boy in a four rounder,
a jock guiding his horse through along the
rail,
a bartender on last call,
a waitress pouring me a coffee,
a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,
a dog munching a dry bone,
an elephant's fart in a circus tent,
a 6 p.m. freeway crush,
the mailman telling a dirty joke
anything
anything
but
these.
damned things ever,
the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies,
week after week, month after month, year
after year,
getting old together,
reading on to tiny gatherings,
still hoping their genius will be
discovered,
making tapes together, discs together,
sweating for applause
they read basically to and for
each other,
they can't find a New York publisher
or one
within miles,
but they read on and on
in the poetry holes of America,
never daunted,
never considering the possibility that
their talent might be
thin, almost invisible,
they read on and on
before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands,
their wives, their friends, the other poets
and the handful of idiots who have wandered
in
from nowhere.
I am ashamed for them,
I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other,
I am ashamed for their lisping egos,
their lack of guts.
if these are our creators,
please, please give me something else:
a drunken plumber at a bowling alley,
a prelim boy in a four rounder,
a jock guiding his horse through along the
rail,
a bartender on last call,
a waitress pouring me a coffee,
a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway,
a dog munching a dry bone,
an elephant's fart in a circus tent,
a 6 p.m. freeway crush,
the mailman telling a dirty joke
anything
anything
but
these.
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