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The Frost Medal – The Shelley Memorial Award March 15, 2009

Posted by hyperboreapoetry in Premios.
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Han sido nombrados los ganadores de este año de los premios The Frost Medal y The Shelley Memorial Award que otorga la Poetry Society of America.
The Robert Frost Medal de este año ha sido otorgada X.J. Kennedy mientras que The Shelley Memorial Award se sido dado a dos poetas: Ron Padgett y Gary Young.
La información aquí.

*****
X.J. Kennedy photo
Algunos poemas de X.J. Kennedy

Nude Descending a Staircase

Toe upon toe, a snowing flesh,
A gold of lemon, root and rind,
She sifts in sunlight down the stairs
With nothing on. Nor on her mind.

We spy beneath the banister
A constant thresh of thigh on thigh —
Her lips imprint the swinging air
That parts to let her parts go by.

One-woman waterfall, she wears
Her slow descent like a long cape
And pausing, on the final stair
Collects her motions into shape.

The Devil’s Advice to Poets

Molt that skin! Lift that face!—you’ll go far.
Grow like Proteus yet more bizarre.
In perpetual throes
Majors metamorphose—
Only minors remain who they are.

Aquí puedes leer algunos otros.
*****

Ron Padgett
Un poco del trabajo de Ron Padgett

Ladies And Gentlemen In Outer Space

Everything changes (the word “everything”
has just changed as the
word “change” has: it now
means “no change”) so
quickly that it literally surpasses my belief,
charges right past it
like some of the giant
ideas in this area.
I had no beginning and I shall have
no end: the beam of light
stretches out before and behind
and I cook the vegetables
for a few minutes only,
the fewer the better. Butter

Fairy Tale

The little elf is dressed in a floppy cap
and he has a big rosy nose and flaring white eyebrows
with short legs and a jaunty step, though sometimes
he glides across an invisible pond with a bonfire glow on his cheeks:
it is northern Europe in the nineteenth century and people
are strolling around Copenhagen in the late afternoon,
mostly townspeople on their way somewhere,
perhaps to an early collation of smoked fish, rye bread, and cheese,
washed down with a dark beer: ha ha, I have eaten this excellent meal
and now I will smoke a little bit and sit back and stare down
at the golden gleam of my watch fob against the coarse dark wool of my vest,
and I will smile with a hideous contentment, because I am an evil man,
and tonight I will do something evil in this city!

*****

Gary Young photo

Aquí puedes leer un libro completo de Gary Young y estos son algunos de sus poemas.

Four poems

It’s a joy to be subtracted from the world. Holding my son’s naked body against my own, all I feel is what he is. I cannot feel my own skin. I cannot feel myself touching him, but I can recognize his hair, the heft of his body, his warmth, his weight. I cannot measure my own being, my subtle boundaries, but I know my son’s arms, the drape of his legs, smooth and warm in a shape I can measure. I have become such a fine thing, the resting-place for a body I can know.

I bought eggplants at the farmer’s market, long and slender, the deep purple reserved for nightshade, castor, the garden’s poisonous brood. I was admiring the eggplant’s waxy skin, its tender flesh, when a farmer thrust a tomato into my hand. I bit into the firm, red fruit, belladonna’s passionate cousin, and ate it under his watchful eye. He looked at me and nodded, as if he knew how far I’d go for pleasure.

I know that bird calling out in the night. This isn’t the first time he’s mistaken moonlight for sunrise.

She handed me a piece of salmon, ruby-hued and redolent of wood smoke and the sea. Moist, silky with oil, I ate it slowly, and told her, I’ve only eaten salmon like this once, years ago on the Skagit River. She said, this salmon was caught on the Skagit. She went on, but I wasn’t listening. I was thinking of eagles in the cedars; raw oysters, fennel bread, salmon and white wine; oyster shells in the middens; ice breaking under our boots on the trail to Fishtown.

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