Dennis Scott
Nació en Kingston, Jamaica, a fines de 1939. Asistió al Jamaica College, y a su egreso fue educado en la Universidad de West Indies. Después dio clases en Trinidad & Tobago y en la Universidad de Yale. Luego de tomar un curso en pedagogía y didáctica en Newcastle, Inglaterra, regresó para enseñar en el Jamaica College y a la vez dirigir la School of Drama de Kingston.
El poeta también enseñó en la escuela de teatro de Yale, y fue jefe de su programa, desde 1986 hasta su muerte. Por otra parte, se lo define como a uno de los poetas más significativos del período posterior a la independencia de su país.
Su primer poemario, Uncle Time (1973), ganó el premio en poesía de la Commonwealth. Sus otros libros de poesía son Dreadwalk: Poems 1970-1978 (1982), Strategies (1989) y, de edición póstuma, After-Image (2008). Scott es reconocido además como uno de los creadores más influyentes en la dirección teatral en el Caribe. Murió New Haven, Connecticut, en 1991
EPITAFIO
Lo colgaron en una mañana apacible, se balanceaba
entre los rayos del sol y la respiración
de las mujeres como un negro apóstrofo de dolor.
Durante toda la mañana los niños silenciaron
la alegría de su juego de rayuela mientras la caña
seguía creciendo
y él colgaba ahí dulce y bajo.
Al menos así fue cómo
lo contaron. Ocurrió hace mucho tiempo;
pero qué podemos recordar de la muerte de uno o
dos esclavos
excepto que, cuando puntualizamos la historia de
nuestra isla,
ellos se balancean como suspiros a lo largo de
brutales sentencias,
y la ira se detiene
hasta que ellos desaparecen.
Versión en español del poema:
Eduardo Dalter, María Luz Fernández
y Daniel Borrachia
Dennis Scott (1939 – 1991) was a Jamaican poet, actor and dancer. He published numerous collections of poetry. His poetry is widely studied and he remains one of the most influential Jamaican poets. He danced with the Jamaican National Dance Theatre Company. You may recognize him as the actor who played Lester Tibideaux on The Cosby Show.
Marrysong
He never learned her, quite. Year after year
that territory, without seasons, shifted
under his eye. An hour he could be lost
in the walled anger of her quarried hurt
or turning, see cool water laughing where
the day before there were stones in her voice.
He charted. She made wilderness again.
Roads disappeared. The map was never true.
Wind brought him rain sometimes, tasting of sea –
and suddenly she would change the shape of shores
faultlessly calm. All, all was each day new:
the shadows of her love shortened or grew
like trees seen from an unexpected hill,
new country at each jaunty, helpless journey.
So he accepted that geography, constantly strange.
Wondered. Stayed home increasingly to find
his way among the landscapes of her mind.
Here’s a man trying to understand his wife. The lines, “He charted. She made wilderness again”, are delightful and capture his struggle quite aptly.
The Never Ending Blame Game
Are you in a pickle,
Maybe dealing with some sort of tragedy?
Well don’t you worry about anything here on the
Game of blame!
Maybe it was an ex girlfriend, parent,
Or maybe even someone you’ve never met
Here are three simple steps so you will never have to take blame for any of your shit,
1.Identify the problem
2.Find the person of object responsible
3.Let the whole world obnoxiously know you had nothing to do with your issues, “Hello World”
Just put a face on the problem and poof
It’s gone!
You see that is the fucking problem that must be said.
Why as I am reading this am I constantly coming across these
empty hearted accusations ranging from sex greed and other materialistic things
Seriously what have we become
the fact that you change the face of your problems and put them on me
faster than it takes for you to acknowledge there even is one is disgusting
We cannot let tragedy and heartbreak break who we really are.
It’s time to cut the shit and end this game
That has been going on for too long
.