NICOLE COOLEY
Fecha de nacimiento: 1 de octubre de 1966, Nueva Orleans, Luisiana, Estados Unidos
Educación: Universidad Brown, Universidad de Iowa
Creció en Nueva Orleans, Louisiana. Se graduó de la Universidad de Brown y The Workshop escritores de Iowa, y obtuvo su Ph.D. de la Universidad de Emory. Nicole Cooley ha enseñado en la Universidad de Bucknell. Actualmente es profesora en la Universidad de Queens, City University de Nueva York, donde dirige el programa MFA en Escritura Creativa y traducción literaria.
Premios:
1994 "Discovery"/The Nation Award for her poetry
1995 Walt Whitman Award chosen by Cynthia Macdonald
1996 she received a fiction grant from the National Endowment for the Arts
2006 Writer Magazine/Emily Dickinson Award
Bibliografía:
Poesía:
Milk Dress . Alice James Books. 2010. ISBN 978-1-882295-83-8 .
Resurrection . Louisiana State University Press. 1996. ISBN 978-0-8071-2059-0 .
The Afflicted Girls . Louisiana State University Press. 2004. ISBN 978-0-8071-2946-3 .
Breach , Louisiana State University Press, 2009
Prosa:
Judy Garland, Ginger Love (Regan Books/Harper Collins, 1998)
No ficción:
The Avant-garde at the End of the Century Gertrude Stein, Postmodernism and Contemporary Women Writers . Emory University. 1996.
Jennifer Margulis, ed. (2003). Toddler . Seal Press. ISBN 978-1-58005-093-7 .
Andrea J. Buchanan, Amy E. Hudock, ed. (2005). "Thirteen Ways of Looking at being a Mother and a Poet". The Best of Literary Mama . Seal Press. ISBN 978-1-58005-158-3 .
Catherine Wagner, Rebecca Wolff, ed. (2007). Not For Mothers Only . Fence Books. ISBN 978-0-9771064-8-6 .
Elrena Evans, Caroline Grant, eds. (2008). Mama PhD; Women Write about Motherhood and Academic Life . Rutgers University Press. ISBN 978-0-8135-4318-5 .
"Thoughts on Poetry and Disaster" . Best American Poetry . March 1, 2009.
Spanish translation by Roberto Amézquita
Presentamos un poema de Nicole Cooley, quien mereció el Walt Whitman Award 1995 por su primer libro de poemas: Resurrection (1996). Es autora de libros de poesía celebrados por la crítica norteamericana, como The Afflicted Girls (2004) y Breach (2009). La traducción es de Roberto Amézquita
Shock
Un repentino golpe, un bulto de grano, una sorpresa un montón de hatos significan
comercio con los holandeses
una espesa masa de tu cabello en el cepillo en la almohada
en mi boca
Cuando una corriente eléctrica atraviesa por todo o por parte del cuerpo
como es que deseo colisionar violentamente contra mí
para lanzar las tropas a confusión cargando hacia ellas mismas
el shock del agua fría el shock del pastel de boda empujado hacia mi boca
y el pulso del corazón tartamudo sentido
por una mano en el muro del pecho
Un cuchillo en el enchufe de la luz, un hacinamiento,
una pila de maíz sin trillar
¡Qué soy yo sin ti!
Empuja tu cabello hacia dentro de mi boca
Chocarías violentamente conmigo?
Serías una decisión infringida sobre mi cuerpo?
Un manojo sin trillar y sin ataduras, el shock
de frasco impacto colapso
El flash de mi blanca bata de noche
en nuestro oscuro huerto
Of Shock
Sudden blow bundle of grain a surprise a heap of sheaves
meaning trade
with the Dutch
A thick mass of your hair on the brush in the pillow in my
mouth
When an electric current passes through all or part of the body
How I wish to collide violently with myself
To throw troops into confusion by charging at them
The shock of cold water the shock of wedding cake shoved in
my mouth
Stuttering heartbeat felt by a hand on the chest wall
A knife in a light socket
Pile or stack of unthreshed corn
And what is myself without you
Push your hair into my mouth
Will you collide violently with me
Will you be a decision inflicted upon my body
A bundle unthreshed and untethered
The shock of
Jar impact collapse
Flash of my white nightgown in our dark yard
Compendium of Lost Objects
Not the butterfly wing, the semiprecious stones,
the shard of mirror,
not the cabinet of curiosities built with secret drawers
to reveal and conceal its contents,
but the batture, the rope swing, the rusted barge
sunk at the water’s edge
or the park’s Live Oaks you walked through
with the forbidden man
or the pink-shuttered house on the streetcar line
where you were married
or the green shock of land off I-10, road leading
you away from home.
Not any of this
but a cot at the Superdome sunk in a dumpster
and lace valances from a Lakeview kitchen where water
rose six feet high inside
and a refrigerator wrapped in duct tape lying
in the dirt of a once-yard
and a Blue Roof and a house marked 0 and a
kitchen clock stopped at the time the hurricane hit.
Because, look, none of this fits
in a dark wood cabinet for safekeeping.
This is an installation
for dismantling
—never seen again.
Marriage: A Daybook
From the window the river rinses
the dark. I twist
the wedding beads around my neck. I’ve lost
my ring, silver and antique, bought from the night market
in the other world across
the ocean, color of dull lead,
color of the pan I scrub and burn
in the sink.
*
Catullus wrote, I hate and love, and he wasn’t talking about marriage.
*
Not talking about the blacked-out
window crossed with hurricane tape,
like a movie screen, a page redacted,
your hand erasing a blackboard
with an eraser’s soft compliant body.
.