By John Burnside
John Burnside es uno de los escritores británicos más originales y relevantes de nuestros días. Dones es uno de sus más recientes poemarios y una de las contribuciones más brillantes a los angeles poesía de nuestro tiempo.
Diáfanos e intensamente trascendentales, estos poemas logran crear una inmediata intimidad con el lector, invitado a sumergirse en el agua de unos versos cuyo canto perdura en los angeles memoria, como una experiencia íntima.
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Extra resources for Dones
That cannot be shared between living beings, one of the two E strings must break. And Rimbaud pressed harder. Rimbaud played with greater care. He wanted to be poetry in person more strongly than Verlaine did, to the exclusion of anyone else: because that was the only condition by which he could hope to appease the old woman in the inner well, to allow her a bit of a rest, the dark ﬁngers ﬁnally relaxed, the hand open, no more tampering, just the tenderness of sleeping ﬂesh. In order to be consoled, to sleep, the old woman within needed the son to be the best, which is to say the only, and free of any master.
It is said that a longer escape, a dream, at the end of summer took him to Belgium, toward Charleroi by small paths with blackberries no doubt, mills among the trees, factories rising at the end of an oat ﬁeld, and we will never know exactly where he passed or where his young mind seized upon some quatrain now better known in this world than Charleroi, where he was left holding the laces of his big shoes under the Big Dipper, but we know that, returning, he stopped in Douai, at the home of Izambard’s aunts, three 38 Pierre Michon gentle Fates at the far end of a large garden, fussy old seamstresses, and that those days in the large garden at the end of summer were the loveliest days of his life, perhaps the only lovely ones.
Under the gifted, clever, Hugoesque young versiﬁer, under the ﬂagrant rhymes, Banville heard the other, darker rhyme, unknown to the rhymer, that could not care less about the one in whom it sings, or squeaks; which is born of the very 28 Pierre Michon ancient way each of us knots together June, language, and ourselves—and in some that makes music: a thin stave of three or four notes, but tyrannical, tyrannically reiterated and combined, the variety of its combinations making great poets, as they are called; and that stave, that song, that tyranny muddles the rhymer’s plans and decides from start to ﬁnish for him: perhaps that is what decides that you wake up as Julien Sorel, that midway through your life you compose a small thing as unassailable and laughable as Dante’s bonnet (meanwhile that small thing is published, you call it Les Fleurs du mal, it is only a tiny milestone in the conquest of Paris), that all afternoon you spend waiting in vain for that small thing to make you king, and, without knowing how it happened, that you mutter a single terrifying crénom one evening in a cheap joint in Brussels; and when ﬁnally you go to bed you still believe that you are Julien Sorel, but at the end of the line; until you are a corpse you believe it, even though you have written Les Fleurs du mal.