Me declaro una total y muy incipiente "amateur" en la lectura de poesía (me gusta más la novela), pero a últimas fechas, he encontrado un gusto por ella. Aquí les dejo una muestra de algo que me gustó por su nivel de consciencia.
The Immigrants de Margaret Atwood
(del libro Eating Fire, Virago 1998)
They are allowed to inherit
the sidewalks involved as palmlines, as bricks
exhausted and soft, the deep
lawnsmells, orchards whorled
to the land’s contours, the inflected weather
only to be told they are too poor
to keep it up, or someone
has noticed and wants to kill them; or the towns
pass laws which declare them obsolete.
I see them coming
up from the hold smelling of vomit,
infested, emaciated, their skins grey
with travel; as they step on shore
the old countries recede, become
perfect, thumbnail castles preserved
like gallstones in a glass bottle, the
towns dwindle upon the hillsides
in a light paperweight-clear.
They carry their carpetbags and trunks
with clothes, dishes, the family pictures;
they think they will make an order
like the old one, sow miniature orchards,
carve children and flocks out of wood
but always they are too poor, the sky
is flat, the green fruit shrivels
in the prairie sun, wood is for burning;
and if they go back, the towns
in time have crumbled, their tongues
stumble among awkward teeth, their ears
are filled with the sound of breaking glass.
I wish I could forget them
and so forget myself:
my mind is a wide pink map
across which move year after year
arrows and dotted lines, further and further
people in railway cars
their heads stuck out of the windows
at stations, drinking milk or singing,
their features hidden with beards as shawls
day and night riding across an ocean of unknown
land to an unknown land.
Si quieren escuchar a Margaret leer su propio poema, visiten esta dirección.