Jaime Priede

¿Quién no se sintió alguna vez desarmado ante la poesía que exige mucho menos de lo que nos entrega con absoluta generosidad?

celebrar la cotidiana inmediatez de sentirse vivo.

YOUR DOG DIES

it gets run over by a van. / you find it at the side of the road / and bury it. / you feel bad about it. / you feel bad personally, / but you feel bad for your daughter / because it was her pet, / and she loved it so. / she used to croon to it / and let it sleep in her bed. / you write a poem about it. / you call it a poem for your daughter, / about the dog getting run over by a van / and how you looked after it, / took it out into the woods / and buried it deep, deep, / and that poem turns out so good / you’re almost glad the little dog / was run over, or else you’d never / have written that good poem. / then you sit down to write / a poem about writing a poem / about the death of that dog, / but while you’re writing you / hear a woman scream / your name, your first name, / both syllables, / and your heart stops. / after a minute, you continue writing. / she screams again. // you wonder how long this can go.

YOUR DOG DIES

it gets run over by a van. / you find it at the side of the road / and bury it. / you feel bad about it. / you feel bad personally, / but you feel bad for your daughter / because it was her pet, / and she loved it so. / she used to croon to it / and let it sleep in her bed. / you write a poem about it. / you call it a poem for your daughter, / about the dog getting run over by a van / and how you looked after it, / took it out into the woods / and buried it deep, deep, / and that poem turns out so good / you’re almost glad the little dog / was run over, or else you’d never / have written that good poem. / then you sit down to write / a poem about writing a poem / about the death of that dog, / but while you’re writing you / hear a woman scream / your name, your first name, / both syllables, / and your heart stops. / after a minute, you continue writing. / she screams again. // you wonder how long this can go

Cada mañana es una decepción.

la destreza no debe confundirse

con la virtud.

Si cerrara los ojos durante un minuto

no sabría dónde estoy

y me tumbaría encantado a dormir para siempre

a la orilla de la carretera.

Pero mi hermano me da un suave codazo.

En un momento va a pasar algo.

Años después,

todavía quería cambiar

amigos, amores, cielos estrellados,

por una casa sin nadie

en la que nadie fuera a volver

y pudiera beber todo lo que quisiera.

Voy a por la cartera y así es como lo veo:

yo no puedo ayudar absolutamente a nadie.

Papá, te quiero,

pero ¿qué puedo agradecerte, yo que tampoco sé tolerar el alcohol,

y que ni siquiera conozco los sitios donde se pesca?