Si alguna ventaja puede tener la muerte de alguien es que, por raros mecanismos humanos, la muerte es noticia. De tal suerte, en algunos casos la muerte de algunos poetas es una excusa para que los conozcamos.
Ayer falleció el poeta maöri Hone Tuwhare, así que me pareció buena idea incluir aquí uno de los textos que encontré en su página web http://www.honetuwhare.co.nz/
To a Mäori figure cast in bronze
outside the Chief Post Office, Auckland
I hate being stuck up here, glaciated, hard all over
and with my guts removed: my old lady is not going
to like it
I’ve seen more efficient scarecrows in seedbed
nurseries. Hell, I can’t even shoo the pigeons off
Me: all hollow inside with longing for the marae on
the cliff at Kohimarama, where you can watch the ships
come in curling their white moustaches
Why didn’t they stick me next to Mickey Savage?
‘Now then,’ he was a good bloke
Maybe it was a Tory City Council that put me here
They never consulted me about naming the square
It’s a wonder they never called it: Hori-in-gorge-atbottom-
of-hill. Because it is like that: a gorge,
with the sun blocked out, the wind whistling around
your balls (your balls mate) And at night, how I
feel for the beatle-girls with their long-haired
boyfriends licking their frozen finger-chippy lips
hopefully. And me again beetling
my tent eyebrows forever, like a brass monkey with
real worries: I mean, how the hell can you welcome
the Overseas Dollar, if you can’t open your mouth
to poke your tongue out, eh?
If I could only move from this bloody pedestal I’d
show the long-hairs how to knock out a tune on the
souped-up guitar, my mere quivering, my taiaha held
at the high port. And I’d fix the ripe kotiro too
with their mini-piupiu-ed bums twinkling: yeah!
Somebody give me a drink: I can’t stand it
Deep River Talk: Collected Poems (Talanoa : Contemporary Pacific Literature)
Ayer falleció el poeta maöri Hone Tuwhare, así que me pareció buena idea incluir aquí uno de los textos que encontré en su página web http://www.honetuwhare.co.nz/
To a Mäori figure cast in bronze
outside the Chief Post Office, Auckland
I hate being stuck up here, glaciated, hard all over
and with my guts removed: my old lady is not going
to like it
I’ve seen more efficient scarecrows in seedbed
nurseries. Hell, I can’t even shoo the pigeons off
Me: all hollow inside with longing for the marae on
the cliff at Kohimarama, where you can watch the ships
come in curling their white moustaches
Why didn’t they stick me next to Mickey Savage?
‘Now then,’ he was a good bloke
Maybe it was a Tory City Council that put me here
They never consulted me about naming the square
It’s a wonder they never called it: Hori-in-gorge-atbottom-
of-hill. Because it is like that: a gorge,
with the sun blocked out, the wind whistling around
your balls (your balls mate) And at night, how I
feel for the beatle-girls with their long-haired
boyfriends licking their frozen finger-chippy lips
hopefully. And me again beetling
my tent eyebrows forever, like a brass monkey with
real worries: I mean, how the hell can you welcome
the Overseas Dollar, if you can’t open your mouth
to poke your tongue out, eh?
If I could only move from this bloody pedestal I’d
show the long-hairs how to knock out a tune on the
souped-up guitar, my mere quivering, my taiaha held
at the high port. And I’d fix the ripe kotiro too
with their mini-piupiu-ed bums twinkling: yeah!
Somebody give me a drink: I can’t stand it
Deep River Talk: Collected Poems (Talanoa : Contemporary Pacific Literature)
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