Los acercamientos heterogéneos que conforman este dossier dedicado a Mario Montalbetti (El Callao, Perú, 1953) coinciden al menos en dos sentidos: su proveniencia marcada por la permanente lectura de distintos soportes —ensayo, poema, ensayo/poema— que el autor ha entregado en distintas etapas de su vida, y la multiplicidad de posibilidades para construir, a partir de ellos, indagaciones en torno al lenguaje y su relación con la poesía.
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“Anatomías imperceptibles”, del escritor y académico mexicano Guillermo Jesús Fajardo Sotelo, es un ensayo que, partiendo de una condición genética, desarrolla un penetrante discurso sobre la salud personal, las dimensiones de una extrañísima patología y sus vínculos con la creación literaria. Es un ensayo que muestra equilibrio entre lo confesional, la indagación intelectual, el aspecto clínico y los referentes literarios. Se trata, igualmente, de una pequeña épica de vida y de las preguntas sobre las exigencias del cuerpo, o como lo llama el propio Fajardo Sotelo: un “cuerpo anatómicamente desobediente”.
But people live here, of course, and have lived here since time immemorial, despite the story of the state being mostly unassigned land that was available to be seized, first-come-first-served, by brave pioneers in the 1889 Land Run, Oklahoma City’s birthday.
Domestic Life is saturated with a theme I find eminently relatable, as I think many readers will agree: the imposter syndrome that plagues all of us who dedicate ourselves to creative endeavors. Here, Marcelo’s stand-in (Mauricio) is literally haunted by the ghost of Roberto Bolaño, who pops in every so often from the romantic deserts of poetic oblivion to poke fun at him for having fish filets for dinner and remind him of the wild, bohemian essence of pure literary impulse he is allowing to shrivel and wane as he lives the comfortable, (it must be said) domestic life of a poet-cum-professor at a U.S. university. After seven poetry books (and this one’s being recognized as the best of its pub year), Marcelo still cannot help but wonder: Do I write poems, or am I a poet? Does the former necessarily mean the latter? I can’t pretend to offer any answers here; I have translated a great deal over the past ten years, but I still find myself doubting whether or not I am a translator in much the same way. To use an appropriately homey idiom, I guess the proof of the pudding is in the eating. I invite anyone who has read this far to turn to the poems and decide for themselves.
Arthur Malcolm Dixon
La casa familiar bajo las nubes,
la mañana de agosto, el emparrado,
las uvas que colgaban de la luz,
yo era una posesión de la presencia,
el aire traspasaba el cuarto blanco
y la cama guardaba aún la huella
del cuerpo que nacía al alba clara.
And even the splendid moon
every evening
slides
entangles its rays
like a worm of fire
among your sweet hair of water.
University of Oklahoma
780 Van Vleet Oval
Kaufman Hall, Room 105
Norman, OK 73019-4037
