lunes, mayo 25, 2009


En el último número del New Yorker hay un poemita sobre el colibrí de las líneas de Nazca. El autor, el poeta Robert Gibb (Pennsylvania 1946) vive en la actualidad en los cerros de New Homstead, sobre el río Monongahela.


Shunt and plumb bob, a whirring top
That keeps touching down on its pivot.

Wings, the book says, like blurry gauze.
The long thin nectar-threading bill

Of a bird that backs off only to start again
From its still point in midair.

The revved-up, head-first metabolism.
The stone at the throat like a heart.

High in the Altiplano, its wings spread
Hundreds of feet across, a hummingbird
Flies among the sky-faced drawings
The Nazca paced off on their tarmac.

Walk me through something like that.