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The Incognito Lounge: And Other Poems
Book by Johnson, Denis
79 pages, Paperback
First published August 28, 1994
15 people are currently reading
947 people want to read
About the author
Denis Johnson
60 books2,503 followersPoet, playwright and author Denis Johnson was born in Munich, West Germany, in 1949 and was raised in Tokyo, Manila and Washington. He earned a masters' degree from the University of Iowa and received many awards for his work, including a Lannan Fellowship in Fiction (1993), a Whiting Writer's Award (1986), the Aga Khan Prize for Fiction from the Paris Review for Train Dreams, and most recently, the National Book Award for Fiction (2007).
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 55 reviews
March 2, 2024
VÉSPERAS
As toalhas apodrecem e metem-me nojo nesta península
cheia de mofo onde inventaram o nevoeiro
e o uso excessivo de drogas e ensinaram a luz a extinguir-se,
onde o meu coração de alta qualidade chora,
profundamente desolado, pois nunca mais vou poder beijar
os teus famosos joelhos num quarto tornado
nebuloso por uma écharpe atirada para cima de uma lâmpada.
As coisas tornam-se bastante radicais no escuro:
os veleiros zarpam na enseada;
os domínios da realidade
rastejam para o mar; o crepúsculo cuida
agora ternamente dos parques de estacionamento em colapso -
o pôr-do-sol momentâneo nos para-choques,
memória e paz… o aperto do caos…
De Denis Johnson só tinha lido “Sonhos e Comboios”, que me disse muito pouco, mas fiquei com a impressão de que era o típico escritor americano, com as referências culturais e geográficas que associo à escrita dos homens brancos dessas latitudes nos finais do século XX e início do século XXI. E, de facto em “Haverá Sempre um Lento Alfabeto de Chuva” cá estão as paisagens e a americana que associo aos EUA: os bares, as jukeboxes, as cabinas fotográficas e até os donuts, mas tudo sublimado pelo olhar melancólico e desamparado de Johnson, que exsuda o mal-estar pessoal ou amoroso que me cativa na poesia.
VIDA ADULTA
Lá fora a tarde
de primavera
vai-se processando, meu amor,
tal como as nossas vozes
se despedem de nós
a caminho de casa, rumo
às planícies, e as nossas próprias formas,
à medida que as forçamos
a serem apenas esta, se preparam
para se misturar com outras
tardes, possivelmente
nesta mesma sala
- como pequenas poeiras
Pairando nas faixas de luz do sol -,
ou noutras câmaras silenciosas.
Não quero que tenhas medo
enquanto estamos aqui a desperdiçar
as nossas vidas, incapazes de falarmos
e prestes a entrarmos no sonho
de termos outra vez tocado
esta parte, aquela suavidade
de carne agora morta e enterrada,
e termos ouvido as tonalidades ascendentes
de uma voz que se limitava a falar;
é possível que se ouça
o canto dos que não têm voz
desenredando pelo vazio
ilimitado um silêncio
desenhado numa tensão tão lenta
que a sua
música celestial nos
encontra antes de começar,
e estamos já em plena dança.
As toalhas apodrecem e metem-me nojo nesta península
cheia de mofo onde inventaram o nevoeiro
e o uso excessivo de drogas e ensinaram a luz a extinguir-se,
onde o meu coração de alta qualidade chora,
profundamente desolado, pois nunca mais vou poder beijar
os teus famosos joelhos num quarto tornado
nebuloso por uma écharpe atirada para cima de uma lâmpada.
As coisas tornam-se bastante radicais no escuro:
os veleiros zarpam na enseada;
os domínios da realidade
rastejam para o mar; o crepúsculo cuida
agora ternamente dos parques de estacionamento em colapso -
o pôr-do-sol momentâneo nos para-choques,
memória e paz… o aperto do caos…
De Denis Johnson só tinha lido “Sonhos e Comboios”, que me disse muito pouco, mas fiquei com a impressão de que era o típico escritor americano, com as referências culturais e geográficas que associo à escrita dos homens brancos dessas latitudes nos finais do século XX e início do século XXI. E, de facto em “Haverá Sempre um Lento Alfabeto de Chuva” cá estão as paisagens e a americana que associo aos EUA: os bares, as jukeboxes, as cabinas fotográficas e até os donuts, mas tudo sublimado pelo olhar melancólico e desamparado de Johnson, que exsuda o mal-estar pessoal ou amoroso que me cativa na poesia.
VIDA ADULTA
Lá fora a tarde
de primavera
vai-se processando, meu amor,
tal como as nossas vozes
se despedem de nós
a caminho de casa, rumo
às planícies, e as nossas próprias formas,
à medida que as forçamos
a serem apenas esta, se preparam
para se misturar com outras
tardes, possivelmente
nesta mesma sala
- como pequenas poeiras
Pairando nas faixas de luz do sol -,
ou noutras câmaras silenciosas.
Não quero que tenhas medo
enquanto estamos aqui a desperdiçar
as nossas vidas, incapazes de falarmos
e prestes a entrarmos no sonho
de termos outra vez tocado
esta parte, aquela suavidade
de carne agora morta e enterrada,
e termos ouvido as tonalidades ascendentes
de uma voz que se limitava a falar;
é possível que se ouça
o canto dos que não têm voz
desenredando pelo vazio
ilimitado um silêncio
desenhado numa tensão tão lenta
que a sua
música celestial nos
encontra antes de começar,
e estamos já em plena dança.
May 10, 2015
"The centre of the world is closed. Only the Incognito Lounge is open".
I admit, I bailed on these poems often. Other times I gravitated to a few and read them so much they became threatening.
Denis Johnson is a fearless writer and deserving of the same from his readers. I'm confident I failed him there.
Unlike many poetry collections I've read over the last fifteen years, there are no 'filler' poems here, each poem is a world, the first populated by faceless neighbours, the occupants of his 'Incognito Lounge'. Other poems share company with the 'heavily rouged', 'Andromedans', 'passengers', 'lovers', God, a 'delinquent son'.
I've read reviews where the readers wax lyrical on the boozy, rough, Tom Waits-esque backdrops and that is all very romantic, but really for me, at the crux of all that poeticism, Denis Johnson is a truthsayer, unremittingly so. The very nature of self-deception is studied with a grim sense of humor. Liars and their fears are paraded naked with a perverse delight. He also puts himself under the microscope
The last quarter of the book contains poems that are a touch more redemptive but in tone and power they remain gut wrenching.
And lastly, I'll close out on my review with the final poem in this collection (and a favourite):
21/10/2013
Reading this collection again 'I was healed by everything that happened'.
For all those readers ignorant to the precision and artistry of poetry - read Denis Johnson's work.
I admit, I bailed on these poems often. Other times I gravitated to a few and read them so much they became threatening.
Denis Johnson is a fearless writer and deserving of the same from his readers. I'm confident I failed him there.
Unlike many poetry collections I've read over the last fifteen years, there are no 'filler' poems here, each poem is a world, the first populated by faceless neighbours, the occupants of his 'Incognito Lounge'. Other poems share company with the 'heavily rouged', 'Andromedans', 'passengers', 'lovers', God, a 'delinquent son'.
I've read reviews where the readers wax lyrical on the boozy, rough, Tom Waits-esque backdrops and that is all very romantic, but really for me, at the crux of all that poeticism, Denis Johnson is a truthsayer, unremittingly so. The very nature of self-deception is studied with a grim sense of humor. Liars and their fears are paraded naked with a perverse delight. He also puts himself under the microscope
from The Flames
My thoughts are like that,
turning and going back where nothing wants them,
where the door opens and a road
of light falls through it
from behind you and pain
starts to whisper with your voice;
where you stand inside your own absence,
your eyes still smoky from dreaming,
the ruthless iron press
of love and failure making
a speechless church out of your dark
and invisible face.
from A Berkeley Notebook
One changes so much
from moment to moment
that when one hugs
oneself against the chill
air at the inception
of spring, at night,
knees drawn to chin,
he finds himself in the arms
of a total stranger,
the arms of one he might move
away from on the dark playground.
The last quarter of the book contains poems that are a touch more redemptive but in tone and power they remain gut wrenching.
Brothers, I reached you, and you took me in.
You saw me when I was invisible,
you spoke to me when I was deaf,
you thanked me when I was a secret,
and how will I make of myself something
at this hour when I am already made?
And lastly, I'll close out on my review with the final poem in this collection (and a favourite):
Passengers
The world will burst like an intestine in the sun,
the dark turn to granite and the granite to a name,
but there will always be somebody riding the bus
through these intersections strewn with broken glass
among speechless women beating their little ones,
always a slow alphabet of rain
speaking of drifting and perishing to the air,
always these definite jails of light in the sky
at the wedding of this clarity and this storm
and a woman’s turning — her languid flight of hair
traveling through frame after frame of memory
where the past turns, its face sparking like emery,
to open its grace and incredible harm
over my life, and I will never die.
21/10/2013
Reading this collection again 'I was healed by everything that happened'.
For all those readers ignorant to the precision and artistry of poetry - read Denis Johnson's work.
December 16, 2008
I remember when Incognito Lounge won a first book award and got published. Denis rushed out and bought a tape player. We were at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. The day we met he fixed me a grilled cheese sandwich, really a broiled one, in the oven. Later he asked me to go to El Salvador with him. You can chase the men, he said. I'll chase the women.
Fiskadoro is one of the best contemporary novels out there.
I miss you, Denis.
Fiskadoro is one of the best contemporary novels out there.
I miss you, Denis.
June 22, 2022
The world will burst like an intestine in the sun,
the dark turn to granite and the granite to a name,
but there will always be somebody riding the bus
through these intersections strewn with broken glass
among speechless women beating their little ones,
always a slow alphabet of rain
speaking of drifting and perishing to the air,
always these definite jails of light in the sky
at the wedding of this clarity and this storm
and a woman's turning—her languid flight of hair
traveling through frame after frame of memory
where the past turns, its face sparking like emery,
to open its grace and incredible harm
over my life, and I will never die.
April 20, 2025
Purtroppo nessuna delle raccolte di Denis Johnson è stata tradotta in italiano, quindi mi sono dovuto leggere Incognito Lounge in originale tentando di tradurlo alla meglio.
Lascio uno stralcio secondo me molto significativo e indicativo del Mood generale di queste poesie:
<<
Tenebra
il mio nome è Denis Johnson
E sono quasi pronto a
Confessarti che non è stato un terribile
Malinteso che mi ha
Portato qui, le braccia piene di fantasmi
Di fiori, a inginocchiarmi ai tuoi piedi
Quasi pronto a vedere
Come a ogni svolta ho scelto
Questa via.
Musica, sei luce
Agonia, sei ciò che mi guida
Di momento in momento
E sono qui sulle acque
Perché nello spazio tra spazi
Dove il nulla parla
Io sono ciò che dice.
>>
Lascio uno stralcio secondo me molto significativo e indicativo del Mood generale di queste poesie:
<<
Tenebra
il mio nome è Denis Johnson
E sono quasi pronto a
Confessarti che non è stato un terribile
Malinteso che mi ha
Portato qui, le braccia piene di fantasmi
Di fiori, a inginocchiarmi ai tuoi piedi
Quasi pronto a vedere
Come a ogni svolta ho scelto
Questa via.
Musica, sei luce
Agonia, sei ciò che mi guida
Di momento in momento
E sono qui sulle acque
Perché nello spazio tra spazi
Dove il nulla parla
Io sono ciò che dice.
>>
October 29, 2022
Talvez o melhor livro de poesia que li este ano. Nele descobri um poeta que — para minha surpresa — supera o ficcionista.
November 6, 2022
aplauso para a edição lusa de “the incognito lounge”, uma bela colecção de poemas onde as palavras parecem sempre cruas, vindas de um alfabeto sombrio mas irresistível. o autor quase recria poeticamente os contos de “jesus’ son”, em textos que nos falam de urgência, amor e fracasso (nem sempre por esta ordem, claro - isto é uma piada) e onde a luz e as sombras jogam um estranho jogo, talvez ameaçador, mas que nos é afinal familiar, quase confortável. e estes poemas, sem nunca serem cínicos, quase o parecem: qualquer um deles nos diz algo que sabíamos estar em nós, apenas não conseguíamos pô-lo em palavras.
June 28, 2013
I love this man's abilities. I find it odd that, of his early writing, people always ask him if he wrote it while on the substances his protagonists ingest. "No", he responds, "I don't think I could have put a few intelligible sentences together, let alone a book." I'm paraphrasing. He said something along those lines. The point is, while reading Johnson's stories or poetry you feel transported into the minds of his characters. You empathize in a way that is unique to Denis Johnson and buy-in at the least temptation.
November 5, 2023
A great collection of poems set in the windowless Phoenix, AZ bar on Thomas road!
March 21, 2023
this is what it means to be human,
to witness the heart of a moment like a photograph,
the present standing up through itself relentlessly like a fountain
to witness the heart of a moment like a photograph,
the present standing up through itself relentlessly like a fountain
July 18, 2022
If you’ve read Jesus son, train dreams, or angels, you’ll be right at home here. And it’s a beautiful home. One of precise prose that evoke broken people in broken places. Part one and the last 2 poems were the highlights for me. Part 3 was not great imo, but even if the whole collection was part 3, I’d still say it’s damn good.
April 7, 2025
Been busy living lately. A beautiful book of poems- been a wonderful companion over the last few months.
January 5, 2025
Happy New Year. My resolution is to read for at least 25 minutes each day. I'm trying to tie up loose ends meaning I am trying to finish all the books I started last year and never finished. The copy of Denis Johnson's The Incognito Lounge and Other Poems, published in 1982, was chosen by Mark Strand as part of the National Poetry Series, and taken out by me from Butler Library as supplemental material for my re-read of Jesus' Son.
In the contents page, some previous reader wrote, "All great. Here are the ones that killed me" and proceeded to put a little check mark next to the poems that presumably killed her. Following suit, I added my own check marks (in pencil, though—not pen). Of the 31 dark and odious trips through hell, 13 killed me, while the other 17 entertained me greatly. I loved this collection. Moody, smart, cryptic, frightening, it felt like reading a poète maudit from the 19th century. Johnson lands somewhere among the outlaw Rimbaud, the beautiful Baudelaire, and the desolate Unreal City of Eliot. Throw in some repulsive Burroughs section and you'll get an idea of what D.J. is doing here, though it's unfair to not declare him more than the sum of these parts. He rises above any sort of borrowing and steals away with a sparkling imagination.
In the contents page, some previous reader wrote, "All great. Here are the ones that killed me" and proceeded to put a little check mark next to the poems that presumably killed her. Following suit, I added my own check marks (in pencil, though—not pen). Of the 31 dark and odious trips through hell, 13 killed me, while the other 17 entertained me greatly. I loved this collection. Moody, smart, cryptic, frightening, it felt like reading a poète maudit from the 19th century. Johnson lands somewhere among the outlaw Rimbaud, the beautiful Baudelaire, and the desolate Unreal City of Eliot. Throw in some repulsive Burroughs section and you'll get an idea of what D.J. is doing here, though it's unfair to not declare him more than the sum of these parts. He rises above any sort of borrowing and steals away with a sparkling imagination.
Read
January 18, 2013Read this as part of his collected poems. It's been fascinating watching him mature as a poet within the collection, and "The Confession of St. Jim-Ralph" gives us a good glimpse of the man who wrote Jesus' Son. But that's not the best poem in The Incognito Lounge. It's also not a competition among his poems. Johnson just knows how to fling words--and sometimes they do seem flung, but flung in a way that makes you want more. And more. And more.
March 30, 2021
Read this at least for 'The Confession of St. Jim-Ralph'.
"Whatever is most terrible is most real—
the Bible fights, The fetuses burning in light-bulbs,
the cunnilingual, intravenous
swamp of love."
"Whatever is most terrible is most real—
the Bible fights, The fetuses burning in light-bulbs,
the cunnilingual, intravenous
swamp of love."
August 28, 2023
I love it even more after rereading this. It does make a difference reading the poems out loud; the tone sounds a lot more grittier and cooler than reading it silently. I have much appreciation and respect for Johnson’s writing, and I could reread this over and over again like “Jesus’ Son”.
March 30, 2008
An important book when I was first beginning to write poems. Probably needs to be reread.
August 13, 2009
Dark, sticky, but never cynical, these poems of emergency, failure,and love plunge into places you hope the author didn't have to live in/through, but there's no wallowing.
February 18, 2020
I've loved this book these many years. Last time I looked (a long while ago), it was out of print. A true original. No one writes about light and shadows with such passionate intensity.
November 27, 2024
A guttural, shattering, smashing collection that brought my freshman-year self to grips with some of smalltown existentialism's greatest concerns. A dear teacher gifted me this book at eighteen and I have held closely to it since. Denis Johnson has been with me through COVID lockdown, college graduation, the psych ward (twice), and now into my healthier adult life.
The Incognito Lounge asks big questions with precision. Johnson's command of nuanced language is a treat for the inquisitive reader that wants to feel the true emptiness that capitalism serves us daily. As he "pours me some boiled coffee that tastes like noise," Johnson "warn[s] me, once and for all, to pack up my troubles." And I oblige gleefully.
I think to my own hometown, as we both wonder "how [to] turn from the window and feel love [... to] stop seeing this neighborhood, the towns of earth." The Incognito Lounge found me as I was leaving home, and each time I give it another glance, I am reminded of the place within placelessness that is inevitable to the human condition.
While the collection can read slightly trite to a more sophisticated (haughty) reader, I find that part of its charm. An excellent choice for someone approaching poetry from a less canonized background or more postmodern taste. Thank you, Denis Johnson, for helping me love my hometown once again.
The Incognito Lounge asks big questions with precision. Johnson's command of nuanced language is a treat for the inquisitive reader that wants to feel the true emptiness that capitalism serves us daily. As he "pours me some boiled coffee that tastes like noise," Johnson "warn[s] me, once and for all, to pack up my troubles." And I oblige gleefully.
I think to my own hometown, as we both wonder "how [to] turn from the window and feel love [... to] stop seeing this neighborhood, the towns of earth." The Incognito Lounge found me as I was leaving home, and each time I give it another glance, I am reminded of the place within placelessness that is inevitable to the human condition.
While the collection can read slightly trite to a more sophisticated (haughty) reader, I find that part of its charm. An excellent choice for someone approaching poetry from a less canonized background or more postmodern taste. Thank you, Denis Johnson, for helping me love my hometown once again.
September 28, 2022
I could have finished this book much quicker than I did. But I didn’t want to. Some books swallow you. Some books you live in. Some books weave a world of words that you don’t want to leave. I purposefully held myself back, because I didn’t want this book to end. Denis Johnson’s “The Incognito Lounge” invites you into a surreal darkness. And you readily RSVP, because Johnson’s darkness feels so familiar, it’s almost a comfort. It will remind you of a time. You will see the red lights on the ceiling in the middle of the night, hear the broken jukebox, watch a different person looking out from behind familiar eyes. Or something entirely different from your own life, but it will remind you of a time. You will become entwined in the snapshot of lives Johnson writes of, if only for a moment, then realize the next moment that you’re a different person because of it—you’ve just lived somewhere else in one and a half pages. Johnson weaves such vivid imagery with metaphors that make you jealous and lines that slay. I’m a firm believer in that we come across books when we need them. I am ever so grateful I was led to this collection, but I will never be over this book. There is just something about it…it’s so…unapologetically human.
December 21, 2022
holy BEAUTY! I found this at the bookstore today! I thought I'd read all the Denis Johnson books out there! I'm shaking with LOVE and HEARTBREAK! He is absolutely from another dimension! His words are exquisite and truth and vulnerable and hit the mark so had me stop breathing while reading!
some quotes:
"We work in this building and we are hideous
in the flourescent light, you know our clothes
woke up this morning and swallowed us like jewels
and ride up and down the elevators, filled with us,
turning and returning like the spray of light that goes
around dance-halls among the dancing fools.
My office smells like a theory."
"I'm telling you it's cold inside the body that is not the body,
lonesome behind the face
that is certainly not the face
of the person one meant to become."
"..now the shelter is only a hailstone
that fell there,
for already they've folded away the voices,
already they've put away the light,..."
Johnson's words are fused with his brilliance, his depth, his vulnerability, his fire! He never ceases to amaze! This collection is a choir, a film, a journal revealed, life sessions with a therapist! Johnson is a phenomenon that has me crying as I read his poems, his prose! A loss we will never gain!
some quotes:
"We work in this building and we are hideous
in the flourescent light, you know our clothes
woke up this morning and swallowed us like jewels
and ride up and down the elevators, filled with us,
turning and returning like the spray of light that goes
around dance-halls among the dancing fools.
My office smells like a theory."
"I'm telling you it's cold inside the body that is not the body,
lonesome behind the face
that is certainly not the face
of the person one meant to become."
"..now the shelter is only a hailstone
that fell there,
for already they've folded away the voices,
already they've put away the light,..."
Johnson's words are fused with his brilliance, his depth, his vulnerability, his fire! He never ceases to amaze! This collection is a choir, a film, a journal revealed, life sessions with a therapist! Johnson is a phenomenon that has me crying as I read his poems, his prose! A loss we will never gain!
December 14, 2011
El Incognito Lounge.
Por Denis Johnson.
(Traducción Juan Pablo Plata)
La administradora
del apartamento residencial
tiene cara
como de pelota de béisbol con gafas y se
repite patéticamente a sí misma. El hombre de la puerta del lado
tiene un perro con una cara que habla
de la estupidez a la noche, la piscina
tiene una vacía, vacía cara.
Mi vecino tiene puesta esta noche su ropa interior, parado entre los espacios de aparcamiento advirtiéndole a su amigo que nunca vuelva a dar su cara por aquí otra vez.
Voy a todos lados con mi ojos cerrados y dos
glóbulos oculares pintados en mi cara.
Cruzando el patio hay una mujer
sin cara alguna.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Son perfectamente visibles esta mañana,
Tan poco estorbosas como una tormenta de meteoros,
estas preguntas sobre la felicidad
plagando el mundo.
Mi vecino ha enviado su hijo a Utah
para ser criado por familiares de amigos.
Otra vez está en el generoso césped
como si estuviera hecho de fósforo.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
La administradora recién ha vuelto
del cementerio aledaño, la última ceremonia
para un paramédico aplastado.
Todo el día, los helicópteros de los noticiarios sobrevolando diciendo quéquéquéquéqué.
Me sirve café hervido
que sabe a ruido,
advirtiéndome de una vez por todas
que empaque todos mis problemas en un petate viejo
y que llore hasta que las piedras se vayan flotando lejos.
¿Cómo voy a poder volverme, alguna vez,
desde la venta y sentir amor por ella?
¿Verla y dejar de ver a mi vecindario, los pueblos de tierra,
las mesas en las que los santos
se sientan a la merienda de las tentaciones?
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Y entonces sigue- la siesta, la sopa, la ventana,
decir una pocas palabras por el teléfono,
pequeñas, cada vez más pequeñas palabras.
Algo de televisión, tal vez, no sé,
un juego con cartas plásticas de briscola de las que nadie sabe cuántas hay.
un par de jerbos miserables en una cajita blanca,
amigos histéricos presumiendo de sus metas
como si al tenerlas disolvieran la muerte.
De pronto invito a venir acá a la mujer sin cara para que me
explique todas estas elecciones:
La vida. La libertad. La búsqueda.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
De pronto invito a la mujer sin cara
a que venga acá y me lea la palma de la mano,
a sentarse en la veranda aquí afuera en Arizona
mientras ella me toca.
Anoche una alarma se disparó en la calle
y nadie le respondió.
Cariño, sonó para ti.
Todo sufre invisiblemente,
nada es posible, en tu cara.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
El centro del mundo está cerrado.
El Colmena de abejas, El bola 8, El Yo- Yo,
El Granito y El alumbrado y El Melodía,
solo The Incognito Lounge está abierto.
Llega mi vecino
Tienen el televisor encendido.
Es un programa sobre mi vecino en la soledad, en la luz, caminando en la hora en que toda cama es una boca.
Callejones de basura oscura, cansancio con forma de residencias
Y - ¿De qué están tan seguros los perros de lo que gritan como ciudadanos
habiendo perdido sus mentes en el estadio?
En su puño sostiene un nota
de su puño y letra
el mismo mensaje que todos llevan
de un lugar a otro en la noche secreta,
el mismo por el que nadie pregunta
cuando finalmente llegas, y las caras se posan sobre ti tocando el himno nacional y pierden su expresión,
sobre eso va el programa,
sobre ese mensaje.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Fui criado desde la tierna infancia
en esas montañas púrpura
un golpe duro en el borde del lenguaje
y yo reclamo que es como si no pudieras hacerle
nada a este momento,
así de inextinguible es todo esto. En Sunset,
Arizona, todos esperando
a ser arrestados, todo un honor, les aseguro.
De pronto invito a la mujer sin cara a apelar mi caso,
a zafarme del asunto o nombrarme una buena razón.
El aire está lleno de megavatios
y los megavatios están llenos de silencio.
Ella alcanza el radio del espectro como Santa Teresa.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Aquí en el centro del mundo
cada maravilloso almacén atesora
en su mente maniquís sin desflorar,
en una luz pálida y eléctrica.
El parqueadero está lleno,
todos están teniendo el mismo sueño de
comprar y comprar en una tarde
que cambie como una cara.
Pero estos compradores de América
llevando sus corazones hacia la altura de las cajas como en gastos irreflexivos,
caminando a casa bajo el mar,
parados a oscuras en la casa a media noche
antes de abrir el refrigerador,
completamente transformados por la luz.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Todos las montadas en bus son como esta,
En la parte de atrás los mismos muchachos exploradores en uniforme
quitándole los calzones a una muchachita, adelante
una mujer cuya misión es la de decirle
al conductor que se calle.
A lo mejor te permites encontrar hermoso
ir en el bus flotando como en un dirigible
hacia los suburbios
por entre continentes de bares
entre el robótico desierto que ahora se vuelve púrpura
y llega lento por entre el polvo.
Es este el momento cuando vas a buscar las palabras
por encima de la imitación y las sucesivas tablas de madera
de lo determinante,
cuando viste a un bebe atrapar a una abeja contra una ventana manchada
y se casaron en una compresión y un terror profundos.
Pasajeros.
Por Denis Johnson.
(Traducción Juan Pablo Plata)
El mundo estallará como un intestino al sol,
lo oscuro se volverá granito y el granito un nombre, pero siempre habrá alguien montando en autobús por las encrucijadas regadas con vidrios rotos entre las mujeres sin palabras que golpean a sus niños;
siempre un lento alfabeto de lluvia
hablando de naufragar y perecer en el aire,
siempre estas definitivas cárceles de luz en el cielo en la boda entre la claridad y la tormenta
y una mujer que se vuelve y revuelve su cabello
en un lánguido vuelo, viajando entre marcos y marcos de memoria,
donde la cara del pasado se convierte en chispas esmeriladas,
para abrir así su gracia y su increíble daño
sobre mi vida, y nunca voy a morir
Por Denis Johnson.
(Traducción Juan Pablo Plata)
La administradora
del apartamento residencial
tiene cara
como de pelota de béisbol con gafas y se
repite patéticamente a sí misma. El hombre de la puerta del lado
tiene un perro con una cara que habla
de la estupidez a la noche, la piscina
tiene una vacía, vacía cara.
Mi vecino tiene puesta esta noche su ropa interior, parado entre los espacios de aparcamiento advirtiéndole a su amigo que nunca vuelva a dar su cara por aquí otra vez.
Voy a todos lados con mi ojos cerrados y dos
glóbulos oculares pintados en mi cara.
Cruzando el patio hay una mujer
sin cara alguna.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Son perfectamente visibles esta mañana,
Tan poco estorbosas como una tormenta de meteoros,
estas preguntas sobre la felicidad
plagando el mundo.
Mi vecino ha enviado su hijo a Utah
para ser criado por familiares de amigos.
Otra vez está en el generoso césped
como si estuviera hecho de fósforo.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
La administradora recién ha vuelto
del cementerio aledaño, la última ceremonia
para un paramédico aplastado.
Todo el día, los helicópteros de los noticiarios sobrevolando diciendo quéquéquéquéqué.
Me sirve café hervido
que sabe a ruido,
advirtiéndome de una vez por todas
que empaque todos mis problemas en un petate viejo
y que llore hasta que las piedras se vayan flotando lejos.
¿Cómo voy a poder volverme, alguna vez,
desde la venta y sentir amor por ella?
¿Verla y dejar de ver a mi vecindario, los pueblos de tierra,
las mesas en las que los santos
se sientan a la merienda de las tentaciones?
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Y entonces sigue- la siesta, la sopa, la ventana,
decir una pocas palabras por el teléfono,
pequeñas, cada vez más pequeñas palabras.
Algo de televisión, tal vez, no sé,
un juego con cartas plásticas de briscola de las que nadie sabe cuántas hay.
un par de jerbos miserables en una cajita blanca,
amigos histéricos presumiendo de sus metas
como si al tenerlas disolvieran la muerte.
De pronto invito a venir acá a la mujer sin cara para que me
explique todas estas elecciones:
La vida. La libertad. La búsqueda.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
De pronto invito a la mujer sin cara
a que venga acá y me lea la palma de la mano,
a sentarse en la veranda aquí afuera en Arizona
mientras ella me toca.
Anoche una alarma se disparó en la calle
y nadie le respondió.
Cariño, sonó para ti.
Todo sufre invisiblemente,
nada es posible, en tu cara.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
El centro del mundo está cerrado.
El Colmena de abejas, El bola 8, El Yo- Yo,
El Granito y El alumbrado y El Melodía,
solo The Incognito Lounge está abierto.
Llega mi vecino
Tienen el televisor encendido.
Es un programa sobre mi vecino en la soledad, en la luz, caminando en la hora en que toda cama es una boca.
Callejones de basura oscura, cansancio con forma de residencias
Y - ¿De qué están tan seguros los perros de lo que gritan como ciudadanos
habiendo perdido sus mentes en el estadio?
En su puño sostiene un nota
de su puño y letra
el mismo mensaje que todos llevan
de un lugar a otro en la noche secreta,
el mismo por el que nadie pregunta
cuando finalmente llegas, y las caras se posan sobre ti tocando el himno nacional y pierden su expresión,
sobre eso va el programa,
sobre ese mensaje.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Fui criado desde la tierna infancia
en esas montañas púrpura
un golpe duro en el borde del lenguaje
y yo reclamo que es como si no pudieras hacerle
nada a este momento,
así de inextinguible es todo esto. En Sunset,
Arizona, todos esperando
a ser arrestados, todo un honor, les aseguro.
De pronto invito a la mujer sin cara a apelar mi caso,
a zafarme del asunto o nombrarme una buena razón.
El aire está lleno de megavatios
y los megavatios están llenos de silencio.
Ella alcanza el radio del espectro como Santa Teresa.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Aquí en el centro del mundo
cada maravilloso almacén atesora
en su mente maniquís sin desflorar,
en una luz pálida y eléctrica.
El parqueadero está lleno,
todos están teniendo el mismo sueño de
comprar y comprar en una tarde
que cambie como una cara.
Pero estos compradores de América
llevando sus corazones hacia la altura de las cajas como en gastos irreflexivos,
caminando a casa bajo el mar,
parados a oscuras en la casa a media noche
antes de abrir el refrigerador,
completamente transformados por la luz.
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Todos las montadas en bus son como esta,
En la parte de atrás los mismos muchachos exploradores en uniforme
quitándole los calzones a una muchachita, adelante
una mujer cuya misión es la de decirle
al conductor que se calle.
A lo mejor te permites encontrar hermoso
ir en el bus flotando como en un dirigible
hacia los suburbios
por entre continentes de bares
entre el robótico desierto que ahora se vuelve púrpura
y llega lento por entre el polvo.
Es este el momento cuando vas a buscar las palabras
por encima de la imitación y las sucesivas tablas de madera
de lo determinante,
cuando viste a un bebe atrapar a una abeja contra una ventana manchada
y se casaron en una compresión y un terror profundos.
Pasajeros.
Por Denis Johnson.
(Traducción Juan Pablo Plata)
El mundo estallará como un intestino al sol,
lo oscuro se volverá granito y el granito un nombre, pero siempre habrá alguien montando en autobús por las encrucijadas regadas con vidrios rotos entre las mujeres sin palabras que golpean a sus niños;
siempre un lento alfabeto de lluvia
hablando de naufragar y perecer en el aire,
siempre estas definitivas cárceles de luz en el cielo en la boda entre la claridad y la tormenta
y una mujer que se vuelve y revuelve su cabello
en un lánguido vuelo, viajando entre marcos y marcos de memoria,
donde la cara del pasado se convierte en chispas esmeriladas,
para abrir así su gracia y su increíble daño
sobre mi vida, y nunca voy a morir
July 24, 2017
I read the majority of this book in the park, under a hot sun with a heavy heart. Johnson's poetry moves in dark circles around refrains of loss, self-deception and deep truths. These poems cut me to the chest and held my face to the page. There's nothing romantic in the boozing and reckless nature these poems contain - they're beautiful in the way a boarded-up country house can look in the right light.
"Sway" and "The Flames" are two immediate favourites — I know otherswill come to surface when I read this again. My thanks to Mason for giving me his copy of Jesus' Son two plus years ago. That was my ticket in.
"Sway" and "The Flames" are two immediate favourites — I know otherswill come to surface when I read this again. My thanks to Mason for giving me his copy of Jesus' Son two plus years ago. That was my ticket in.
Read
June 7, 2022I’d love to hear Tom Waits voice the late-great Denis Johnson’s poetry. The in-your-veins imagery of bus stops, diners & dive bars would be a terrific fit. At its best, Incognito Lounge is a marvel of the Jesus’ Son maestro’s empathy for life’s losers through a whiskey-&-heroin haze. Self-indulgent, sure, but visceral too. “It’s beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin/Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover/streaming with hatred in the heat/as the record falls & the snake band chords begin/to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones.”
March 16, 2018
It's interesting to read Johnson's poetry after being such a big fan of his novels. For me, he is most engaging when utilizing his sparse, unique, dark, and subtly humorous word play. While reading, the shadowy approximations of characters manifested themselves into a forced narrative that I found myself subconsciously creating. I wanted so badly to enjoy reading these poems, but after finishing, only found a handful of them truly memorable.
December 30, 2020
“It grows dark in this climate
swiftly: the night
is as sudden and vacuous
as the paper sack the attendant
balloons open with a shake
of his scarred wrist,
and in the orange parking
lot’s blaze of sulphur
arc lamps, each fist
of tissue paper is distinct,
all cellophane edged
with a fiery light that seems
the white heat of permanence
and worth; of reality;
at this hour, and in this
climate where how swiftly
the dark grows, and the time comes.”
swiftly: the night
is as sudden and vacuous
as the paper sack the attendant
balloons open with a shake
of his scarred wrist,
and in the orange parking
lot’s blaze of sulphur
arc lamps, each fist
of tissue paper is distinct,
all cellophane edged
with a fiery light that seems
the white heat of permanence
and worth; of reality;
at this hour, and in this
climate where how swiftly
the dark grows, and the time comes.”
September 23, 2017
Holy shit -- Denis Johnson's poetry is sublime in its examination of the dark corners of any landscape whether it's the local bar, the speaker's mind or the terminology we use to describe the world around us. Call me a groupie.
January 14, 2022
Relatively short - 80 pages or so. Probably not everybody’s cup of tea, but I loved it. Some of the most interesting poems I’ve ever read. Sparse and sad. One of my favorite lines was, “the terror / of being just one person - one chance, one set of days.”
January 26, 2023
All the night long I can betray myself in the honky-tonk
of terror and delight, I can throw away my faith,
go loose in the spectacular fandango
of emergencies that strum the heart
with neon, but I can't
understand anything.
of terror and delight, I can throw away my faith,
go loose in the spectacular fandango
of emergencies that strum the heart
with neon, but I can't
understand anything.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 55 reviews