Melanie Challenger

Es co-autora de "Stolen Voices", traducido al español por Marc Jiménez Buzzi. como
" Voces Robadas"
        Melanie Challenger es libretista y escritora. Graduada por la Universidad de Oxford en el año 2000, ha ganado el premio de poesía del 2005 de la Society of Author's Eric Gregory. Estuvo viviendo en la Antártida como Artista Residente para la British Antarctic Survey por su libro Extinción durante el Año Polar Internacional.

Ha estado involucrada en actividades sociales y educativas desde el año 2000, entre las que ha estado incluida su adaptación del diario de Ana Frank. para un oratorio de James Whitbourn, su libreto sobre el diario de Ana Frank fue televisado en la BBC 2 en enero del 2005. Ella ha estado colaborando con la escritora del "diario de Zlata" sobre la guerra de Bosnia Zlata Filipović en la edición del libro "Stolen voices", que es una recopilación de diarios de guerra de niños y adolescentes desde la Primera Guerra Mundial hasta Irak y que ha sido traducido al español por Marc Jiménez Buzzi con el título de "Voces robadas".

Melanie es la Directora del New York's Harold Clurman Center for Poetry, Poetic Language and the Spoken Word, y reparte su tiempo entre Penzance, Cornwall and Brooklyn, New York. Actualmente está trabajando en una antología de poesía para Bloomsbury.

Las Rites

We all carry the dead
like a mother, the impacted gold
of the unborn and the perished,
perpetually journeying in the globe
of the body like tiny suns.

Every hour my woman's body sheds
or raises some old affinity,
as if each of those dense, luminous sponges
buries within it the potential
for renewal.

At once, all the faces of the dead,
shimmering at the river-mouth
of this globe, in suspense of being.
All the horrors of their deaths unremembered,
humming beelike with the urge to take flesh.
I understand the universe's desires for life
and death are carried inside me, I am humus;
they are gone to earth still clutching
the peculiar devotion of matter



The Bath

I wear the day on my entire body
like a prayer-scarf, under the plush
baby-flesh of the fold, in the pit's
raw underclay, skin-quills and smog-
tufts trap the millions of this city,
the mid-threshing children of Pompeii,
as my knee's napped flag bears
in its downward wing the silt
of yesterday's jeans, and my toes'
abandoned cribs are the surrogate-dens
of graphite-dust, alluvia, grass-hairs.

This and me, me as the alloy
of meat and star-smelt, glide
into the bath's almost blue, freeing
a slick of the universe's wizardy stuff.
And from such crack and wrench
come those thick shimmery silkthreads
of matter, blood's putty, with murex-knots
of life-givingness like flies in amber,
moving slowly and stately as deepsea
jellyfish, all my prodigals beginning
their leaving of me.