De Britse dichter en schrijver Dannie Abse werd geboren op 22 september 1923 in Cardiff, Wales. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Dannie Abse op dit blog.

Talking to Myself

In the mildew of age
all pavements slope uphill

slow slow
towards an exit.

It's late and light allows
the darkest shadow to be born of it.

Courage, the ventriloquist bird cries
(a little god, he is, censor of language)

remember plain Hardy and dandy Yeats
in their inspired wise pre-dotage.

I, old man, in my new timidity,
think how, profligate, I wasted time

– those yawning postponements on rainy days,
those paperhat hours of benign frivolity.

Now Time wastes me and there's hardly time
to fuss for more vascular speech.

The aspen tree trembles as I do
and there are feathers in the wind.

Quick quick
speak, old parrot,
do I not feed you with my life?

The Origin Of Music

When I was a medical student
I stole two femurs of a baby
from The Pathology Specimen Room.
Now I keep them in my pocket,
the right femur and the left femur.
Like a boy scout, I'm prepared.
For what can one say to a neighbour
when his wife dies? 'Sorry'?
Or when a friend's sweet child
suffers leukaemia? 'Condolences'?
No, if I should meet either friend
or stricken neighbour in the street
and he should tell me, whisper to me,
his woeful, intimate news,
wordless I take the two small femurs
from out of my pocket sadly
and play them like castanets.

Dannie Abse (Cardiff, 22 september 1923)

De Nederlandse schrijver Lodewijk van Deyssel werd geboren op 22 september 1864 in Amsterdam. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Lodewijk van Deyssel op dit blog.

Uit: Af-sterven

“In de groote kamer-kooi lijkt het te wezen. Zwart-bruin van de stijve, stom-vlakke wanden de ruimte in, het eene venster blaâr-geelgroen, het andere venster zon-geel-achter-raggend-wit. In de vaal-gespannen ruimte-wasem het vele hoog-op stil-staande in de dag-schildering, die naar buiten uit-ligt, wijd, ver gestrekt heen-liggend, zonder iets.

Onder het goor-witte kamerboven-vlak is het. In het hoofd, dat zoo stil op de jas staat, in het vaal-en-leêg-van-niet-te-zien hoofd-binnen, in de suizend-mistende vlak-bij-stilte-kist, boven-tusschen het ooren-suis-loei-ruischen als van een heele verre machinen-stad, op de gladde vlakke zwart-waterhelling, tusschen de aan en aan ploffende grijs-lila stoomruikers en -pluimen van de randen, sliert het zacht kruip-vloeyend langzaam donker-rood, bruin, donker-blauw en zwart.

Zacht-plots vleugelen de oogen-blaadjes neêr, van-onderen gloed-geel, dan rooderig rood, dan een groot, vaal-licht-rood, van-voren, met de lichtjes-schimmetjes snel ver-bleek-dwijnend, iets daar je voorbij rijdt. In de laagte voelen de lippen zich tastbaar-week, dierlijk.

Groot wenden de vreemde handen op, neêr. De beenen in de diepte, weg en wetenloos.

Het is zoo stil boven de leêge borst. Een holle pop is het lichaam, hoog vol-uit en af-gerond geheel en los, op zich zelf, met alle zijn kromme, rondende, harde wandjes. De oog-blaadjes vlinder-ritselen.

Buiten, de hel-blauw geel-zilver-tinteling, sprankelend de gesprenkelde licht-drup-dag. Min het alomme-licht-mooi van den dag, droog, kil-blauw, duidelijk en klein. De dag een korte kamer met flauwe lamp. De groote duister-zwarte mist van de leêge stilte staat, in al-door-maar-verdere wijdte staat onbewegelijk in de al-hoogte gestard. De blauwe en roode vanen met hun duistere pracht hangen donker heel hoog en stijf en stil daarin. Achter de zwart-vaal-schemerende stilte-hoog-nacht is het groot-helle licht heen-geduisterd, heen als een samene zon-vogel-vlucht achter het gebergte.”

Lodewijk van Deyssel (22 september 1864 - 26 januari 1952)

De Britse schrijfster Fay Weldon werd geboren op 22 september 1931 in Alvechurch, Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Fay Weldon op dit blog

Uit: Habits of the House

“6.58 a.m. Tuesday, 24th October 1899
IN LATE OCTOBER of the year 1899 a tall, thin, nervy young man ran up the broad stone steps that led to No. 17 Belgrave Square. He seemed agitated. He was without hat or cane, breathless, unattended by staff of any kind, wore office dress – other than that his waistcoat was bright yellow above smart striped stove-pipe trousers – and his moustache had lost its curl in the damp air of the early morning. He seemed both too well-dressed for the tradesman’s entrance at the back of the house, yet not quite fit to mount the front steps, leave alone at a run, and especially at such an early hour.
The grand front doors of Belgrave Square belonged to ministers of the Crown, ambassadors of foreign countries, and a sprinkling of titled families. By seven in the morning the back doors would be busy enough with deliveries and the coming and going of kitchen and stable staff, but few approached the great front doors before ten, let alone on foot, informally and without appointment. The visitor pulled the bell handle too long and too hard, and worse, again and again.
The jangling of the bell disturbed the household, waking the gentry, startling such servants who were already up but still sleepy, and disconcerting the upper servants, who were not yet properly dressed for front door work.
Grace, her Ladyship’s maid, peered out from her attic window to see what was going on. She used a mirror contraption rigged up for her by Reginald the footman, the better to keep an eye on comings and goings on the steps below. Seeing that it was only Eric Baum, his Lordship’s new financial advisor and lawyer, Grace decided it was scarcely her business to answer the door. She saw to her Ladyship’s comfort and no one else’s. Baum was too young, too excitable and too foreign-looking to be worthy of much exertion, and her Ladyship had been none too pleased when her husband had moved their business affairs into new hands.”

Fay Weldon (Alvechurch, 22 september 1931)

De Hongaarse dichter en schrijver György Faludy werd geboren op 22 september 1910 in Boedapest. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor György Faludy op dit blog.

REFUGEE, 1940

Like our hosts, we thought the French army
was the mightiest under the sun.
And what did it show to the German Nazis?
Beaten backsides on the run.

The French distrust and despise us aliens  
for fleeing to their land for salvation.
It was their own deceit, not ours,
that callously brought down this nation.

They boast: defeat will bring them peace
(too bad for the Jews). Oh, hunky-dory...
Few of them know that it’s only the start
and very far from the end of the story.

The Nazis will settle into their homes.
They’ll drink their cellars dry, abuse
their women and, should they object,
treat their hosts as they treat the Jews.

Vertaald door Thomas Ország-Land

Silver Pirouettes

Your ankles grow deep-blue shadows for space,

the universe has you for its vault.

Palm trees sprout deep-green explosions behind

your shoulders. And the clock has stalled.

Your face is my reliable sundial,

the light in the window dances its ballet,

my May is jasmine in your armpit;

our nearest neighbor is the Milky Way.

Furniture swings with us like a circus trapeze

without the weight. Sometimes I look back:

dust lashes the five continents and seas,

but on your divine empire the sun never sets;

what we have here is melodious, oceanic peace

and up there the moon’s silver pirouettes.

Vertaald door Paul Sohar

György Faludy (22 september 1910 – 1 september 2006)
Hier met dichter en vriend Eric Johnson in de jaren zestig

Zie voor nog meer schrijves van de 22e september ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

22-09-2013 om 19:12 geschreven door Romenu  

De Israëlische Hebreeuwse en Jiddische dichter en politicus Uri Zvi Greenberg werd geboren op 22 september 1896 in Bialikamin, Lviv, in Galicië, destijds behorend tot Oostenrijk-Hongarije. Zie ook alle tags voor Uri Zvi Greenberg op dit blog.

One Truth and Not Two

Your Rabbis taught: A land is bought with money
You buy the land and work it with a hoe.
And I say: A land is not bought with money
And with a hoe you also dig and bury the dead.
And I say: A land is conquered with blood.
And only when conquered with blood is hallowed to the people
With the holiness of the blood.
And only one who follows after the cannon in the field,
Thus wins the right to follow after his good plow
On this, the field that was conquered.
And only such a field gives nourishing and healthy bread
And the house which arises on its hill is truly a fortress and a temple,
Because in this field there is honorable blood.
Your Rabbis taught: The messiah will come in future generations:
And Judea will arise without fire and without blood.
It will arise with every tree, with every additional house.
And I say: If your generation will be slow
And will not grasp in its hands and forcibly mold its future
And in fire will not come with the Shield of David
And in blood will not come with its horses saddled -
The Messiah will not come even in a far off generation.
Judea will not arise.
And you will be living slaves to every foreign ruler.
Your houses will be straw for the sparks of every wicked one.
And your trees will be cut down with their ripe fruit.
And a man will react the same as a babe
To the sword of the enemy -
And only your ramblings will remain - yours...
And your statue, an eternal curse.
Your Rabbis taught: There is one truth for the nations:
Blood for blood - but it is not a truth for Jews.
And I say: There is one truth and not two.
As there is one sun and as there are not two Jerusalems.
It was written in the Law of Conquest of Moses and Joshua
Until the last of my kings and my traitors have consumed.
And there will be a day when from the river of Egypt until the Euphrates
And from the sea until the mountain passes of Moav my boys will go up
And they will call my enemies and my haters to the last battle.
And the blood will decide: Who is the only ruler here.

Vertaald door Laurence Cramer

Uri Zvi Greenberg (22 september 1896 – 8 mei 1981)

De Britse schrijfster Rosamunde Pilcher werd op 22 september 1924 geboren in Lelant, Cornwall, Groot-Brittannië. Zie ook alle tags voor Rosamunde Pilcher op dit blog.

Uit: Winter Solstice

“When these friends departed, they needed reassurance: "You're all right, aren't you, Elfrida?" they would ask. "No regrets? You don't want to come back to London? You're happy?" And she had been able to set their minds at rest. "Of course I am. This is my geriatric bolt-hole. This is where I shall spend the twilight of my years."

So, by now, there was a comfortable familiarity about it all. She knew who lived in this house, in that cottage. People called her by her name. "Morning, Elfrida," or "Lovely day, Mrs. Phipps." Some of the inhabitants were commuting families, the man of the house setting out early each morning to catch the fast train to London and returning late in the evening to pick up his car from the station park and drive the short distance home. Others had lived here all their lives in small stone houses that had belonged to their fathers and their grandfathers before that. Still others were new altogether, inhabiting the council estates that ringed the village, and employed by the electronics factory in the neighbouring town. It was all very ordinary, and so, undemanding. Just, in fact, what Elfrida needed.

Walking, she passed the pub, newly furbished and now called the Dibton Coachhouse. There were wrought-iron signs and a spacious car-park. Farther on, she passed the church, with its yew trees and lych-gate, and a notice-board fluttering with parish news. A guitar concert, an outing for the Mothers and Toddlers group. In the churchyard, a man lit a bonfire and the air was sweet with the scent of toasting leaves. Overhead, rooks cawed. A cat sat on one of the churchyard gate posts, but luckily Horace did not notice him.”

Rosamunde Pilcher (Lelant, 22 september 1924)

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Hans Leip werd geboren op 22 september 1893 in Hamburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Hans Leip op dit blog.

Oevelgönne

Oevel-Oevelgönne,
buddelbunter Butt.
Sah ich sieben Segel
mittenmang im Mutt.
Junge, in die sieben
muß ich mich verlieben.

Oevel-Oevelgönne,
moije Milchmannsmagd.
Ob ich es wohl könne,
hat sie mich gefragt,
ihr das Schuhband lösen
mit den siebzehn Ösen.

Oevel-Oevelgönne,
kleine Muggepick
blieb verdimmich stecken
mittenmang im Schlick.
Mädchen, nimm dein Hemde,
denn es kommen Fremde!

Hans Leip (22 september 1893 – 6 juni 1983)

Zelfportret met vogel, 1956

De Duitse dichter Barthold Heinrich Brockes werd geboren in Hamburg op 22 september 1680. Zie ook alle tags voor Barthold Heinrich Brockes op dit blog.

Frühlings-Seufzer

Grosser Gott, in dieser Pracht
Seh' ich deine Wunder-Macht
Aus vergnügter Seelen an.
Es gereiche Dir zu Ehren,
Daß ich sehen, daß ich hören,
Fülen, schmecken, riechen kann!

Flammende Rose

Flammende Rose,
Zierde der Erden,
Glänzender Gärten
Bezaubernde Pracht!
Augen, die deine
Vortrefflichkeit sehen,
Müßten vor Anmut erstaunet
Gestehen,
Daß dich ein göttlicher
Finger gemacht.

Die Welt ist allezeit schön

Im Frühling prangt die schöne Welt

In einem fast Smaragden Schein.

Im Sommer gläntzt das reife Feld,

Und scheint dem Golde gleich zu seyn.

Im Herbste sieht man, als Opalen,

Der Bäume bunte Blätter strahlen.

Im Winter schmückt ein Schein, wie Diamant

Und reines Silber, Fluth und Land.

Ja kurtz, wenn wir die Welt aufmercksam sehn,

Ist sie zu allen Zeit schön.

Barthold Heinrich Brockes (22 september 1680 - 16 januari 1747)

Portret door Balthasar Denner

22-09-2013 om 19:07 geschreven door Romenu