De Russische dichteres en schrijfster Marina
Tsvetájeva werd geboren op 9 oktober 1892 in Moskou. Zie ook alle tags
voor Marína Tsvetájeva op
dit blog en ook mijn
blog van 9 oktober 2010
Why such tenderness?
Not the first – these curls
I stroke, I’ve known, yes,
Lips much darker than
As stars fade and rise,
– Why such tenderness?
Eyes have risen
And faded to my eyes.
Yet with no such song
Have I heard night darker
Crowned – O tenderness –
In the breast of the singer.
Why such tenderness,
And what to do with it,
So young, simply passing
And could eyelashes – be
Dying, I’ll not say: ‘I
I’ll not say: ‘I was’.
No regrets, I’ll not
There are greater things
in this world
Than love’s storm, and passion’s
But you – wing-beat
against my chest,
Fresh, guilty cause of my inspiration –
You I command to: – Be!
My obedience – knows no evasion.
When I watch the flight of leaves,
When I watch the flight of
To the cobblestones at my feet,
Swept up – as if by an
Whose picture’s at last complete,
I think how (already no one likes
My figure, face deep in thought)
A strongly yellow, decidedly rusty,
Leaf, there at the crown’s – forgot.
Vertaald door A. S. Kline
Marína Tsvetájeva (9 oktober 1892 – 31 augustus 1941)
Portret door George G. Sjisjkin
De Noorse schrijver, schilder en essayist Jens Bjørneboe werd
geboren op 9 oktober 1920 in Kristiansand. Zie ook alle tags voor Jens Bjørneboe op dit blog
en ook mijn
blog van 9 oktober 2010
Uit: Powderhouse (Vertaald
door Esther Greenleaf Mürer)
“It's very clear
that at a Soviet embassy in a Christian country this is not compatible with
diplomatic dignity and etiquette. And it's evident that for the wife herself
these diplomatic years beside her silent, flawless ambassador-husband were pure
purgatory, before she finally said to hell with it and took to howling and
raping freely. That's how she came here. Nothing is simple.
Of course I'm not a "caretaker," but—as Lefèvre puts
it—"combination caretaker and physician-in-chief of the Institute,"
and as such I naturally have a radical insight into all that goes on here, into
everything that happens. Now when I say "physician-in-chief," that's
of course to be understood in a higher, so to speak purely spiritual sense—as
chief ideologist and father-confessor to nearly everybody. From the viewpoint
of the employment roster I'm a caretaker. Janitor. Cleaning man.
This last point in particular—my being the place's trusted renovation
worker—must not be underestimated from an epistemological standpoint. How else,
for example, would I have had any awareness of the stupendous quantities of
prophylactics with which the diplomat's wife fills her wastebasket between
attacks? What, indeed, would I have understood of anything at all without
access to wastebaskets and garbage pails?
Another side of the matter is that I have full opportunity to pursue my studies
and my research here. My interests are the same as before, even though I've
acquired an ice-cold scientific attitude to reality. Of course, while
collecting my documents I had to come sooner or later to one of the central
points in our Christian culture—possibly to its heart, to the matter's core.
It's natural too that I began on the topic in just the geographic situation in
which I now find myself: in a landscape which has been the historic arena for
our culture's very innermost concerns. One is located even more centrally if
one travels some miles further to the northeast, up to Trier. It was impossible
to continue with The History of
Bestiality without taking up the
Christian churches' heretic and witch trials.”
Jens Bjørneboe (9
oktober 1920 – 9 mei 1976)
Hier met leerlingen van de Rudolf Steinerschool in Oslo,
De Senegalese schrijver Léopold Senghor werd geboren op 9 oktober 1906 in het
plaatsje Joal aan de Atlantische kust, zo'n 70 kilometer van de Senegalese
hoofdstad Dakar. Zie ook mijn
blog van 9 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor
Léopold Senghor op dit
Woman, place your soothing hands upon my brow,
Your hands softer than fur.
Above us balance the palm trees, barely rustling
In the night
breeze. Not even a lullaby.
Let the rhythmic
silence cradle us.
Listen to its song.
Hear the beat of our dark blood,
Hear the deep pulse
of Africa in the mist of lost villages.
Now sets the weary
moon upon its slack seabed
Now the bursts of
laughter quiet down, and even the storyteller
Nods his head like
a child on his mother’s back
The dancers’ feet
grow heavy, and heavy, too,
alternating voices of singers.
Now the stars
appear and the Night dreams
Leaning on that
hill of clouds, dressed in its long, milky pagne.
The roofs of the
huts shine tenderly. What are they saying
So secretly to the stars? Inside, the fire dies
In the closeness of sour and sweet smells.
Woman, light the
clear-oil lamp. Let the Ancestors
Speak around us as
parents do when the children are in bed.
Let us listen to
the voices of the Elissa Elders. Exiled like us
They did not want
to die, or lose the flow of their semen in the sands.
Let me hear, a
gleam of friendly souls visits the smoke-filled hut,
My head upon your
breast as warm as tasty dang streaming from the fire,
Let me breathe the
odor of our Dead, let me gather
And speak with
their living voices, let me learn to live
deeper than the diver
Into the great
depths of sleep.
Vertaald door Melvin
Senghor (9 oktober 1906 - 20 december 2001)
De Deense dichter
en schrijver Holger Drachmann werd geboren op 9 oktober 1846 in
Kopenhagen. Zie ook alle
tags voor Holger Drachmann
op dit blog en ook mijn
blog van 9 oktober 2010
I could not sleep
wafted towards me,
streaming in through my window
like a fragrance-breathing river;
I heard the tall palm trees
with music sweet;
it whispered where I placed my feet:
You eternal Himalaya
with summit high
against the roof of the sky,
why do you send your springs
to meet my foot today?
Why do the scented waves
heavy with memories
purl past my feet?
why trembling does my gaze again meet:
O maiden, you lower your eye
so moist and soft
into my gazing eyes,
as if it were at this hour
you were given the ring that binds!
ah, not a single hour,
a single day,
but a thousand years
do separate us now, I fear:
You did not lose your ring in the river
has flung it therein,
and should he not stem the swift-fl owing stream,
the ring he will not bring again.
Dushjántas in the grove of palms
along the river’s slope;
he downs an antilope:
Vertaald door Rolf
Holger Drachmann (9 oktober 1846 – 14 januari
Portret door Edvard Munch, 1902
Zie voor nog meer
schrijvers van de 9e oktober ook mijn
blog van 9 oktober 20011 deel 3.
09-10-2013 om 00:00
geschreven door Romenu
Tags:Marína Tsvetájeva, Jens Bjørneboe, Léopold Senghor, Holger Drachmann, Romenu