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De Belgische dichter en schrijver Leonard Nolens werd geboren in Bree op 11 april 1947. Zie ook alle tags voor Leonard Nolens op dit blog.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Vermoeidheid
Als wij, de grote mensen, moe zijn
Van het praten met elkaar,
Als wij moe zijn van het slapen
Met elkaar, het wandelen
En handeldrijven met elkaar,
Het tafelen en oorlogvoeren
Met elkaar, als wij zo moe zijn
Van elkaar, van het elkaren
Van elkaar, dan zetten wij de kat
Op onze schouder, gaan de tuin in
En zoeken de kinderstemmen achter
De hoge hagen en in de boomhut.
En zwijgend leggen wij onze vermoeidheid
In het gras, en de jaren die zwaar
En donker sliepen in de zoom
Van onze jas ontbloten zich daarboven
In een jongenskeel en dansen op
En neer in een vochtige meisjesmond
Als wij, de grote mensen, moe zijn
Van het praten,
Van het praten,
Van het praten met elkaar,
Gaan wij de tuin in en verzwijgen ons
In de kat, in het gras, in het kind.
Cliché
Laat haar met rust.
En laat haar alleen overdag.
En wacht, onderga
De slepende klok van haar lokroep.
Ga niet overstag.
Wacht. En zoek 's avonds
De deur en klop aan en omhels
De spannende sleur
Van je liefde. Verzwijg je cliché
Dat ons afscheid ons al tegemoetkust.
Inertie
Het moet gezegd.
Hier, met al mijn plichtsgevoel, mijn achterste
Vastgeroest in een versleten keukenstoel,
Hier laat ik mijn gezichtsverlies geruisloos
Als een zwarte keisteen door je handen rollen
Ginder. Ik krijg ons niet uit mijn bek.
Gooi mij niet weg.
Bewaar me. Stuur me mijn adres. Gooi me terug.
En kom ik niet als vroeger uit de tweelingster
Van je handen gevallen, dan ben ik zestig jaar
Een gitten dondersteen geruisloos ingeslagen hier
In een versleten keukenstoel.
Ik moet gezegd.
Leonard Nolens (Bree, 11 april 1947)
De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Mark Strand werd geboren op 11 april 1934 in Summerside, Prince Edward Island, Canada. Zie ook alle tags voor Mark Strand op dit blog.
Lines For Winter
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself --
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.
Eating Poetry
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
Mark Strand (Summerside, 11 april 1934)
De Tunesische dichter, schrijver, essayist en vertaler Walid Soliman werd geboren op 11 april 1975 in Tunis. Zie ook alle tags voor Walid Soliman op dit blog.
Uit: In jean Genet Square
When our eyes met, he took the Cuban cigar from his lips, and greeted me in French. That was the first thing which aroused my misgivings, wondering how he knew I spoke French, especially given that we were in Spain. But I found no time to continue with these thoughts before he engaged me with a question:
It appears you arent Spanish
Its obvious youre from the southern Mediterranean.
Its true. Im studying here
but Im a foreigner!
Were all foreigners in this world!
I agree with you completely, were all foreigners in this world... and you, neither are you Spanish, I assume?
The world is my home
geography doesnt concern me much
While I was talking with him, I tried to remember his face, but without success. I found him once again putting a question to me, this time referring to the book in my hands.
What are you reading?
I said, The Book of Sand by Borges. I dont know how many times Ive read it, and I carry it with me wherever I go. I never get tired of reading it over and over.
Sometimes books can become a drug
but even so, I think, Borges is one of the greatest writers of our time.
There was something in his tone that conveyed a bit of mockery; at least it seemed as such to me, that I began to feel as if I was speaking with a puzzle.
Walid Soliman (Tunis, 11 april 1975)
De Hongaarse dichter Attila József werd geboren op 11 april 1905 in Boedapest. Zie ook alle tags voor Attila József op dit blog.
Grief
In my eyes grief dissolves;
I ran like a deer;
Tree-gnawing wolves
In my heart followed near.
I left my antlers
A long time ago;
Broken from my temples,
They swing on a bough.
Such I was myself:
A deer I used to be.
I shall be a wolf:
That is what troubles me.
A fine wolf I'm becoming.
Struck by magic, while
All my pack-wolves are foaming,
I stop, and try to smile.
I prick up my ears
As a roe gives her call;
Try to sleep; on my shoulders
Dark mulberry leaves fall.
Behold I have found my land...
Behold, I have found my land, the country
Where my name's cut without a fault
By him who is to bury me,
If he was bred to dig my vault.
Earth gapes: I drop into the tin,
Since the iron halfpenny,
Which at a time of war came in,
Has outlived its utility.
Nor is the iron ring legal tender.
New world, land, rights: I read each letter.
Our law is war's, the thriftless spender,
And gold coins keep their value better.
Long I had lived with my own heart;
Then others came with many a fuss.
They said: "You kept yourself apart.
We wish you could have been with us."
So did I live in vanity.
I now draw my conclusion thus.
They did but make a fool of me,
And even my death is fatuous.
I have tried all my life to keep
My footing in a whirlwind fast.
The thought is ludicrously cheap
That others' harm matched mine at last.
The spring is good and summer, too,
But autumn better and winter best
For him who finds his last hopes through
Family hearths he knew as guest.
Vertaald door Vernon Watkins
Attila József (11 april 1905 3 december 1937)
Standbeeld in Miskolc
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 11e april ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.
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