„MAUREEN: I'll do you some of your Complan.

MAG. Have I not had me Complan already, Maureen? I have.

MAUREEN: Sure, another one won't hurt.

MAG. (wary) No, I suppose.

Maureen tops the drink up with tap water to cool it, stirs it just twice to keep it lumpy, takes the spoon out, hands the drink to Mag, then leans back against the table to watch her drink it. Mag looks at it in distaste.

MAG. A bit lumpy, Maureen.

MAUREEN. Never mind lumpy, Mam. The lumps will do you good. That's the best part of Complan is the lumps. Drink ahead.

MAG. A little spoon, do you have?

MAUREEN. No, I have no little spoon. There's no little spoons for liars in this house. No little spoons at all. Be drinking ahead.

Mag takes the smallest of sickly sips

MAUREEN. The whole of it now!

MAG. I do have a funny tummy, Maureen, and I do have no room.

MAUREEN. Drink ahead, I said! You had room enough to be spouting your lies about Ray Dooley had no message! Did I not meet him on the road beyond as he was going? The lies of you. The whole of that Complan you'll drink now, and suck the lumps down too, and whatever's left you haven't drank, it is over your head I will be emptying it, and you know well enough I mean it!

Mag slowly drinks the rest of the sickly brew

MAUREEN. Arsing me around, eh? Interfering with my life again? Isn't it enough I've had to be on beck and call for you every day for the past twenty year? Is it one evening out you begrudge me?“

Martin McDonagh (Camberwell, 26 maart 1970)

De Amerikaanse dichter Gregory Corso werd geboren in New York op 26 maart 1930. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.

Birthplace Revisited

(from Gasoline)

I stand in the dark light in the dark street

and look up at my window, I was born there.

The lights are on; other people are moving about.

I am with raincoat; cigarette in mouth,

hat over eye, hand on gat.

I cross the street and enter the building.

The garbage cans haven't stopped smelling.

I walk up the first flight; Dirty Ears

aims a knife at me...

I pump him full of lost watches.

Poets Hitchiking on the Highway

Of course I tried to tell him

but he cranked his head

without an excuse.

I told him the sky chases

the sun

And he smiled and said:

'What's the use.'

I was feeling like a demon

again

So I said: 'But the ocean chases

the fish.'

This time he laughed

and said: 'Suppose the

strawberry were

pushed into a mountain.'

After that I knew the

war was on--

So we fought:

He said: 'The apple-cart like a

broomstick-angel

snaps & splinters

old dutch shoes.'

I said: 'Lightning will strike the old oak

and free the fumes!'

He said: 'Mad street with no name.'

I said: 'Bald killer! Bald killer! Bald killer!'

He said, getting real mad,

'Firestoves! Gas! Couch!'

I said, only smiling,

'I know God would turn back his head

if I sat quietly and thought.'

We ended by melting away,

hating the air!

Gregory Corso

De Italiaanse, Duitstalige, schrijfster Bettina Galvagni werd geboren op 26 maart 1976 in Neumarkt. Zij bezocht het gymnasium in Bozen en studeerde medicijnen in Wenen. In 1997 verscheen haar eerste roman Melancholia, waarvoor zij in 1998 de Rauriser Literaturpreis ontving. In 2002 verscheen haar tweede roman Persona. Tegenwoordig werkt zij als arts in Parijs.

Uit: Persona

“Kleine, durchsichtige Schneeflocken fielen auf die Scheiben des Taxis, das langsam den Hügel hinauffuhr. Lori spürte die eisige Kälte, die durch irgendwelche Ritze zu kommen schien. Andererseits war ihr warm; sie war gekleidet wie nach hohem Fieber. Und so würden ihre ersten Schritte sein, die sie vom Taxi aus imaginierte: wie nach hohem Fieber.

Der Taxifahrer hielt an, fragte, ob er sie ganz hineinfahren solle, und sie verneinte.

Ohne sich noch einmal umzudrehen, ging sie am Portier im weißen Mantel vorbei, der eine Bewegung mit den Armen machte, als ob er Tauben fütterte.

Eine dünne Schneeschicht bedeckte die Spitze der kleinen Jugendstilkirche und die großen Pavillons aus Backstein. Die Vorderseite der Pavillons war hell und glasig, und durch ihren unregelmäßigen Farbton wirkte sie zerbrechlich und verschlissen wie ausgetanzte Spitzenschuhe. Ihre Hinterseiten leuchteten wie das Fell einer roten Katze.

Lori öffnete die Tür eines Pavillons und setzte sich auf die Stufen des Treppenaufgangs. Sie hörte zu, wie aus dem Inneren der Station Stimmen, Radiomusik und das Scheppern von Geschirr drangen, und betrachtete die Flügeltür, deren obere Hälfte aus eingefaßtem Glas bestand. Darin war ein grün schimmernder stilisierter Baum durch ein zartes schmückendes ebenfalls grünes Band mit weiteren Bäumen verbunden, deren Stämme alle die Farbe trüber, abgestandener Milch hatten und dahinter konnte man schemenhaft die Köpfe von Alten sehen, die über Tassen gebeugt waren, und braune Tische und etwas, das sich wie ein Triangelstab bewegte.”

Bettina Galvagni (Neumarkt, 26 maart 1976)

De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Erica Jong werd geboren in New York op 26 maart 1942. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.

The Poetry Suit

I put on my poetry suit.

The prose falls away

like a dream I cannot remember,

the images unraveling like threads

in a cheap dress, sewn in Hong Kong

to feed the hungry mouths

of sweet-faced Chinese children.

Now I am in my poetry suit.

I zip myself into it,

pink as flesh, tight as the suit

I was born it, & looking

seamless as a perfect poem,

gleaming as the golden fleece,

slim as a stripper at the Crazy Horse Saloon,

transparent as silk stockings,

& smelling of jasmine & tea rose.

But what was that old perfume

I left in the pocket,

that cotton ball soaked

in Bal a Versailles,

that yellowing glace glove

that lacks a mate,

that fine cambric handkerchief

brown with dried blood

from an old nosebleed?

Even poetry, pure as nothing

but snow or music,

drags life along

in its hidden pockets.

Oh for an art

that is not made of words

with all their odors

& indiscretions.

Erica Jong (New York, 26 maart 1942)