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De Nederlandse schrijver, dichter en vertaler Louis Th. Lehmann, werd geboren op 19 augustus 1920 in Rotterdam. Louis Zie ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2006 en ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2008. en eveneens mijn blog van 19 augustus 2009. Th. Lehmann viert vandaag zijn 90e verjaardag.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Een kind te zijn is triest
Een kind te zijn is triest zijn en ontgoocheld.
Wanneer wij ons vervelen,
zegt men ons te spelen;
en wij weten niet wat spelen is.
Als de padvindersfluit,
waarvan gezegd is,
dat hij echt is,
die is beloofd
en daarom gevraagd,
eindelijk is gegeven,
wordt hij afgenomen
om het geluid.
Wij weten ook wel dat het maar één toon is,
zo hard, zo koud,
door geen manier van blazen te vermurwen.
Maar wij zoeken muziek
en blazen hoewel het haast pijn doet.
Wij wachten tegen beter weten
op een melodie die komen moet
zo maar vanzelf,
zo licht en zwevend.
Als ik in mijn tuin aan 't werk ben
Als ik in mijn tuin aan 't werk ben,
met de heuvels achter mij,
komen neer vanaf de heuvels:
Bargaluut, met zijn drie haren
en zijn stem als van een zaag;
Schorkenool, die steeds wijdbeens loopt
om zijn buik te laten slepen
achter hem over de grond;
Kraddewimpel, met één oog
en zijn manden vol met pruimen,
die hij neerzet op de drempels
van de huizen van zijn dochters.
En daarachter nog de kleintjes
met hun puntmuts en hun hooivork,
die vannacht mij komen prikken,
mij en iedereen in 't dorp.
Louis Th. Lehmann (Rotterdam, 19 augustus 1920)
De Engelse schrijver Jonathan Coe werd geboren op 19 augustus 1961 in Birmingham. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2008 en eveneens mijn blog van 19 augustus 2009.
Uit: Rain Before It Falls
I have not yet described Warden Farmthe house itselfin any detail, but I think I will talk about the caravan first. It was one of the first things that Beatrix showed me in the garden, and it quickly became the place where we would retreat and hide together. You could say that everything started from there.
Aunt Ivy gave me this photograph herself, I remember, at the end of my time living at her house. It was one of her few real acts of kindness. Beneath her warm and welcoming exterior, she turned out to be a rather distant, unapproachable woman. She and her husband had built for themselves an active and comfortable life, which revolved mainly around hunting and shooting and all the associated social activities which came with them. She was a busy organizer of hunt balls, tennis-club suppers and the like. Also, she doted on her two sons, athletic and sturdy boysgood-natured, too, but not very well endowed in the brains department, it seems to me in retrospect. None of these things, at any rate, made her inclined to expend much of her attention on methe unwanted guest, the evacueeor indeed on her daughter, Beatrix. Therein lay the seeds of the problem. Neglected and resentful, Beatrix seized upon me as soon as I arrived, knowing that in me she had found someone in an even more vulnerable position than her own, someone it would be easy to enlist as her devoted follower. She showed me kindness and she showed me attention: these things were enough to win my loyalty, and indeed I have never forgotten them even to this day, however selfish her motives might have been at the time.
The housewas large, and full of places we might have made our own: unvisited, secret places. But in Beatrixs mindthough I did not understand this until laterit was their place, it belonged to the family by whom she felt so rejected, and so she chose somewhere else, somewhere quite separate, as the place where she and I should pursue our friendship. That was why we spent so much of our time, during those early days and weeks, in the caravan.
Jonathan Coe (Birmingham, 19 augustus 1961)
De Amerikaanse dichter Li-Young Lee werd geboren op 19 augustus 1957 in Jakarta, Indonesië. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2009.
Eating Alone
I've pulled the last of the year's young onions.
The garden is bare now. The ground is cold,
brown and old. What is left of the day flames
in the maples at the corner of my
eye. I turn, a cardinal vanishes.
By the cellar door, I wash the onions,
then drink from the icy metal spigot.
Once, years back, I walked beside my father
among the windfall pears. I can't recall
our words. We may have strolled in silence. But
I still see him bend that way-left hand braced
on knee, creaky-to lift and hold to my
eye a rotten pear. In it, a hornet
spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice.
It was my father I saw this morning
waving to me from the trees. I almost
called to him, until I came close enough
to see the shovel, leaning where I had
left it, in the flickering, deep green shade.
White rice steaming, almost done. Sweet green peas
fried in onions. Shrimp braised in sesame
oil and garlic. And my own loneliness.
What more could I, a young man, want.
Eating Together
In the steamer is the trout
seasoned with slivers of ginger,
two sprigs of green onion, and sesame oil.
We shall eat it with rice for lunch,
brothers, sister, my mother who will
taste the sweetest meat of the head,
holding it between her fingers
deftly, the way my father did
weeks ago. Then he lay down
to sleep like a snow-covered road
winding through pines older than him,
without any travelers, and lonely for no one.
Li-Young Lee (Jakarta, 19 augustus 1957)
De Amerikaanse dichter Frederic Ogden Nash werd geboren in Rye, New York, op 19 augustus 1902. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2006. en ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2009.
A Drink With Something In It
There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth--
I think that perhaps it's the gin.
Children's Party
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest. My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from each other's throats. I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces. Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages. Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. francis from here to Natchez. Shunned are the games a parent proposes,
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses,
Their playmates are their natural foemen
And they like to poke each other's abdomen. Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it,
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it.
They observe with glee the ballistic results
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults, And inform the assembly with tears and glares
That everyone's presents are better than theirs.
Oh, little women and little men,
Someday I hope to love you again, But not till after the party's over,
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover
Ogden Nash (19 augustus 1902 19 mei 1971)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 19e augustus ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag en eveneens mijn eerste blog van vandaag.
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