De Amerikaanse dichteres en performster Jayne Cortez werd geboren op 10 mei 1936 in Fort Huachuca, Arizona. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 mei 2010.

Talking About New Orleans (Fragment)   

Talking about New Orleans

About deforestation & the flood of vodun paraphernalia

the Congo line losing its Congo

the funeral bands losing their funding

the killer winds humming intertribal warfare hums into

two storm-surges

touching down tonguing the ground

three thousand times in a circle of grief

four thousand times on a levee of lips

five thousand times between a fema of fangs

everything fiendish, fetid, funky, swollen, overheated

and splashed with blood & guts & drops of urinated gin

                                         in syncopation with me

riding through on a refrigerator covered with

asphalt chips with pieces of ragtime music charts

torn photo mug shots & pulverized turtle shells from Biloxi

                             me bumping against a million-dollar oil rig

me in a ghost town floating on a river on top of a river

                 me with a hundred ton of crab legs

                             and no evacuation plan

me in a battered tree barking & howling with abandoned dogs

my cheeks stained with dried suicide kisses

my isolation rising with a rainbow of human corpse & 

                                         fecal rat bones

where is that fire chief in his big hat

where are the fucking pumps

the rescue boats

& the famous coalition of bullhorns calling out names

                hey     I want my red life jacket now

& I need some sacred sandbags

some fix-the-levee-powder

some blood-pressure-support-juice

some get-it-together-dust

some lucky-rooftop-charms &

some magic-helicopter-blades
I'm not prepared

to live on the bottom of the water like Oshun

I don't have a house built on stilts

I can't cross the sea like Olokun

I'm not equipped to walk on water like Marie Laveau

or swim away from a Titanic situation like Mr. Shine.

Jayne Cortez (Fort Huachuca, 10 mei 1936)

De Engelse schrijfster Barbara Taylor Bradford werd geboren in Leeds, West Yorkshire op 10 mei 1933. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 10 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 mei 2010.

Uit: Breaking the Rules

„The young woman who hurried down Fifth Avenue was unaware of the stares as she plunged determinedly through the downpour as though oblivious to it. She was, in fact, too consumed by her thoughts to notice passersby.

They noticed her. They stared, nodded approvingly, or smiled with admiration. She drew attention for a number of reasons. She was rather exotic-looking, with high cheekbones, black eyebrows beautifully arched on her broad brow above large dark eyes. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, which fell almost to her waist. Though not beautiful in the classical sense, she was arresting and had a unique look about her.

Tall, slender, lithe, she moved with grace and had an inbred elegance. Her clothes were simple; she was wearing a sleeveless black cotton shift and ballet slippers, her only jewelry large pearl earrings and a watch. She carried a battered old black Hermès Kelly bag, well polished, which had obviously seen better days but looked just right on her arm.

The rain was coming down in torrents and she was already drenched, but she no longer bothered to look for a cab. There was no point; they were all taken. She was heading home, and much to her relief she wasn’t very far now. Two blocks down, three avenues to cross and she would be at West Twenty-second Street and Ninth Avenue.

A month ago, through her only friend in New York, a young man called Dax, she had found the perfect place: a comfortable room with two good-size closets and its own bath in a brownstone on this rather lovely old street. Chelsea reminded her of London, gave her a sense of well-being, and she felt at home here.“

Barbara Taylor Bradford (Leeds, 10 mei 1933)

De Spaanse schrijver Benito Pérez Galdós werd geboren in Las Palmas op 10 mei 1843. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 10 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 mei 2010.
 

Uit: Doña Perfecta

“When the down train No. 65—of what line it is unnecessary to say—stopped at the little station between kilometres 171 and 172, almost all the second-and third-class passengers remained in the cars, yawning or asleep, for the penetrating cold of the early morning did not invite to a walk on the unsheltered platform. The only first-class passenger on the train alighted quickly, and addressing a group of the employes asked them if this was the Villahorrenda station.

"We are in Villahorrenda," answered the conductor whose voice was drowned by the cackling of the hens which were at that moment being lifted into the freight car. "I forgot to call you, Senor de Rey. I think they are waiting for you at the station with the beasts."

"Why, how terribly cold it is here!" said the traveller, drawing his cloak more closely about him. "Is there no place in the station where I could rest for a while, and get warm, before undertaking a journey on horseback through this frozen country?"

Before he had finished speaking the conductor, called away by the urgent duties of his position, went off, leaving our unknown cavalier's question unanswered. The latter saw that another employe was coming toward him, holding a lantern in his right hand, that swung back and forth as he walked, casting the light on the platform of the station in a series of zigzags, like those described by the shower from a watering-pot.”

Benito Pérez Galdós (10 mei 1843 - 4 januari 1920)

De Duitse dichter,schrijver, pedagoog en theoloog  Johann Peter Hebel werd geboren op 10 mei 1760 in Basel. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 10 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 mei 2010.
 

Zufriedenheit

‘s schwimmt menge Ma im Überfluß
het Huus und Hof und Geld
und wenig Freud und viel Verdruß
und Sorgen in der Welt.
Und het er viel, se gehrt er viel
und neeft und grumset allewil.
Und ‘s seig jo doch so schön im Tal,
in Matte, Berg und Wald,
und d’Vögeli pfifen überal
und alles widerhallt,
e rueihig Herz und frohe Mut
isch ebe doch no ‘s fürnehmst Gut.
So het’s Margretli gsunge, und o chönnti’s nonemol höre.
Chönnti’s nonemol seh! Gott geb em Freuden und Gsundheit.

Trost

Bald denki, ‘s isch e bösi Zit,
und weger ‘s End isch nümme wit;
bald denki wieder: loß es goh,
wenn’s gnug isch, wird’s schon anderst cho.
Doch wenni näumen ane gang
und ‘s tönt mer Lied und Vogelsang,
so meini fast, i hör e Stimm:
»Bis z’fride! ‘s isch jo nit so schlimm.«

Johann Peter Hebel (10 mei 1760 – 22 september 1826)