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De Amerikaanse
dichter, schrijver en essayist Kazim Ali werd geboren op 6 april 1971 in Croydon,
Engeland. Zie ook alle tags voor Kazim Ali op dit blog.
Hymn
My father's silence
I cannot brook. By now he must know I live and well.
My heart is nickel,
unearthed and sent. We are a manmade catastrophe.
Unable to forgive,
deeply mine this earthly light that swells sickly inside.
Like wind I drift
westward and profane when the doors of ice slide open.
While he prays my
father swallows the sickle moon, its bone sharp path spent.
Preyed upon by
calendars of stone unbound the nickel of the mountain in streams.
Mine this awful
empty night. Mine this unchiming bell, his unanswered prayers.
Mine the
rain-filled sandals, the road out of town. Like a wind unbound this shining
river mine.
Sleep Door
a light knocking on
the sleep door
like the sound of a
rope striking the side of a boat
heard underwater
boats pulling up
alongside each other
beneath the surface
we rub up against each other
will we capsize in
the surge and
silence
of waking from
sleep
you are a lost
canoe, navigating by me
I am the star map
tonight
all the failed
echoes
don't matter
the painted-over
murals
don't matter
you can find your
way to me
by the faint
star-lamp
we are a fleet now
our prows zeroing
in
praying in the wind
to spin like
haywire compasses
toward whichever
direction
will have us
Kazim Ali (Croydon, 6 april 1971)
De Deense
schrijver en journalist Jakob Ejersbo werd geboren in Rødovre op 6 april 1968. Zie ook alle tags voor Jakob Ejersbo op dit blog.
Uit: Exile
(Vertaald
door Don Bartlett)
I wake up early with blood on the sheet, a
headache and aching limbs. I can hear the girl in the kitchen. Were leaving
mid-morning. I crumple up the bed linen and chuck it in the laundry basket.
Walk into the sitting room. Alison is standing in a big T-shirt in the middle
of the floor, looking sleepy.
Wheres Dad? she asks.
I dont know, I say. I look outside his Land Rover has gone.
The only clue: missing toothbrush, toothpaste and weapon. Without saying a
word, leaving a note. Just gone. For how long? Who knows? Mum is sitting and
drinking coffee on the veranda.
He cant bring himself to say goodbye to Alison, she says.
I leap down the slope and into the boat house, sail out and go fishing, with
just a mask, snorkel and harpoon. I hover three metres down, and its beginning
to rain, even though the short rainy season is several months away its
frightening. The surface water is lashed into a lather. I hurry upwards. Grey
on grey.
Mum is still sitting on the veranda. The rain has stopped.
Arent you going to do something? I ask.
Why? she asks.
Because
I say.
Youve almost left home, and Douglas is away all the time, and
Ive been chasing the employees every single day for years to tell them the
same things time and time again. And they dont take any notice only if I
stand over them. Im tired. Im tired of the humidity, of the mosquitoes, of
the hotel, of
Of Douglas, of us, I say. Mum looks shocked.
Not of all of you, she says. Alison appears in the sitting room
doorway:
Youre tired of yourself, she says.
Yes, Mum says. And Africa. Africa is killing me. She looks up
at me: If I go to England, will you come with me, Samantha? she asks.
Jakob
Ejersbo (6 april 1968 - 10 juli 2008)
De Nigeriaanse
dichter en schrijver John Pepper Clark werd geboren op 6 april 1935 in Kiagbodo,
Nigeria. Zie ook alle tags John Pepper Clark op dit blog.
Abiku
Coming and going these several seasons,
Do stay out on the baobab tree,
Follow where you please your kindred spirits
If indoors is not enough for you.
True, it leaks through the thatch
When flood brim the banks,
And the bats and the owls
Often tear in at night through the eaves,
And at harmattan, the bamboo walls
Are ready tinder for the fire
That dries the fresh fish up on the rack.
Still, it's been the healthy stock
To several fingers, to many more will be
Who reach to the sun.
No longer then bestride the threshold
But step in and stay
For good. We know the knife scars
Serrating down your back and front
Like beak of the sword-fish,
And both your ears, notched
As a bondsman to this house,
Are all relics of your first comings.
Then step in, step in and stay
For her body is tired,
Tired, her milk going sour
Where many more mouths gladden the heart.
John
Pepper Clark (Kiagbodo, 6 april 1935)
De
Duitse schrijver en dichter Günter Herburger werd geboren op 6 april 1932 in Isny im Allgäu.
Zie ook alle tags Günther Herburger op dit blog.
Ostern
Judas und Jesus sind wieder da.
ein kämpferisches Paar.
Judas könnte Jesus sein.
dann wäre Jesus Judas.
Maria Magdalena sagt, küsst euch, was sie tun.
Sie werfen die Tische
von Geldwechselern um,
füttern das Volk
bei einem Fischsterben
und lassen dampfende Brote
den Hang in den See Genezareth hinunterrollen,
Zeichen zum Aufstand.
Bevor sie gekreuzigt werden,
erwecken sie Lazarus,
der barfuß im Fieber die Steine nicht spürt
und wie eine Fackel
in der Arena langsam erlischt.
Nun wissen wir , was geschieht,
sagt Judas. Sagt Jesus,
wir sind noch nicht tot,
das Martyrium beginnt erst.
Maria Magalena bleibt allein
und weint, muss ihren alten Beruf
wieder aufnehmen, diened mit Brust
und Schoß.Kunden , die nicht bezahlen
wollen, erschreckt sie
mit einem Heiligenschein.
Günter
Herburger (Isny im Allgäu, 6 april 1932)
Isny im Allgäu
De Duitse
dichteres Uljana Wolf werd geboren op 6 april 1979 in Berlijn.
Zie ook alle tags Uljana Wolf op dit blog.
schliefen die
öfen [I / berlin]
berlin
als wir aufwachten mit nestern
im haar die wir nacht nannten
schlugen die genesenden väter
schaufelhändig alle klappen zu
schliefen die öfen ohne uns
in ihr vergessen zu nehmen
schliefen die
öfen [II / glauchau]
glauchau
als wir krank waren von ruß
und schüttgut aus archiven
zogen wir mit den großvätern
ins geschlossne stellwerk ein
sahn die alten gleisbewacher
ihre hände an die hebel legen
durch die tote weichenleitung
ging ein zittern wie auf reisen
Uljana Wolf (Berlijn, 6 april 1979)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 6e
april ook mijn vorige twee
blogs van vandaag.
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