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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.
Geduld
Hou me vast, geduld, ook nu we samengaan
Als gaan en hurken, strelen en kapotte handen.
Als je kunt zal ik mij ook vanavond kuilen
Voor de nacht, en dromen, dromen dat ik slaap,
En dat ik slaap door alles heen en iedereen.
Als je me wekt zal ik me morgenochtend buigen,
En buigen opnieuw, over mijn bord, een vrouw, het lot
Dat mij aan tafel roept met zijn afwezige stem.
Ik zal er eten van haar brood, haar vlees, en eten
Tot ik niet meer kan, en weggegeten ben.
Jij bent
schatrijk geboren
Jij en ik, dat is twee
Plus dit. Dat is drie. Dat is vragen
Om ruzie, men komt er niet uit.
Wij zitten perplex in elkaar.
Wij maken hetzelfde misbaar.
Jij en ik dat is een.
Jij bent schatrijk geboren
En kocht mij met gemak.
Dat zet ik je betaald
Op deze rekening.
Ik ben geen slapend geld
Vandaag, ik handel in ons.
Ik werk mij in het zweet
Van jou, ik bid en vloek mij
Uit de naad van ons,
Ik maak je winst op de markt.
Jij bent wat ik hier tel,
Mijn tol, mijn kapitaal.
Ik viel jou in de schoot
Van goud, ik woeker met wissels
Van ons en koop je terug
Nu ik ons doorverkoop
Aan vreemden, de truc is gelukt.
Wij staan op hetzelfde biljet.
Ritueel
Zij hebben ons hart ingepikt,
Onze groei, onze poppen genekt,
Onze tuin op de trein gezet,
Ons verblind met hun lichtende as.
Zij hebben de zwarte zak
Van hun afwezigheid strak
Over ons heengetrokken
En toen onze oren verpest
Met de ruis van hun hemelse spraak.
Dus waar ik vandaan kom, daar
Moet je die opgebaarde
Nog lichtjes blozende doden
Lang en bedachtzaam slaan.
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.
Man and Camel
On the eve of my fortieth birthday
I sat on the porch having a smoke
when out of the blue a man and a camel
happened by. Neither uttered a sound
at first, but as they drifted up the street
and out of town the two of them began to
sing.
Yet what they sang is still a mystery to me
the words were indistinct and the tune
too ornamental to recall. Into the desert
they went and as they went their voices
rose as one above the sifting sound
of windblown sand. The wonder of their
singing,
its elusive blend of man and camel, seemed
an ideal image for all uncommon couples.
Was this the night that I had waited for
so long? I wanted to believe it was,
but just as they were vanishing, the man
and camel ceased to sing, and galloped
back to town. They stood before my porch,
staring up at me with beady eyes, and said:
"You ruined it. You ruined it
forever."
The Everyday
Enchantment of Music
A rough sound was polished until it became a
smoother sound, which was polished until it became music. Then the music was
polished until it became the memory of a night in Venice when tears of the sea
fell from the Bridge of Sighs, which in turn was polished until it ceased to be
and in its place stood the empty home of a heart in trouble. Then suddenly
there was sun and the music came back and traffic was moving and off in the
distance, at the edge of the city, a long line of clouds appeared, and there
was thunder, which, however menacing, would become music, and the memory of
what happened after Venice would begin, and what happened after the home of the
troubled heart broke in two would also begin.
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
The failure of sand
nothing grows, everything gets erased.
He said that while
leaning with his hand on the back of the park bench, and I noticed that he did
not seem as imposing as I had first supposed. It was clear his life had not
been a walk in the park. He then took the straw hat he had been fingering and
put it on his head, saying, Do you know who said that quote?
Honestly
my memory
fails me.
James Joyce, in
Ulysses.
But before I could
find a moment to ask him his name, or if we had met previously, he disappeared,
leaving me to flounder in my confusion.
With him, my desire
to read also disappeared that day, as his solemn voice continued to ring in my
ears. I remained there, motionless, until nightfall.
In the days that
followed I continued going to the same place, sitting in the same bench,
patently hoping to meet that man who appeared to me a connoisseur of the world
of literature. But he never came. In fact, nothing at all transpired that could
confirm to me the reality of our meeting, that it was not simply all a confused
dream.
Summer had begun to
expire when one day I entered a large bookshop specialized in foreign
literature located in the center of Barcelona. I was looking for a copy of Ulysses by James Joyce. While I was
rummaging through the shelves, my attention was taken by a group of
black-and-white photographs hanging above the bookcase. They were pictures of
famous authors, and there between Sartre and Camus I trembled when I saw it
hung a photo of one with a completely shaven head smoking a Cuban cigar.
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 Józsefop dit blog.
By the Danube
1.
As I sat on the bottom step of the wharf,
A melon-rind flowed by with the current;
Wrapped in my fate I hardly heard the chatter
Of the surface, while the deep was silent.
As if my own heart had opened its gate:
The Danube was turbulent, wise and great.
Like a man's
muscles when hard at his toil,
Hammering, digging, leaning on the spade,
So bulged and relaxed and contracted again
Each single movement, each and every wave.
It rocked me like my mother for a time
And washed and washed the city's filth and grime.
And the rain began
to fall but then it stopped
Just as if it couldn't have mattered less,
And like one watching the long rain from a cave,
I gazed away into the nothingness.
Like grey, endless rain from the skies overcast,
So fell drably all that was bright: the past.
But the Danube
flowed on. And the sprightly waves
In playful gaiety laughed at me again,
Like a child on his prolific mother's knee,
While other thoughts were racing through her brain.
They trembled in Time's flow and in its wake,
Like in a graveyard tottering tomb-stones shake.
Vertaald door John Székely
Attila József (11 april 1905 3 december 1937)
Standbeeld
in Boedapest
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 11e april ook mijn
blog van 11 april 2012 deel 2.
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