De Nederlandse dichter Erik Menkveld werd geboren op 25 april 1959 in Eindhoven. Zie ook alle tags voor Erik Menkveld op dit blog.
Koor van ongehoorde waaibomen
Nu we kozijnen zijn in deze keuken, kijken ze wel naar de leuke overbuurvrouw op haar balkon of een bescheiden lijnvlucht die over komt, maar niet naar ons, die alles omlijsten.
En nu we planken zijn in deze vloer, horen ze ons voor geen meter, terwijl we bij de minste beroering vervaarlijk kraken en zij tijdens koken of woorden tal van voeten verplaatsen.
Zelfs nu we tafel zijn waar ze aan eten met onze poten tussen hun benen en onder hun blote handen ons hout, zijn we vergeten: gesprekken voeren ze aan ons en kinderen die van geen witlof willen weten.
Maar allemaal hebben we blad gedragen, tegen wilde luchten de wind in ons tekeer voelen gaan. En onder sommige van ons is daar naar geluisterd en diep in gedachten gestaan.
Erik Menkveld (25 april 1959 - 30 maart 2014)
De Amerikaanse dichter Ted Kooser werd geboren op 25 april 1939 in Ames, Iowa. Zie ook alle tags voor Ted Kooser op dit blog.
Late February
The first warm day, and by mid-afternoon the snow is no more than a washing strewn over the yards, the bedding rolled in knots and leaking water, the white shirts lying under the evergreens. Through the heaviest drifts rise autumn's fallen bicycles, small carnivals of paint and chrome, the Octopus and Tilt-A-Whirl beginning to turn in the sun. Now children, stiffened by winter and dressed, somehow, like old men, mutter and bend to the work of building dams. But such a spring is brief; by five o'clock the chill of sundown, darkness, the blue TVs flashing like storms in the picture windows, the yards gone gray, the wet dogs barking at nothing. Far off across the cornfields staked for streets and sewers, the body of a farmer missing since fall will show up in his garden tomorrow, as unexpected as a tulip.
Ted Kooser (Ames, 25 april 1939)
De Engelse dichter, schrijver, criticus en letterkundige James Fenton werd geboren op 25 april 1949 in Lincoln. Zie ook alle tags voor James Fenton op dit blog.
Jerusalem(Fragment)
Stone cries to stone, Heart to heart, heart to stone, And the interrogation will not die For there is no eternal city And there is no pity And there is nothing underneath the sky No rainbow and no guarantee – There is no covenant between your God and me.
2 It is superb in the air. Suffering is everywhere And each man wears his suffering like a skin. My history is proud. Mine is not allowed. This is the cistern where all wars begin, The laughter from the armoured car. This is the man who won’t believe you’re what you are.
3 This is your fault. This is a crusader vault. The Brook of Kidron flows from Mea She’arim. I will pray for you. I will tell you what to do. I’ll stone you. I shall break your every limb. Oh, I am not afraid of you, But maybe I should fear the things you make me do.
4 This is not Golgotha. This is the Holy Sepulchre, The Emperor Hadrian’s temple to a love Which he did not much share. Golgotha could be anywhere. Jerusalem itself is on the move. It leaps and leaps from hill to hill And as it makes its way it also makes its will.
5 The city was sacked. Jordan was driven back. The pious Christians burned the Jews alive. This is a minaret. I’m not finished yet. We’re waiting for reinforcements to arrive. What was your mother’s real name? Would it be safe today to go to Bethlehem?
James Fenton (Lincoln, 25 april 1949)
De Engelse dichter Walter John de la Mare werd geboren op 25 april 1873 in Charlton, Kent. Zie ook alle tags voor Walter John de la Mare op dit blog.
Seeds
The seeds I sowed - For week unseen - Have pushed up pygmy Shoots of green; So frail you'd think The tiniest stone Would never let A glimpse be shown. But no; a pebble Near them lies, At least a cherry-stone In size, Which that mere sprout Has heaved away, To bask in sunshine, See the Day.
The Sunken Garden
Speak not — whisper not; Here bloweth thyme and bergamot; Softly on the evening hour, Secret herbs their spices shower, Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh, Lean-stalked, purple lavender; Hides within her bosom, too, All her sorrows, bitter rue.
Breathe not — trespass not; Of this green and darkling spot, Latticed from the moon's beams, Perchance a distant dreamer dreams; Perchance upon its darkening air, The unseen ghosts of children fare, Faintly swinging, sway and sweep, Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep; While, unmoved, to watch and ward, 'Mid its gloomed and daisied sward, Stands with bowed and dewy head That one little leaden Lad.
Walter John de la Mare (25 april 1873 – 22 juni 1956)
De Amerikaanse schrijver Ross Franklin Lockridge Jr. werd geboren op 25 april 1914 in Bloomington, Indiana. Zie ook alle tags voor Ross Franklin Lockridge Jr.op dit blog.
Uit: Raintree County
“His voice was tentative as he looked for the woman who had spoken from the dusk of the little post office. The whole thing seemed vaguely implausible. A short while ago, he had left his house to take part in the welcoming exercises for the Senator, whose train was expected momentarily in the Waycross Station. Walking west on the National Road, he had joined the crowd that poured from three directions into the south arm of the cross formed by the County and National roads. A swollen tide of parasols and derby hats blurred and brightened around the Station. Except on Sundays, he had never seen over ten people at once along this street, and he had been afraid that he might not be able to reach the platform where he was to greet the Senator. Near the Station, the crowd had been so dense that he could hardly move. Women in dowdy summer gowns jockeyed his nervous loins. Citizens with gold fobs and heavy canes thrust, butted, cursed. A band blared fitfully. Firecrackers crumped under skirts of women, rumps of horses. From the struggling column of bodies, bared teeth and bulgy eyes stuck suddenly. Then he had found himself looking into the glass doorpane of the Post Office, where his own face had looked back at him, youthfully innocent for his fifty-three years, brows lifted in discovery, long blue eyes narrowed in the sunlight, dark hair smouldering with inherent redness. He had just begun to smooth his big mustaches and adjust the poet's tie at his throat when the crowd shoved him against the door. It had opened abruptly, and stepping inside on a sudden impulse, he had heard the woman's question.”
Ross Franklin Lockridge Jr. (25 april 1914 – 6 maart 1948)
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Richard Anders werd geboren op 25 april 1928 in Ortelsburg, tegenwoordig Szczytno, Polen. Zie ook alle tags voor Richard Anders op dit blog.
Traum vom Tod Georg Heyms
Von einer Sekunde von einer Eisscholle zur andern springend während von einer Sekunde zur anderen eine Eisscholle von der anderen treibt eine Sekunde von der anderen treibt ein Himmelskörper vom anderen treibt weiß er daß zwischen Eisschollen und Sekunden und Himmelskörpern der Abstand endlich endlos wird und er wie weit er auch springt über kurz oder lang einmal zu kurz springt
Richard Anders (Ortelsburg, 25 april 1928) Szczytno, Polen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 25e april blog van 25 april 2015 deel 2.
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