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De Amerikaanse dichter en letterkundige Edward Hirsch werd geboren op 20 januari 1950 in Chicago. Hij studeerde folklore aan de University of Pennsylvania. Hij werkte als docent Engels aan de Wayne State University en de University of Houston. Hirsch publiceerde o.a. in The New Yorker, The New York Review of Books, American Poetry Review, and The Paris Review. Hij had ook een wekelijkse column over poëzie in de Washington Post Book World van 2002 tot 2005. Zijn eerste bundel For the Sleepwalkers verscheen in 1981.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
In Memoriam Paul Celan
Lay these words into the dead man's grave
next to the almonds and black cherries---
tiny skulls and flowering blood-drops, eyes,
and Thou, O bitterness that pillows his head.
Lay these words on the dead man's eyelids
like eyebrights, like medieval trumpet flowers
that will flourish, this time, in the shade.
Let the beheaded tulips glisten with rain.
Lay these words on his drowned eyelids
like coins or stars, ancillary eyes.
Canopy the swollen sky with sunspots
while thunder addresses the ground.
Syllable by syllable, clawed and handled,
the words have united in grief.
It is the ghostly hour of lamentation,
the void's turn, mournful and absolute.
Lay these words on the dead man's lips
like burning tongs, a tongue of flame.
A scouring eagle wheels and shrieks.
Let God pray to us for this man.
Lay Back the Darkness
My father in the night shuffling from room to room
on an obscure mission through the hallway.
Help me, spirits, to penetrate his dream
and ease his restless passage.
Lay back the darkness for a salesman
who could charm everything but the shadows,
an immigrant who stands on the threshold
of a vast night
without his walker or his cane
and cannot remember what he meant to say,
though his right arm is raised, as if in prophecy,
while his left shakes uselessly in warning.
My father in the night shuffling from room to room
is no longer a father or a husband or a son,
But a boy standing on the edge of a forest
listening to the distant cry of wolves,
to wild dogs,
to primitive wingbeats shuddering in the treetops.
Edward Hirsch (Chicago, 20 januari 1950)
De Turkse schrijver Nazim Hikmet werd op 20 januari 1902 geboren in Thessaloniki. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 januari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 20 januari 2008.
Today is Sunday
Today is Sunday.
For the first time they took me out into the sun today.
And for the first time in my life I was aghast
that the sky is so far away
and so blue
and so vast
I stood there without a motion.
Then I sat on the ground with respectful devotion
leaning against the white wall.
Who cares about the waves with which I yearn to roll
Or about strife or freedom or my wife right now.
The soil, the sun and me...
I feel joyful and how.
Translated by Talat Sait Halman.
Angina Pectoris
If half my heart is here, doctor,
the other half is in China
with the army flowing
toward the Yellow River.
And, every morning, doctor,
every morning at sunrise my heart
is shot in Greece.
And every night,c doctor,
when the prisoners are asleep and the infirmary is deserted,
my heart stops at a run-down old house
in Istanbul.
And then after ten years
all i have to offer my poor people
is this apple in my hand, doctor,
one read apple:
my heart.
And that, doctor, that is the reason
for this angina pectoris--
not nicotine, prison, or arteriosclerosis.
I look at the night through the bars,
and despite the weight on my chest
my heart still beats with the most distant stars.
Nazim Hikmet (20 januari 1902 3 juni 1963)
De Duitse (Luxemburgse) schrijver Guy Helminger werd geboren op 20 januari 1963 in Esch-sur-Alzette. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 januari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 20 januari 2008.
Uit: Morgen war schon
Der Nieselregen hatte aufgehört. Sie überholten einen Bus und blieben auf der linken Spur, obwohl kein Wagen vor ihnen zu sehen war. Feltzer bemerkte plötzlich, daß Bergrath den Kopf gewendet hatte und ihn ansah. Jetzt sprich nur ein Wort, dachte Feltzer, und es knallt.
Ein schmaler Streifen Mond tauchte auf, strich matt über den Himmel, bevor er zurück in die Dunkelheit glitt.
Als Bergrath tatsächlich den Mund aufmachte, bremste Feltzer sofort, während seine linke Hand in die Türablage griff. Die Räder rutschten über den Asphalt. Etwas weiter hinter ihnen rollten die Busscheinwerfer auf sie zu. Feltzer steuerte den Wagen auf den Seitenstreifen und brüllte: Ich habe dich gewarnt. Habe ich dich nicht gewarnt? Er sah, wie Bergrath versuchte, aus dem Wagen zu flüchten. Auf der Fahrbahn rauschte der Bus an ihnen vorbei. Feltzer schloß einen Moment lang die Augen. Er sah, daß bereits alles rot war.
Guy Helminger (Esch-sur-Alzette, 20 januari 1963)
De Zwitserse dichter en schrijver Eugen Gomringer werd op 20 januari 1925 geboren in Cachuela Esperanza, Bolivia. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 januari 2007.
Eugen Gomringer (Cachuela Esperanza, 20 januari 1925)
De Israëlische schrijfster, journaliste en literatuurwetenschapster Batya Gur werd geboren op 20 januari 1947 in Tel Aviv. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 januari 2008.
Uit: Murder in Jerusalem
Michael Ohayon laid A Suitable Boy, the heavy volume in which he had been immersed for weeks, especially the past two, during his vacation, at the foot of his bed. How was it possible to write a novel like this and at the same time live one's life? How suddenly familiar and true were the claims voiced by many women in his life, claims he had heard often enough from his only son as well, about the manner in which he lost himself in his work, how there was no approaching him while he was on a case. To create and write about some reality or to investigate it seemed suddenly to him like the very same effort, the very same anxiety.
A sudden noise cut his thoughts short. He hurried to the hallway, and from there to the bathroom. He had left the cabinet door under the sink open so that the dampness there would not grow moldy. The bucket he had placed under the sink had overturned, as if a cat had passed by. But no cat had passed by. The windows were shut and the blinds were closed and rain was pounding and a puddle of dirty water was gathering by the front door. There was no explanation for the overturned bucket. "The butterfly effect," Tzilla would say had she witnessed the scene, which would be certain to irritate Balilty: "Effects again?" he would exclaim. "Butterflies again?
Batya Gur (20 januari 1947 19 mei 2005)
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