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De Amerikaanse schrijver Charles Frazier werd geboren op 4 november 1950 in Asheville, North Carolina. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 4 november 2009.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Uit: Cold Mountain
The man got the bundle off the horse and over his shoulder and came walking from behind the animal in a kind of stagger. Inman could see that what he was lugging was a woman, one limp arm swinging, a cascade of black hair brushing the ground. The man carried her from out the diameter of torchlight so that they became near invisible, but his direction was clearly toward the verge of the drop-off. Inman could hear the man sobbing in the dark as he walked.
Inman ran along the road to the torch and grabbed it up and pitched it softly underhand out toward the sound of crying. What the fire lit when it struck ground was the man standing on the very lip of the bluff with the woman in his arms. He was trying to whirl to see the source of this sudden illumination, but, cumbered as he was, it took some time. With a kind of shuffle, he turned to face Inman.
--Set her down, Inman said.
She dropped in a heap at the man's feet.
--The hell kind of pistol is that? the man said, his eyes fixed on the two big mismatched bores.
--Step away from her, Inman said. Get over here where I can see you.
The man stepped across the body and approached Inman. He held his head tipped down for the hat brim to cut the glare from the torch.
--Best stop right now, Inman said, when the man got close.
--You're a message from God saying no, the man said. He took two steps more and then dropped to his knees in the road and fell forward and hugged Inman about the legs. Inman leveled the pistol at the man's head and put pressure on the trigger until he could feel all the metal parts of its firing mechanism tighten up against each other. But then the man turned his face up, and it caught the light from the torch where it still burned on the ground, and Inman could see that his cheeks were shiny with tears. So Inman relented as he might have anyway and only struck the man a midforce blow across the cheekbone with the long barrel of the pistol.
Charles Frazier (Asheville, 4 november 1950)
Foto: David S. Allee
De Amerikaanse dichter Charles Kenneth Williams werd geboren op 4 november 1936 in Newark, New Jersey. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 4 november 2009.
Blackstone
When Blackstone the magician cut a woman in half in the Branford theater
near the famous Lincoln statue in already part way down the chute Newark,
he used a gigantic buzz saw, and the woman let out a shriek that out-shrieked
the whirling blade and drilled directly into the void of our little boy crotches.
That must be when we learned that real men were supposed to hurt women,
make them cry then leave them, because we saw the blade go in, right in,
her waist was barelook!and so, in her silvery garlanded bra, shining,
were her breasts, oh round, silvery garlanded tops of breasts shining.
Which must be when we went insane, and were sent to drive our culture insane . . .
Show me your breasts, please. Shame on you, hide your breasts: shame.
Nothing else mattered, just silvery garlanded breasts, and still she shrieked,
the blade was still going in, under her breasts, and nothing else mattered.
Oh Branford theater, with your scabby plaster and threadbare scrim,
you didnt matter, and Newark, your tax-base oozing away to the suburbs,
you didnt matter, nor your government by corruption, nor swelling slums
you were invisible now, those breasts had made you before our eyes vanish,
as Blackstone would make doves then a horse before our eyes vanish,
as at the end factories and business from our vanquished city would vanish.
Oh Blackstone, gesturing, conjuring, with your looming, piercing glare.
Oh gleaming, hurtling blade, oh drawn-out scream, oh perfect, thrilling arc of pain.
Leaves
A pair of red leaves spinning on one another
in such wildly erratic patterns over a frozen field
it's hard to tell one from another and whether
if they were creatures they'd be in combat or courting
or just exalting in the tremendousness of their being.
Humans can be like that, capricious, aswirl,
not often enough in exalting, but courting, yes,
and combat; so often in combat, in rancour, in rage,
we rarely even remember what error or lie
set off this phase of our seeming to have to slaughter.
Not leaves then, which after all in their season
give themselves to the hammer of winter,
become sludge, become muck, become mulch,
while we, still seething, broiling, stay as we are,
vexation and violence, ax, atom, despair.
C. K. Williams (Newark, 4 november 1936)
De Amerikaanse dichter en beeldend kunstenaar Marc Awodey werd geboren op 4 november 1960 in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 4 november 2009.
Wednesday
Pictures of Wednesday flourish
untouched by a moment's mind
though limbs have grown heavy
after Tuesday's disintegrating rain.
Citizens of every land and sea
practice silent arts
as if each day were a Redeemer;
heads wear silver time pieces
sowing momentous ticks and tocks,
to cherish ashen rays abandoned
by the sun's Apollonian palm.
Perchance seeds will germinate;
on Thursday or perhaps Friday.
Per chance upon a nameless day
as a tier of top-soil conceals
tenements of clay.
But Wednesday next will surly reap
from beds of leveled minds;
gourds, root crops, grains, legumes,
and fleshy vegetables left to rot
under the veins of twisted vines.
Marc Awodey (Ann Arbor, 4 november 1960)
Awodey: Reader, 2002
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Klabund werd als Alfred Henschke geboren op 4 november 1890 in Crossen an der Oder. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 november 2006 en ook mijn blog van 4 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 4 november 2009.
Ironische Landschaft
Gleich einem Zuge grau zerlumpter Strolche,
Bedrohlich schwankend wie betrunkne Särge,
Gehn Abendwolken über jene Berge,
In ihren Lumpen blitzen rote Sonnendolche.
Da wächst, ein schwarzer Bauch, aus dem Gelände
Der Landgendarm, daß er der Ordnung sich beflisse,
Und scheucht mit einem bösen Schütteln seiner Hände
Die Abendwolkenstrolche fort ins Ungewisse.
Wünsche
Wenn du des Nachts die große Stadt durchstreifst,
Und deine Wünsche in den Ampeln hängen,
Versuche, daß den Willen du begreifst,
Aus dem sie ins erhaben Dunkle drängen.
Sie flüchten früh vor ihrer Blondheit Glanz,
Aus der sie gerne Mörderstricke flöchten.
Ihr Dasein ist auf Strahlenschuhn ein Tanz
Sie bringen Leben, wo sie sterben möchten.
Christbaumfeier
Piano, Geige: Hupf mein Mädel (forte),
Im Christbaum zucken gelblich ein paar Lichter,
Und an die Rampe tritt Kommis und Dichter
Und stottert stockend tannendufte Worte.
Man trampelt: »Bravo, Bravo« mit den Füßen
Und prostet mit den Krügen nach dem Helden,
Indem sich schon zwei weiße Fräuleins melden,
Mit »Stille Nacht« die Menge zu begrüßen.
Man säuft, man schreit, man giert und man verlost
Die Lebenslust Rosa, unwiderstehlich,
Bringt lächelnd ihrem Buben bei (allmählich),
Daß er mich Papa ruft. Na danke. Prost.
Klabund (4 november 1890 14 augustus 1928)
De Oostenrijkse dichter en schrijver Felix Braun werd op 4 november 1885 in Wenen geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 4 november 2009.
Der Leser
Sag: ist das nicht ein wunderliches Leid?
Um fremde Menschen trauern, die nicht leben,
und über Dinge, die sich nie begeben,
voll Sehnsucht träumen in der Einsamkeit.
Geheimnis, dessen Sinn ich nie verstand:
Sich über Worte atemlos zu neigen
und zu vernehmen in gespanntem Schweigen,
was einer dachte, fühlte und erfand.
Wenn Zeile so nach Zeile still verrinnt,
sich wohlig weit zurück im Sessel lehnen.
Die Arme breiten, lächeln unter Tränen.
Und wieder müssig blättern wie als Kind.
Und auf und ab in Abendgassen gehn
und Verse summen, darin Glocken läuten,
und ahnen, dass sie Welt und Leben deuten
und dennoch dunkel in den Wind verwehn....
Felix Braun (4 november 1885 29 november 1973)
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