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De Duitse dichter Heinrich Heine werd geboren in Düsseldorf op 13 december 1797. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 december 2006 en ook mijn blog van 13 december 2007 en ook mijn blog van 13 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 12 december 2009.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam
Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam
Im Norden auf kahler Höh'.
Ihn schläfert; mit weißer Decke
Umhüllen ihn Eis und Schnee.
Er träumt von einer Palme,
Die, fern im Morgenland,
Einsam und schweigend trauert
Auf brennender Felsenwand.
Winter
Die Kälte kann wahrlich brennen
Wie Feuer. Die Menschenkinder
Im Schneegestöber rennen
Und laufen immer geschwinder.
Oh, bittre Winterhärte!
Die Nasen sind erfroren,
Und die Klavierkonzerte
Zerreißen uns die Ohren.
Weit besser ist es im Summer,
Da kann ich im Walde spazieren,
Allein mit meinem Kummer,
Und Liebeslieder skandieren.
Sie saßen und tranken am Teetisch
Sie saßen und tranken am Teetisch,
Und sprachen von Liebe viel.
Die Herren waren ästhetisch,
Die Damen von zartem Gefühl.
Die Liebe muß sein platonisch,
Der dürre Hofrat sprach.
Die Hofrätin lächelt ironisch,
Und dennoch seufzet sie: Ach!
Der Domherr öffnet den Mund weit:
Die Liebe sei nicht zu roh,
Sie schadet sonst der Gesundheit.
Das Fräulein lispelt: Wie so?
Die Gräfin spricht wehmütig:
Die Liebe ist eine Passion!
Und präsentieret gütig
Die Tasse dem Herrn Baron.
Am Tische war noch ein Plätzchen;
Mein Liebchen, da hast du gefehlt.
Du hättest so hübsch, mein Schätzchen,
Von deiner Liebe erzählt.
Heinrich Heine (13 december 1797- 17 februari 1856)
Portret door Isidor Popper, 1843
De Angolese schrijver José Eduardo Agualusa werd op 13 december 1960 in Huambo geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 12 december 2009.
Uit: The Book of Chameleons (Vertaald door Daniel Hahn)
My dear friend,
I do hope this letter finds you in excellent health. I realise that what Im writing you isnt really a letter, but an email. No one writes letters any more these days. But to tell you the truth, I do miss those days when people communicated by exchanging letters - real letters, on good paper, to which you might add a drop of perfume, or attach dried flowers, coloured feathers, a lock of hair. I feel a flicker of nostalgia for those days, when the postman used to bring our letters to the house, and we were glad, surprised to see what wed received, what we opened and read, and at the care we took when we replied, choosing each word, weighing it up, assessing its light, feeling its fragrance, because we knew that every word would later be weighed up, studied, smelled, tasted, and that some might even escape the maelstrom of time, to be re-read many years later. I cant stand the rude informality of emails. I always feel horror, physical horror, metaphysical and moral horror, when I see that Hi! - how can we possibly take seriously anyone who addresses us like that? Those European travellers who spent the nineteenth century travelling across the backwoods of Africa always used to refer jokingly to the elaborate greetings exchanged by the native guides when - during the course of a long journey - they happened to cross paths with a friend or relative in some favourably shady spot. The white man would wait impatiently, until after several long minutes of laughter, interjections and clapping had passed, he finally interrupted the guide:
So what did the men say? Have they seen Livingstone or not?
Oh, no, they havent said anything about that, boss, the guide explained. They were just saying hello.
I expect just that time-span from a letter. Let us pretend that this is a letter, and that the postman has just handed it to you. Perhaps it would smell of the fear that nowadays people sweat and breathe in this vast, rotting apple. The sky here is dark, and low. I keep making wishes that clouds like these might float over to Luanda, a perpetual mist which would suit your sensitive skin; and wishes too that your business carries on, full steam ahead. Im sure it must do, as we all so need a good past, especially those people who misgovern us in our sad country, as they govern it.
I always think of the lovely Ângela Lúcia (I do think she is beautiful) as I beat my way rather disheartened through the anxious chaos of these streets. Perhaps shes right, perhaps the important thing is to bear witness not to the darkness (as Ive always done) but to the light.
José Eduardo Agualusa (Huambo, 13 december 1960)
De Amerikaanse dichter Kenneth Patchen werd geboren op 13 december 1911. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 december 2006 en ook mijn blog van 13 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 12 december 2009.
Fall of the Evening Star
Speak softly; sun going down
Out of sight. Come near me now.
Dear dying fall of wings as birds
complain against the gathering dark...
Exaggerate the green blood in grass;
the music of leaves scraping space;
Multiply the stillness by one sound;
by one syllable of your name...
And all that is little is soon giant,
all that is rare grows in common beauty
To rest with my mouth on your mouth
as somewhere a star falls
And the earth takes it softly, in natural love...
Exactly as we take each other...
and go to sleep...
Be Music, Night
Be music, night,
That her sleep may go
Where angels have their pale tall choirs
Be a hand, sea,
That her dreams may watch
Thy guidesman touching the green flesh of the world
Be a voice, sky,
That her beauties may be counted
And the stars will tilt their quiet faces
Into the mirror of her loveliness
Be a road, earth,
That her walking may take thee
Where the towns of heaven lift their breathing spires
O be a world and a throne, God,
That her living may find its weather
And the souls of ancient bells in a child's book
Shall lead her into Thy wondrous house
Kenneth Patchen (13 december 1911 8 januari 1972)
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Robert Gernhardt werd op 13 december 1937 in het Estische Reval (het huidige Tallinn) geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 december 2006 en ook mijn blog van 13 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 12 december 2009.
Ein Erlebnis Kants
Eines Tags geschah es Kant,
daß er keine Worte fand.
Stundenlang hielt er den Mund,
und er schwieg, nicht ohne Grund.
Im fiel absolut nichts ein,
drum ließ er das Reden sein.
Erst als man zum Essen rief,
wurd' er wieder kreativ,
und er fand die schönen Worte:
"Gibt es hinterher noch Torte?"
Wenn die weißen Riesenhasen
Wenn die weißen Riesenhasen
abends übern Rasen rasen
und die goldnen Flügelkröten
still in ihren Beeten beten,
wenn die schwarzen Buddelraben
tief in ihrem Graben graben
und die feisten Felsenquallen
kichernd in die Fallen fallen -:
dann schreibt man, wie jedes Jahr,
den hundertzwölften Januar.
Was? Ihr kennt ihn nicht, den Tag?
Schaut mal im Kalender nach!
Robert Gernhardt (13 december 1937 30 juni 2006)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 13e december ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.
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