Berichten van 21 september 2014 tot 22 september 2014

De Britse dichter en schrijver Dannie Abse werd geboren op 22 september 1923 in Cardiff, Wales. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Dannie Abse op dit blog.

 

Moonbright

Afterwards, late, walking home from hospital,
that December hour too blatantly moonbright
‐ such an unworldly moon so widely round,
an orifice of scintillating arctic light –
I thought how the effrontery of a similar moon,
a Pirandello moon that could make men howl,
would, in future, bring back the eidolon
of you, father, propped high on pillow,
your mouth ajar, your nerveless hand in mine.

At home, feeling hollow, I shamelessly wept
‐ whether for you or myself I do not know.
Tonight a bracing wind makes my eyes cry
while a cloud dociles an impudent moon
that is and was, and is again, and was.

Men become mortal the night their fathers die.

 

Case History

'Most Welshmen are worthless,
an inferior breed, doctor.'
He did not know I was Welsh.
Then he praised the architects
of the German death-camps--
did not know I was a Jew.
He called liberals, 'White blacks',
and continued to invent curses.

When I palpated his liver
I felt the soft liver of Goering;
when I lifted my stethoscope
I heard the heartbeats of Himmler;
when I read his encephalograph
I thought, 'Sieg heil, mein Fuhrer.'

In the clinic's dispensary
red berry of black bryony,
cowbane, deadly nightshade, deathcap.
Yet I prescribed for him
as if he were my brother.

Later that night I must have slept
on my arm: momentarily
my right hand lost its cunning.

 

 
Dannie Abse (Cardiff, 22 september 1923)
Portret door zijn zoon David Abse

 

 

De Nederlandse schrijver Lodewijk van Deyssel werd geboren op 22 september 1864 in Amsterdam. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Lodewijk van Deyssel op dit blog.

Uit: In de Zwemschool

“Het joggie had, met den gewonen, rappen, kwijllozen, hágeligen speekselworp, in zijn gore binnenhanden gespoegd, en de spanen, die recht-uit in 't bootje tegen de opstaande randen lagen, aan-gevat, ze aan de bruin-verroeste ringetjes om de korte spilletjes doen draayen, zoo dat zij als griezelig lange magere armen zich uit strekten aan weêrskante van 't oude bootjeslijf, en terwijl zijn lijfje aan de naar-voren geduwde handvatsels der spanen recht naar voren boog, het grijze boezeroen strak trekkend over het rugje, met plotse gleuven tusschen het nekvel en het boezeroen en aan het rugonder tusschen het boezeroen en den broekrand, plompten van-achteren, ver van hem van-daan, de breedere spaan-einden in 't er om heen opsoppende water, en nu, óp-staand, vast aan de handvatsels, om meer kracht te kunnen zetten, trok hij met het heele langzaam weêr neêr-zijgende lijf de stokken, die draaiden om den spil, met zich meê naar achteren, waardoor de onzichtbare spanen voor-waarts schoven met geweld, tegen het water in duwend, en de boot snel een ferm eindje verder gleed, nog al-door toen de spanen druipend uit het water stegen en het joggie, door de handvatsels voor-waarts te duwen met borst en stijve armen de glimmend-natte einden weêr naar achteren bewoog, wendend zijn hooffie links en rechts, kijkend uit de oogen, licht als geblauwd linnen, of er niet opgepast moest worden voor grootere schuiten of schepen. Zijn pet met rechte klep stond schuin naar het groezelig linker oor en ver uit-de-oogen geschoven, het vale voorhoofdje hoog open latend, en zoo dat aanzien van brutale luchthartigheid aan zijn bedeesde gewoonheid gevend. Maar er waren geen vaartuigen dicht bij, een kleine stoomboot was juist voor-bij gegaan, de rivier tot lange gladde bronzen plooyen achter zich pijpend, waardoor de vlet even hooger werd getild en zachtjes op-en-neêr voort deinde. Geen-zijds de zwemschool snel-gleed een versch-bruine giek voor-bij, waarin mannetjes zaten met rood- en wit-gestreepte kalotjes op en rood- en wit gestreepte borstrokken aan, twee aan twee in vier rijen, die met mekanieke zekerheid van vlug bewegen de acht lijven voor-over strekten, ieder met een frisch-bruine roeispaan in de handen, en dan weêr recht-op zaten, terwijl de ranke schuit voort-ijlde, smal in haar rechte varensrichting, en de roeispanen geruischloos kalm en vlug uit het water werden opgewipt, gekeerd tot even-roerloze-plat-ligging en dan weer neêrnegen glad en slank zonder sproei-morsen in het water, tot nauwlijks onder het vlak, om mooi te roeyen. Daar achter stond de andere oever stil en leeg uit met zijn platte weg en zijn onaanzienlijke boomen, gewoon groen zoo als elke lente; tusschen de stammen smal naar boven uit-eindende stukken weiland, lícht groen, en daar boven luchtjes, wit-grijs, tegen de samene boomgebladerten aan.”

 

 
Lodewijk van Deyssel (22 september 1864 - 26 januari 1952)
In 1922 

 

 

De Britse schrijfster Fay Weldon werd geboren op 22 september 1931 in Alvechurch, Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Fay Weldon op dit blog

Uit: Run Daddy And Ask If He Has Any More Money

“David was helping Milly out in the shop over the pre-Easter rush. And why should he not? The Poly (sorry, University) was closed for the holidays (sorry, vacation) and in Milly's words, David had "nothing better to do." His wage remained that of a lecturer no matter that he was called a professor. You can re-name everything you like, but harsh facts don't alter just because you've done so. In other words, money was tight and if Milly could do without extra staff so much the better. Nevertheless, David felt that helping out was a humiliation, and blamed Milly for it. In Milly's view a man was only working if you could see him working, and who can see a man thinking?
The voice he recognised was that of Bettina Shepherd; the voice had a most attractive actressy double timbre (that's in italics because it's French, not because it has significance for this story) and it was familiar because there'd been a time when it had spoken many words of true love, murmured many a sinful suggestion into his ear. But all that had been some seven years back, a long time ago: longer, surely, than was needed to make that man now feel responsible for the man then. Do we not all grow an entirely new skin every seven years? Should a man not be allowed to start anew; as with a driving licence, should the passage of time not wipe out past misdeeds?
Daddy was the man Bettina referred to: he was at the back of the shop where the inexpensive trinkets were. Bettina was looking peculiarly attractive in a cashmere dress, in seasonal yellow, belted by a linked chain which for all anyone could tell was made of pure gold; the whole setting off her bosomy figure, little waist and black hair to advantage. Daddy was gray-suited, good-looking, gentlemanly and wore a solid gold tie-pin. David thought he looked extremely boring and rather stupid, but David would, wouldn't he?”

 

 
Fay Weldon (Alvechurch, 22 september 1931)

 

 

De Hongaarse dichter en schrijver György Faludy werd geboren op 22 september 1910 in Boedapest. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor György Faludy op dit blog.

 

The United States

Collecting trash is our life.
The cities are falling apart.
The more electricity we burn,
the more noticeable the dark.

“Quantitative changes lead
to qualitative transformations.”

The more cars are made,
and the more cars are sold,
the trashier they become.
(Ditto the customers, the makers,
and the mechanics, young and old.)

 

Vertaald door Paul Sohar

 

 

Future Days

History cannot be predicted.
The girls of today are lovelier, brighter,
the boys more sporty and more cheerful
and far less erudite.

Some seven nations fabricate A-bombs,
like machine-guns or cannon of old.
If you worry, they will reassure you: we
produce them not to use them, you’re told.

There are a lot more than a billion
Chinese. We are not interested
in them. They work and keep their silence.
What if they make a request?

The mighty sheets of Arctic ice
melt beneath the polar bears.
Will the rising oceans spare us
behind our seawalls built of prayers?

Our great green plain becomes a dust cloud,
a dirt-grey, dry, deserted dump.
Only the Voice of God could help, but
the Lord never blows the trumpet

 

Vertaald door Thomas Land

 

 

 
György Faludy (22 september 1910 – 1 september 2006)

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Hans Leip werd geboren op 22 september 1893 in Hamburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Hans Leip op dit blog.

 

Seemusik

Der Möve Silberschrei,
der Tümmler Schelmerei,
der Woge Rauschgefieder,
der Brise Segellieder.

Es musiziert die See,
wenn ich am Schanzbord steh;
die vielen Melodien,
sie kommen und sie fliehen.

O, aller Klänge Zier,
die Finger zucken mir,
als wenn sie mächtig faßten
der Sphären blanke Tasten.

 

 
Hans Leip (22 september 1893 – 6 juni 1983)

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijves van de 22e september ook mijn blog van 22 september 2013 deel 2.

De Australische singer / songwriter, dichter, schrijver en acteur Nicholas Edward Cave werd geboren in Warracknabeal op 22 september 1957. Nick ontmoette Mick Harvey en Phil Calvert op de middelbare school in Caulfield nabij Melbourne, en zij richtten in 1973 een band op onder de naam The Boys Next Door. De band onderging een naamsverandering naar The Birthday Party toen ze naar Londen verhuisden. In 1983 verhuisde de band naar West-Berlijn, en viel kort daarna uit elkaar. Cave, Harvey, en Bargeld vormden daarna Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds met Barry Adamson. De band bracht een aantal succesvolle albums uit over de laatste 20 jaar. Cave verhuisde naar São Paulo, Brazilië, alwaar hij in 1987 trouwde met Viviane Carneiro. Hij heeft een zoon uit dit huwelijk, Luke (1991). Begin 1993 verhuisde hij terug naar Londen. Muziek geschreven door Nick Cave wordt gebruikt in een aantal van de films gemaakt door Wim Wenders. Hij is ook de mede-auteur van de onafhankelijk geproduceerde film “Ghost of the Civil Dead” uit 1989. In hetzelfde jaar bracht hij een boek uit met de titel “And the Ass Saw the Angel”, dat warm werd ontvangen door critici. In 2009 volgde zijn tweede roman “The Death of Bunny Munro”. Nick Cave schreef ook het script voor de film “The Proposition” van John Hillcoat (2005). De muziek voor deze film schreef hij samen met Warren Ellis. In 2007 verscheen het eerste album van zijn nieuwe project, “Grinderman”. Deze groep bestaat buiten Nick Cave zelf uit enkele leden van the Bad Seeds. In maart 2008 verscheen een nieuw album met de Bad Seeds: “Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!”. Op 10 december 2011 maakte de groep bekend per direct uit elkaar te gaan. In november 2010 verscheen het lied “O Children” in de film Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows part 1.

Uit: The Death of Bunny Munro

"I am damned,' thinks Bunny Munro in a sudden moment of self-awareness reserved for those who are soon to die. He feels that somewhere down the line he has made a grave mistake, but this realisation passes in a dreadful heartbeat, and is gone - leaving him in a room at the Grenville Hotel, in his underwear, with nothing but himself and his appetites. He closes his eyes and pictures a random vagina, then sits on the edge of the hotel bed and, in slow motion, leans back against the quilted headboard. He clamps the mobile phone under his chin and with his teeth breaks the seal on a miniature bottle of brandy. He empties the bottle down his throat, lobs it across the room, then shudders and gags and says into the phone, 'Don't worry, love, everything's going to be all right.'
'I'm scared, Bunny,' says his wife, Libby.
'What are you scared of? You got nothing to be scared of.'
'Everything, I'm scared of everything,' she says.
But Bunny realises that something has changed in his wife's voice, the soft cellos have gone and a high rasping violin has been added, played by an escaped ape or something. He registers it but has yet to understand exactly what this means.
'Don't talk like that. You know that gets you nowhere,' says Bunny, and like an act of love he sucks deep on a Lambert & Butler. It is in that instance that it hits him - the baboon on the violin, the inconsolable downward spiral of her drift - and he says, 'Fuck!' and blows two furious tusks of smoke from his nostrils.
'Are you off your Tegretol? Libby, tell me you've been taking your Tegretol!'
There is silence on the other end of the line then a broken, faraway sob.
'Your father called again. I don't know what to say to him. I don't know what he wants. He shouts at me. He raves,' she says.
'For Christ's sake, Libby, you know what the doctor said. If you don't take your Tegretol, you get depressed. As you well know, it's dangerous for you to get depressed. How many fucking times do we have to go through this?"

 

 
Nick Cave (Warracknabeal , 22 september 1957)

80 Jaar Leonard Cohen

De Canadese dichter, folk singer-songwriter en schrijver Leonard Cohen werd geboren op 21 september 1934 te Montréal. Leonard Cohen viert vandaag zijn 80^e verjaardag. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Leonard Cohen op dit blog..

 

Suzanne

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river.
You can hear the boats go by,
You can spend the night beside her.
And you know she's half crazy,
But that's why you want to be there.
And she feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China.
And just when you mean to tell her that you have no love to give her,
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover.

And you want to travel with her,
And you want to travel blind,
And you know she will trust you,
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.

And Jesus was a sailor, when he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching from his lonely wooden tower.
And when he knew for certain, only drowning men could see him,
He said: "All men will be sailors then, until the sea shall free them."
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open,
Foresaken, almost human,
He sank beneath your wisdom, like a stone

And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand and she leads you to the river.
She's wearing rags and feathers from Salvation Army counters.
And the sun pours down like honey on our Lady of the Harbor.
And she shows you where to look, among the garbage and the flowers.
There are heros in the seaweed,
There are children in the morning,
They are leaning out for love,
They will lean that way forever,
While Suzanne holds the mirror.

And you want to travel with her,
And you want to travel blind,
And you know you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.

 

 

I wonder how many people in this

I wonder how many people in this city
live in furnished rooms.
Late at night when i look out at the buildings
I swear I see a face in every window
looking back at me
and when I turn away
I wonder how many go back to their desks
and write this down.

 

 

I’m your man

 

 

 

 
Leonard Cohen (Montréal, 21 september 1934)

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Stephen Edwin King werd geboren in Portland, Maine, op 21 september 1947. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Stephen King op dit blog.

Uit: Carrie

“The locker room was filled with shouts, echoes, and the subterranean sound of showers splashing on tile. The girls had been playing volleyball in Period One, and their morning sweat was light and eager.
Girls stretched and writhed under the hot water, squalling, flicking water, squirting white bars of soap from hand to hand. Carrie stood among them stolidly, a frog among swans. She was a
chunky girl with pimples on her neck and back and buttocks, her wet hair completely without
color. It rested against her face with dispirited sogginess and she simply stood, head slightly
bent, letting the water splat against her fl esh and roll off. She looked the part of the sacrificial
goat, the constant butt, believer in left-handed monkey wrenches, perpetual foul-up, and she was.
She wished forlornly and constantly that Ewen High had individual—and thus private—
showers, like the high schools at Westover or Lewiston. They stared. They always stared.
Showers turning off one by one, girls stepping out, removing pastel bathing caps, toweling,
spraying deodorant, checking the clock over the door. Bras were hooked, underpants stepped
into. Steam hung in the air; the place might have been an Egyptian bathhouse except for the
constant rumble of the Jacuzzi whirlpool in the corner. Calls and catcalls rebounded with all the snap and flicker of billiard balls after a hard break.
“—so Tommy said he hated it on me and I—”
“—I’m going with my sister and her husband. He picks his nose but so does she, so they’re
very—”
“—shower after school and—”
“—too cheap to spend a goddam penny so Cindi and I—”
Miss Desjardin, their slim, nonbreasted gym teacher, stepped in, craned her neck around briefly, and slapped her hands together once, smartly. “What are you waiting for, Carrie? Doom? Bell in five minutes.” Her shorts were blinding white, her legs not too curved but striking in their unobtrusive muscularity. A silver whistle, won in college archery competition, hung around her neck.“

 

 
Stephen King (Portland, 21 september 1947)

 

 

De Franse schrijver Frédéric Beigbeder werd geboren op 21 september 1965 in Neuilly-sur-Seine. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Frédéric Beigbeder op dit blog.

Uit: L'Egoiste Romantique

« C'est impossible ce que tu me demandes. Je n'arriverai jamais à ne plus t'aimer.
La pire des drogues reste l'amour. Tu m'as rendu à la vie, redonné gout aux émotions. Partout où j'allais, je ne voyais que ta bouche fraîche et mes yeux s'embuaient en ton absence. Un reste d’innocence me donnait le rouge aux joues. A partir de maintenant et jusqu'à ma mort, chaque fois que quelqu'un prononcera ton prénom devant moi, il est possible que mon regard se perde un petit peu dans le vague. Les autres diront : "il a trop bu, il a des absences", mais moi, je m'en moquerai, je serai déjà loin, contre toi, à Los Angeles entre tes bras dorés,ou à Porto Ercole perdu dans tes longs cheveux salés, à Istanbul et Moscou et Amsterdam contre tes seins crémeux, dans le paradis de l'amour réciproque, ce rêve impossible auquel tu m'as un jour, de nouveau, donné l’accès. »
(…)

« On dit souvent que la beauté est aux femmes ce que le pouvoir est aux hommes : leur premier atout de séduction. On ne dit pas qu’un joli visage est aussi une barrière. La beauté attire les crétins vulgaires et laids, et effraie les timides intelligents et tendres. Elle effectue un mauvais tri ; c’est pourquoi les jolis filles sont toujours avec des connards. La beauté physique devrait plutôt être comparée à la célébrité qu’au pouvoir : éphémère comme elle, tout aussi factice et destructrice, elle est le pire critère d’une rencontre.»

 

 
Frédéric Beigbeder (Neuilly-sur-Seine, 21 september 1965)

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 21^e september ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Vlaamse dichter Xavier Roelens werd op 21 september 1976 in Rekkem (Menen). Zie ook alle tags voor Xavier Roelens op dit blog.

 

Huishouden

we spreken de stoel af, het venster,
daarbuiten de put. hier het laken
en daaronder het naakte slopende meisje

midden de muur hangt gekaderd
het toeziend oog; camera's doen hun werk

en zonder hieraan afbreuk: een stoel wordt
geen stol, houdt huis. zo ook het raamkozijn,
het tekort van de put. het haar dat haar bewaakt

de slaap sloopt niet meer droomt onafgesproken.
het venster graaft zich in het uitzicht in - eerlijk is eerlijk.

 

 

Besluit

Zo vaak als nodig is, zeg ik nee.
Zeg ik nee.
Nee.
Het besluit is gevallen,
het valt, het blijft vallen,
en gelijk het valt, zo val ik.

Wij vallen diep, mijn besluit en ik,
maar wij vallen samen.

Wij zoeken het ravijn,
en van klimmen
is voorlopig geen sprake.

Op de bodem van het ravijn
groeien wonderlijke
bloedbloemen.

 

 
Xavier Roelens (Rekkem, 21 september 1976)

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster en actrice Fannie Flagg (eig. Patricia Neal) werd geboren op 21 september in Birmingham (Alabama). Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2010 en evenneens alle tags voor Fannie Flagg op dit blog.

Uit:The All-Girl Filling Station's Last Reunion

“Mrs. Earle Poole, Jr., better known to friends and family as Sookie, was driving home from the Birds-R-Us store out on Highway 98 with one 10-pound bag of sunflower seeds and one 10-pound bag of wild bird seed and not her usual weekly purchase for the past fifteen years of one 20-pound bag of the Pretty Boy Wild Bird Seed & Sunflower Mix. But as she had explained to Mr. Nadleshaft, she was worried that the smaller birds were still not getting enough to eat. Every morning lately, the minute she filled her feeders, the larger more aggressive blue jays would swoop in and scare the little birds all away. She noticed that the blue jays always ate the sunflower seeds first, and so tomorrow, she was going to try putting just plain sunflower seeds in her front yard feeders, and while the blue jays were busy eating them, she would run around the house as fast as she could and put the plain wild bird seed in the feeders in the back yard. That way, her poor finches and titmouses might be able to get a little something, at least. *** As she drove over the Mobile Bay Bridge, she looked out at the big white puffy clouds and saw a long row of pelicans flying low over the water. The bay was sparkling in the bright sun and already dotted with red, white, and blue sailboats headed out for the day. A few people standing alongside the bridge fishing waved as she passed by, and she smiled and waved back. She was almost to the other side when she suddenly began to experience some sort of a vague and unusual sense of wellbeing. And with good reason. Against all odds, she had just survived the last wedding of their three daughters, Dee Dee and the twins, Ce Ce and Le Le. Their only unmarried child now was their 25-year-old son, Carter, who lived in Atlanta. And some other poor (God help her), beleaguered Mother of the Bride would be in charge of planning that happy occasion. All she and Earle would have to do for Carter’s wedding was show up and smile. And today, other than one short stop at the bank and picking up a couple of pork chops for dinner, she didn’t have another single thing she had to do. She was almost giddy with relief. Of course, Sookie absolutely worshipped and adored her girls, but having to plan three large weddings in less than two years had been a grueling, never-ending, twenty-four hours a day job, with all the bridal showers, picking out patterns, shopping, fittings, writing invitations, meeting with caterers, figuring out seating arrangements, ordering flowers, etc.”

 

 
Fannie Flagg (Birmingham, 21 september 1944)

 

 

De Britse schrijver Herbert George Wells werd geboren op 21 september 1866 in Bromley, Kent. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor H. G. Wells op dit blog.

Uit: The Outline Of History (The Decay of Syria under the Sassanids)

'Syria was broken up into a curious quilt-like pattern of principalities and municipal kingdoms; beginning with the almost barbarous states of Commagene and Edessa (Urfa) in the north.  South of these stood Bambyce, with its huge temples and priestly governors.  Towards the coast a dense population in villages and towns clustered around the independent cities of Antioch, Apamea, and Emesa (Homs); while out in the wilderness the great Semitic merchant city of Palmyra was gaining wealth and greatness as the neutral trading-ground between Parthia and Rome.  Between the Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon we find, at the height of its glory, Heliopolis (Baalbek), the battered fragments of which even now command our admiration. . . . Bending in towards Galilee we find the wondrous cities of Gerasa and Philadelphia (Amman) connected by solid roads of masonry and furnished with gigantic aqueducts. . . . Syria is still so rich in ruins and remains of the period that it is not difficult to picture to oneself the nature of its civilization.  The arts of Greece, imported long before, had been developed into magnificence that bordered on vulgarity.  The richness of ornamentation, the lavish expense, the flaunting wealth, all tell that the tastes of the voluptuous and artistic Semites were then as now.  I have stood in the colonnades of Palmyra and I have dined in the Hotel Cecil, and, save that the latter is built of iron, daubed with sham wood, sham stucco, sham gold, sham velvet, and sham stone, the effect is identical.  In Syria there were slaves in sufficient quantity to make real buildings, but the artistic spirit is as debased as anything made by machinery.  Over against the cities the village folk must have dwelt pretty much as they do now, in houses of mud and dry stone wall ; while out in the distant pastures the Bedouin tended their flocks in freedom under the rule of the Nabatean kings of their own race, or performed the office of guardians and agents of the great trading caravans.
'Beyond the herdsmen lay the parching deserts, which acted as the impenetrable barrier and defence of the Parthian Empire behind the Euphrates, where stood the great cities of Ctesiphon, Seleucia, Hatra, Nisibin, Harran, and hundreds more whose very names are forgotten.  These great townships subsisted on the enormous cereal wealth of Mesopotamia, watered as it then was by canals, whose makers' names were even then already lost in the mists of antiquity.“

 

 
H. G. Wells (21 september 1866 - 13 augustus 1946)
Foto uit 1930, ingekleurd door Dana Keller.

 

 

De Duitse dichter Johann Peter Eckermann werd geboren op 21 september 1792 in Winsen (Luhe). Hij was bovenal de medewerker en vriend van Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Johann Peter Eckermann op dit blog.

 

An... Es sandte der April

Es sandte der April uns herbe Schauer,
Kein grünes Blättchen wagte sich hervor;
Schien ja die Sonne, war's von kurzer Dauer,
Gleich hüllend sich in finstrer Wolken Flor.
Da war's am besten im gesell'gen Zimmer,
Am besten dort, wo man Dich, Holde, sah;
In Deiner Anmut Nähe glaubt' ich immer,
Es sei der Lenz mit allen Freuden da.

 

 

Das Dachstübchen

Du wohnst erhaben in des Himmels Nähe,
Und zwar mit mehr als bloßem Schein:
Glaubt' ich doch oft bei dir in solcher Höhe
An reiner Seligkeit ein Gott zu sein! -

 

 

 
Johann Peter Eckermann (21 september 1792 - 3 december 1854)
Museum im Marstall met het Eckermann-Gedenkzimmer in Winsen