Berichten van 16 september 2011

De Zuid-Afrikaanse schrijver en dichter Breyten Breytenbach werd geboren op 16 september 1936 in Bonnievale. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Breyten Breytenbach op dit blog.

 

 

Voor Juan Carvajal

 

het vlees van hoeren is treurig
ik heb ze zien staan
met de donkere kreet tussen de dijen
langs de boulevard die de zee
omzoomde en afstootte
onder een hemel vol sterren
als dode vissen

 

het vlees van hoeren is triest
ik heb ze naakt zien liggen
in de woorden en de handen
van dichters en schilders
die de dood in leven
probeerden te houden
dingen zijn de verdonkeremaande
betekenis van dingen

 

ik heb in de tuin gezeten
en de schelle kreet van de papegaai
in de palmboom gehoord
en het hartzeer van het leven
groeide in mij aan
als een donkere vrucht
als een hoerenhart

 

Blind op reis

 

ek het in die skadu van Witberg oornag
maar om die berg se hoë slape
oor die silwer slaaprnus van ewige sneeu
kon ek die kranse lig sien beef
so groot so onaantasbaar so wit
so hoog kom my begrip nooit na bo
en deur my vingers het ek die bidkrale
van sterre probeer tel
om jou naam weer te proe
om jou bitter naam soos ligte druppels
reën op my tong te vang om jou naam
soos' n afgod in my droom se grond te plant
‘n god om my verdere reis te seën
want met die roep van jou naam
met die bloed van jou naam in my mond
kruip ek al hoe yler al hoe witter skuinstes uit

 

 

 

Vertaald door: Krijn PeterHesselink

 

 

 

Das Treffen

 

wenn mein Herz zu mir kommt

durch die Nacht

duften die Gassen wo Pferdekarren

klappernd schwarze Abfallsäcke

sammeln

nach den verlorenen Blüten

des Frangipani-Baums

 

wenn mein Herz zu mir kommt

durch die Nacht

stelle ich einen Tisch ans Fenster

mit Brot und Wein und süßen

dunklen Trauben

 

und schreibe dieses kleine Gedicht

wie ein ausgereifter Papiermond

aus Warten

ein Echo jenes anderen aus weißem Stein   

der dort draußen

durch die Nacht reist

wo dunkle Männer ihre Pferde antreiben

 

wenn mein Herz zu mir kommt

durch die Nacht

wenn das Warten

voller Worte ist

essen wir die Feigen, trinken den Wein

und schlafen mit dem Mond

 

Vertaald door Uljana Wolf

 

 

 

 

Breyten Breytenbach (Bonnievale, 16 september 1936)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver James Alan McPherson werd geboren op 16 september 1943 in Savannah, Georgia. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 16 september 2010

 

Uit: Hue and Cry. Stories

 

"Don' you ever get married, boy," Arthur, one of the meaner drunks with a missing eye, told him on several occasions.

The first time he had said it the boy had asked: "Why not?"

"Cause a bitch ain't shit, man. You mind you don' get married now, hear? A bitch'll take all yo' money and then throw you out in the street!"

"Damn straight!" Leroy, another drunk much darker than Arthur and a longshoreman, said. "That's all they fit for, takin' a man's money and runnin' around."

Thomas would sit on the stoop of an old deserted house with the men lying on the ground below him, too lazy to brush away the flies that came at them from the urine-soaked dirt on the hot Sunday mornings, and he would look and listen and consider. And after a few weeks of this he found himself very afraid of girls.

Things about life had always come to Thomas Brown by listening and being quiet. He remembered how he had learned about being black, and about how some other people were not. And the difference it made. He felt at home sitting with the waiting drunks because they were black and he knew that they liked him because for months before he had stopped going to church, he had spoken to them while passing, and they had returned his greeting. His mother had always taught him to speak to people in the streets because Southern blacks do not know how to live without neighbors who exchange greetings. He had noted, however, when he was nine, that certain people did not return his greetings. At first he had thought that their silence was due to his own low voice: he had gone to a Catholic school for three years where the black-caped nuns put an academic premium on silence. He had learned that in complete silence lay his safety from being slapped or hit on the flat of the hand with a wooden ruler. And he had been a model student. But even when he raised his voice, intentionally, to certain people in the street they still did not respond. Then he had noticed that while they had different faces like the nuns, whom he never thought of as real people, these nonspeakers were completely different in dress and color from the people he knew. But still, he wondered why they would not speak.“

 

 

James Alan McPherson (Savannah, 16 september 1943)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Michael Nava werd geboren op 16 september 1954 in Stockton, Calefornië. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 16 september 2010

 

Uit: Rag And Bone

 

"Tom Donovan for the respondent, the People," the A.G. was saying.

"Mr. Rios, if you're ready," Dahlgren said.

"Yes," I replied, and went to the podium. The justices regarded me dubiously. "Not to be impertinent, but I can see from Your Honors' faces that you're less than thrilled with another Three Strikes case on your docket."

Harkness permitted herself a smile, but Dahlgren said, "It's fair to say, counsel, that you're not the first lawyer to argue that Three Strikes is cruel and unusual punishment, so maybe we can cut this short. Every appellate court that's considered the issue has held that sending repeat felons to prison for life upon conviction of their third felony does not violate either state or federal constitutional proscriptions against cruel and unusual punishment. What's your pitch?"

"My pitch, Your Honor," I said "is that this law is an abomination. In this case, it's sending my client to prison for the rest of his life because he got into a tussle with a security guard in the parking lot of a supermarket from which he had stolen a case of infant formula for his eight-month-old daughter."

Justice Harkness leaned forward. "He was convicted of robbery," she said. "The law doesn't distinguish between stealing diamonds and stealing baby food, Mr. Rios, where the theft is accomplished by force or fear."

"He committed robbery only in the narrowest sense of the statute because he bumped the security guard with a shopping cart. Technically, that's force, but come on, this is L.A., where people shoot each other for parking spaces."

Justice Harkness shook her head. "The security guard was a woman who was five inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than your client."

"Your Honor, with all due respect, she was asked on cross-examination if she was afraid, and she said no. There was no fear and the force was minimal. The Three Strikes law doesn't distinguish between stealing diamonds and stealing baby food, which is why this court must."

The third justice, Rogan, said, "I agree."

"You do?" The surprise was so evident in my voice that the lawyers in the gallery burst into laughter. But it wasn't surprise they had heard; it was the shooting pains in my arm and the waves of nausea that continued to sweep through me.

"I do," Rogan said when the laughter subsided. "But Mr. Rios, Three Strikes doesn't just punish the current felony, it also punishes defendants for past serious felony convictions. Your client has a record as long as Pinocchio's nose."

"But only two convictions are qualifying strikes," I said, "and those were insignificant burglaries..."

"Insignificant by what standard?" Harkness asked.“

 

 

 

Michael Nava (Stockton, 16 september 1954)

 

 

 

 

De Frans-Zwitserse kunstenaar, dichter en schrijver Hans (Jean) Arp werd geboren op 16 september 1886 in Straatsburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 september 2006. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 16 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 16 september 2010

 

 

Die große Firgelei

 

wo ist die firgelzentrale

hat ihnen firgel versichert

dass ich eine wolke werden darf

also

warum bin ich noch keine wolke

 

firgel hat mir wörtlich

folgendes gesagt:

do gdpst pst pst runglidodi

glbsti i i glbsti

sp nebst trullal

laladamad

finf damad

ding bif

 

erlauben sie mir

sie zu unterbrechen

ich spreche leider nicht firgel

 

die schöne firgelsprache

ist das verweilen das träumen

das sinnen und überspinnen

sind himmlische traumblumenlieder

also unsichtbare wolken

 

von firgel gefirgelt

innig gefirgelt

das wäre zu freundlich

wenn sie mir so ein lied

übersetzen würden

 

also kühner neuling

und erquickungsbedürftiger:

knebs zabala

dri di dri mn dri

sp sp tatagu

lautet in unserer staubsprache:

fort fort sind sie

die überzermalmer

es lebe die wolke

und ganz besonders

die wolke der engel

der göttlichen blume

 

 

Hans Arp (16 september 1886 - 7 juni 1966)



Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 16e september ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Amerikaanse schrijver Justin Haythe werd geboren op 16 september 1973 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 16 september 2010

 

Uit: The Honeymoon

 

„After lunch we waited at the table for him to finish packing. We could hear him banging closets and drawers until he reappeared wearing a hat. We followed him into the hallway and waited for the elevator. He stood amongst his luggage; my mother and I amongst ours. 'Be careful of the Arab children in the park,' he told me. He turned to Maureen. 'Petits voleurs,' he explained. She smiled although she did not understand. She would look it up as soon as he had gone. He picked up his cases and stepped into the elevator. She blew him a kiss. 'Bon voyage!' she called.

When he was gone, the reflection of Maureen and me looked back from the mirrored elevator doors. I wore a white canvas hat and a pair of favourite copper corduroys. Maureen had yet to remove her pink silk jacket.

'Don't listen to him,' she said. 'He's trying to impress you.

Only men need to impress children. You don't need to be any more careful with one person than another.'

She began her inspection of the apartment the way she entered a gallery: as if she had money to spend. She passed from room to room with increasing excitement. When she found one more impressive than another, she called out for me to come and have a look. There was a pink study with a fireplace and a pair of French doors looking out onto the street; a small toilet off the hallway containing a gold-painted sink; and the kitchen with three Thai-wicker umbrellas bound to form a single lampshade. She could not stand still and almost as soon as I entered a room, she left it. She was like a child receiving a gift long obsessed over - slightly panicked by a world in which dreams are realized.

Marcel had inherited his money. The apartment was large for a bachelor living alone, with both a guest room and maid's quarters. It was substantially larger than our place in New York, and had a view of the park across the street and, in the evenings, of the patches of setting sun reflected from the windows onto the tops of the trees. Marcel directed documentary films, usually about the Amazon. Several years later, Maureen took me to see one when it was playing in New York.“

 

 

Justin Haythe (Londen, 16 september 1973)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver Andreas Neumeister werd geboren op 16 september 1959 in Starnberg. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 16 september 2010

 

Uit: Poetry! Slam!

 

 

Sonntag

 

Kleine Vögel prallen gegen Panoramascheiben

Hausfrauen wischen lächelnd das Blut

In Lungen fettet Bratendunst

Es ist zu spät für Lotto, Toto, Selbstverstümmelung.

Du sagst: Lieber tot und tot als lebendig und tot

Und ich sage:

Keines Menschen Schmerz ist größer als der

Comer See.

Wir könnten ins Aquarium

Die Lurche heißen Blauer Pfeilgiftfrosch und

Niedlicher Grauer Schleimbolzen und nebenan

Der Komodowaran

Bewegt sich nur, wenn Du nicht hinschaust.

Du sagst: Lieber tot und tot als lebendig und tot

Und ich sage:

Keines Menschen Schmerz ist größer als der

Comer See.

 

 

 

Andreas Neumeister (Starnberg, 16 september 1959)

 

 

 

De Nederlandse schrijfster Anna Bosboom - Toussaint werd geboren op 16 september 1912 te Alkmaar. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 september 2006. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 16 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 16 september 2010

 

Uit: Het huis Lauernesse

 

„In 1521 zag een jongeling ook de zon opgaan: wij weten niet, of hij aan dit alles dacht; maar zeker moest het iets dergelijks zijn, wat hem met eene zachte geestdrift bezielde. Hij lag geknield op eene kleine verhevenheid van den grond, niet eens nog heuvel, die een ruim vergezigt gaf over den heerlijken omtrek. Er lag op het gelaat van dien jongeling eene roerende uitdrukking van bewondering en aanbidding: het is zoo, op zijne liefelijke trekken, bevallig en zacht, tot vrouwelijke weekheid toe, had een waas van dweepzucht haar onmiskenbaar zegel gedrukt; dan het was niet die sombere dweepzucht, welke altijd neêrziet in eenen duisteren afgrond, maar een mijmerend heenstaren naar eenen vriendelijken hemel. Het was de dweepzucht, die den dichter vormt; de dweepzucht, die verheft boven het lijden, die somtijds schade doet aan het ligchaam, maar die de ziel altijd reinigt van het booze. Er schitterden tranen in zijn zachtblaauw oog, terwijl hij heenstaarde naar de zonneschijf, wier glans te dwaas met aardsch metaal vergeleken wordt. Bleek was zijne gezigtstint, en toch kleurde eene zachte verrukking die wangen met een flaauw blosje. Op het voorhoofd gescheiden, hing zijn sterk blond haar in fijne dunne lokken langs den hals neder tot op de schouders. De kleine mond met den blijmoedigen glimlach, het hooge zachtgeronde voorhoofd met den fijnen griekschen neus, was in de schoonste zamenstemming met de zuivere omtrekken van dat gelaat, dat geheel de uitdrukking had, die een schilder zoude geven aan dat van den Apostel Johannes, den lieftalligsten der discipelen, dien de Heer zelfs te zachts vond, om hem ten marteldood voor te bestemmen. Hij hield de handen zamengevouwen; hij bad. Zijn gebed was een diep en ernstig gebed; een gebed, dat werkelijk gemeenschap geeft met den Hemel; een gebed, waarbij de gedachte de hulp der klanken niet noodig heeft, en waarbij het stamelen van duizelenden eerbied de hoogste welsprekendheid is. Eindelijk hief hij zich op. Toen had men eene ranke gestalte kunnen zien, bijna die van den knaap, wiens ligchaamsbouw zich nog niet ten volle heeft ontwikkeld.“

 

 

 

Anna Bosboom – Toussaint (16 september 1812 – 13 april 1886)

Beeld van Auguste Falise in Alkmaar

 

 

 

 

De Finse schrijver en Nobelprijswinnaar Frans Eemil Sillanpää werd geboren in Hämeenkyrö op 16 september 1888. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 september 2006 en ook mijn blog van 16 september 2010

 

Uit: Meek heritage (Vertaald door Alex Watson)

 

" Shall I take my rifle? " asked Juha.

" Of course/⁵ answered Rinne with a curiously loud laugh.

Juha Toivola is leaving Rinne's house for the last time, though he does not know it yet. The
span of sixty years that began on a night round about Michaelmas so far back in the past that it
is hard to imagine any living link between that night and these warlike times, is drawing to a close. In that past, splint-torches flickered and old Penjami Nikkila in his burlap smock spent his
days drunk with home-made spirits, beat his third wife and ruled over his household, and between Heaven and earth reigned a deep country peace. The boy born in those times—
all the other members of the household have gone to their eternal rest—has become the
Socialist who walks yonder along the road. His brains are of the simplest, the horizon of his mind
the narrowest conceivable, and yet he has survived through the sixty years which we know to have been the most eventful, the richest in development, in the history of his people.

As he stalks there along the dark wintry road, with his beard, his staring eyes and his rifle, one can almost see perched on his lean shoulders the puckish spirit of human progress; tongue in cheek, jerking and hopping, it urges old Juha Toivola onward. And seen in this fashion Juha
is by no means a repulsive individual, rather does  he arouse in the beholder a half-humorous
sympathy. For how often has not the same imp grinned gleefully from the shoulders of many who tread their path with broad brows furrowed with deep lines of wisdom?

A sense of lonely helplessness was uppermost in Juha's mind as he strode on towards Paitula.
Important events are brewing on this eve of St. Mary's Day, though Juha has no clear inkling
of the direction they are to take. All he suspects is that he has been sent on an errand no one else
would be bothered with, and he feels that he is being badly rewarded for all his wood-carrying and helpfulness.“

 

 

 

Frans Eemil Sillanpää (16 september 1888 – 3 juni 1964)