Berichten van 27 oktober 2013

De Engelse dichter Dylan Thomas werd geboren op 27 oktober 1914 in Swansea in Wales. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Dylan Thomas op dit blog.

 

 

A Grief Ago

 

A grief ago,
She who was who I hold, the fats and the flower,
Or, water-lammed, from the scythe-sided thorn,
Hell wind and sea,
A stem cementing, wrestled up the tower,
Rose maid and male,
Or, master venus, through the paddler's bowl
Sailed up the sun;

Who is my grief,
A chrysalis unwrinkling on the iron,
Wrenched by my fingerman, the leaden bud
Shot through the leaf,
Was who was folded on the rod the aaron
Road east to plague,
The horn and ball of water on the frog
Housed in the side.

And she who lies,
Like exodus a chapter from the garden,
Brand of the lily's anger on her ring,
Tugged through the days
Her ropes of heritage, the wars of pardon,
On field and sand
The twelve triangles of the cherub wind
Engraving going.

Who then is she,
She holding me? The people's sea drives on her,
Drives out the father from the caesared camp;
The dens of shape
Shape all her whelps with the long voice of water,
That she I have,
The country-handed grave boxed into love,
Rise before dark.

The night is near,
A nitric shape that leaps her, time and acid;
I tell her this: before the suncock cast
Her bone to fire,
Let her inhale her dead, through seed and solid
Draw in their seas,
So cross her hand with their grave gipsy eyes,
And close her fist.

 

 

 

Grief Thief Of Time

 

Grief thief of time crawls off,
The moon-drawn grave, with the seafaring years,
The knave of pain steals off
The sea-halved faith that blew time to his knees,
The old forget the cries,
Lean time on tide and times the wind stood rough,
Call back the castaways
Riding the sea light on a sunken path,
The old forget the grief,
Hack of the cough, the hanging albatross,
Cast back the bone of youth
And salt-eyed stumble bedward where she lies
Who tossed the high tide in a time of stories
And timelessly lies loving with the thief.

Now Jack my fathers let the time-faced crook,
Death flashing from his sleeve,
With swag of bubbles in a seedy sack
Sneak down the stallion grave,
Bull's-eye the outlaw through a eunuch crack
And free the twin-boxed grief,
No silver whistles chase him down the weeks'
Dayed peaks to day to death,
These stolen bubbles have the bites of snakes
And the undead eye-teeth,
No third eye probe into a rainbow's sex
That bridged the human halves,
All shall remain and on the graveward gulf
Shape with my fathers' thieves.

 

 

 

 

Dylan Thomas (27 oktober 1914 – 9 november 1953)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Sylvia Plath werd geboren op 27 oktober 1932 in Jamaica Plain, een buitenwijk van Boston. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Sylvia Plath op dit blog.

 

 

Pheasant

 

You said you would kill it this morning.
Do not kill it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing

Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.

I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.

That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The trail-track, on the snow in our court

The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.

But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill-green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!

It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,

Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.

 

 

 

 

Death & Co.

 

Two, of course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now——
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled¸ like Blake's.
Who exhibits

The birthmarks that are his trademark——
The scald scar of water,
The nude
Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat. His beak

Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple

Frill at the neck
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns.
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.

The other does that
His hair long and plausive
Bastard
Masturbating a glitter
He wants to be loved.

I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.

Somebody's done for.

 

 

 

 

Sylvia Plath (27 oktober 1932 – 11 februari 1963)

 

De Belgische dichter en schrijver Albrecht Rodenbach werd geboren te Roeselare op 27 oktober 1856. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Albrecht Rodenbach op dit blog.

 

 

De laatste storm

 

Buldrend speelt de zee met 't oude vaartuig.

Kalm, manhaftig kampt de grijze zeeman

met den storm. Maar splijtend te allen kante

vreeslijk kraken de oude brooze wanden.

Bleek en bevend staart alom de manschap

naar het krakend wantwerk en den zeeman.

"Sloepen af en vrouwen eerst!" gebiedt hij.

Wiegend wagglen sloepen in den storrem,

angstig ijlt de manschap in de sloepen.

Eenzaam staat op 't vaartuig de oude zeeman.

"Vol!" zucht hij, "vaartwel, matrozen, redt u."

Door den storm verdwijnen zijne sloepen.

Buldrend speelt de zee met 't splijtend vaartuig.

Kalm, manhaftig bidt de grijze zeeman

de armen rond een mast. Zoo lange reisden

schip en zeeman samen door de stormen;

grijs is 't hoofd geworden van den zeeman,

krakend en versleten 't machtig vaartuig...

O de wind, de zee, de laatste storrem!

Schuimend, bruischend, stijgen wilde baren

onder zijne voeten. Krakend, berstend,

in de diepe kolken draait het vaartuig...

Samen duiklen schip en man verzwolgen.

Machtig stormt de zeewe grootsch en eenzaam.

 

 

 

 

Het land van Utopeia

In het land van Utopeia
groent en blauwt ene eeuwige mei,
glanst ene eeuwige lentezonne,
zingt eene eeuwige vogelenrei,
blinken marmeren sloten tussen
myrtenwoud en waterkant,
en het is een zalig land
't land van Utopeia.

In het land van Utopeia
draagt elk herder vurige min
tot het puur etherisch wezen
ener vorstelijke engelin,
wier getrouwe wederminne
zedens tart en edelstand,
en het is een zalig land
't land van Utopeia.

Och het land van Utopeia!
Hoe gewillig het lief ook zij,
trilt haar luchtige volmaaktheid
des verliefde greep voorbij;
edoch hoe platonisch ook, hoe
feller zijne liefde brandt,
en het is een zalig land
't land van Utopeia.

 

 

 

 

Albrecht Rodenbach (27 oktober 1856 – 23 juni 1880)

Standbeeld in Roeselaere

 

 

De Engelse dichter en vertaler Jamie McKendrick werd op 27 oktober 1955 in Liverpool geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Jamie McKendrick op dit blog.

 

Black Gold

Here are the Carthaginian figs—Ciano
grinned as he handed Mussolini
some specimen chunk of shiny
copper ore from the Lezhë mine
in conquered Albania.

And here are the figs of Mesopotamia—
Vice President Cheney
traces on the map the red-marked pipeline
from the fields of Rumaila and Kirkuk
to the Turkish port of Ceyhan.

 

Under the Volcano

Between the Devil's Viaduct and the deep blue sea,
any darkened patch or nook will do,
they gather for the rites of youth
- a soluble nectar that arrives
from nowhere, like a boat in the port.

Incendi dolosi. A bronze light worries
the night sky where the hiliside
consumes itself. Those
wanting compensation tie
a burning brand to a trapped bird’s foot

so where the bird alights in terror
flames spread. No one's
the wiser as when the camorra
firebomb a discotheque or bar.
You sense the sulphur under the earth's crust.

The cortège follows the boy

they found in the Park of Springtime,
his forearm dandling a syringe.
Between the viaduct and the seafront
you crush the brittle flowers underfoot.

 

Jamie McKendrick (Liverpool, 27 oktober 1955)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 27e oktober ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Engelse schrijfster Zadie Smith werd geboren op 27 oktober 1975 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Zadie Smith op dit blog en eveneens mijn blog van 27 oktober 2010

 

Uit: NW

 

“On the way back from the chain supermarket where they shop, though it closed down the local grocer and pays slave wages, with new bags though they should take old bags, leaving with broccoli from Kenya and tomatoes from Chile and unfair coffee and sugary crap and the wrong newspaper.

They are not good people. They do not even have the integrity to be the sort of people who don't worry about being good people. They worry all the time. They are stuck in the middle again. They buy always Pinot Grigio or Chardonnay because these are the only words they know that relate to wine. They are attending a dinner party and for this you need to bring a bottle of wine. This much they have learned. They do not purchase ethical things because they can't afford them Michel claims and Leah says, no, it's because you can't be bothered. Privately she thinks: you want to be rich like them but you can't be bothered with their morals, whereas I am more interested in their morals than their money, and this thought, this opposition, makes her feel good. Marriage as the art of invidious comparison. And shit that's him in the phone box and if she had thought about it for more than a split second she would never have said:

— Shit that's him in the phone box.

— That's him?

— Yes, but — no, I don't know. No. I thought. Doesn't matter. Forget it.

— Leah, you just said it was him. Is it or isn't it?

Very quickly Michel is out of earshot and over there, squaring up for another invidious comparison: his compact, well-proportioned dancer's frame against a tall muscled threat, who turns, and turns out not to be Nathan, who is surely the other boy she saw with Shar, though maybe not.“

 

 

 

Zadie Smith (Londen, 27 oktober 1975)

 

 

 

 

 

De Egyptische schrijfster, gynaecologe, moslimfeministe en politiek activiste Nawal el Saadawi werd geboren in Kafr Tahla op 27 oktober 1931. Zie ook alle tags voor Nawal el Saadawi op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2010

 

Uit: Memoirs from the Women's Prison

 

“Writing: such has been my crime ever since I was a small child. To this day writing remains my crime. Now, although I am out of prison, I continue to live inside a prison of another sort, one without steel bars. For the technology of oppression and might without justice has become more advanced, and the fetters imposed on mind and body have become invisible. The most dangerous shackles are the invisible ones, because they deceive people into believing they are free. This delusion is the new prison that people inhabit today, north and south, east and west...We inhabit the age of the technology of false consciousness, the technology of hiding truths behind amiable humanistic slogans that may change from one era to another...Democracy is not just freedom to criticize the government or head of state, or to hold parliamentary elections. True democracy obtains only when the people - women, men, young people, children - have the ability to change the system of industrial capitalism that has oppressed them since the earliest days of slavery: a system based on class division, patriarchy, and military might, a hierarchical system that subjugates people merely because they are born poor, or female, or dark-skinned.”

 

 

 

Nawal el Saadawi (Kafr Tahla, 27 oktober 1931)

 

 

 

 

De Britse schrijfster Enid Algerine Bagnold werd geboren op 27 oktober 1889 in Rochester, Kent. Zie ook alle tags voor Enid Bagnold op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2010

 

Uit: A Diary Without Dates

 

“Smiff laughed: he has been in hospital nine months, and his theoryis that a Sister may do anything at any moment; his theory is thatnothing does any good - that if you don't fuss you don't get worse. Corrigan was angry all day; the idea that 'a bloomin' woman should come an' shove something into me system' was too much for him.But he forgets himself: there are no individuals now; his 'system' belongs to us.

Sister said, laughing, to Smiff the other day, 'Your leg is mine.
''Wrong again; it's the Governmint's!' said Smiff. But Corrigan isIrish and doesn't like that joke.

There are times when my heart fails me; when my eyes, my ears,my tongue, and my understanding fail me; when pain means nothing to me...

In the bus yesterday, I came down from London sitting beside aSister from another ward, who held her hand to her ear and shifted in her seat.

She told me she had earache and we didn't talk, and I sat huddled in my corner and watched the names of the shops, thinking, as I was more or less forced to do by her movements, of her earache.What struck me was her own angry bewilderment before the fact of her pain. 'But it hurts ... You've no idea how it hurts!' She was surprised.

Many times a day she hears the words, 'Sister, you're hurtin' me... Couldn't you shift my heel? It's like a toothache,' and other similar sentences. I hear them in our ward all the time. One can't pass down the ward without some such request falling on one's ears.

She is astonished at her earache; she is astonished at what pain can be; it is unexpected. She is ready to be angry with herself, with her pain, with her ear. It is monstrous ... she thinks.”

 

 

 

Enid Bagnold ( 27 oktober 1889 – 3 maart 1981)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Frances Ann "Fran" Lebowitz werd geboren op 27 oktober 1950 in Morristown, New Jersey. Zie ook alle tags voor Frans Lebowitz op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2010

 

Uit: When Smoke Gets In Your Eyes … Shut Them

 

“Smoking is, if not my life, then at least my hobby. I love to smoke. Smoking is fun. Smoking is cool. Smoking is, as far as I’m concerned, the entire point of being an adult.

“I understand, of course, that many people find smoking objectionable. That is their right. I would, I assure you, be the very last to criticize the annoyed. I myself find many—even most—things objectionable. Being offended is the natural consequence of leaving one’s home. I do not like after-shave lotion, adults who roller-skate, children who speak French, or anyone who is unduly tan. I do not, however, go around enacting legislation and putting up signs. In private I avoid such people; in public they have the run of the place. I stay at home as much as possible, and so should they. When it is necessary, however, to go out of the house, they must be prepared, as am I, to deal with the unpleasant personal habits of others. That is what “public” means. If you can’t stand the heat, get back in the kitchen.

“Due to something called the Minnesota Clean Air Act, it is illegal to smoke in the baggage-claim area of the Minneapolis Airport. This particular bit of news is surprising, since it has been my personal observation that even nonsmokers tend to light up while waiting to see if their baggage has accompanied them to their final destination. As I imagine that this law has provoked a rather strong response, I was initially quite puzzled as to why Minnesota would risk alienating what few visitors it had been able to attract. This mystery was cleared up when, after having spent but a single day there, I realized that in Minnesota the Clean Air Act is a tourist attraction. It may not be the Beaubourg, but it’s all their own. I found this to be an interesting, subtle concept, and have suggested to state officials that they might further exploit its commercial possibilities by offering for sale plain blue postcards emblazoned with the legend: Downtown Minneapolis.”

 

 

 

Fran Lebowitz (Morristown, 27 oktober 1950)

 

 

 

De Poolse schrijver Kazimierz Brandys werd geboren op 27 oktober 1916 in Lodz. Zie ook alle tags voor Kazimierz Brandys op dit blog.

 

Uit: Rondo (Vertaald door Karol Lesman)

 

“Naar mijn overtuiging was mijn voornemen niet het plan van een waanzinnige, maar juist andersom: van iemand die normaler was dan de anderen. (-) Cezar noemde mij indertijd "de man met de gestoorde norm'. (-) Er zat een schroefje bij me los, en wel dat van een doodgewoon zintuig voor evenwicht, maar ik beschikte daarentegen over een zesde zintuig: dat van de persoonlijke vrijheid.”

 

 

Kazimierz Brandys (27 oktober 1916 – 11 maart 2000)

 

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2008.

 

De Iraanse schrijver en filmmaker Reza Allamehzadeh werd geboren op 27 oktober 1943 in Sari, Mazandaran.