|
De Amerikaanse schrijfster Flannery O'Connor werd geboren op 25 maart 1925 in Savannah, Georgia. Zie ook alle tags voor Flannery O'Connor op dit blog.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Uit: The Life You Save May Be Your Own
The old woman and her daughter were sitting on their porch when Mr. Shiftlet came up their road for the first time. The old woman slid to the edge of her chair and leaned forward, shading her eyes from the piercing sunset with her hand. The daughter could not see far in front of her and continued to play with her fingers. Although the old woman lived in this desolate spot with only her daughter and she had never seen Mr. Shiftlet before, she could tell, even from a distance, that he was a tramp and no one to be afraid of. His left coat sleeve was folded up to show there was only half an arm in it and his gaunt figure listed slightly to the side as if the breeze were pushing him. He had on a black town suit and a brown felt hat that was turned up in the front and down in the back and he carried a tin tool box by a handle. He came on, at an amble, up her road, his face turned toward the sun which appeared to be balancing itself on the peak of a small mountain.
The old woman didn't change her position until he was almost into her yard; then she rose with one hand fisted on her hip. The daughter, a large girl in a short blue organdy dress, saw him all at once and jumped up and began to stamp and point and make excited speechless sounds.
Mr. Shiftlet stopped just inside the yard and set his box on the ground and tipped his hat at her as if she were not in the least afflicted; then he turned toward the old woman and swung the hat all the way off. He had long black slick hair that hung flat from a part in the middle to beyond the tips of his ears on either side. His face descended in forehead for more than half its length and ended suddenly with his features just balanced over a jutting steel‑trap jaw. He seemed to be a young man but he had a look of composed dissatisfaction as if he understood life thoroughly.
"Good evening," the old woman said. She was about the size of a cedar fence post and she had a man's gray hat pulled down low over her head.
Flannery O'Connor (25 maart 1925 3 augustus 1964)
Zelfportret, 1953
De Franse dichter en schrijver Jacques Bens werd geboren op 25 maart 1931 in Cadolive (Bouches-du-Rhône). Zie ook alle tags voor Jacques Bens op dit blog.
Poème irrationnel
Les femmes de marins passent du rire aux larmes
Quand, brisant de la nuit les exquises alarmes,
La trompe de la mort secoue leur lit défait.
Pas d'amant qui n'ait son sursaut mutualiste!
Boutonnant son caban d'un geste stupéfait,
L'homme se rue devant les terribles vacarmes.
Lourde encor de sammeil, frissonnante et sans armes,
Sa silhouette vague étouffe son forfait.
C'est pousser un peu loin le sens mutualiste.
Je n'aurai pas autant la fibre socialiste
Si ton mari calanche au sein des flots amers,
Je fermerai sur nous un grand drap fataliste
Et, caressant tes yeux d'un index réaliste,
Tirerai de tan corps mille étoiles des mers.
Jacques Bens (25 maart 1931 26 juli 2001)
Cadolive (Bouches-du-Rhône) in de sneeuw
De Mexicaanse dichter en schrijver Jaime Sabines Gutiérrez werd geboren op 25 maart 1926 in Tuxtla Gutiérrez, Chiapas. Zie ook alle tags voor Jaime Sabines op dit blog..
Uit: Les poèmes du piéton
Les jours inutiles sont comme une couche
de crasse sur lâme.
Il y a une asphyxie lente qui sourit,
qui oublie, qui se tait.
Qui mimpose ces épreuves
quand je ne dis rien ?
Il y a un imbécile comme moi qui se promène,
à bavarder avec les gens et les fantômes,
à se lancer dans la boue et à triturer
la merde de la gloire.
Groin de cochon qui récite des vers
dans les fêtes de famille, où les femmes savantes
parlent damour, de guerre,
résolvent le problème de lespérance.
Uit: Tarumba
To Horse, Tarumba,
you need a horse
to get around this country,
to know your mother,
to want what you want,
to pen up the pit of your death,
to raise up your resurrection.
To horse with your eyes,
the psalm of your eyes,
the dream of your tired legs.
To horse in the malarial region,
the sick time,
hot female,
dripping laughter.
Where the news of virgins arrives,
newspapers with saints,
and telegrams with hearts athletic as a flag.
To horse, Tarumba, over the river,
over the slab of water, the vigil,
the fragile leaf of the dream
(when your hands wake up holding a bottom),
and the window of death in which you see
your little heart.
To horse, Tarumba,
ride on to the dump of the sun.
Vertaald door W. S. Merwin
Jaime Sabines (25 maart 1926 19 maart 1999)
De Nederlandse cartoonist en striptekenaar Peter van Straaten werd geboren in Arnhem op 25 maart 1935. Zie ook alle tags voor Peter van Straaten op dit blog..
"Ja, bekroond, maar niet gelezen."
Peter Van Straaten (Arnhem, 25 maart 1935)
Hier op zijn beurt getekend door Siegfried Woldhek
De Amerikaanse schrijfster en sociale activiste Toni Cade Bambara werd als Miltona Mirkin Cade geboren op 25 maart 1939 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Toni Cade Bambara op dit blog.
Uit: The Lesson
So this one day Miss Moore rounds us all up at the mailbox and it's puredee hot and she's knockin herself out about arithmetic. And school suppose to let up in summer I heard, but she don't never let up. And the starch in my pinafore scratching the shit outta me and I'm really hating this nappy-head bitch and her goddamn college degree. I'd much rather go to the pool or to the show where it's cool. So me and Sugar leaning on the mailbox being surly, which is a Miss Moore word. And Flyboy checking out what everybody brought for lunch. And Fat Butt already wasting his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich like the pig he is. And Junebug punchin on Q.T.'s arm for potato chips. And Rosie Giraffe shifting from one hip to the other waiting for somebody to step on her foot or ask her if she from Georgia so she can kick ass, preferably Mercedes'. And Miss Moore asking us do we know what money is like we a bunch of retards. I mean real money, she say, like it's only poker chips or monopoly papers we lay on the grocer. So right away I'm tired of this and say so. And would much rather snatch Sugar and go to the Sunset and terrorize the West Indian kids and take their hair ribbons and their money too. And Miss Moore files that remark away for next week's lesson on brotherhood, I can tell. And finally I say we oughta get to the subway cause it's cooler an' besides we might meet some cute boys. Sugar done swiped her mama's lipstick, so we ready.
Toni Cade Bambara (25 maart 1939 9 december 1995)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 25e maart ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag en eveneens mijn eerste blog van vandaag.
|
