De Amerikaanse dichter Robert Lee Frost werd geboren op 26 maart 1874 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

To The Thawing Wind

Come with rain. O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate’er you do tonight,
bath my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit’s crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o’er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.

 

Acceptance

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud
And goes down burning into the gulf below,
No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud
At what has happened. Birds, at least must know
It is the change to darkness in the sky.
Murmuring something quiet in her breast,
One bird begins to close a faded eye;
Or overtaken too far from his nest,
Hurrying low above the grove, some waif
Swoops just in time to his remembered tree.
At most he thinks or twitters softly, ‘Safe!
Now let the night be dark for all of me.
Let the night bee too dark for me to see
Into the future. Let what will be, be.’

Robert Frost  (26 maart 1874 – 29 januari 1963)

 

De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Erica Jong werd geboren in New York op 26 maart 1942. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

After the Earthquake

 

After the first astounding rush,
after the weeks at the lake,
the crystal, the clouds, the water lapping the rocks,
the snow breaking under our boots like skin,
& the long mornings in bed. . .

 

After the tangos in the kitchen,
& our eyes fixed on each other at dinner,
as if we would eat with our lids,
as if we would swallow each other. . .

 

I find you still
here beside me in bed,
(while my pen scratches the pad
& your skin glows as you read)
& my whole life so mellowed & changed

 

that at times I cannot remember
the crimp in my heart that brought me to you,
the pain of a marriage like an old ache,
a husband like an arthritic knuckle.

 

Here, living with you,
love is still the only subject that matters.
I open to you like a flowering wound,
or a trough in the sea filled with dreaming fish,
or a steaming chasm of earth
split by a major quake.

 

You changed the topography.
Where valleys were,
there are now mountains.
Where deserts were,
there now are seas.

 

We rub each other,
but we do not wear away.

 

Erica Jong (New York, 26 maart 1942)

 

De Engelse dichter Alfred Edward Housman werd geboren op 26 maart 1859 in  Fockbury, Worcestershire. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

When I was one-and-twenty

 

When I was one-and-twenty

I heard a wise man say,

`Give crowns and pounds and guineas

But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies

But keep your fancy free.’

But I was one-and-twent
y

No use to talk to me.

 

When I was one-and-twenty

I heard him say again,

`The heart out of the bosom

Was never given in vain;

‘Tis paid with sighs a plenty

And sold for endless rue.’

And I am two-and-twenty

And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

 

 

If truth in hearts that perish

 

If truth in hearts that perish

Could move the powers on high,

I think the love I bear you

Should make you not to die.

 

Sure, sure, if stedfast meaning,

If single thought could save,

The world might end to-morrow,

You should not see the grave.

 

This long and sure-set liking,

This boundless will to please,

— Oh, you should live for ever,

If there were help in these.

 

But now, since all is idle,

To this lost heart be kind,

Ere to a town you journey

Where friends are ill to find.

 

A. E. Housman (26 maart 1859 – 30 april 1936)

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Tennessee Williams (eigenlijk Thomas Lanier Williams) werd geboren in Columbus (Mississippi op 26 maart 1911. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

Uit: A Streetcar Named Desire

 

[BLANCHE.] „Afterward we pretended that nothing had been discovered. Yes, the three of us drove out to Moon Lake Casino, very drunk and laughing all the way.

[Polka music sounds, in a minor key faint with distance]

We danced the Varsouviana! Suddenly, in the middle of the dance the boy I had married broke away from me and ran out of the casino. A few moments later — a shot!

[The polka stops abruptly. Blanche rises stiffly. Then, the polka resumes in a major key]

I ran out — all did! — all ran and gathered about the terrible thing at the edge of the lake! I couldn’t get near for the crowding. Then somebody caught my arm. “Don’t go any closer! Come back! You don’t want to see!” See? See what! Then I heard voices say — Allan! Allan! The Grey boy! He’d stuck the revolver into his mouth, and fired — so that the back of his head had been — blown away!

[She sways and covers her face]

It was because — on the dance floor — unable to stop myself — I’d suddenly said — “I saw! I know! You disgust me …” And then the searchlight which had been turned on the world was turned off again and never for one moment since has there been any light that’s stronger than this — kitchen — candle …

[Mitch gets up awkwardly and moves toward her a little. The polka music increases. Mitch stands beside her]

MITCH. [drawing her slowly into his arms] You need somebody. And I need somebody, too. Could it be — you and me, Blanche?

[She stares at him vacantly for a moment. Then with a soft cry huddles in his embrace. She makes a sobbing effort to speak but the words won’t come. He kisses her forehead and her eyes and finally her lips. The polka tune fades out. Her breath is drawn and released in long, grateful sobs]

BLANCHE. Sometimes — there’s God — so quickly!“

 

Tennessee Williams (26 maart 1911 – 25 februari 1983)

 

De Duitse schrijver en criticus Artur Hermann Landsberger werd geboren op 26 maart 1876 in Berlijn. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

Uit: Liebe und Bananen

 

„Es lebte lange nach Kaiser Karl einmal ein großer Dichter, Dr. h. c. Johann Wolfgang Gerhart, das Haupt einer schlesischen Familie, der dem deutschen Volke unvergängliche Dichtungen geschenkt, im Alter aber der Metaphysik und dem Snobismus verfallen war. Metaphysik und Snobismus vertragen sich schlecht miteinander. Also geschah es, daß der große Dichter im Klub der deutschen Filmindustrie am 28. August, dem Geburtstage Goethes – was seine metaphysischen und snobistischen Gründe hatte – einen Vortrag über den deutschen Film zu halten gedachte. Goethe hätte das vielleicht auch getan. – Was war näher liegend, als daß man ihm zu ehren eins seiner eigenen Werke verfilmte? Das scheiterte an dem hohen Preise, den der Dichter für das Verfilmungsrecht forderte. Also mußte man etwas Neues schaffen.
»Wenn schon !« sagte der deutschamerikanische Impresario S. Rachitis, der überall, wo er etwas zu verdienen schnupperte, seine schmutzigen Hände im Spiel hatte. Er trommelte, indem er Berge versprach, ein Dutzend der prominentesten Schauspieler in einem teuren Weinlokale  am Zoo zusammen und erklärte:
»Der Gerhart ist ein Dichter, der sich hat den Kopf serbrochen für euch dutzende von Malen, damit ihr habt gute Rollen. Serbrecht ihr euch den Kopf für ihn einmal. ich sahle alles.«
Und da Künstler Kinder sind, so saßen sie da und zerbrachen sich den Kopf, während S. Rachitis sich entfernte und zu zahlen vergaß.
»Gerhart ist Metaphysiker«, erklärte Albert Stein-brück. »Was also liegt näher, als daß wir ihm zu Ehren ein Stück von Aristophanes verfilmen.«
Den Zusammenhang verstand – obschon manch einer wußte, wer Aristophanes war – niemand. Aber den Mut, das zu bekennen, fand nur die schwarze Pola, genannt  Djojo, die mit viel Temperament Aristophanes für überlebt erklärte und sich leidenschaftlich für Hanns Heinz Ewers und die Verfilmung der Alraune einsetzte.“

 

Artur Landsberger ( 26 maart 1876 – 4 oktober 1933)