Dag: 13 maart 2011

Mahmoud Darwish, Yuri Andrukhovych, Vladimir Makanin, Didier Decoin

De Palestijnse dichter Mahmoud Darwish werd geboren in Al-Birwa, Palestina, op 13 maart 1941. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 maart  2009 en ook mijn blog van 13 maart 2010.

 

Sonnet V          

 

I touch you as a lonely violin touches the suburbs of the faraway place

patiently the river asks for its share of the drizzle

and, bit by bit, a tomorrow passing in poems approaches

so I carry faraway’s land and it carries me on travel’s road

 

On a mare made of your virtues, my soul weaves

a natural sky made of your shadows, one chrysalis at a time.

I am the son of what you do in the earth, son of my wounds

that have lit up the pomegranate blossoms in your closed-up gardens

 

Out of jasmine the night’s blood streams white. Your perfume,

my weakness and your secret, follows me like a snakebite. And your hair

is a tent of wind autumn in color. I walk along with speech

to the last of the words a bedouin told a pair of doves

 

I palpate you as a violin palpates the silk of the faraway time

and around me and you sprouts the grass of an ancient place—anew

 

 

Vertaald door Fady Joudah

 


My Mother

 

I yearn for my mother’s bread

My mother’s coffee

My mother’s touch

Childhood grows within me

Day upon daybreak

And I love my life because I

When I die

Am ashamed of my mother’s tears

 

Take me, if I come back someday

As a cloak for your eyelashes

Cover my bones with grass

An intending from the purity of your bosom

And pull my bonds tight

With a lock of hair

With a thread that trails from the back of your dress

I may become a god

A god I become

Whenever I touch the depths of your heart

 

Leave me, whenever I return

As fuel to feed your fire

As a clothes-line over the roof of your home

Because I lose suspension

Without your day-prayer

I am old; bring back the stars of childhood

To consult with you

The smallest of sparrows

The road of return

To the nest of your awaiting 

 

 

Vertaald door C. Lindley Cross

 

 

Mahmoud Darwish (13 maart 1941 – 9 augustus 2008)

 

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Melih Cevdet Anday, Yeghishe Charents, Oskar Loerke, Inge Müller

De Turkse dichter Melih Cevdet (eig. Melih Cevdet Anday) werd geboren op 13 maart 1915 in Istanboel.Zie ook mijn blog van 13 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 13 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 13 maart  2009 en ook mijn blog van 13 maart 2010. 

 Brief von einem toten Freund

Ich lebe so wie früher
Gehe spazieren und denke…
Nur fahre ich ohne Fahrkarte mit dem Schiff und dem Zug
Und kaufe ein ohne feilschen zu müssen.

Nachts bin ich in meiner Wohnung, es geht mir gut
(Könnte ich doch auch das Fenster öffnen, wenn es mir
[langweilig wird)
Ach … mich am Kopf kratzen, Blumen pflücken,
Hände drücken möchte ich manchmal.

 

Vertaald door Yüksel Pazarkya

 

Our Table

On the way back from the funeral cocks were crowing
Upon the April soil of an empty afternoon.

The sky, like a small morning-glory,
Suddenly faced us. We went into a tavern.

Our table gave little crackling sounds,
The tree remembering it had been alive.
Vertaald door Nermin Menemencioglu

 

Gypsies

“Do you recall the sea, the deep sea
“Which drives the birds crazy in November?
“The sun, too, that goes sizzling into the sea?
“You don’t say? How about the tree under which
“The gypsies were sitting? Thin too slipped your mind?
“How many years since the time of death?
Vertaald door Talat Sait Halman

 

Melih Cevdet Anday (13 maart 1915 – 28 november 2002)

 

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Hugh Walpole, Paul Morand, Richard Zoozmann, Moritz Graf von Strachwitz, Oscar Blumenthal, Hermine de Graaf, W. O. Mitchell

De Britse schrijver Hugh Seymour Walpole werd geboren op 13 maart 1884 in Auckland, Nieuw Zeeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 13 maart  2009 en ook mijn blog van 13 maart 2010.

 

Uit: Jeremy and Hamlet  (Come out of the Kitchen)

 

„There was a certain window between the kitchen and the pantry that was Hamlet’s favourite. Thirty years ago–these chronicles are of the year 1894–the basements of houses in provincial English towns, even of large houses owned by rich people, were dark, chill, odourfull caverns hissing with ill-burning gas and smelling of ill-cooked cabbage. The basement of the Coles’ house in Polchester was as bad as any other, but this little window between the kitchen and

the pantry was higher in the wall than the other basement windows, almost on a level with the iron railings beyond it, and offering a view down over Orange Street and, obliquely, sharp to the right and

past the Polchester High School, a glimpse of the Cathedral Towers themselves.

Inside the window was a shelf, and on this shelf Hamlet would sit for hours, his peaked beard interrogatively a-tilt, his leg sticking out from his square body as though it were a joint-leg and worked like the limb of a wooden toy, his eyes, sad and mysterious, staring into Life.. ..

It was not, of course, of Life that he was thinking; only very high- bred and in-bred dogs are conscious philosophers. His ears were stretched for a sound of the movements of Mrs. Hounslow the cook, his nostrils distended for a whiff of the food that she was manipulating, but his eyes were fixed upon the passing show, the pageantry, the rough-and-tumble of the world, and every once and again the twitch of his Christmas-tree tail would show that something was occurring in this life beyond the window that could supervene, for a moment at any rate, over the lust of the stomach and the lure of the clattering pan.“

 

 

Hugh Walpole (13 maart 1884 – 1 juni 1941)

Portret door Stephen Bone

 

 

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