Nachoem Wijnberg, Saskia Noort, Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clézio, Samuel Beckett

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Nachoem Mesoelam Wijnberg werd geboren in Amsterdam op 13 april 1961. Zie ook alle tags voor Nachoem Wijnberg op dit blog.

Huis bij de rivier

Kinderen mogen van hem spelen
op de begraafplaats naast zijn huis

of mogen daar stil zijn
en bloemen neerleggen op de graven

en mogen de volgende dag op school zeggen: ‘Luister,
gisteren legde ik bloemen neer op het graf van je oma.’

Huis bij de rivier.
Vissen in de rivier.

 

Wat ik hoor

Dat is wat ik gehoord heb,
het is mij verteld,
maar niet als iets
wat ik niet moet vergeten.

Iets horen
van lang geleden,
alsof voor alles geldt
dat het altijd nog kan komen.

Wat begint met
een langzame golf,
een deur die opengaat,
wil iemand naar binnen?

Wat ik mij herinner
is wat mij verteld is,
langzaam overeind komen
en golven komen door de schemering, van wat?

 

Nachoem Wijnberg (Amsterdam, 13 april 1961)

 

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Seamus Heaney, Stephan Hermlin, Orhan Veli, Tim Krabbé

 

De Ierse dichter Seamus Heaney werd op 13 april 1939 te County Derry, Noord-Ierland, geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Seamus Heaney op dit blog.

 

 

The Harvest Bow

 

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game cocks
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.

 

 

 

Postscript

 

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you’ll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

 

 

 

 

Seamus Heaney (County Derry, 13 april 1939)

 

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