In Memoriam Seamus Heaney

 

 

In Memoriam Seamus Heaney

 

 

 

De Ierse dichter Seamus Heaney is vrijdag op 74-jarige leeftijd overleden. Dat hebben Ierse media gemeld. Heaney kreeg in 1995 de Nobelprijs voor Literatuur. Seamus Heaney werd op 13 april 1939 te County Derry, Noord-Ierland, geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Seamus Heaney op dit blog.

 

 

Death Of A Naturalist

 

All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.

 

 

 

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 (13 april 1939 – 30 augustus 2013)

Charles Reznikoff, François Cheng, Jiři Orten, Libuše Moníková

De Amerikaanse dichter Charles Reznikoff werd op 30 augustus 1894 in New York geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 augustus 2010.en alle tags voor Charles Reznikoff op dit blog.

 

 

Night-Piece

 

I saw within the shadows of the yard the shed

and saw the snow upon its roof—

an oblong glowing in the moonlit night.

 

I could not rest or close my eyes,

although I knew that I must rise

early next morning and begin my work again,

and begin my work again.

 

That day was lost—that month as well;

and year and year for all that I can tell.

 

 

 

Jerusalem the Golden

 

 

II: The Shield of David

 

Then spoke the prophets: Our God is not of clay,

to be carried in our saddle-bags;

nor to be molten of silver or fine gold,

a calf to stand in our houses with unseeing eyes, unbending

        knees;

 

Who is the King of Glory?

He is from everlasting to everlasting;

we go down to the darkness of the grave,

but all the lights of heaven are His.

 

The smoke of your sacrifices is hateful, says the Lord,

I hate your festivals, your feasts, and your fasts;

worship Me in righteousness;

worship Me in kindness to the poor and weak,

in justice to the orphan, the widow, the stranger among you,

and in justice to him who takes his hire from your hand;

for I am the God of Justice, I am the God of Righteousness.

 

 

III: Spinoza

 

He is the stars,

multitudinous as the drops of rain,

and the worm at our feet,

leaving only a blot on the stone;

except God there is nothing.

 

God neither hates nor loves, has neither pleasure nor pain;

were God to hate or love, He would not be God;

He is not a hero to fight our enemies,

nor like a king to be angry or pleased at us,

nor even a father to give us our daily bread, forgive us our

       trespasses;

nothing is but as He wishes,

nothing was but as He willed it;

as He wills it, so it will be.

 

 

 

Charles Reznikoff (30 augustus 1894 – 22 januari 1976)

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