Ben Lerner

De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver, essayist en criticus Benjamin S. (Ben) Lerner werd geboren op 4 februari 1979 in Topeka, Kansas. Zijn moeder is de klinisch psycholoog Harriet Lerner. Lerner studeerde in 1997 af aan de Topeka High School, waar hij deelnam aan debat en forensisch onderzoek, en won in 1997 het National Forensic League National Tournament in International Extemporaneous Speaking. Aan de Brown University studeerde hij bij de dichter C.D. Wright en behaalde hij een B.A. in politieke theorie en een Master of Fine Art s in poëzie. Lerner ontving de Hayden Carruth-prijs voor zijn cyclus van 52 sonnetten, The Lichtenberg Figures. In 2004 noemde Library Journal het een van de 12 beste dichtbundels van het jaar. In 2003 reisde Lerner met een Fulbright Scholarship naar Madrid, Spanje, waar hij zijn tweede dichtbundel schreef, “Angle of Yaw”, dat in 2006 werd gepubliceerd. Het werd uitgeroepen tot finalist voor de National Book Award. In 2010 verscheen zijn derde dichtbundel “Mean Free Path”.Met  Lerners eerste roman, “Leaving the Atocha Station”, gepubliceerd in 2011,  won hij de Believer Book Award en was hij een finalist voor de Los Angeles Times Book Award voor eerste fictie en de Young Lions-prijs van de New York Public Library. In 2008 werd Lerner poëzieredacteur voor Critical Quarterly, een Britse wetenschappelijke publicatie. In 2016 werd hij de eerste poëzieredacteur bij Harper’s. Hij doceerde aan het California College of the Arts en de University of Pittsburgh, en trad in 2010 toe tot de faculteit van het MFA-programma aan het Brooklyn College. In 2011 won hij de “Preis der Stadt Münster für internationale Poesie”, de eerste Amerikaan die de eer ontving. Lerner doceert aan Brooklyn College, waar hij in 2016 werd benoemd tot Distinguished Professor of English.

 

The dark collects

The dark collects our empties, empties our ashtrays.
Did you mean “this could go on forever” in a good way?
Up in the fragrant rafters, moths seek out a finer dust.
Please feel free to cue or cut

the lights. Along the order of magnitudes, a glyph,
portable, narrow—Damn. I’ve lost it. But its shadow. Cast
in the long run. As the dark touches us up.
Earlier you asked if I would enter the data like a room, well,

either the sun has begun to burn
its manuscripts or I’m an idiot, an idiot
with my eleven semiprecious rings. Real snow
on the stage. Fake blood on the snow. Could this go

on forever in a good way? A brain left lace from age or lightning.
The chicken is a little dry and/ or you’ve ruined my life.

 

In my day

In my day, we knew how to drown plausibly,
to renounce the body’s seven claims to buoyancy. In my day,
our fragrances had agency, our exhausted clocks complained so beautifully
that cause began to shed its calories

like sparks. With great ostentation, I began to bald. With great ostentation,
I built a small door in my door for dogs. In my day,
we were reasonable men. Even you women and children
were reasonable men. And there was the promise of pleasure in   
                                                                      every question]
we postponed. Like a blouse, the most elegant crimes were left undone.

Now I am the only one who knows
the story of the baleful forms
our valences assumed in winter light. My people, are you not

horrified of how these verbs decline—
their great ostentation, their doors of different sizes?

 

I’m going to kill the president

I’m going to kill the president.
I promise. I surrender. I’m sorry.
I’m gay. I’m pregnant. I’m dying.
I’m not your father. You’re fired.
Fire. I forgot your birthday.
You will have to lose the leg.
She was asking for it.
It ran right under the car.
It looked like a gun. It’s contagious.
She’s with God now.
Help me. I don’t have a problem.
I’ve swallowed a bottle of aspirin.
I’m a doctor. I’m leaving you.
I love you. Fuck you. I’ll change.

 

Ben Lerner (Topeka, 4 februari 1979)

Stewart O’Nan, Grigore Vieru

De Amerikaanse schrijver Stewart O’Nan werd geboren op 4 februari 1961 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Zie ook alle tags voor Stewart O’Nan op dit blog.

Uit: Henry, Himself

“His mother named him Henry, after her older brother, a chaplain killed in the Great War, as if he might take his place. In family lore the dead Henry had been a softhearted boy, a rescuer of stranded earthworms and fallen sparrows, presaging his vocation as a saver of souls. Salutatorian of his seminary class, he volunteered for duty overseas, sending home poems and charcoal sketches of life in the trenches. At church the stained-glass window that showed a barefoot Christ carrying a wayward lamb draped about his neck like a stole was dedicated in loving memory of the Rt. Rev. Henry Leland Chase, 1893-1917, the mock-Gothic inscription so elaborate it verged on illegibility, and each Sunday as they made their way to their pew up front, his mother would bow her head as they passed, as if to point out, once more, his uncle’s saintliness. When he was little, Henry believed he was buried there, that beneath the cold stone floor of Calvary Episcopal, as below the medieval cathedrals of Europe, the noble dead moldered in cobwebbed catacombs, and that one day he would be there too.
When Henry was eight, his mother enrolled him as an altar boy, a vocation for which he betrayed no calling, picking at his nails inside his billowy sleeves through the weighted silences and turgid hymns, afraid he’d miss his cue. He had nightmares of arriving late for the processional in his baseball uniform, his cleats clicking as the holy conclave paraded down the aisle. The cross was heavy, and he needed to stretch on tiptoe with the brass taper to light the massive Alpha-Omega candle. Funerals were the worst, held Saturday afternoons when all of his friends would be at their secret clubhouse deep in the park. The grieving family huddled beside the casket, praying with Father McNulty for the repose of their loved one’s soul, but once the service was done and the candles snuffed, the funeral director took charge, bossing around the pallbearers like hired porters as they lugged the box down the front steps and slid it into the hearse. Invariably Henry pictured his uncle, his nose inches from the closed lid, on a train crossing bomb-pocked French farmland, or in the dark hold of a ship, cold water gliding by outside the thin steel skin of the hull. He had so many friends and well-wishers, the story went, that the visitation-in their grandparents’ front parlor, where his sister Arlene taught Henry to play “Heart and Soul” on their Baldwin-lasted three days and nights.”

 

Stewart O’Nan (Pittsburgh, 4 februari 1961)

 

De Moldavische dichter en schrijver Grigore Vieru werd geboren in Pereita op 4 februari 1935. Zie ook alle tags voor Grigore Vieru op dit blog.

 

In jouw taal

In dezelfde taal
Huilen alle mensen
In dezelfde taal
Lacht een land.
Maar alleen in jouw taal
Kun je de pijn weg strelen,
En de vreugde veranderen in een lied.

In jouw taal
Verlang je naar mama
En is wijn meer wijn.
En is lunch meer lunch
En alleen in jouw taal
Kun je stoppen met huilen.

En wanneer je noch
Huilen kunt noch lachen

Wanneer je niet kunt strelen
En niet eens zingen,
Met jouw land,
Met jouw hemel voor je,
Hou je mond dan
Ook in jouw taal.

 

Vertaald door Frans Roumen

 

Grigore Vieru (4 februari 1935 – 18 januari 2009)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 4e februari ook mijn blog van 4 februari 2019 en eveneens mijn blog van 4 februari 2018 deel 1 en ook deel 2.