De Estische dichter, schrijver en vertaler Tõnu Õnnepalu werd geboren op 13 september 1962 in Tallin. Zie ook alle tags voor Tõnu Õnnepalu op dit blog.
Uit: Border State (Vertaald door Madli Puhvel)
“Where did I come from, my crime and I, Franz and I (“France?” you said, because I pronounced it badly. No not France, but Franz. By the way, he was half French, half Ger-man, from Strasbourg, where we met), my grandmother and I? I saw her in a dream yesterday … Yes, I saw my grandmother and a cat called Milvi. Actually, they are both dead, although I’m not sure about Milvi. She disappeared. Maybe she’s still prowling the neighbourhood, and who can ever be sure about my grandmother!
As you see, I have a hard time finding a beginning. And yet I don’t have much to do here except think about this letter. I walk through empty, blank days, briefcase in hand, carrying photocopies of the poems my old men have written (that’s my “work”; I’ll tell you about it later) and a pocket edition of Madame de Sevigne’s letters. I walk through Montsouris Park, where late-flowering double jasmines are still blooming. I stop under the cedar of Lebanon, smell the resin, and dive into the underground world of the Metro. I meet ghosts there as well as people .
Actually, I’m constantly thinking about my testimony, because I will have to testify. I weigh the trifling words I have to say about myself as a human being, about my trivial crime in a world . . . If only I knew where to begin, then there would be no problem! Should I start with what I saw a long time ago, in that other century, through the first-floor window of that prefabricated apartment house, the window that Grandmother never allowed to be opened? Or with Amsterdam, that sweet, crime-ridden city? Or with the garbage bin that I threw the newspaper into, the one with Franz’s name printed in big fat letters? Should I start with what was, or what is, if what is still is, this vertigo, this blindness, this blinding sunshine! Yes, sunshine. If I am to start at random, then I’ll start with sunshine. I yearned for sunshine. I had a passion for sun, and it was following this passion that brought me to this town where so much of the world’s beauty and wealth is gathered, so many gifts of the sun, as well as ugliness, pain, and want, which even gold and jewels cannot hide. Ultimately, to the town where you appeared before me, from out of nowhere, so that I could tell you my story. My story! Just like the fairy tale told in bygone days beside a cozy fire. A story that also had neither a beginning nor an end but was unhurried and grisly, where one would encounter wolves that killed, snakes that talked, and fairies. But you did not emerge from the blizzard into a flickering light. Nor are you a gray-bearded old man. On the contrary, you are young and desirable. You are my mirror, my double and opposite. You emerged from the cool Sunday sunshine that engulfed the strollers who had stopped to window-shop, or who stood as though entranced on the terrace of the cafe; unreal figments of light, summoned by the senseless pealing of the bells of Saint Eustache or Notre Dame or Saint Merri.”
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Werner Dürrson werd geboren op 12 september 1932 in Schwenningen am Neckar. Zie ook alle tags voor Werner Dürrson op dit blog.
In de open lucht
Gevangen in het systeem
van het verkochte landschap rest mij
nog het meer, ga ik op voor-
geschreven weg door
borden bespied de helling af
langs muren hekken
voorbij het kasteel
bij het gevangenispoortbrede stuk kust
van de bezitlozen:
ruimte die
zich opent, vreemde uitgestrektheid
schaduwloos licht frisse
met wind om mijn heupen kan ik
door verdikt slib door modder
in sociaal rioolwater waden
met verre stranden voor ogen weg-
zwemmen tot de uitputting volgt
Vertaald door Frans Roumen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 13e september ook mijn blog van 13 september 2018 en ook mijn blog van 13 september 2015 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.