De Britse dichter en schrijver Dannie Abse werd geboren op 22 september 1923 in Cardiff, Wales. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Dannie Abse op dit blog.
Talking to Myself
In the mildew of age
all pavements slope uphill
slow slow
towards an exit.
It’s late and light allows
the darkest shadow to be born of it.
Courage, the ventriloquist bird cries
(a little god, he is, censor of language)
remember plain Hardy and dandy Yeats
in their inspired wise pre-dotage.
I, old man, in my new timidity,
think how, profligate, I wasted time
– those yawning postponements on rainy days,
those paperhat hours of benign frivolity.
Now Time wastes me and there’s hardly time
to fuss for more vascular speech.
The aspen tree trembles as I do
and there are feathers in the wind.
Quick quick
speak, old parrot,
do I not feed you with my life?
The Origin Of Music
When I was a medical student
I stole two femurs of a baby
from The Pathology Specimen Room.
Now I keep them in my pocket,
the right femur and the left femur.
Like a boy scout, I’m prepared.
For what can one say to a neighbour
when his wife dies? ‘Sorry’?
Or when a friend’s sweet child
suffers leukaemia? ‘Condolences’?
No, if I should meet either friend
or stricken neighbour in the street
and he should tell me, whisper to me,
his woeful, intimate news,
wordless I take the two small femurs
from out of my pocket sadly
and play them like castanets.
Dannie Abse (Cardiff, 22 september 1923)
De Nederlandse schrijver Lodewijk van Deyssel werd geboren op 22 september 1864 in Amsterdam. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Lodewijk van Deyssel op dit blog.
Uit: Af-sterven
“In de groote kamer-kooi lijkt het te wezen. Zwart-bruin van de stijve, stom-vlakke wanden de ruimte in, het eene venster blaâr-geelgroen, het andere venster zon-geel-achter-raggend-wit. In de vaal-gespannen ruimte-wasem het vele hoog-op stil-staande in de dag-schildering, die naar buiten uit-ligt, wijd, ver gestrekt heen-liggend, zonder iets.
Onder het goor-witte kamerboven-vlak is het. In het hoofd, dat zoo stil op de jas staat, in het vaal-en-leêg-van-niet-te-zien hoofd-binnen, in de suizend-mistende vlak-bij-stilte-kist, boven-tusschen het ooren-suis-loei-ruischen als van een heele verre machinen-stad, op de gladde vlakke zwart-waterhelling, tusschen de aan en aan ploffende grijs-lila stoomruikers en -pluimen van de randen, sliert het zacht kruip-vloeyend langzaam donker-rood, bruin, donker-blauw en zwart.
Zacht-plots vleugelen de oogen-blaadjes neêr, van-onderen gloed-geel, dan rooderig rood, dan een groot, vaal-licht-rood, van-voren, met de lichtjes-schimmetjes snel ver-bleek-dwijnend, iets daar je voorbij rijdt. In de laagte voelen de lippen zich tastbaar-week, dierlijk.
Groot wenden de vreemde handen op, neêr. De beenen in de diepte, weg en wetenloos.
Het is zoo stil boven de leêge borst. Een holle pop is het lichaam, hoog vol-uit en af-gerond geheel en los, op zich zelf, met alle zijn kromme, rondende, harde wandjes. De oog-blaadjes vlinder-ritselen.
Buiten, de hel-blauw geel-zilver-tinteling, sprankelend de gesprenkelde licht-drup-dag. Min het alomme-licht-mooi van den dag, droog, kil-blauw, duidelijk en klein. De dag een korte kamer met flauwe lamp. De groote duister-zwarte mist van de leêge stilte staat, in al-door-maar-verdere wijdte staat onbewegelijk in de al-hoogte gestard. De blauwe en roode vanen met hun duistere pracht hangen donker heel hoog en stijf en stil daarin. Achter de zwart-vaal-schemerende stilte-hoog-nacht is het groot-helle licht heen-geduisterd, heen als een samene zon-vogel-vlucht achter het gebergte.”
Lodewijk van Deyssel (22 september 1864 – 26 januari 1952)
De Britse schrijfster Fay Weldon werd geboren op 22 september 1931 in Alvechurch, Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Fay Weldon op dit blog
Uit: Habits of the House
“6.58 a.m. Tuesday, 24th October 1899
IN LATE OCTOBER of the year 1899 a tall, thin, nervy young man ran up the broad stone steps that led to No. 17 Belgrave Square. He seemed agitated. He was without hat or cane, breathless, unattended by staff of any kind, wore office dress – other than that his waistcoat was bright yellow above smart striped stove-pipe trousers – and his moustache had lost its curl in the damp air of the early morning. He seemed both too well-dressed for the tradesman’s entrance at the back of the house, yet not quite fit to mount the front steps, leave alone at a run, and especially at such an early hour.
The grand front doors of Belgrave Square belonged to ministers of the Crown, ambassadors of foreign countries, and a sprinkling of titled families. By seven in the morning the back doors would be busy enough with deliveries and the coming and going of kitchen and stable staff, but few approached the great front doors before ten, let alone on foot, informally and without appointment. The visitor pulled the bell handle too long and too hard, and worse, again and again.
The jangling of the bell disturbed the household, waking the gentry, startling such servants who were already up but still sleepy, and disconcerting the upper servants, who were not yet properly dressed for front door work.
Grace, her Ladyship’s maid, peered out from her attic window to see what was going on. She used a mirror contraption rigged up for her by Reginald the footman, the better to keep an eye on comings and goings on the steps below. Seeing that it was only Eric Baum, his Lordship’s new financial advisor and lawyer, Grace decided it was scarcely her business to answer the door. She saw to her Ladyship’s comfort and no one else’s. Baum was too young, too excitable and too foreign-looking to be worthy of much exertion, and her Ladyship had been none too pleased when her husband had moved their business affairs into new hands.”
Fay Weldon (Alvechurch, 22 september 1931)
De Hongaarse dichter en schrijver György Faludy werd geboren op 22 september 1910 in Boedapest. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor György Faludy op dit blog.
REFUGEE, 1940
Like our hosts, we thought the French army
was the mightiest under the sun.
And what did it show to the German Nazis?
Beaten backsides on the run.
The French distrust and despise us aliens
for fleeing to their land for salvation.
It was their own deceit, not ours,
that callously brought down this nation.
They boast: defeat will bring them peace
(too bad for the Jews). Oh, hunky-dory…
Few of them know that it’s only the start
and very far from the end of the story.
The Nazis will settle into their homes.
They’ll drink their cellars dry, abuse
their women and, should they object,
treat their hosts as they treat the Jews.
Vertaald door Thomas Ország-Land
Silver Pirouettes
Your ankles grow deep-blue shadows for space,
the universe has you for its vault.
Palm trees sprout deep-green explosions behind
your shoulders. And the clock has stalled.
Your face is my reliable sundial,
the light in the window dances its ballet,
my May is jasmine in your armpit;
our nearest neighbor is the Milky Way.
Furniture swings with us like a circus trapeze
without the weight. Sometimes I look back:
dust lashes the five continents and seas,
but on your divine empire the sun never sets;
what we have here is melodious, oceanic peace
and up there the moon’s silver pirouettes.
Vertaald door Paul Sohar
György Faludy (22 september 1910 – 1 september 2006)
Hier met dichter en vriend Eric Johnson (links) in de jaren zestig
Zie voor nog meer schrijves van de 22e september ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.