Bij Christus Koning
Dein König kommt in niedern Hüllen
Dein König kommt in niedern Hüllen,
ihn trägt der lastbarn Es’lin Füllen,
empfang ihn froh, Jerusalem!
Trag ihm entgegen Friedenspalmen,
bestreu den Pfad mit grünen Halmen;
so ist’s dem Herren angenehm.
O mächt’ger Herrscher ohne Heere,
gewalt’ger Kämpfer ohne Speere,
o Friedefürst von großer Macht!
Es wollen dir der Erde Herren
den Weg zu deinem Throne sperren,
doch du gewinnst ihn ohne Schlacht.
Dein Reich ist nicht von dieser Erden,
doch aller Erde Reiche werden
dem, das du gründest, untertan.
Bewaffnet mit des Glaubens Worten
zieht deine Schar nach allen Orten
der Welt hinaus und macht dir Bahn.
Und wo du kommst herangezogen,
da ebnen sich des Meeres Wogen,
es schweigt der Sturm, von dir bedroht.
Du kommst, dass auf empörter Erde
der neue Bund gestiftet werde,
und schlägst in Fessel Sünd und Tod.
O Herr von großer Huld und Treue,
o komme du auch jetzt aufs Neue
zu uns, die wir sind schwer verstört.
Not ist es, dass du selbst hienieden
kommst, zu erneuen deinen Frieden,
dagegen sich die Welt empört.
O lass dein Licht auf Erden siegen,
die Macht der Finsternis erliegen
und lösch der Zwietracht Glimmen aus,
dass wir, die Völker und die Thronen,
vereint als Brüder wieder wohnen
in deines großen Vaters Haus.
De Argentijnse schrijfster Luisa Valenzuela werd geboren op 26 november 1938 in Buenos Aires. Zie ook alle tags voor Luisa Valenzuela op dit blog.
Uit: Other Weapons (Vertaald door Deborah Bonner)
The Words
“She doesn’t find it the least bit surprising that she has no memory, that she feels completely devoid of recollections. She may not even realize that she’s living in an absolute void. She is quite concerned( about: t: something else, about her capacity to find the right word for each thing and receive a cup of tea when she says I want (and that “I want” also disconcerts her, that act of willing) when she says I want a cup of tea. Martina attends to all her requests. And she knows that’s her name because Martina herself has told her so, repeating it over and over until she managed to • retain the name. As for herself, she’s been told she’s called Laura, but that’s also part of the haze in which her life drifts by.
There’s also the man: that one, him, the no-name she can call by any name that happens to cross her mind; they’re all just as effective, anyway, and when the guy’s around the house he answers even if she calls him Hugo, Sebastian, Ignacio, Alfredo or anything else. He seems to be around the house often enough to keep her calm, a little, stroking her shoulders and arms, in a progression not lacking in tenderness. Then there are the everyday objects: the ones called plate, bathroom, book, bed, cup, table, door. It’s exasperating, for example, to confront the one called door and try to figure out what to do. A locked door, yes, but there are the keys, on the ledge, within her reach, and the lock’s easy to open, her fascination with the beyond, which she can’t make up her mind to face. She, so-called Laura, is on this side of the so-called door, with its so-called locks and its so-called key begging her to cross the threshold. But she can’t; not yet. Facing the door, she thinks about it and realizes she can’t, although no one appears to care much. Suddenly the so-called door opens and the man we will now call Hector walks in, proving that he also has his set of so-called keys and uses them quite freely. If she stares at him when he walks in —it’s happened to so-called Laura before – she discovers that two other men arrive with Hector and stay outside the door, trying to look inconspicuous. She calls them One and Two, which sometimes gives her a sense of safety and other times makes a shudder run through her. Then she welcomes him knowing that One and Two are standing outside the apartment (apartment?) right outside the so-called door, maybe waiting or protecting him, and sometimes she can imagine that they’re with her and that they escort her, especially when he stares into her eyes as if he were weighing out the memory of old things about her which she doesn’t share in the least. Sometimes her head aches, and that pain is the only thing that really belongs to her and that she can communicate to the man. Then he gets worried, both hoping and fearing that she’ll remember something specific.”
De Canadese dichteres en schrijfster Nicole Brossard werd geboren op 27 november 1943 in Montreal (Quebec). Zie ook alle tags voor Nicole Brossard op dit blog.
Steden met hun doden
geen begraafplaatsen eigenlijk alleen de doden
woorden om niet te zeggen, geen voornamen, niemands naam
nog geen ongeluk, kleine voetstapjes die bevriezen
elk jaar loop ik door een nieuwe stad
met woorden, botten, haar, bril
ik loop met iemand die een boek heeft geschreven
“toen op zijn tenen wegging”*
om de horizon de dag na de horizon te vinden
Vertaald door Frans Roumen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 26e november ook mijn blog van 26 november 2018 en eveneens mijn blog van 26 november 2017 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.