De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Edward Estlin Cummings werd geboren in Cambridge, Massachusetts op 14 oktober 1894. Zie ook alle tags voor E. E. Cummings op dit blog.
My Love
my love
thy hair is one kingdom
the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers
thy head is a quick forest
filled with sleeping birds
thy breasts are swarms of white bees
upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring
thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song
my love
thy head is a casket
of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
with victory and with trumpets
thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness
thy lips are satraps in scarlet
in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
of silver
in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes
thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense
Who Knows If The Moon’s
who knows if the moon’s
a baloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky—filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should
get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their baloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people
than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where
always
it’s
Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves
E. E. Cummings (14 oktober 1894 – 3 september 1962)
Zelfportret 1958
De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Maarten van der Graaff werd geboren op 14 oktober 1987 in Dirksland. Zie ook alle tags voor Maarten van der Graaff op dit blog.
De grote verscheidenheid
Van minuut tot minuut zou er niets van mij overblijven.
Een wandeling met aan weerskanten bedwelmende aspecten leerde mij dit.
Ik brak een angst aan die hier op had gewacht.
Het aanbreken van een angst na jaren van plompe,
aromatische stilte is niet niks, maar ook zeker geen spektakel.
De extremiteit ervan wordt binnensmonds ervaren.
Ik zou het je willen toefluisteren, maar moet mijn systemen
in acht nemen.
De locaties waar wij kwamen waren motoren van een sadistisch raadsel.
Een raadsel dat door sadisten was bedacht, maar ook een eigen sadisme bezat,
dat er niet door de makers was ingelegd.
Toen wij ons afgrijzen lieten blijken wees men ons op
de grote verscheidenheid.
Wij moesten toch toegeven dat de grote verscheidenheid indrukwekkend was
en ongeëvenaard. Wij zagen ons genoodzaakt hierin te overnachten.
Na vier nachten besloten wij te vluchten. Na vier nachten reden wij,
met gedoofde koplampen, de bedwelmende aspecten in.
Het was stil, wij leken niet te worden opgemerkt. Voor ons was geen plaats
en geen omgeving om een plaats in te hebben.
De locaties stelden ons voor vragen.
Bevonden wij ons op de graden van de grote verscheidenheid
of waren wij buiten zicht?
Wij sliepen dag na dag in zonder dit te weten.
Maarten van der Graaff (Dirksland, 14 oktober 1987)
De Hongaarse schrijver Péter Nádas werd geboren op 14 oktober 1942 in Boedapest. Zie ook alle tags voor Péter Nádas op dit blog.
Uit: Parallel Stories (Vertaald door Imre Goldstein)
“In that memorable year when the famous Berlin wall came down, a corpse was discovered in the Tiergarten not far from the graying marble statue of Queen Louise. This happened a few days before Christmas.
The corpse was that of a well-groomed man of about fifty, and everything he wore or had on him appeared to be of better quality. At first glance a gentleman of some consequence, a banker or a senior manager. Snow was falling slowly, but it was not very cold, so the flakes melted on the paths of the park; only the blades of grass retained a white edge. The investigators did everything by the book and, because of the weather conditions, worked quickly. They closed off the area and proceeding clockwise in a narrowing spiral course searched it thoroughly so they could record and secure all existing clues. Behind an improvised screen of black plastic sheets, they carefully undressed the corpse but found no signs indicating suicide.
A young man who ran in the park every dawn had discovered the body. He was the only one the investigators could question. It had been completely dark when he set out, and he ran almost every day on the same path at the same time.
Had it not been so, had not everything been routine and habit, had not every stone and shadow been engraved in his mind’s eye, he most probably would not have discovered the body. The light of distant streetlamps barely reached this far. The reason he noticed the body, lying on and half dangling off a bench, was, he explained excitedly to the policemen, because on the dark coat the snow had not melted at all. And as he was running at a steady pace, he related a bit too loudly, the whiteness flashed into his eyes from the side.
While he was talking, several men busied themselves inside the roped-off area. They were working, one might say, in ideal conditions; there was not a soul in the park besides them, no nosy curiosity seekers. Using a flashbulb, one of the men photographed something on the bare, wet ground that two forensic technicians had already labeled with a number.”
Péter Nádas (Boedapest,14 oktober 1942)
De Amerikaanse dichteres, essayiste, critica en feministe Katha Pollitt werd geboren op 14 oktober 1949 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Katha Pollit op dit blog.
Two Cats
It’s better to be a cat than to be a human.
Not because of their much-noted grace and beauty—
their beauty wins them no added pleasure, grace is
only a cat’s way
of getting without fuss from one place to another—
but because they see things as they are. Cats never mistake a
saucer of milk for a declaration of passion
or the crook of your knees for
a permanent address. Observing two cats on a sunporch,
you might think of them as a pair of Florentine bravoes
awaiting through slitted eyes the least lapse of attention—
then slash! the stiletto
or alternately as a long-married couple, who hardly
notice each other but find it somehow a comfort
sharing the couch, the evening news, the cocoa.
Both these ideas
are wrong. Two cats together are like two strangers
cast up by different storms on the same desert island
who manage to guard, despite the utter absence
of privacy, chocolate,
useful domestic articles, reading material,
their separate solitudes. They would not dream of
telling each other their dreams, or the plots of old movies,
or inventing a bookful
of coconut recipes. Where we would long ago have
frantically shredded our underwear into signal
flags and be dancing obscenely about on the shore in
a desperate frenzy,
they merely shift on their haunches, calm as two stoics
weighing the probable odds of the soul’s immortality,
as if to say, if a ship should happen along we’ll
be rescued. If not, not.
Katha Pollitt (New York,14 oktober 1949)
De Nederlandse schrijver Daniël Rovers werd geboren in Zelhem op 14 oktober 1975. Zie ook alle tags voot Daniël Rovers op dit blog.
Uit: Walter
“Peeters was een man van weinig woorden in de tijd die voorafging aan zijn eerste preek. Snel trok hij priesterhemd en kazuifel over de toog aan, en gebaarde ongeduldig – ‘spoit-u!’ – dat de jongens zijn voorbeeld moesten volgen.
Walter hield het witte gewaad voor zich uit en rook er aan. Lichter en tegelijk ouder werd je ervan. Achter de deur zwol het geroezemoes aan. Peeters hief zijn hand en wees naar de klok, nog één minuut en het zou acht uur zijn. Een minuut duurt zestig tellen, een tel één vingerknip. Peeters streek een lucifer af en liet de wierookkorrels in het koperen scheepje op twee plaatsen ontbranden, en gaf het Zeger in handen; Walter nam de belstok van de tafel. De jongens rechtten hun rug. Niet wandelen maar schrijden, statig als de koningen van Jeruzalem.
Peeters opende de deur en ging voorop. Walter volgde, al wilden zijn knieën niet. Een hart kan zo groot worden dat het in de keel gaat kloppen. Rustig adem blijven halen en dan stap voor stap verder gaan.
Gedrieën liepen ze naar het altaar. Het lichtgroene kazuifel, met stiksels van gouddraad, had Peeters in Parijs laten maken voor zijn vijfentwintigjarig priesterjubileum. Aan de binnenzijde was een rechthoekig stuk stof genaaid, met daarin geborduurd de naam van de fabriek, frères esselinx, paris. Peeters glom als een koe die zojuist heeft gekalfd. In Parijs leefden zo veel mensen dat sommigen er onder een brug moesten slapen.
Wierook maakte de lucht kruidig en mistig, zoals het in de hemel was. De parochianen zaten geknield in de banken, en van sommigen stond de mond open, alsof ze in het land der blinden verbleven, en een lange slaapwandeling hen naar de kerk had gebracht. Peeters maakte een kruisteken bij het bereiken van het altaar. Het gewicht van de belstok rustte in Walters rechterhand; nu moest hij een eerste maal op de plavuizen vloer stampen.”
Daniël Rovers (Zelhem, 14 oktober 1975)
De Nieuw-Zeelandse schrijfster Katherine Mansfield werd geboren op 14 oktober 1888 in Wellington. Zie ook alle tags voor Katherine Mansfield op dit blog.
Uit: The Journey To Bruges
“I knew you’d be doin’ that,” he said, airily. “I nearly come and stop you. I seen you from’ ere.”
I dropped into a smoking compartment with four young men, two of whom were saying good-bye to a pale youth with a cane. “Well, good-bye, old chap. It’s frightfully good of you to have come down. I knew you. I knew the same old slouch. Now, look here, when we come back we’ll have a night of it. What? Ripping of you to have come, old man.” This from an enthusiast, who lit a cigar as the train swung out, turned to his companion and said, “Frightfully nice chap, but—lord—what a bore!” His companion, who was dressed entirely in mole, even unto his socks and hair, smiled gently. I think his brain must have been the same colour: he proved so gentle and sympathetic a listener. In the opposite corner to me sat a beautiful young Frenchman with curly hair and a watch-chain from which dangled a silver fish, a ring, a silver shoe, and a medal. He stared out of the window the whole time, faintly twitching his nose. Of the remaining member there was nothing to be seen from behind his luggage but a pair of tan shoes and a copy of The Snark’s Summer Annual.
“Look here, old man,” said the Enthusiast, “I want to change all our places. You know those arrangements you’ve made—I want to cut them out altogether. Do you mind?”
“No,” said the Mole, faintly. “But why?”
“Well, I was thinking it over in bed last night, and I’m hanged if I can see the good of us paying fifteen bob if we don’t want to. You see what I mean?” The Mole took off his pince-nez and breathed on them. “Now I don’t want to unsettle you,” went on the Enthusiast, “because, after all, it’s your party—you asked me. I wouldn’t upset it for anything, but—there you are—you see—what?”
Suggested the Mole: “I’m afraid people will be down on me for taking you abroad.”
Straightway the other told him how sought after he had been. From far and near, people who were full up for the entire month of August had written and begged for him. He wrung the Mole’s heart by enumerating those longing homes and vacant chairs dotted all over England, until the Mole deliberated between crying and going to sleep. He chose the latter.”
Katherine Mansfield (14 oktober 1888 – 9 januari 1923)
De Duitse dichteres, schrijfster en filosofe Margarete Susman werd geboren op 14 oktober 1872 in Hamburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Margarete Susman op dit blog.
Johannisnacht
Blaue Johannisnacht
Lass uns über die Hügel gehn
Neunerlei Blumen zu brechen,
Kraut und Nesseln lassen wir stehn –
Wer will uns den Segen sprechen
Ehe der Tag erwacht?
Blaue ]ohannisnacht
Lass uns über die Hügel gehen –
Vielleicht dort hinten im Weiten
Werden wir leuchten sehn
Seliger, hlühender Zeiten
Tiefgeträumte Pracht. –
Blaue ]ohannisnacht
Lass uns über die Hügel gehn
Neunerlei Blumen deuten
Neun der Monde gläubig und schön,
Neun der zittetnd gefreuten –
Bis sich die Augen erschliessen
Die wie Blumen entspriesen,
Augen, aus denen die Zukunft lacht.
Blaue Johannisnacht.
Südlicher Mittag
Du Tal, das tief der Sonne Zeichen trägt.
Dich schliessen brennend klare Hügellketten
Hier mögen der versiegten Ströme Betten
Erinn’rung einzig da Geliebten retten:
Die Form, darein er flutend sie geprägt.
Vielleicht zu dieser Stunde eine Rast –
Der stumme weisse Mittag naht dem Tale,
Ein Zauber ruht in seiner klaren Schale;
Ein Schläfemdes entzittert jedem Strahle,
Des Lichtes Leben starrt zu heissem Glast.
Das Auge sinkt – zunächst dem Licht verwandt,
Doch leis und scheu umkreist mich noch das Leben:
Ich sehe halb der Falter stilles Schweben,
Der Hügelketten sanft verschlungnes Heben,
Die Riesenähren nah in goldnem Brand.
Der Blumen Lieberwillen füllt den Raum;
Ihn führt der Wind auf seiner seidnen Schwinge,
Ihm werden Boten matte Schmetterlinge
– Das wirre Abenteuer aller Dinge
Befällt mich wie ein grenzenloser Traum.
Margarete Susman (14 oktober 1872 – 16 januari 1966)
De Poolse schrijver Stefan Żeromski werd geboren op 14 oktober 1864 in Strawczyn in de buurt van Kielce. Zie ook alle tags voor Stefan Żeromski op dit blog.
Uit: The Faithful River (Vertaald door Bill Johnston)
“Which of you will dare to say that he’ll defeat those who come here in the night to torment innocent people like us? And if you can’t defeat them, which of you dared to unleash the savagery that they brought here in their souls from the cruel snows? Do you have in yourselves a strength that is equal to their savagery and is capable of crushing that evil?”
Olbromski [a leading figure in the uprising] was silent. She gave a sob and went on with her accusations: “The Russian soldiers burn down manor houses and kill the wounded on the battlefields. The farmers tie up the insurgents—”
He interrupted her in a different, hard voice: “You prefer their savagery to wounds and death? That savagery will reign over you for all time!”
“It already does, in spite of all the wounds.”
“The Polish tribe has found itself between millstones of destruction: the Germans and Moscow. It must either become a millstone itself or be ground up as fodder for the other two. There is no other choice. Any further discussion is superfluous.”
“What can we believe in? What can we live by?”
(…)
In those few days Salomea and Józef Odrowąż’s mother grew so close together that they became as one person. They communicated with each other by thoughts; above all, the feelings of each were an open book for the other. What for anyone else was only a word, a name, was for them the entire world. One understood the other’s emotions, could recognize them when they were merely referred to, could see them for what they were, and could move about them as if they were a land in another world, filled with hills, flower-covered valleys, cliffs, and deathly ravines. While the injured man slept, they sat in each other’s arms and recounted their impressions and their memories. A thousand times over Salomea divulged all the vicissitudes of the young man’s stay at the manor, all the stages of his sufferings, the mishaps, sorrows, and joys. For the mother it was all so fascinating and perpetually of interest that Salomea had to repeat it over and again.”
Stefan Żeromski (14 oktober 1864 – 20 november 1925)
DVD-cover voor de film “Wierna rzeka” (Engels: The Faithful River) uit 1983