De Amerikaanse dichteres Linda Pastan werd geboren op 27 mei 1932 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Linda Pastan op dit blog.
Marks
My husband gives me an A
for last night’s supper,
an incomplete for my ironing,
a B plus in bed.
My son says I am average,
an average mother, but if
I put my mind to it
I could improve.
My daughter believes
in Pass/Fail and tells me
I pass. Wait ’til they learn
I’m dropping out.
The Happiest Day
It was early May, I think
a moment of lilac or dogwood
when so many promises are made
it hardly matters if a few are broken.
My mother and father still hovered
in the background, part of the scenery
like the houses I had grown up in,
and if they would be torn down later
that was something I knew
but didn’t believe. Our children were asleep
or playing, the youngest as new
as the new smell of the lilacs,
and how could I have guessed
their roots were shallow
and would be easily transplanted.
I didn’t even guess that I was happy.
The small irritations that are like salt
on melon were what I dwelt on,
though in truth they simply
made the fruit taste sweeter.
So we sat on the porch
in the cool morning, sipping
hot coffee. Behind the news of the day–
strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere–
I could see the top of your dark head
and thought not of public conflagrations
but of how it would feel on my bare shoulder.
If someone could stop the camera then…
if someone could only stop the camera
and ask me: are you happy?
perhaps I would have noticed
how the morning shone in the reflected
color of lilac. Yes, I might have said
and offered a steaming cup of coffee.
De nieuwe hond
In de zwaartekracht van mijn leven,
de serieuze ceremonies
van polijsten en papier
en pen, kwam
dit maniakale dier
wiens onschuldige verstoringen
iets onzinnigs maken
van mijn oude eenvoud–
alsof ik hem nodig had
om opnieuw te bewijzen dat
na alle zorgvuldige planning,
alles kan gebeuren.
Vertaald door Frans Roumen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 27e mei ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2019 en ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2018 deel 2.