De Palestijnse dichter Mahmoud Darwish werd geboren in Al-Birwa, Palestina, op 13 maart 1941. Zie ook alle tags voor Mahmoud Darwish op dit blog.
Psalm Three
On the day when my words
were earth…
I was a friend to stalks of wheat.
On the day when my words
were wrath
I was a friend to chains.
On the day when my words
were stones
I was a friend to streams.
On the day when my words
were a rebellion
I was a friend to earthquakes.
On the day when my words
were bitter apples
I was a friend to the optimist.
But when my words became
honey…
flies covered
my lips!…
Vertaald door Ben Bennani
A Lover from Palestine
Her eyes are Palestinian
Her name is Palestinian
Her dress and sorrow Palestinian
Her kerchief, her feet and body Palestinian
Her words and silence Palestinian
Her voice Palestinian
Her birth and her death Palestinian
Vertaald door Marjolijn De Jager
De Oekraïense dichter en schrijver Yuri Andrukhovych werd geboren op 13 maart 1960 in Iwano-Frankiwsk. Zie ook alle tags voor Yuri Andrukhovych op dit blog.
Without You – 2
From Songs For the Dead Rooster
The same smells, the same
scented candles, and various other contraptions:
bells, buddhas, new age recordings,
Madame Blavatsky . . .
As for the rest, we left it in perfect order,
the landlady might only have noticed
a couple of stains on the sheets.
Sadly, we don’t know how to do it more neatly.
Angels could do it more neatly,
but they don’t make love.
There’s no such thing as more neatly.
And then someone willed it so that after
a seventeen-month interruption I found myself there again:
the same smells, the same
scented candles, all this pseudo-indian stuff:
mandalas, castanedas, chopsticks, new age
bells and whistles . . .
And a night so long, a loneliness so complete under this ceiling,
and such utter stainlessness
that chances of getting into heaven
are suddenly not too bad.
But they don’t make love there.
Vertaald door Vitaly Chernetsky
(RIB)
I’d like to donate a rib
to an anatomy workshop.
There one finds the giant hearts of butchers and lovers,
the sagging and bloated lungs of smokers,
trumpeters and glass-blowers,
the melancholy innards of drunks,
a tattooed order of a hero (right above the nipple)
and the hands of the last executioner
after the twelfth sentence…
Not another word about the rest of the creatures.
I’d like to donate a rib.
Perhaps something would come out of it —
a fish,
or a woman,
or a branch of
a forgotten tree
gingko…
Vertaald door Yuri Andrukhovych
De Russische schrijver Vladimir Makanin werd geboren op 13 maart 1937 in Orsk. Zie ook alle tags voor Vladimir Makanin op dit blog.
Uit: The Safety-valve (Vertaald door Michael Falchikov)
“There was nothing remarkable about the f act that Alevtina had a lover, a certain Pavel Mikhailov, who was just approaching forty. Perhaps he was a bit clumsy and inexperienced in love affairs, but on the other hand, given the way life flowed in a predictable fashion, for Mikhailov this was absolutely the right time for an affair —
he had a wife, a nice flat, a good income and two sons already finishing school, one in his final year and the other the year below. “There’s only a year between my sons,”
Mikhailov liked to repeat, seeing in this fact a certain significance and solidity. How Mikhailov managed to dodge between his family and his mistress is unclear, and it was difficult to believe that he could manage it, since, from the very first moment, you could tell that this was a man not well-versed in lying — with him it was awkward and unconvincing. “Mikhailov!” – he would be called to the phone amidst the hysterical screech of saws, fussy customers, workers milling around. Mikhailov would be gripped by fear: was it his kids or was it `her’? So off he’d rush to his little nook where the phone was, and here one should note that, to outside appearances, he
walked quietly, ponderously, but inside him he was all in a tearing hurry with the nervous twitch of people who tell lies incompetently and unconvincingly and, above all as befits their age, not very often. Alevtina and his children — these were the only things that worried Mikhailov at those moments when hewas suddenly called to the phone, whereas at other times he was preoccupied with his work, his wife and his still living elderly mother.
Mikhailov was a man weighed down by responsibilities and by work and this gave a particular tinge to his love — the loveof a busy man. He grafted away — an expression be often used — in a furniture factory which went by the official name of “Workshop for the manufacture of furniture — orders from organizations and the general public”. Early in the morning, Mikhailov would arrive, invariably on time, and from first thing his clothing reeked of varnish and furniture-polish.”
De Franse schrijver Didier Decoin werd geboren op 13 maart 1945 in Boulogne-Billancourt (Seine). Zie ook alle tags voor Didier Decoin op dit blog.
Uit: Avec vue sur la mer
« Avec sa courte tour trapue et ses gros murs de granit, la maison semblait sortie tout droit d’un roman de Daphné du Maurier dont je venais de lire, avec des frissons de terreur jubilatoire, «L’Auberge de la Jamaïque». On n’imaginait pas y arriver autrement qu’en calèche à capote de cuir attelée à des chevaux squelettiques menés par un cocher patibulaire, tandis que des nuées effilochées couraient devant la lune et que des chiens féroces hurlaient sur la lande. Le menton presque dans la mer – enfin, dans cette fureur qui tenait lieu de mer –, le chalet où nous allions loger calait sa nuque contre une falaise pâle qui évoquait irrésistiblement ces canyons sur la crête desquels on voit soudain, dans les westerns, se profiler des silhouettes d’Indiens. D’ailleurs, comme pour forcer le trait, des hordes de chevaux y galopaient en liberté. La fille de la cuisinière (Calixte ? Camille ? Caroline ?…) se serra contre moi. Bien qu’on fût en été, le gardien avait allumé un feu dont les hautes flammes, attisées par le suroît, se contorsionnaient dans la cheminée. Ce n’était pas tant, nous apprit–il, pour assainir la maison restée longtemps inhabitée, que pour empêcher le Diable de descendre par le conduit, tout en rendant service, à peu de frais, aux gnômes des bruyères qui sont toujours en quête de tisons pour rallumer leur pipe. Il était toujours utile, en un lieu aussi éloigné des bienfaits ordinaires de la civilisation, de se concilier les faveurs des gnômes, conclut le gardien du chalet sur le ton le plus sérieux du monde. Les embruns avaient mis sur les vitres des fleurs de sel pareilles aux cristaux de neige. Un volet, quelque part, claquait au vent. La mer était invisible, mais on l’entendait feuler comme une bête féroce. »
De Turkse dichter Melih Cevdet (eig. Melih Cevdet Anday) werd geboren op 13 maart 1915 in Istanboel. Zie ook alle tags voor Melih Cevdet op dit blog.
Remembrance
Wish a couple of doves rise
Carnations smell piteously
This is an unmentionable thing
Suddenly comes to my mind
Sun was almost rising
You would get up usually
Perhaps you were still drowsy
Your night comes to my mind
Like the names of flowers I love
Like names of streets I love
Like the names of all my love
Your names come to my mind
That’s why comfortable beds shame
That lethargy during the kiss
Joining across the wire fence
Your fingers come to my mind
I have seen so many loves, allies
Read heroes in history
Suiting well to age solemn, simple
Your manners come to my mind
Wish a couple of doves rise
Carnations smell piteously
This is an unforgettable thing
Inevitably comes to my mind
Vertaald door Hüseyin Ergen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 13e maart ook mijn blog van 13 maart 2012 deel 2.