De Hongaarse dichter en schrijver Miklós Radnóti werd geboren op 5 mei 1909 in Boedapest. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2009.
War Diary
3. Weary Afternoon
A dying wasp flies in at the window,
my dreaming wife talks in her sleep,
and the hems of the browning clouds
are blown to fringes by a gentle breeze.
What can I talk about? Winter is coming, and war is coming;
soon I will lie broken, seen by no one;
worm-ridden earth will fill my mouth and eyes
and roots will pierce through my body.
*
Oh, gently rocking afternoon, give me peace—
I will lie down too, and work later.
The light of your sun is already hanging on the hedges,
and yonder the evening comes across the hills.
They have killed a cloud, its blood is falling on the sky;
below, on the stems of the glowing leaves
sit wine-scented yellow berries.
4. Evening Approaches
Across the slick sky the sun is climbing down,
and the evening is coming early along the road.
Its coming is watched in vain by the sharp-eyed moon—
little puffs of mist are gathering.
The hedgerow is wakening, it catches at a weary wanderer;
the evening is spinning among the tree branches
and humming louder and louder, while these lines build up
and lean on one another.
A frightened squirrel springs into my quiet room,
and here a six-footed iambic couplet scampers by.
From the wall to the window, a brown moment—
and it’s gone without a trace.
The fleeting peace disappears with it. Silent
worms crawl over the far fields
and slowly chew to pieces the endless
rows of the reclining dead.
Vertaald door Lucy Helen Boling
Miklós Radnóti (5 mei 1909 – 9 november 1944)
De Nederlandse dichteres Petra Else Jekel werd in Arnhem geboren op 5 mei 1980. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2009.
Meisje
Geen kind heeft mij gevonden nog,
ingevroren geraakt in rots,
mij,
met onontvlamde zwavelstok.
Toch kwam ik thuis op den duur uit
het sneeuwlandschap. Langzaam daalden
de bergen, het land werd een zee,
geen kind waarmee ik verdwaalde
bracht zee levend aan de over
kant. Brandstof was mijn betaalde.
Petra Else Jekel (Arnhem, 5 mei 1980)
De Amerikaanse schrijver Morton Rhue (pseudoniem van Todd Strasser) werd geboren op 5 mei 1950 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2009.
Uit: If I Grow Up (als Todd Strasser)
„The shouting and screaming outside started at dinnertime. We were sitting on the living room couch, eating macaroni and cheese, and watching Judge Joe Brown on the TV. Between the banging of the heat pipes and the noise outside, it was one big racket.
“DeShawn, turn up the sound,” Gramma said. I put my tray on the couch and turned up the volume. The TV was old, and no one knew where the clicker was anymore. It was just me and Gramma that night. My big sister, Nia, was out with her boyfriend, LaRue.
Outside the yelling got louder and the police sirens started. Gramma flinched and put down her fork. She shook her gray head wearily, and the skin around her eyes wrinkled. “Noise around here is gonna make me lose my mind.”
I glanced toward the thick green curtains that covered the window. Ever since gangbangers cocktailed the apartment down the hall, Gramma had kept the curtains closed all the time.
“Don’t go near that window,” she warned. “They could start shootin’.”
The curtains already had two bullet holes the size of bottle caps. There were bullet holes in the walls, too. Gramma had put a picture over one of them, and another was blocked by our little Christmas tree decorated with tinsel and candy canes. We would have been safer living on a high floor, but the elevators were always broken and it was hard for Gramma to climb the stairs after cleaning houses all day. In the projects, the older you got, the closer to the ground you wanted to live.“
Morton Rhue/Todd Strasser (New York, 5 mei 1950)
De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver en journalist Christopher Morley werd geboren op 5 mei1890 in Haverford, Pennsylvania. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2009.
The Passionate Shepherd To His Love
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountain yields.
There we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
Animal Crackers
Animal crackers and cocoa to drink,
That is the finest of suppers I think;
When I’m grown up and can have what I please
I think I shall always insist upon these.
What do YOU choose when you’re offered a treat?
When Mother says, ‘What would you like best to eat?’
Is it waffles and syrup, or cinnamon toast?
It’s cocoa and animals that I love most!
The kitchen’s the cosiest place that I know;
The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow,
And there in the twilight, how jolly to see
The cocoa and animals waiting for me.
Daddy and Mother dine later in state,
With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait;
But they don’t have nearly as much fun as I
Who eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by;
And Daddy once said, he would like to be me
Having cocoa and animals once more for tea.
Christopher Morley (5 mei 1890 – 28 maart 1957)
De Franse dichter, schilder en criticus George Albert Aurier werd geboren op 5 mei 1865 in Châteauroux (Indre). Zie ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 5 mei 2009.
Uit: The Isolated Ones: Vincent van Gogh (Les Isolés : Vincent van Gogh )
“Beneath skies that sometimes dazzle like faceted sapphires or turquoises., that sometimes are molded of infernal, hot, noxious, and blinding sulfurs; beneath skies like streams of molten metals and crystals, which, at times, expose radiating, torrid solar disks; beneath the incessant and formidable streaming of every conceivable effect of light, in heavy, flaming, burning atmospheres that seem to be exhaled from fantastic furnaces where gold and diamonds and similar gems are volatilized–there is the disquieting and disturbing display of a strange nature, that is at once entirely realistic, and yet almost supernatural, of an excessive nature where everything–beings and things, shadows and lights, forms and colours–rears and rises up with a raging will to howl its own essential song in the most intense and fiercely high-pitched timbre: Trees, twisted like giants in battle, proclaiming with the gestures of their gnarled menacing arms and with the tragic waving of their green manes their indomitable power, the pride of their musculature, their blood-hot sap, their eternal defiance of hurricane, lightning and malevolent Nature; cypresses that expose their nightmarish, flamelike, black silhouettes, mountains that arch their backs like mammoths or rhinoceri; white and pink and golden orchards, like the idealizing dreams of virgins; squatting, passionately contorted houses, in a like manner to beings who exult, who suffer, who think; stones, terrains, bushes, grassy fields, gardens, and rivers that seem sculpted out of unknown minerals, polished, glimmering, iridescent, enchanting, flaming landscapes, like the effervescence of multicoloured enamels in some alchemist’s diabolical crucible; foliage that seems of ancient bronze, of new copper, of spun glass; flowerbeds that appear less like flowers than opulent jewelry fashioned from rubies, agates, onyx, emeralds, corundums, chrysoberyls, amethysts, and chalcedonies; it is the universal, mad and blinding coruscation of things; it is matter and all of Nature frenetically contorted . . . raised to the heights of exacerbation; it is form, becoming nightmare; colour, becoming flame, lava and precious stone; light turning into conflagration; life, into burning fever.”
George Albert Aurier (5 mei 1865 – 5 oktober 1892)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 5e mei ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.