Pé Hawinkels, Miguel de Unamuno, Hristo Smirnenski, Elizabeth Gaskell

De Nederlandse dichter, schrijver, songwriter en vertaler Pé Hawinkels werd geboren op 29 september 1942 in Heerlen. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 september 2006 en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2007 en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2008.


Nu de herfst koud als god

Nu de herfst koud als god in nekwervels en wortels vaart

Word ik ontmanteld, is er geen vindplaats.

In mijn ondersteboven gebouwd huis van kurk

Scharrel ik broedziek en betoverd

En ken geen andere genade

Dan de vampier die mij de slagaders opent.


Bevreesd, vliespotig op dit sterk water

Dat de geur van verbrand mensenhaar

En oude paringen bewaart,

Waag ik mijn hals. Luchtbel en lopend vuur

Houden mij drijvend. Een brandende kamstaart

In de diepte is mijn verspieder.


Mijn weer met bezemen gekeerd huis

Beeft van heugenis. Schedelbeen sluit zijn naden hechter

En versteent. Ik slaap op spijkers,

Naakt, holhoofdig en gereed.



Saturday Night


The neon light, of the “Open all night”,

Was just in time replaced by

The magic appearance of a new day-while

A melancholic Reno was crawling on his back

Just in front of the supermarket door-way, child

Hey girl, on a cold summernight

As we stood on the corner,

As a man passed by and asked us

What we were doing, what we need

As he pointed his big fat finger

To the people hangin’ round at the corner

Of the – other side of street

Oh well

Doin’ nothing, just hanging around

What do you mean doin’ nothing, Sir

So we had to hit him to the ground

Doin’ nothing just hanging around

His head all busted

Lookin’ just a little too wise child

I just can’t wait

I just can’t wait for saturday night



(Tekst: Pé Hawinkels, Muziek: Herman Brood)




Pé Hawinkels (29 september 1942 – 16 augustus 1977)


De Spaanse dichter en filosoof Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo werd geboren op 29 september 1864 in Bilbao. Zie ook ook mijn blog van 29 september 2006  en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2008.


Throw Yourself Like Seed

Shake off this sadness, and recover your spirit; sluggish you will never see the wheel of fate that brushes your heel as it turns going by, the man who wants to live is the man in whom life is abundant.

Now you are only giving food to that final pain which is slowly winding you in the nets of death, but to live is to work, and the only thing which lasts is the work; start then, turn to the work.

Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into your own field, don’t turn your face for that would be to turn it to death, and do not let the past weigh down your motion.

Leave what’s alive in the furrow, what’s dead in yourself, for life does not move in the same way as a group of clouds; from your work you will be able one day to gather yourself.



Miguel de Unamuno (29 september 1864 – 31 december 1936)


 De Bulgaarse dichter en schrijver Hristo Smirnenski werd geboren op 29 september 1898 in Koukoush.Zie ook ook mijn blog van 29 september 2006



The Tale Of Honour


It was an honour I had not

Expected, to be sure.

The Devil asked me in and offered

Me his best liqueur.


A candle gilt his profile.

Puffing smoke rings in a haze,

With moist eyes Mephistopheles

Upon me fixed gaze.


His mien, though tinged with autumn grief,

Was proud and cheerful too.

He cried: “In vino veritas –

I shall be frank with you!


“I can no longer bear the yoke

Of cunning and deceit.

here’s to my other-worldly warmth

And worldly woes we meet!


“Long, long ago I came to earth

And for a joke, you see,

Took worldly Truth to be my life

But she cuckolded me.


“My honour to avenge I vowed

In jealousy and pain.

I trampled others’ honour down

But mine I’ve not regained.


“I thought in exploits to excel.

I died in many a fray.

Though worthy causes I upheld

No honours came my way.


“Then in the street one day I showed

A sign I had prepared.

“Here is a man without a scrap

Of honour,
‘it declared.


“But, strangely, no one looked askance!

With interest I was viewed

And everywhere men doffed their hats:

‘No honour? Good for you!’


“A gentleman embraced me: ‘Brother,

You too?! Man alive!’

Two pretty ladies said: ‘Tomorrow

Come to tea at five!’


“Amazing! Such attention rare

All did to me devote.

Kings, ministers, court ladies fair

Fond letters to me wrote.


“Behold me rolling now in gold.

A man of place and pride!

A thief, a shameless rogue – I know –

But… honoured far and wide!”


He paused, our glasses he refilled

And raised a toast with glee

As, blowing rings of smoke, he fixed

His bright green eyes on me.



Hristo Smirnenski (29 september 1898 – 18 juni 1923)


De Britse schrijfster Elizabeth Gaskell werd geboren op 29 september 1810 in Londen. Zie ook ook mijn blog van 29 september 2006  en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2008.

Uit: Ruth


The chapel was up a narrow street, or rather cul-de-sac, close by.  It stood on the outskirts of the town, almost in fields.  It was built about the time of Matthew and Philip Henry, when the Dissenters were afraid of attracting attention or observation, and hid their places of worship in obscure and out-of-the-way parts of the towns in which they were built.  Accordingly, it often happened, as in the present case, that the buildings immediately surrounding, as well as the chapels themselves, looked as if they carried you back to a period a hundred and fifty years ago.  The chapel had a picturesque and old world look, for luckily the congregation had been too poor to rebuild it, or new-face it, in George the Third’s time.  The staircases which led to the galleries were outside, at each end of the building, and the irregular roof and worn stone steps looked grey and stained by time and weather.  The grassy hillocks, each with a little upright headstone, were shaded by a grand old wych-elm.  A lilac bush or two, a white rose-tree, and a few laburnums, all old and gnarled enough, were planted round the chapel yard; and the casement windows of the chapel were made of heavy- leaded, diamond-shaped panes, almost covered with ivy, producing a green gloom, not without its solemnity within.  This ivy was the home of an infinite number of little birds, which twittered and warbled, till it might have been thought that they were emulous of the power of praise possessed by the human creatures within, with such earnest, long-drawn strains did this crowd of winged songsters rejoice and be glad in their beautiful gift of life.  The interior of the building was plain and simple as plain and simple could
be.  When it was fitted up, oak-timber was much cheaper than it is now, so the woodwork was all of that description: but roughly hewed, for the early builders had not much wealth to spare.   The walls were whitewashed, and were  recipients of the shadows of the beauty without; on their “white plains” the tracery of the ivy might be seen, now still, now stirred by the sudden flight of some little bird.”



Elizabeth Gaskell (29 september 1810 – 12 november 1865)
Portret door William John Thomson


Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 29e september ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.