R. S. Thomas, Jacques Brault, Denton Welch, Marcel Aymé, R. Dobru, Jenő Rejtő, Johann Musäus

De Welshe dichter Ronald Stuart Thomas werd geboren op 29 maart 1913 in Cardiff. Zieook mijn blog van 29 maart 2009.


Poetry For Supper


‘Listen, now, verse should be as natural

As the small tuber that feeds on muck

And grows slowly from obtuse soil

To the white flower of immortal beauty.’


‘Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer

Said once about the long toil

That goes like blood to the poem’s making?

Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,

Limp as bindweed, if it break at all

Life’s iron crust. Man, you must sweat

And rhyme your guts taut, if you’d build

Your verse a ladder.’

‘You speak as though

No sunlight ever surprised the mind

Groping on its cloudy path.’


‘Sunlight’s a thing that needs a window

Before it enter a dark room.

Windows don’t happen.’

So two old poets,

Hunched at their beer in the low haze

Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran

Noisily by them, glib with prose.





Dear parents,

I forgive you my life,

Begotten in a drab town,

The intention was good;

Passing the street now,

I see still the remains of sunlight.


It was not the bone buckled;

You gave me enough food

To renew myself.

It was the mind’s weight

Kept me bent, as I grew tall.


It was not your fault.

What should have gone on,

Arrow aimed from a tried bow

At a tried target, has turned back,

Wounding itself

With questions you had not asked.


R. S. Thomas (29 maart 1913 – 25 september 2000)
Portret door Gordon Stewart


De Canadese dichter, schrijver en vertaler Jacques Brault werd geboren op 29 maart 1933 in Montreal. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 29 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 29 maart 2009.



Ce soleil de lilas


Ce soleil de lilas

                          me pénètre

comme un hameçon

l’oeil du poisson

encore un printemps       puis-je permettre

qu’il darde ses aiguilles

dans la terre brunie dans ma tête vieillie

toutes deux si bien obscurcies

revenir de mort

me devenait si facile

je ne demande plus pourquoi

je commence d’oublier comment

et voici que la pelouse se liquéfie

le dur hiver s’affaisse en plis mous

des feuilles à mes pieds se réveillent

et regardent se souvenant les branches lisses

j’ai mal de cette vie nouvelle

revenir de mort n’est plus possible

aide-moi je t’en prie toi qui ruisselles

et ris sous le soleil-lilas

toi patient pêcheur de sursis


Jacques Brault (Montreal, 29 maart 1933)




Zie voor alle onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 29 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 29 maart 2009.




De Engelse schrijver Maurice Denton Welch werd geboren op 29 maart 1915 in Sjanghai.

Uit: A Party


Fat Bertha Swan had bounced into the Still-life Room, given her invitation and bounced out again, shouting, ‘And see you damn well come in fancy undress – you won’t be let in otherwise.’

Ian, painting alone in one corner, had smiled. He liked Bertha – even her exaggerated uncouthness and her absurd swearing amused him. He would certainly go to her party.

But now, as he sat on the bed in his room, he wondered what exactly fancy undress meant. He supposed it meant fig leaves, loincloths, straw-skirts, saucepan lids, but he wished he had asked some of the other students what they intended to wear. The knowledge would have given him more confidence.

Going over to the chest of drawers, he pulled out his faded mauve bathing ’trunks’ and looked at them doubtfully. He remembered buying them with an unexpected postal order sent to him on his fifteenth birthday two years ago. His aunt had not thought mauve a very suitable colour for a boy, but he had liked them even more just because of her disapproval. Now moth holes stared up at him from important places; but these could be hidden….

Charming, heavy, swart Bertha, dressed all in Union Jacks, opened the door herself. A smooth round pillar of stomach divided her bunchy brassiere from her frilly skirt. She screamed, jumped up and down like a pneumatic road drill, then hustled Ian into a bedroom on the ground floor. There he found the clothes of all the other guests strewn about him carelessly. He shivered a little as he pulled on his [costume made from large leaves stitched to the swimming trunks], gowned himself and hung the garland round his neck. He tried not to feel naked and horribly defenceless. He longed for one of those awe-inspiring gorilla bodies. No-one would dare laugh then… Bertha gave him no time for further anxious brooding. She burst into the room and cried, ‘Oh, but, Ian, you look sweet. What are you? A sort of little woodland sprite, or what?’

Overcome with confusion, Ian could only mutter savagely, ‘I don’t know. I’m nothing in particular, although I had thought of trying to come as Bacchus.’

‘But you can’t look nearly loose enough for that,’ shrieked Bertha, taking his hand and pulling him into the living-room….

Ian grew so tired of stubbing his toes on unexpected pieces of furniture [in the party game of ‘sardines’], of waiting breathlessly in the dark, that at last he crept up to the French window and let himself into the garden. The night wind blowing on his hot skin made him shiver, but he welcomed it. He went over to the [tethered] cats. They were all lying down, like the lions in Trafalgar Square. The Tom had made one of those amazing smells, fascinating and horrible in their pungency, their power to evoke all scenes of human squalor and misery.“



Denton Welch (29 maart 1915 – 30 december 1948)
Detail van zelfportret uit 1942



De Franse schrijver en toneelauteur Marcel Aymé werd geboren op 29 maart 1902 in Joigny.


Uit: Le passe-muraille


„Il y avait à Montmartre, au troisième étage du 75 bis de la rue d’Orchampt, un excellent homme nommé Dutilleul qui possédait le don singulier de passer à travers les murs sans en être incommodé. Il portait un binocle, une petite barbiche noire, et il était employé de troisième classe au ministère de l’Enregistrement. En hiver, il se rendait à son bureau par l’autobus, et, à la belle saison, il faisait le trajet à pied, sous son chapeau melon.

Dutilleul venait d’entrer dans sa quarante-troisième année lorsqu’il eut la révélation de son pouvoir. Un soir, une courte panne d’électricité l’ayant surpris dans le vestibule de son petit appartement de célibataire, il tâtonna un moment dans les ténèbres et, le courant revenu, se trouva sur le palier du troisième étage. Comme sa porte d’entrée était fermée à clé de l’intérieur, l’incident lui donna à réfléchir et, malgré les remontrances de sa raison, il se décida à rentrer chez lui comme il en était sorti,en passant à travers la muraille.“ 



Marcel Aymé (29 maart 1902 – 15 oktober 1967)
Montmartre, Place Marcel Ayme, sculptuur van „Le passe-muraille“ door Jean Marais



De Surinaamse dichter, schrijver en politicus R. Dobru (pseudoniem van Robin Ewald Raveles)werd geboren in  Paramaribo op 29 maart 1935.



4-juni overpeinzing


Deze vlag

die mijn Natie draagt

deze kleuren

waarmee dit Volk

zit opgescheept in sterren

deze vlag

welke wij vandaag nog moeten verdedigen

met ons bloed

waarvoor wij vandaag nog

willen offeren have en goed

als het moet

deze vlag

die ons volk verdeelt en heerst

deze vlag die apartheid propageert

deze vlag frustreert

deze vlag

die staat

terwijl wij zoeken naar vaart

deze vlag

is ons verleden en

– vandaag somwijlen nog – ons heden

deze vlag

geeft ons geen streven

heeft geen leugd

deze vlag, die niet deugt 


R. Dobru (29 maart 1935 – 17 november 1983)



De Hongaarse schrijver Jenő Rejtő (eig. Reich Lajos) werd geboren op 29 maart 1905 in Boedapest.


Uit: The 14-Carat Roadster (Vertaald door Patricia Bozsó)


„Ivan Gorchev, sailor on the freight ship ‘Rangoon’, was not yet twenty-one when he won the Nobel Prize in physics. To win a scientific award at such a romantically young age is unprecedented, though some people might consider the means by which it was achieved a flaw. For Ivan Gorchev won the Nobel Prize in physics in a card game, called macao, from a Professor Bertinus, on whom the honour had been bestowed in Stockholm by the King of Sweden a few days earlier. But those who are always finding fault don’t like to face facts, and the fact of the matter is that Ivan Gorchev did win the Nobel Prize at the age of twenty-one.

Professor Bertinus, with the Nobel Prize in his briefcase, had boarded ship in Göteborg, and before the ship sailed, the Swedish Franklin Society assembled on deck to present him with the big gold medal for his successful experiments in the splitting of the atom. The ship then departed, and the worthy professor was all impatience to arrive in Bordeaux, where he owned a few acres of vintage, as elderly French civil servants generally did, from the executioner’s assistant, to the director of the museum.

Ivan Gorchev, on the other hand, boarded ship in Southampton, to cross the Channel for reasons unknown even to himself. It’s true that he had been fired from a freight ship (the Rangoon) because he had used a four-pointed boat hook to beat up the navigator. But as to why anyone who had beaten up a navigator and been fired from a freight ship would want to cross the Channel, we do not understand any more than so many of our hero’s actions.

Another perplexing fact is how this frivolous young man was able to become acquainted with the world-famous scientist; what is particularly obscure is how he was able to convince the aged and reticent professor to play, even for very small stakes, macao, a game of chance prohibited in many countries. We must resign ourselves to ignorance of these details. Allegedly the whole thing began when the professor became seasick on deck. Gorchev offered him a pleasant-tasting lemon-cognac-sodium bicarbonate drink of his own concoction. The professor recovered, and asked the young man who he was, and from where he had come.

“My name is Ivan Gorchev, twenty-one-year-old by profession, and son of the brother of Baron Gorchev of the Tsar’s Chamber, from the family of Nasya Goryodin. My father was a captain in the guard and my uncle, as the military commander of the Yustvesti Verstkov, defended Odessa against the rebellious naval forces.”


Jenő Rejtő (29 maart 1905 – 1 januari 1943)



De Duitse schrijver Johann Karl August Musäus werd geboren op 29 maart 1735 in Jena.


Uit: Volksmärchen der Deutschen


Rolands Knappen


Vetter Roland hatte, wie alle Welt weiß, seines Oheims Kaiser Karls Kriege mit Glück und Ruhm geführt und unsterbliche Taten getan, von Dichtern und Romanziern besungen, bis ihm Ganelon der Verräter, bei Ronceval am Fuß der Pyrenäen, den Sieg über die Sarazenen und zugleich das Leben entriß. Was half’s dem Helden, daß er den Enakssohn, den Riesen Ferracutus, den hohnsprechenden Syrer aus Goliaths Nachkommenschaft erlegt hatte, da er den Säbelstreichen der Ungläubigen dennoch unterliegen mußte, wogegen ihn sein gutes Schwert Durande diesmal nicht[122] schützen konnte; denn er hatte seine Heldenbahn durchlaufen und befand sich am Ende derselben. Von aller Welt verlassen lag er da unter den Scharen der Erschlagnen, schwer verwundet und von brennendem Durst gequält. In diesem traurigen Zustande nahm er alle Kräfte zusammen und stieß dreimal in sein wundersames Horn, um Karln das verabredete Zeichen zu geben, daß es mit ihm am letzten sei. Obgleich der Kaiser mit seinem Heer acht Meilen weit vom Schlachtfelde kampierte, vernahm er doch den Schall des wunderbaren Horns, hob alsbald die Tafel auf zu großem Verdruß seiner Schranzen, welche eine leckerhafte Pastete witterten, die eben zerlegt wurde, und ließ sein Heer flugs aufbrechen, seinem Neffen zu Hülfe zu eilen, wiewohl es damit zu spät war; denn Roland hatte so gewaltsam intoniert, daß das güldene Hörn geborsten war, er hatte sich alle Adern am Halse zersprengt und seinen Heldengeist bereits ausgeatmet. Die Sarazenen aber freueten sich ihres Sieges, und legten ihrem Heerführer den Ehrennamen Malek al Nasser oder des siegreichen Königes bei.”


Johann Musäus (29 maart 1735 – 28 oktober 1787)