Snowfall in the Afternoon
The grass is half-covered with snow.
It was the sort of snowfall that starts in late afternoon
And now the little houses of the grass are growing dark.
If I reached my hands down near the earth
I could take handfuls of darkness!
A darkness was always there which we never noticed.
As the snow grows heavier the cornstalks fade farther away
And the barn moves nearer to the house.
The barn moves all alone in the growing storm.
The barn is full of corn and moves toward us now
Like a hulk blown toward us in a storm at sea;
All the sailors on deck have been blind for many years.
Darkness is falling through darkness
Falling from ledge
There is a man whose body is perfectly whole.
He stands the storm behind him
And the grass blades are leaping in the wind.
Darkness is gathered in folds
About his feet.
He is no one. When we see
Him we grow calm
And sail on into the tunnels of joyful death.
All day I loved you in a fever holding on to the tail of the horse.
I overflowed whenever I reached out to touch you.
My hand moved over your body covered
With its dress
Burning rough an animal’s hand or foot moving over leaves.
The rainstorm retires clouds open sunlight
sliding over ocean water a thousand miles from land.
Robert Bly (Madison, 23 december 1926)
Uit:A River Runs Through It
“The four-count rhythm, of course, is functional. The one count takes the line, leader, and fly off the water; the two count tosses them seemingly straight into the sky; the three count was my father’s way of saying that at the top the leader and fly have to be given a little beat of time to get behind the line as it is starting forward; the four count means put on the power and throw the line into the rod until you reach ten o’clock—then check-cast, let the fly and leader get ahead of the line, and coast to a soft and perfect landing. Power comes not from power everywhere, but from knowing where to put it on. “Remember,” as my father kept saying, “it is an art that is performed on a four-count rhythm between ten and two o’clock.”
My father was very sure about certain matters pertaining to the universe. To him, all good things—trout as well as eternal salvation—come by grace and grace comes by art and art does not come easy.
Scene uit de film van Robert Redford uit 1992 met o.a. Brad Pitt
So my brother and I learned to cast Presbyterian-style, on a metronome. It was mother’s metronome, which father had taken from the top of the piano in town. She would occasionally peer down to the dock from the front porch of the cabin, wondering nervously whether her metronome could float if it had to. When she became so overwrought that she thumped down the dock to reclaim it, my father would clap out the four-count rhythm with his cupped hands.”
Norman Maclean (23 december 1902 – 2 augustus 1990)
Uit:Comme la poésie la peinture
“Lorsque Apollinaire et Picasso se rencontrent, en 1905, le poète ne peut pas ne pas être pourvu d’une aura romanesque. Né d’une mère polonaise (fille d’un émigré qui, installé à Rome, obtint, fin 1866, la charge de camérier d’honneur de cape et d’épée à la cour papale) et d’un père noble (mais qui ne le reconnaîtra pas), François Flugi d’Aspermont, ancien officier d’état-major du roi des Deux-Siciles, le jeune Apollinaire, après diverses pérégrinations en Italie, passera son enfance à Monaco où sa mère est une assidue du casino. Inscrit au collège Saint-Charles, Apollinaire reçoit une éducation religieuse. Il fait sa première communion le 8 mai 1892, il est secrétaire de la Congrégation de l’Immaculée Conception. Apollinaire, son frère et sa mère vivent à Monaco jusqu’en 1898. À cette date, la famille quitte Monaco, et toujours entraînés dans le sillage de leur mère, les deux garçons séjournent à Aix-les-Bains, Lyon, Paris qu’ils quitteront en juillet 1899 (Mme de Kostrowitzky ayant décidé de tenter fortune au casino de Spa) pour y revenir sans argent quatre mois plus tard.
Lorsque, en 1905, Apollinaire rencontre Picasso, il a vécu (et quelle vie !) à Rome, Monaco, puis, jeune homme, en Allemagne, à Berlin, Dresde, Prague, Vienne, Munich, Londres, Paris…”
Marcelin Pleynet (Lyon, 23 december 1933)
“I’ve been getting ready for our chat a long time. Sometime, somewhere we’ll sit down together. Maybe at a table in an old café. (There must still be a table like that somewhere!) In a quiet little tavern. Maybe on a terrace around the end of summer or in the fall. At such times the weather is cooler, and maybe no other guests will turn up besides ourselves. In a movie vestibule. Under a deserted football stand. On a secluded back pew in a church on the outskirts of town. Maybe we’ll bump into each other on the street. Two passersby. Two rather weary passersby who even so keep expecting something.
It’ll make no difference where. He won’t turn away. He’ll recognize the child who prayed so fervently. The praying stopped suddenly, but He won’t be terribly angry about that. Silence is still more bearable than rattling off lessons in meaningless repetition. Silence can always bring forth something worthy.
But maybe now we might break the silence. It’s certain I’d begin with some stupid complaint. My lament would be a faint melody. What if He took a crack at it!
I wouldn’t ask Him anything. I wouldn’t grill Him about wars, plagues, famine, floods. If He wants to say something, let Him say it on His own.
Just so He doesn’t want to put my fears to rest, because then I’ll…
Is it possible we’d quarrel? That a big fight is in the air that could suddenly explode? That wouldn’t be such a great problem either. I can have a real good fight only with those I love.
But there is something I’d ask Him, after all.
His humor, what’s happened to it?
What a sense of humor He had! He created the braying of Balaam’s ass before Balaam’s ass. Joseph’s coat before Joseph himself.
I say, I’d ask Him this. Otherwise, I’d leave Him in peace. Just let Him sit at the table in the café, in the tavern, on the terrace, in the movie vestibule, under the football stand, in the church on the outskirts.
If He doesn’t want to talk, I’ll understand that too.
After a time we’ll say goodbye. He’ll go his way, and I’ll go mine.”
Iván Mándy (23 december 1918 – 26 oktober 1995)
Portret door Szinte Gábor, 1979
Het Onze Vader
Die voor ons een Vader zijt!
U zij eeuwig lof gewijd,
Eeuwig worde Uw naam geprezen!
Al wat leeft valle U te voet,
Driemaal heilig, driemaal goed!
Kome Uw rijk, o grote Koning!
En geschiede Uw wil alom,
Boven in Uw Heiligdom,
Hier in aller mensen woning,
Tot dit aardse schaduwdal
Als Uw Hemel worden zal!
Geef ons brood en kracht ten leven,
Gij, die alle nood vervult!
En vergeef ons onze schuld,
Zo als wij elkaar vergeven!
Voed ons harte met Uw Geest;
Leer ons lieven allermeest!
Leid ons, macht- en krachtelozen,
Geen verzoeking te gemoet!
Maar beveilig onze voet,
En verlos ons van de Boze!
Want U is in eeuwigheid
’t Rijk, de Kracht, de Majesteit!
Vouwen wij de handen samen,
’t Is in naam van Uwe Zoon,
Dat wij naadren tot Uw troon,
Dat wij vrolijk zeggen: ‘Amen!
Amen! dit, o Hemelheer,
Geeft Gij ons, en – eindloos meer!’
J.J.L. ten Kate (23 december 1819 – 24 december 1889)
Borstbeeld in het Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
Uit:Icons: Quentin Crisp
„His line: “Ask yourself, if there were no praise and no blame, who would I be then?” will echo down the ages. Sadly, Crisp never saw Resident Alien, as he died on his way to London to have tea with Bourne during the show’s first run in 1999. I regret this, because I think he’d have recognised that he could have had no finer representative on earth than Bourne. The show went on to be a big success in London and New York (where Bourne won an Off-Broadway Theatre Award for his performance) and it played just two blocks round the corner from Crisp’s old flat.
So what was it that made him unique? I think in the end it was because, as his friend performance artist Penny Arcade said, “he grew up to be himself”. And, warts and all, perhaps that’s the greatest thing any of us can hope to achieve.”
Tim Fountain (Dewsbury, 23 december 1967)