De Amerikaanse dichteres Sharon Olds werd geboren op 19 november 1942 in San Francisco. Zie ook alle tags voor Sharon Olds op dit blog.
The End
We decided to have the abortion, became
killers together. The period that came
changed nothing. They were dead, that young couple
who had been for life.
As we talked of it in bed, the crash
was not a surprise. We went to the window,
looked at the crushed cars and the gleaming
curved shears of glass as if we had
done it. Cops pulled the bodies out
Bloody as births from the small, smoking
aperture of the door, laid them
on the hill, covered them with blankets that soaked
through. Blood
began to pour
down my legs into my slippers. I stood
where I was until they shot the bound
form into the black hole
of the ambulance and stood the other one
up, a bandage covering its head,
stained where the eyes had been.
The next morning I had to kneel
an hour on that floor, to clean up my blood,
rubbing with wet cloths at those glittering
translucent spots, as one has to soak
a long time to deglaze the pan
when the feast is over.
The Ferryer
Three years after my father’s death
he goes back to work. Unemployed
for twenty-five years, he’s very glad
to be taken on again, shows up
on time, tireless worker. He sits
in the prow of the boat, sweet cox, turned
with his back to the carried. He is dead, but able
to kneel upright, facing forward
toward the other shore. Someone has closed
his mouth, so he looks more comfortable, not
thirsty or calling out, and his eyes
are open, there under the iris the black
line that appeared there in death. He is calm,
he is happy to be hired, he’s in business again,
his new job is a joke between us and he
loves to have a joke with me, he keeps
a straight face. He waits, naked,
ivory bow figurehead,
ribs, nipples, lips, a gaunt
tall man, and when I bring people
and set them in the boat and push them off
my father poles them across the river
to the far bank. We don’t speak,
he knows that this is simply someone
I want to get rid of, who makes me feel
ugly and afraid. I do not say
the way you did. He knows the labor
and loves it. When I dump someone in
he does not look back, he takes them straight
to hell. He wants to work for me
until I die. Then, he knows, I will
come to him, get in his boat
and be taken across, then hold out my broad
hand to his, help him ashore, we will
embrace like two who were never born,
naked, not breathing then up to our chins we will
pull the dark blanket of earth and
rest together at the end of the working day.
De Amerikaanse dichter, librettist en essayist Scott Cairns werd geboren op 19 november 1954 in Tacoma, Washington. Zie ook alle tags voor Scott Cairns op dit blog.
Vroege vorst
Vanmorgen doet het witte gezicht van de wereld ons eraan denken
dat het leven weer de neiging heeft om serieus worden.
En dezelfde luidruchtige vogels die ons de hele zomer lang
irriteerden met hun verheven attitude en gekwetter
zitten stil langs de galg van het hek, een beetje verbluft,
deemoedig genoeg.
Ze zien eruit alsof ze erop wachten dat
alles erger wordt, maar kijken naar het huis,
alsof ze ergens in hun vage herinneringen
iets kunnen vinden over deze verlaten tuin,
dat hen zou kunnen redden.
De hond van de buurman heeft ook geleerd te waken
zonder overdrijving. En de buurman zelf
heeft zijn auto met minder lawaai bereikt en start
de kleine motor met een soort eerbied. Bij het raam
is zijn vrouw getuige van dit sombere tafereel, knipperend
met haar ogen, zwijgend.
Ik vul de voerbakken tot de rand en rij ze
naar de boom, haast me weer naar binnen
om de ochtend aan deze belachelijke
vogels over te laten, die het weer te binnen schiet, de simpele huisjes vinden,
zich voorover buigen, en dan eten.
Vertaald door Frans Roumen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 19e november ook mijn blog van 19 november 2018 en eveneens mijn blog van 19 november 2017 deel 3.