De Ierse dichter Seamus Heaney werd op 13 april 1939 te County Derry, Noord-Ierland, geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 13 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 13 april 2009.
Mid-Term Break
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o’clock our neighbors drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying–
He had always taken funerals in his stride–
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were “sorry for my trouble,”
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o’clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
Blackberry-Picking
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.
Seamus Heaney (County Derry, 13 april 1939)
Een nog jonge Seamus Heaney
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Stephan Hermlin werd als zoon van joodse immigranten geboren op 13 april 1915 in Chemnitz. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 13 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 13 april 2009.
Sonett nach Michael Drayton
Wenn ich beschloß, dann mußt ich erst beginnen.
Ruh suchend, ging ich fort von meinem Bett.
Wo ich verlor, da sollt ich meist gewinnen.
Hungerverzehrt stand auf ich vom Bankett.
Ich fühl mich fliegen, doch ich möchte gehen.
Tief im Erfassen, handelnd wie ein Narr,
Freudeverzückt mitten im Höllenwehen.
Was ich ganz scheine, dessen bin ich bar.
Unendlich bau ich überm Firmament
Mein Hoffen, kriech im Grunde maulwurfsgleich.
Im Überfluß mich große Not verbrennt,
Doch bin im Mangel ich an Sattheit reich.
Ich habe, doch begehre ungeheuer,
In eisiger See verbrannt, ertränkt in einem Feuer
Stephan Hermlin (13 april 1915 – 6 april 1997)
Hermlin in 1954
De Turkse dichter Orhan Veli (eig. Orhan Veli Kanık) werd geboren op 13 april 1914 in Izmir. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 13 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 13 april 2009.
I am listening to Istanbul
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
At first there blows a gentle breeze
And the leaves on the trees
Softly flutter or sway;
Out there, far away,
The bells of water carriers incessantly ring;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Then suddenly birds fly by,
Flocks of birds, high up, in a hue and cry
While nets are drawn in the fishing grounds
And a woman’s feet begin to dabble in the water.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
The Grand Bazaar is serene and cool,
A hubbub at the hub of the market,
Mosque yards are brimful of pigeons,
At the docks while hammers bang and clang
Spring winds bear the smell of sweat;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Still giddy since bygone bacchanals,
A seaside mansion with dingy boathouses is fast asleep,
Amid the din and drone of southern winds, reposed,
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
Now a dainty girl walks by on the sidewalk:
Cusswords, tunes and songs, malapert remarks;
Something falls on the ground out of her hand,
It’s a rose I guess.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes c
losed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
A bird flutters round your skirt;
I know your brow is moist with sweat
And your lips are wet.
A silver moon rises beyond the pine trees:
I can sense it all in your heart’s throbbing.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
Vertaald door Talat Sait Halman
Orhan Veli (13 april 1914 – 14 november 1950)
De Nederlands schrijver en schaker Tim Krabbé werd geboren in Amsterdam op 13 april 1943. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 april 2009.
Uit: Marte Jacobs
‘Er was een moment waarop ze allebei alleen aan de kant zaten en elkaars blik opvingen. Ze had een soort ernstige spot in haar blik, die hij niet eerder had gezien. Ze werd natuurlijk ook ouder, ze wist meer van zichzelf. Ze knikten en lachten even. Maar Emile ging niet naar haar toe. Haar rol in het toneelstuk was te klein geweest om haar ermee te kunnen complimenteren, en hij kon ook niet met haar gaan dansen. Een zesdeklasser met een eersteklasser _ zoiets bestond niet. De hele school zou gonzen van de vraag wat dat te betekenen had.’
Tim Krabbé (Amsterdam, 13 april 1943)