De Amerikaanse dichteres Sharon Olds werd geboren op 19 november 1942 in San Francisco. Zie ook alle tags voor Sharon Olds op dit blog.
I Could Not Tell
I could not tell I had jumped off that bus,
that bus in motion, with my child in my arms,
because I did not know it. I believed my own story:
I had fallen, or the bus had started up
when I had one foot in the air.
I would not remember the tightening of my jaw,
the irk that I’d missed my stop, the step out
into the air, the clear child
gazing about her in the air as I plunged
to one knee on the street, scraped it, twisted it,
the bus skidding to a stop, the driver
jumping out, my daughter laughing
Do it again.
I have never done it
again, I have been very careful.
I have kept an eye on that nice young mother
who lightly leapt
off the moving vehicle
onto the stopped street, her life
in her hands, her life’s life in her hands.
Topography
After we flew across the country we
got in bed, laid our bodies
delicately together, like maps laid
face to face, East to West, my
San Francisco against your New York, your
Fire Island against my Sonoma, my
New Orleans deep in your Texas, your Idaho
bright on my Great Lakes, my Kansas
burning against your Kansas your Kansas
burning against my Kansas, your Eastern
Standard Time pressing into my
Pacific Time, my Mountain Time
beating against your Central Time, your
sun rising swiftly from the right my
sun rising swiftly from the left your
moon rising slowly form the left my
moon rising slowly form the right until
all four bodies of the sky
burn above us, sealing us together,
all our cities twin cities,
all our states united, one
nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
Sharon Olds (San Francisco, 19 november 1942)
De Amerikaanse schrijver en literaire biograaf Mark Harris (eig. Mark Harris Finklestein) werd geboren op 19 november 1922 in Mount Vernon, New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Mike Harris op dit blog.
Uit: The Southpaw
“First off I must tell you something about myself, Henry Wiggen, and where I was born and my folks.
Probably you never been to Perkinsville. How you get there you get an Albany train out of Grand Central Station. About halfway to Albany the conductor comes down the isle mumbling “Perkinsville.” Then the train slows and you got to be quick because most of them donýt exactly stop at Perkinsville. They just slow to a creep, and if youýre an old man or woman or if you got a broke leg or something of the sort I donýt know how you get off. Generally there will be no trouble. You just throw your bags clear and you swing down off on the cement platform and you fall away the way the train is going, and then you go back for your bags. Now you are in Perkinsville.
The last time I come by train through Perkinsville it was a rainy night and the platform was slick and I damn near skidded when I hit the cement. You have saw an outfielder start after a fly ball on wet grass and how he skids before his spikes take hold. That was how I skidded on the wet platform. But nothing come of it. It was midnight or after, and it was quiet on the square, and I cut across past the Embassy Theater and down past Borelliýs barber shop where I remember a long time ago they had a big picture of Sad Sam Yale hanging over the coat-hooks. But they have since took down the picture of Sam and put up 1 of me. Now my picture is took down, too, and the space is bare.
Next to Borelliýs is Fred Levineýs cigar store where you can get most any magazine, in particular magazines like “The Baseball Digest” and “Ace Diamond Tales” and such newspapers as “The Sporting News” and 1,000 other things. Then after Fred Levineýs is Mugs OýBrienýs gymnasium, just opposite the statue of Horace Cleves, and on the corner is the Perkinsville Pharmacy.”
Mark Harris (19 november 1922 – 30 mei 2007)
In 1959
De Oostenrijkse dichter, schrijver en vertaler Christoph Wilhelm Aigner werd geboren op 18 november 1954 in Wels. Zie ook alle tags voor Christoph Wilhelm Aigner op dit blog.
Die Katze der Verdrängung
Sie legt sich quer
auf Unterarm und Hände
Was sie nicht streichelt
soll sich nicht bewegen
Landsolo
Langsamer Wind
Getreidefeld
Wimpern am schläfrigen Sommer
Alleinsein mit wem
Nach dem Winter
Nichts hat sich ereignet
Hab Holz gehackt und das Holz
redete von Glut
zweiundzwanzig Briefe geschrieben zwei erhalten
dem Regen zugesehn
wie er vom Wind auf Händen
getragen wurde und doch fiel
Ein anderer bin ich jetzt
Christoph Wilhelm Aigner (Wels, 18 november 1954)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 19e november ookmijn blog van 19 november 2011 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.