De Israëlische Hebreeuwse en Jiddische dichter en politicus Uri Zvi Greenberg werd geboren op 22 september 1896 in Bialikamin, Lviv, in Galicië, destijds behorend tot Oostenrijk-Hongarije. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010
Under the Tooth of their Plough
Once more the snows have melted there…and the murderers gone back to farming.
There they have gone out to plough their fields, for that is their name for my graveyards.
If the tooth of their plough, rolling skull-like over the furrow, should churn up
A skeleton of mine, the ploughman will not be saddened or shocked,
But will grin and recognize it, recognize the mark where his tools struck.
Spring anew over land: bud and bulb and lilac and warbling birds.
By the shining stream of shallow waters, the resting place of herds,
The roving Jews are no more: no more with their beards and side-curls.
They are no more in the inns with tallit and tsitsit over their shirts;
They are no more in the grocery store or the clothing store,
They are no more in their workshops and traincars now,
They are no more in the synagogue, even, or in the marketplace,
But under the tooth of the Christian plough.
For the Lord doth visit His goys with grace.
But spring will be spring- and summer comes fatly ever after,
The roadside trees are fruit-fat as garden trees, as never before.
The fruit has never been as red or juicy as it is now
That the Jews are no more.
The Jews didn’t have any bells to beckon God by1
Blessèd are the Christians, for theirs are the bells on high,
Bells whose voice booms gravely through the plain there now in spring,
Thickly spewed through the breadth of lands that fragrance and colors cover.
It is almighty and master of all: there is nothing more to pass over
As once He passed over the roofs of the Jews.
Blessèd are the Christians, for theirs are the bells on high,
To honor a God who loves all Christians and all of humankind.
And all of the Jews are corpses under the tooth of their plough
Or under the grass of pastures.
Or in the forest’s graves
On river banks, on river bottoms, or dumped along
The roads where they belong.
O praise ye your dear sweet Jesus
With the bang of your big bells:
Bing-bong.
Vertaald door A.Z. Foreman
Uri Zvi Greenberg (22 september 1896 – 8 mei 1981)
De Britse schrijfster Rosamunde Pilcher werd op 22 september 1924 geboren in Lelant, Cornwall, Groot-Brittannië. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010
Uit:Elfrida
„The next day, she took him to the local Poodle Parlour for a cut, shampoo, and blow-dry. He returned to her fluffy and fresh and smelling sweetly of lemonade. His response to all this sybaritic attention was a show of faithful, grateful, and loving devotion. He was a shy, even a timid, dog, but brave as well. If the doorbell rang, or he thought he spied an intruder, he barked his head off for a moment and then retreated to his basket, or to Elfrida’s lap. It took some time to decide on a name for him, but in the end she christened him Horace.
Elfrida, with a basket in her hand, and Horace firmly clipped to the end of his lead, closed the front door of her cottage behind her, walked down the narrow path, through the gate, and set off down the pavement towards the post office and general store.
It was a dull, grey afternoon in the middle of October, with nothing much to commend about it. The last of autumn’s leaves fell from trees, with an unseasonably icy breeze too chill for even the most ardent of gardeners to be out and about. The street was deserted, and the children not yet out of school. Overhead, the sky was low with clouds, that shifted steadily and yet never seemed to clear. She walked briskly, Horace trotting reluctantly at her heels, knowing that this was his exercise for the day and he had no alternative but to make the best of it.
The village was Dibton in Hampshire, and here Elfrida had come to live eighteen months ago, leaving London forever and making for herself a new life. At first she had felt a bit solitary, but now she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. From time to time, old acquaintances from her theatre days made the intrepid journey from the city and came to stay with her, sleeping on the lumpy divan in the tiny back bedroom that she called her work-room, which was where she kept her sewing machine and earned a bit of pin money making elaborate and beautiful cushions for an interior decorating firm in Sloane Street.“
Rosamunde Pilcher (Lelant, 22 september 1924)
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Hans Leip werd geboren op 22 september 1893 in Hamburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010
Blankenese
Ein Kleingebirg aus bunten Muscheln,
darüber dick die Wolken kuscheln.
Darunter Flaggen hin und her,
des Stromes Überseeverkehr.
Hoch auf schlanker Promenade
Haus über Haus das Grüngestade.
Ein kleines Nest, ein großes Bild.
Die Architekten lächeln mild.
Ein Dorf, das wie ein Eden liegt
und sanft nach Grog und Flundern riecht.
Von angenehmen Parks verschönt,
von einer Gastwirtsburg gekrönt.
Die stille Zuflucht – im Vertrauen –
zeitmüder Schlemmer, schöner Frauen.
Der Liebesstrand, das Sonntagsbad,
das Tanzlokal der großen Stadt.
Treppauf, treppab die Winkelgänge,
Schlafpuppengärten, Netzgehänge,
Boot, Abendbank und Fliesenkram,
versponnen, blond und tugendsam.
Solide Wäsche bauscht im Wind,
mit fremden Münzen spielt ein Kind,
ein Junge träumt von großer Fahrt,
ein Alter spinnt in seinen Bart.
Hoch über Baum und Schornsteindach
kommt man zu Atem allgemach.
Es brist herauf so meergeschwellt,
tief unten blitzt die weite Welt.
Hans Leip (22 september 1893 – 6 juni 1983)
De Duitse dichter Barthold Heinrich Brockes werd geboren in Hamburg op 22 september 1680. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 september 2010
Kirschblüte bei Nacht
Ich sahe mit betrachtendem Gemüte
Jüngst einen Kirschbaum, welcher blühte,
In kühler Nacht beim Mondenschein;
Ich glaubt’, es könne nichts von größrer Weiße sein.
Es schien, ob wär ein Schnee gefallen.
Ein jeder, auch der kleinste Ast
Trug gleichsam eine rechte Last
Von zierlich-weißen runden Ballen.
Es ist kein Schwan so weiß, da nämlich jedes Blatt,
indem daselbst des Mondes sanftes Licht
Selbst durch die zarten Blätter bricht,
Sogar den Schatten weiß und sonder Schwärze hat.
Unmöglich, dacht ich, kann auf Erden
Was Weißers ausgefunden werden.
Indem ich nun bald hin, bald her
Im Schatten dieses Baumes gehe,
Sah ich von ungefähr
Durch alle Blumen in die Höhe
Und ward noch einen weißern Schein,
Der tausendmal so weiß, der tausendmal so klar,
Fast halb darob erstaunt, gewahr.
Der Blüte Schnee schien schwarz zu sein
Bei diesem weißen Glanz. Es fiel mir ins Gesicht
Von einem hellen Stern ein weißes Licht,
Das mir recht in die Seele strahlte.
Wie sehr ich mich an Gott im Irdischen ergetze,
Dacht ich, hat Er dennoch weit größre Schätze.
Die größte Schönheit dieser Erden
Kann mit der himmlischen doch nicht verglichen werden.
Barthold Heinrich Brockes (22 september 1680 – 16 januari 1747)