Wolfgang Hilbig, Raymond P. Hammond, Elizabeth von Arnim, William Saroyan, Théophile Gautier

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Wolfgang Hilbig werd geboren in Meuselwitz op 31 augustus 1941. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2008en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2009.


Balance der eingelegten reglos ruhenden Ruder
von denen blendend weiße Tropfen fallen
auf den zitternden Spiegel der See
in der unwirklichen Stille des lotrechten Lichts –
während in der Tiefe die Nacht sich wälzt mit ihrem Gewürm –
o dieser Augenblick im Gleichgewicht der den Atem anhält
bevor das Bild kentert.


Hinter Mir

Hinter meiner Mauer
im Rücken meiner Undurchdringlichkeit
im Licht
drehen sich Gottes Spielzeuge um sich selbst …
Hinter mir diese Karusselle von Desastern: grell bemalt
und von den blauen Netzen der Sonne verhüllt
und fern in verstockter Musik.


Matière de la poésie

Das Meer verhüllt von Licht: verhüllt von Helligkeit …
im Sinn von Licht: ein Lilienweiß um nichts zu sein
als Weiß der Lilien – und Meer um nichts als Meer
zu sein und ohne Maß: und Mond-Abwesenheit –
welch Leuchten das seine langer Überfahrt antritt
und jedes Land vergisst auf nichts bedacht als Ewigkeit –
das Meer: das nicht mehr Tag noch Nacht ist sondern Zeit.


Wolfgang Hilbig (31 augustus 1941 – 2 juni 2007)


 De Amerikaanse dichter, criticus en tijdschriftredacteur Raymond P. Hammond werd geboren op 31 augustus 1964 in Roanoke, Virginia. Hij volgde William Packard op bij de New York Quarterly na diens overlijden in 2002. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2009.


I love how the snow slightly

I love how the snow slightly
salts on shoulders, in hair
of the darkly draped women
whose sole earlier accent
of color was powder blue
pink, red, green, fuchsia scarves, hats
a contrast of dark to light
daguerreotype to color
old, young, ancient to modern
a colorized timelessness
of vision that I can pass
through and get chillingly wet


Crows Crouched

Crows crouched
on Southern Crosses
erected by some other
crazy christian

whose pyrrhic vision
told him to paint
the two smaller ones blue
and the center one gold

whose base is now rotten
and leaning toward
the theif who didn’t

Richard of St. Victor’s
dark and fluttering souls
held fast
to this earth
by the weightless
gravity of sin


Raymond P. Hammond (Roanoke, 31 augustus 1964)


De Engelse schrijfster Elizabeth von Arnim werd op 31 augustus 1866 geboren in Kirribilli Point in de buurt van Sydney. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2009.

Uit: The Enchanted April

„It began in a Woman’s Club in London on a February afternoon–an uncomfortable club, and a miserable afternoon–when Mrs. Wilkins, who had come down from Hampstead to shop and had lunched at her club, took up The Times from the table in the smoking-room, and running her listless eye down the Agony Column saw this:

To Those Who Appreciate Wistaria and Sunshine. Small mediaeval Italian Castle on the shores of the Mediterranean to be Let furnished for the month of April. Necessary servants remain. Z, Box 1000, The Times.

That was its conception; yet, as in the case of many another, the conceiver was unaware of it at the moment.

So entirely unaware was Mrs. Wilkins that her April for that year had then and there been settled for her that she dropped the newspaper with a gesture that was both irritated and resigned, and went over to the window and stared drearily out at the dripping street.

Not for her were mediaeval castles, even those that are specially described as small. Not for her the shores in April of the Mediterranean, and the wisteria and sunshine. Such delights were only for the rich. Yet the advertisement had been addressed to persons who appreciate these things, so that it had been, anyhow addressed too to her, for she certainly appreciated them; more than anybody knew; more than she had ever told. But she was poor. In the whole world she possessed of her very own only ninety pounds, saved from year to year, put by carefully pound by pound, out of her dress allowance. She had scraped this sum together at the suggestion of her husband as a shield and refuge against a rainy day. Her dress allowance, given her by her father, was L100 a year, so that Mrs. Wilkins’s clothes were what her husband, urging her to save, called modest and becoming, and her acquaintance to each other, when they spoke of her at all, which was seldom for she was very negligible, called a perfect sight.

Mr. Wilkins, a solicitor, encouraged thrift, except that branch of it which got into his food. He did not call that thrift, he called it bad housekeeping. But for the thrift which, like moth, penetrated into Mrs. Wilkins’s clothes and spoilt them, he had much praise. “You never know,” he said, “when there will be a rainy day, and you may be very glad to find you have a nest-egg. Indeed we both may.”


Elizabeth von Arnim (31 augustus 1866 – 9 februari 1941)


De Amerikaanse schrijver William Saroyan werd geboren op 31 augustus 1908 in Fresno,Californië. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2006  Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2009.

Uit: One Day in the Afternoon of the World

“You didn’t come to New York to tell the man you don’t want to make a deal, did you?”

“I came to New York because he sent me a check for a thousand dollars, with no strings attached. I came to meet him, to hear him out, to examine the contract.”

“What kind of contract do you want?”

“What kind does he want? This is his idea, not mine. All he’s got to do is put a deal in writing. All I’ve got to do is read it carefully and say yes or no. I made that very clear in my letter.”

“What about the play?”

“What about it?”

“What kind of a play is it going to be?”

“If the contract’s okay, and I sign it, it’s going to be a play that I write.”

“What kind of play, though?”

“The play isn’t written. We’ll know the kind it is when it is written.”

“He wants you to write a play something like one of the plays of Shaw. I forget which one, but he feels you’re the only playwright in the world who can write a play like that.”

“I don’t write a play like a play somebody else once wrote. I write a play, that’s all.”

“Have you got an idea for a play?”

“I don’t need an idea. For fifteen years I’ve written at least one new play a year. I haven’t earned a penny from any of them. You’ve looked up this man in Dun and Bradstreet, and he’s worth a lot of money. He wants me to write a play. He wants me to do something for him, for money, that I do anyway, for no money. I don’t ask him how he’s going to make his next million. I don’t ask him anything. Until you phoned and wired and wrote, and he phoned and wired, I didn’t even know he was alive. Now it turns out he is, and for some reason he wants me to write a play. All he’s got to do is let me see the contract.”

“Suppose you don’t like the contract?”

“I won’t sign it.”

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William Saroyan (31 augustus 1908 – 18 mei 1981)
Portret door Nareh Balian


De Franse dichter en schrijver Théophile Gautier werd op 31 augustus 1811 geboren in Tarbes (departement Hautes-Pyrénées). Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2006  Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2009.

Albertus, I

Sur le bord d’un canal profond dont les eaux vertes
Dorment, de nénufars et de bateaux couvertes,
Avec ses toits aigus, ses immenses greniers,
Ses tours au front d’ardoise où nichent les cigognes,
Ses cabarets bruyants qui regorgent d’ivrognes,
Est un vieux bourg flamand tel que les peint Teniers.
– Vous reconnaissez-vous ? – Tenez, voilà le saule,
De ses cheveux blafards inondant son épaule
Comme une fille au bain, l’église et son clocher,
L’étang où des canards se pavane l’escadre ;
– Il ne manque vraiment au tableau que le cadre
Avec le clou pour l’accrocher. –


Albertus, II

Confort et far-niente ! – toute une poésie
De calme et de bien-être, à donner fantaisie
De s’en aller là-bas être Flamand ; d’avoir
La pipe culottée et la cruche à fleurs peintes,
Le vidrecome large à tenir quatre pintes,
Comme en ont les buveurs de Brawer, et le soir
Près du poêle qui siffle et qui détonne, au centre
D’un brouillard de tabac, les deux mains sur le ventre,
Suivre une idée en l’air, dormir ou digérer,
Chanter un vieux refrain, porter quelque rasade,
Au fond d’un de ces chauds intérieurs, qu’Ostade
D’un jour si doux sait éclairer !


Théophile Gautier (31 augustus 1811 – 23 oktober 1872)
Portret door Auguste de Châtilon