Oh, summer has clothed the earth In a cloak from the loom of the sun! And a mantle, too, of the skies’ soft blue, And a belt where the rivers run.
And now for the kiss of the wind, And the touch of the air’s soft hands, With the rest from strife and the heat of life, With the freedom of lakes and lands.
I envy the farmer’s boy Who sings as he follows the plow; While the shining green of the young blades lean To the breezes that cool his brow.
He sings to the dewy morn, No thought of another’s ear; But the song he sings is a chant for kings And the whole wide world to hear.
He sings of the joys of life, Of the pleasures of work and rest, From an o’erfull heart, without aim or art; ‘Tis a song of the merriest …
Paul Laurence Dunbar (27 juni 1872 – 9 februari 1906) Dayton, Ohio, de geboorteplaats van Paul Laurence Dunbar
De Noorse schrijfster en scenariste Maja Lunde werd geboren in Oslo op 30 juli 1975. Zie ook alle tags voor Maja Lunde op dit blog. Zie ook alle tags voor Maja Lunde op dit blog.
Uit: The Last Wild Horses (Vertaald door Diane Oatley)
“Heiane, Viken, Norway, 2064 The stallion’s attraction to the mare verged on euphoria. The instinct was all-consuming, making him delirious, unpredictable. As a human being, I will never understand such an intense, physical craving. Well, there was a period of my life when I’d allowed myself to be pulled under the surface, where I’d let go, but only for a few minutes and that was long ago. I could no longer afford such a luxury. The only drive propelling my actions now was hunger. Hunger can make a per-son behave irrationally, too, in a manner resembling madness. Hunger can com-pel us to do just about anything. There’s no arguing with an animal’s drives, so I had to protect Nike, my mare. Rimfaxe was relentless, although the fences around Nike and her foal Puma should have been enough to keep him at a safe distance. Nike was in heat and this lured him to the paddock no matter how much I yelled and gesticulated. She’d lost her partner, Hummel the stallion, last autumn. He’d been old and tired; I took pity on him. And now Nike was alone. I knew she would not find peace un-til she conceived. But she couldn’t have what she wanted because she was a takhi, one of the few remaining wild horses in the world, and Rimfaxe was just a wholly ordinary, tame horse Richard had freed before his departure from the neighbouring farm one year ago. The foal of a wild horse and a tame horse would inherit predominantly the characteristics of the tame horse; the bloodline would die out after just two generations, and all our efforts to bring her here, the work invested to ensure the continued survival of her breed, would have been in vain. “Get out of here, Rimfaxe!” The stallion rubbed against the fence, thrust his muzzle toward Nike trying to reach her, and the mare encouraged him, lifting her tail and turning her hindquarters in his direction. I ran closer waving my arms. “Get out of here! Shoo!” Rimfaxe whinnied at me, twisting and side-stepping a bit, before trotting away, his haunches expressing his indignation. “Forget about it!” I shouted after him. “Go find a horse of your own kind!” Soon, I would no longer need to guard them like this. It was September. Nike was about to commence her six-month anestrus period, six months of peace and quiet for both of us. During the winter, I had control over the animals’ behaviour and my own situation. As long as the larder was full, as long as the winter storms kept their distance, as long as the power didn’t go out, life was manageable in the winter. I walked all the way over to the fence, leaned against a pole, and reached my hands out to the wild horses. “Good morning, Nike. Hi, Puma.” They turned their heads toward me, recognizing my voice. Puma came over first, his skinny legs nimble against the ground. He was still new to the world, a little unsteady, and his movements had a kind of hesitancy. He poked his muzzle through the fence and snuffled softly.”
Summer Day At The Beach door Wilhelm Simmler, 1900
Summer(a love poem)
I wanted to be sure this was our island so we could walk between the long stars by the sea though your hips are slight and caught in the air like a moth at the end of a river around my arms I am unable to understand the sun your dizzy spells when you form a hand around me on the sand
I offer you my terrible sanity the eternal voice that keeps me from reaching you though we are close to each other every autumn I feel the desperation of a giant freezing in cement when I touch the door you’re pressed against the color of your letter that reminds me of flamingos
isn’t that what you mean? the pleasure of hands and lips wetter than the ocean or the brilliant pain of breathless teeth in a turbulent dream on a roof while I thought of nothing else except you against the sky as I unfolded you like my very life a liquid signal of enormous love we invented like a comet that splits the air between us!
the earth looks shiny wrapped in steam and ermine tired of us perspiring at every chance on the floor below I bring you an ash tray out of love for the ice palace because it is the end of summer the end of the sun because you are in season like a blue rug you are my favorite violin when you sit and peel my eyes with your great surfaces seem intimate when we merely touch the thread of life and kiss
Frank Lima (1939 – 21 oktober 2013) Harlem, New York, de geboorteplaats van Frank Lima
Come, walk with me, There’s only thee To bless my spirit now – We used to love on winter nights To wander through the snow; Can we not woo back old delights? The clouds rush dark and wild They fleck with shade our mountain heights The same as long ago And on the horizon rest at last In looming masses piled; While moonbeams flash and fly so fast We scarce can say they smiled –
Come walk with me, come walk with me; We were not once so few But Death has stolen our company As sunshine steals the dew – He took them one by one and we Are left the only two; So closer would my feelings twine Because they have no stay but thine –
‘Nay call me not – it may not be Is human love so true? Can Friendship’s flower droop on for years And then revive anew? No, though the soil be wet with tears, How fair soe’er it grew The vital sap once perished Will never flow again And surer than that dwelling dread, The narrow dungeon of the dead Time parts the hearts of men -‘
Emily Brontë (30 juli 1818 – 19 december 1848) Borstbeeld in Bradford
Uit: The Search Warrant (Vertaald door Joanna Kilmartin)
“Like many writers before me, I believe in coincidence and, sometimes, in the novelist’s gift for clairvoyance — the word “gift” not being the right one, for it implies a kind of superiority. Clairvoyance is simply part of the profession: the essential leaps of imagination, the need to fix one’s mind on detail — to the point of obsession, in fact — so as not to lose the thread and give in to one’s natural laziness. All this tension, this cerebral exercise, may well lead in the long run to “flashes of intuition concerning events past and future”, as defined by Larousse dictionary under “clairvoyance”. In December 1988, after reading the announcement of the search for Dora in the Paris Soir of December 1941, I had thought about it incessantly for months. The precision of certain details haunted me: “41 Boulevard Ornano, 1.55m, oval-shaped face, grey-brown eyes, grey sports jacket, maroon pullover, navy-blue skirt and hat, brown gym shoes.” And all enveloped in night, ignorance, forgetfulnes, oblivion. It seemed impossible to me that I should ever find the faintest trace of Dora Bruder. At the time, the emptiness I felt prompted me to write a novel, Honeymoon, it being as good a way as any of continuing to fix my attention on Dora Bruder, and perhaps, I told myself, of elucidating or divining something about her, a place where she had been, a detail of her life. I knew nothing about her parents, about the circumstances of her flight. All I had to go on was this: I had seen her name, BRUDER, DORA — nothing else, no date or place of birth — above that of her father — BRUDER, ERNEST, 21.5.99, Vienna. Stateless. — on the list of those who left on the convoy of 18 September 1942 for Auschwitz. In writing Honeymoon, I had had in mind certain women I knew in the 1960s: Anne B, Bella D — the same age as Dora, in one case almost to the month — who could have shared her fate, having been in a similar situation during the Occupation, and whom she may have resembled. Today, it occurs to me that I had had to write 200 pages before I captured, unconsciously, a vague gleam of the truth. It was a matter of a few lines: “The train had stopped at Nation. The line didn’t go any farther. Rigaud and Ingris had gone past Bastille, where they ought to have changed for the Porte Dorée. They came out of the métro into a big snowfield. [ … ] The sledge cut through several little streets to get back to the Boulevard Soult.” These back streets lay behind the Rue de Picus and the Holy Heart of Mary, the convent from which Dora Bruder made her escape, one December evening when it had probably been snowing in Paris. This was the only moment in the book when, without knowing it, I came close to her in time and space.”
Patrick Modiano (Boulogne-Billancourt, 30 juli 1945)
De Noorse schrijfster en scenariste Maja Lunde werd geboren in Oslo op 30 juli 1975. Zie ook alle tags voor Maja Lunde op dit blog. Zie ook alle tags voor Maja Lunde op dit blog.
Uit: The History of Bees (Vertaald door Diane Oatley)
“The tin box was empty before I was full. I stood up and put it back in the return basket from the Trade Commission. Then I jogged in place. My legs were tired, but nonetheless stiff from standing still in locked positions up there in the trees. My blood tingled; I couldn’t stand still. But it didn’t help. I took a quick look around me. Nobody from management was paying attention. I quickly lay down on the ground, just to stretch out my back. It was aching after having been bent over in the same position for a long time. I closed my eyes for a moment, tried to shut out the conversation of the other women of the crew, instead listening to how the chatter rose and fell in volume. This need to talk, all of them at the same time, where did it come from? The other women had started when they were little girls. Hour after hour of group conversations where the subject was always of the lowest common denominator and one could never really go into depth about anything. Perhaps with the exception of when the one being talked about wasn’t there. Personally I preferred one-on-one conversations. Or my own company, for that matter. At work, often the latter. At home I had Kuan, my husband. Not that we had the longest conversations, either, conversation wasn’t what held us together. Kuan’s references were here and now, he was concrete, didn’t crave knowledge, something more. But in his arms I found peace. And then we had Wei-Wen, our three-year-old. Him we could talk about. Just as the cacophony had almost sung me to sleep, it suddenly fell silent. Everyone was quiet. I sat up. The others on the crew were facing the road. The entourage was walking down the tire ruts and towards us. They were no more than eight or nine years old. I recognized several of them from Wei-Wen’s school. All of them had been given identical work clothes, the same synthetic beige uniforms that we were wearing, and they walked towards us as quickly as their short legs could carry them. Two adult leaders kept them in line. One in front, one behind. Both of them were equipped with powerful voices that corrected the children without cease, but they did not reprimand them, giving instructions with warmth and compassion, because even though the children had not yet fully taken in where they were headed, the adults knew. The children walked hand in hand, in mismatched pairs, the tallest with the shortest, the older children taking care of the younger. An uneven gait, disorganized, but the hands held on tight as if they were glued together. Perhaps they had been given strict instructions not to let go.”
“Nog altijd dat zenuwachtige gekietel. Een warme, vochtige adem. Ik kneep mijn ogen stijf dicht om de beelden van vannacht te verdrijven, van de meisjes, en deed mijn best zo stil mogelijk te blijven liggen. Ze kietelde me echt, Nore, ze deed wat ze ’s ochtends zo vaak deed, gaf kleine likjes, speldenprikjes in mijn oorschelp, en als ik me niet zo… niet zó voelde, had ik er alles aan gedaan om het moment te rekken. Want, jongen, ik hield ervan, die sluimerende seconden tussen slapen en waken, het eiland en de rest van de wereld op veilige afstand. Ik wist waar ze mee bezig was en hoe het zou eindigen, haar warme adem en het geluid van haar lippen, zo dichtbij. Ze gaf me een por tussen mijn ribben als ze vond dat het lang genoeg geduurd had, als ik in actie moest komen. Dan draaide ik me langzaam op mijn zij, als een oud beest, mijn ogen nog altijd dicht, kuste haar en kwam overeind. Klom boven op haar. Hoe ze daar lag, haar ogen nog klein van de nacht, maar al warm en schitterend. Ik drukte mijn neus in haar haar en snoof, kuste haar nog eens, hield mijn ogen open terwijl zij die van haar traag sloot. Speelse Nore, vrolijke pup. Hoe erg vond ik het als ze het juist níet deed en gewoon opstond, de kamer verliet en ging zitten op de veranda die over de heuvel uitkeek, met een kop thee en een stuk fruit, en de dag langzaam over zich heen liet komen, de geluiden uit de struiken absorbeerde en bedacht wat er gedaan moest worden, om vervolgens tot de heerlijke conclusie te komen dat er die dag niets was wat haar onmiddellijke aandacht vroeg. Want iemand als Nore had nog geen verplichtingen. Niets behalve school, niets behalve ouders die al hun energie staken in het uitbaten van het luxueuze vakantieresort dat zijn naam dankte aan die voddenbalen van vogels die af en toe neerstreken in de branding of op het strand, en waarvan het logo een goedlachse en met klare lijn getekende stripversie van deze vis verslindende vogelsoort was. Pelican was een ordinaire toeristenfuik, waar die hele Jan Thielbaai mee was volgegooid en die week in, week uit, elke maand van het jaar, vol zat met Hollanders en de laatste jaren steeds vaker met Russen.”
De Amerikaanse dichter Frank Lima werd
geboren in 1939 in het Spaanse Harlem, New York City. Lima was het
enige Latino lid van de New York School tijdens zijn historische
hoogtijdagen. Na een moeilijke en gewelddadige jeugd te hebben
doorstaan, ontdekte hij poëzie als gedetineerde van een jeugdcentrum
voor drugsbehandeling onder toezicht van de schilder, Sherman Drexler,
die hem aan zijn dichtersvrienden introduceerde. Na zijn poëziedebuut in
de Evergreen Review in 1962, verscheen Lima in de belangrijkste
bloemlezingen van de New York School en publiceerde hij twee volledige
eigen bundels. Aan het einde van de jaren zeventig verliet Lima de
poëziewereld om een succesvolle carrière als chef-kok na te streven,
hoewel hij met tussenpozen terugkeerde tot de poëzie en tot aan zijn
dood een gedicht per dag bleef schrijven. Hij gaf les aan de New York
Restaurant School en was assistent-chef in het Witte Huis tijdens de
John Fitzgerald Kennedy-administratie. Lima behaalde zijn MFA aan de
Columbia University, waar hij studeerde onder andere Kenneth Koch en
Stanley Kunitz. Tot zijn gepubliceerde bundels behoren; “Inventory”
(1964), “Underground with the Oriole” (1971), “Angel, New Poems” (1976),
“Inventory: New & Selected Poems” (1997) en “The Beatitudes”
(2000). Lima werd afgebeeld in het bekende tweeluik van Wynn Chamberlain
“Poets Dressed and Undressed”, dat het kwartet van Joe Brainard, Frank
O’Hara, Joe LeSueur en Lima portretteert in opeenvolgende panelen,
gekleed en vervolgens naakt.
This Is a Poem About My Life
the grapes remind me of the whales gathering salt for the ocean
this is a poem about my life
you’ve interrupted my life and death schedule which gives me that poetic look each day
this is a poem about my life
where was I before I met you? I was eroding on my way to work and slept a lot deep in the subways
this is a poem about my life
then I met your lips on that windy day I stopped poisoning my life on Monday mornings
this is a poem about my life
when I met you you were undressed like a stone in the rain I swam after utterly naked
this is a poem about my life
before you leave me to heal I will find you someone to love who will be shaped like a box
this is a poem about my life
before you leave me to heal I will become an apple and hide in a clock
this is a poem about my life
I will plant these wild lines they will grow into honey and weep in the spring for you
Juarez
These empty words are so remote. They are stories someone wants To believe at the end of the century. Everyone gathers their sea of telluric Pain to greet the beginning of the new world.
Cars stop and watch the deck chairs limp across the street to await The coming of the new year. It is the end of summer and autumn and Winters and springs, and panzer infatuation.
After four hundred eighty-one years, I cannot pull out the Spanish arrow In my eye. Suddenly everything I knew was inhuman: The oceans, the tadpoles in their new cars. The clams became Cheerleaders. The palm trees, strippers, and everyone forgot, Deer are the shapes of God.
His official language became Latin, when he ceased to be a Jew, Biting his nails and collecting cans like a cheap minister with sunny gold teeth. The tender years that once wore oysters would never speak to Him again.
The female spider became a lesbian, devouring our new long legs, That would never again climb the toy steps our fathers left us. Although Our legs are hairy and the lilies of a theater, the gentle lips of Our pyramids rest on our souls like a lover’s fingers.
How many aspirins will we take to reach the surface of truth? My existence is for sale. The dawn is learning English. The waves of the sea are unionizing.
The stones that were once our troubled hearts are eating chocolate. I come to sell you fish, the bread in my blood and my existence.
