De Engelse dichter George Granville Barker werd geboren op 26 februari 1913 in Loughton, Essex. Zie ook alle tags voor George Barker op dit blog.
True Confession
2
The Church, mediatrix between heaven
And human fallibility
Reminds us that the age of seven
Inaugurates the Reason we
Spend our prolonged seniority
Transgressing. Of that time I wish
I could recount a better story
Than finding a shilling and a fish.
But memory flirts with seven veils
Peekabooing the accidental
And what the devil it all entails
Only Sigmund Freud suspects.
I think my shilling and my fish
Symbolised a hidden wish
To sublimate these two affects:
Money is nice and so is sex.
The Angel of Reason, descending
On my seven year old head
Inscribed this sentence by my bed:
The pleasure of money is unending
But sex satisfied is sex dead.
I tested to see if sex died
But, all my effort notwithstanding,
Have never found it satisfied.
Abacus of Reason, you have been
The instrument of my abuse,
The North Star I have never seen,
The trick for which I have no use:
The Reason, gadget of schoolmasters,
Pimp of the spirit, the smart alec,
Proud engineer of disasters,
I see phallic: you, cephalic.
Happy those early days when I
Attended an elementary school
Where seven hundred infant lives
Flittered like gadflies on the stool
(We discovered that contraceptives
Blown up like balloons, could fly);
We memorised the Golden Rule:
Lie, lie, lie, lie.
For God’s sake, Barker. This is enough
Regurgitated obscenities,
Whimsicalities and such stuff.
Where’s the ineffable mystery,
The affiancing to affinities
Of the young poet? The history
Of an evolving mind’s love
For the miseries and the humanities?
The sulking and son loving Muse
Grabbed me when I was nine. She saw
It was a question of self abuse
Or verses. I tossed off reams before
I cared to recognize their purpose.
While other urchins were blowing up toads
With pipes of straw stuck in the arse,
So was I, but I also wrote odes.
There was a priest, a priest, a priest,
A Reverend of the Oratory
Who taught me history. At least
He taught me the best part of his story.
Fat Father William, have you ceased
To lead boys up the narrow path
Through the doors of the Turkish Bath?
I hope you’re warm in Purgatory.
And in the yard of the tenement
– The Samuel Lewis Trust – I played
While my father, for the rent
(Ten bob a wekk and seldom paid),
Trudged London for a job. I went
Skedaddling up the scanty years,
My learning, like the rent, in arrears,
But sometimes making the grade.
Oh boring kids! In spite of Freud
I find my childhood recollections
Much duller now than when I enjoyed
It. The whistling affections,
All fitting wrong, toy railway sections
Running in circles. Cruel as cats
Even the lower beasts avoid
These inhumanitarian brats.
Since the Age of Reason’s seven
And most of one’s friends over eight,
Therefore they’re reasonable? Even
Sensible Stearns or simpleton Stephen
Wouldn’t claim that. I contemplate
A world which, at crucial instants,
Surrenders to adulterant infants
The adult onus to think straight.
At the bottom of this murky well
My childhood, like a climbing root,
Nursed in dirt the simple cell
That pays itself this sour tribute.
Track any poet to a beginning
And in a dark room you will find
A little boy intent on sinning
With an etymological lover.
I peopled my youth with the pulchritude
Of heterae noun-anatomised;
The literature that I prized
Was anything to do with the nude
Spirit of creative art
Who whispered to me: ‘Don’t be queasy.
Simply write about a tart
And there she is. The rest’s easy.’
And thus, incepted in congenial
Feebleness of moral power
I became a poet. Venial
As a human misdemeanour,
Still, it gave me, prisoner
In my lack of character,
Pig to the Circean Muse’s honour.
Her honour? Why, it’s lying on her.
Dowered, invested and endowed
With every frailty is the poet –
Yielding to wickedness because
How the hell else can he know it?
The tempted poet must be allowed
All ethical latitude. His small flaws
Bring home to him, in sweet breaches,
The moral self indulgence teaches.
Where was I? Running, so to speak,
To the adolescent seed? I
Found my will power rather weak
And my appetite rather greedy
About the year of the General Strike,
So I struck, as it were, myself:
Refused to do anything whatsover, like
Exercise books on a shelf.
Do Youth and Innocence prevail
Over that cloudcuckoo clime
Where the seasons never fail
And the clocks forget the time?
Where the peaks of the sublime
Crown every thought; where every vale
Has its phantasy and phantasm
And every midnight its orgasm?
I mooned into my fourteenth year
Through a world pronouncing harsh
Judgments I could not quite hear
About my verse, my young moustasche
And my bad habits. In Battersea Park
I almost heard strangers gossip
About my poems, almost remark
The bush of knowledge on my lip.
Golden Calf, Golden Calf, where are you now
Who lowed so mournfully in the dense
Arcana of my adolescence?
No later anguish of bull or cow
Could ever be compared with half
The misery of the amorous calf
Moonstruck in moonshine. How could I know
You can’t couple Love with any sense?
Poignant as a swallowed knife,
Abstracted as a mannequin,
Remote as music, touchy as skin,
Apotheosising life
Into an apocalypse,
Young Love, taking Grief to wife,
And tasting the bitterness of her lips
Forgets it comes from swabbing gin.
The veils descend. The unknown figure
Is sheeted in the indecencies
Of shame and boils. The nose gets bigger,
The private parts, haired like a trigger,
Cock at a dream. The infant cries
Abandoned in its discarded larva,
Out of which steps, with bloodshot eyes,
The man, the man, crying Ave, Ave!
George Barker (26 februari 1913 – 27 oktober 1991)
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Hermann Lenz werd op 26 februari 1913 in Stuttgart geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Hermann Lenz op dit blog.
Lieve tijd
Wat was het
In zijn geheel gezien?
Eeuwige wijsheid
Kunnen ze van jou niet verwachten.
Misschien heb je iets gemist.
Liefdesaffaires en reizen?
De gezichten van de landen?
Je hebt tenslotte veel gezien
Tussen Leningrad en San Francisco,
Echter onder ongemakkelijke omstandigheden,
Maar het maakt niet uit.
Ach, lieve tijd.
Je bent gelukkig als je ongehinderd
Ergens loopt of ligt,
Aan de rand van het bos bijvoorbeeld.
Bij heldere hemel, een blik in de verte.
Vertaald door Frans Roumen
Hermann Lenz (26 februari 1913 – 12 mei 1998)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 26e februari ook mijn blog van 26 februari 2022 en ook mijn blog van 26 februari 2019 en eveneens mijn blog van 26 februari 2017 deel 2.
