Juliana Spahr, Özcan Akyol, William Wordsworth, Gabriela Mistral, Henk Fedder, Donald Barthelme, Jens Peter Jacobsen

De Amerikaanse dichteres, critica en uitgeefster Juliana Spahr werd geboren op 7 april 1966 in Chillicothe, Ohio. Zie ook alle tags voor Juliana Spahr op dit blog.

 

If You Were a Bluebird

Began with a list.
A bird. Reed cormorant.
Added a fish and a monkey. Hingemouth. White throated monkey.
Added because.
Because the six dorsal and anal fins of the hingemouth and its two teeth
too and also its swim bladder like a lung, covered in alveoli.
Because the silvery wings, longish tail, and short head crest of the reed
cormorant.
Because the white throated monkey, with its red belly and its white legs.
Added the phrase the principle of relation.
Because it was with the principle of relation that the Niger Delta came to
habitat.
So the hingemouth with its six dorsal and anal fins of and its two teeth too
and also its swim bladder like a lung, covered in alveoli, swims.
So the silvery wings, longish tail, and short head crest of the reed cormo­-
rant dives down to considerable depths in the Delta and also dives to
feed, as it tends to do, in more shallow water, bringing slow-moving
mormyrids and cichilds to the surface.
So the white throated monkey, with its red belly and its white legs, bangs
objects against the ground, throws sticks.

*

Then added another bird.
Eurasian spoonbill.
Added a crab and a fish.
Cleistostoma kuwaitense. Mudskipper.
Again added because.
Because the Eurasian spoonbill with its dark legs, occasionally grunting
and trumpeting.
Because the cleistostoma kuwaitense building a semi-permanent mud
hood over the entrance to its burrow.
Because the mudskipper digging a deep burrow then hiding in it during
high tide, a polygonal territory surrounded by dams, and defended
against rivals, yet also shared with digging crabs.
Added the phrase the principle of relation.
Because it was with the principle of relation that the Kuwait bay came to
teem.
So the Eurasian spoonbill with its dark legs, grunts and trumpets, sweeps
the end of its partly opened bill from side to side as it wades through
shallow water.
So the mudskipper builds its burrow beneath the mudflats, defends its ter­-
ritory, keeps a pool of water so as to also engage in surface activity.
So the cleistostoma kuwaitense, using the same mud of these mud flats,
builds a semipermanent mud hood.

*

Then another bird.
Pelican.
Added a mammal and a fish. Bottlenose dolphin. Red snapper.
Returned to because.
Because the gregarious pelican, traveling in flocks.
Because the bottle nose dolphin, remembering and comprehending.
Because the nibbling and the picking of the red snapper with its short,
sharp needle-like teeth.
Returned to principle of relation.
Because it was with the principle of relation that the Gulf of Mexico came
to be activated.
So the gregarious pelican hunts, hunts cooperatively, plunge dives from
high up so as to stun the fish, scoops them up, and then also breeds,
breeds colonially, in trees, bushes, in the ground, around the gulf.
So the dolphins talks, talks, over thirty distinguishable sounds.
So the red snapper spreads itself out in the artificial reefs of oil platforms,
the smaller fish in the upper part of the water column, the larger in
deeper areas.

 

 
Juliana Spahr (Chillicothe, 7 april 1966)

 

De Nederlandse schrijver en columnist Özcan Akyol werd geboren in Deventer op 7 april 1984. Zie ook alle tags voor Özcan Akyol op dit blog.

Uit: Eus

“Ik ben geboren en getogen in de Koekstad, een niet al te grote plaats langs de IJssel, precies op het grensgebied van twee oostelijke provincies. Mijn vader kreeg van de fabriek een arbeidershuisje toegewezen in een industriestraat. Bijna in het centrum. Vlak voor ons kot liep een treinspoor. Daar reed vier keer per dag een goederentrein overheen. Hij vervoerde meestal dode dieren. Een paar huizen werden bewoond door Hollanders, maar dat waren rare mensen. Maatschappelijk mislukte losers. Wij noemden hen aso s. Zij noemden ons batsen. Dat zit zo: de meeste Turken hebben platte achterhoofden. Een bats is een schop. Een schop is plat. Krijg je een knal met het blad van de bats op je kop, dan heb je een plat achterhoofd. Mijn achterhoofd is niet plat. De enige slaapkamer in huis deelde ik met Mahir en Kosta. Mijn ouders sliepen beneden op de slaapbank. De ruimte was zo klein dat ik mijn plekje alleen kon bereiken door over de bedden van m n broers te lopen. Het zorgde zo nu en dan voor problemen, omdat zij mij niet zo mochten kinderlijke jaloezie van twee knakkers die de aandacht van hun ouders niet wilden delen met de nieuweling. Ze vielen me aan. Vaak op een strategische manier, zodat ik niet kon vluchten. Ik dolf telkens het onderspit omdat ik als tenger jongetje krachteloos en daarbij nogal bangig was. Die sukkels schopten net zo lang tot ze die ene voltreffer hadden uitgedeeld. Mijn vader haalde zijn schouders op als ik voor de zoveelste keer huilend van de trap liep, op zoek naar wat troost. Het huishouden viel onder de verantwoordelijkheid van moeder, net als de kinderen. Hij zou keihard werken en voor het geld zorgen, zoals dat van hem werd verwacht. De rest was niet belangrijk. Toch liet Turis zich vrij rap afkeuren. Zijn werkzame leven in Nederland duurde amper vijftien jaar. Pijnscheuten in de onderrug, liet hij de bedrijfstolk voor de arboarts vertalen. Maar van die rugproblemen hebben wij nooit iets gemerkt. Hij was vooral werkschuw. Liever lui dan moe. Dat idee.
Daarnaast had-ie een obsessie met geld. Als hij op een slinkse manier wat centen kon uitsparen, vergat vader de tucht en orde die hij dagelijks tot ons predikte. Zo moest ik regelmatig bij Vroom & Dreesmann op de uitkijk staan terwijl hij de prijskaartjes van schoenendozen verwisselde. Met die truc nam hij elk kwartaal schoenen ter waarde van veertig gulden mee voor maar vijftien piek. Als er visite was, pronkte hij heel trots met zijn nieuwe schoeisel. Dat hij het warenhuis voor een paar joetjes had opgelicht vertelde hij er nooit bij. Dat zouden zijn vrienden, van wie sommigen volgens de islam leefden en diefstal als een enorme zonde zagen, streng veroordelen. Door die gierigheid mochten we maar één keer per week douchen. Op donderdag. Dan moesten we met zijn drietjes sámen onder de lauwe straal.”

 

 
Özcan Akyol (Deventer, 7 april 1984)

 

De Engelse dichter William Wordsworth werd geboren op 7 april 1770 in Cockermouth, Cumberland. Zie ook alle tags voor William Wordsworth op dit blog.

 

The Passing Of The Elder Bards

THE MIGHTY Minstrel breathes no longer,
Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow
Has closed the Shepherd-poet’s eyes:

Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its steadfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source;

The ’rapt One, of the godlike forehead,
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth:
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle,
Has vanished from his lonely hearth.

Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother,
From sunshine to the sunless land!

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
“Who next will drop and disappear?”

 

Though Narrow Be That Old Man’s Cares

THOUGH narrow be that old Man’s cares, and near,
The poor old Man is greater than he seems:
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.
Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer;
The region of his inner spirit teems
With vital sounds and monitory gleams
Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.
He the seven birds hath seen, that never part,
Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds,
And counted them: and oftentimes will start–
For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL’S HOUNDS
Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart
To chase for ever, on aerial grounds!

 

Sonnet

IT is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood,’
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.–In everything we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold

 

 
William Wordsworth (7 april 1770 – 23 april 1850)
Cover

 

De Chileense dichteres en diplomate Gabriela Mistral werd geboren in Vicuña, Chili op 7 april 1889. Zie ook alle tags voor Gabriela Mistral op dit blog.

 

The Shining Host

In vain you try
To smother my song:
A million children
In chorus sing it
Beneath the sun!

In vain you try
To break my verse
Of affliction:
The children sing it
Under God!

 

Rocking

A thousand waves
Divine the sea she rocks
I hear the loving seas
And rock my son, my son

Night fields of wheat
The wandering wind rocks
I hear the loving winds
And rock my son, my son

His thousands worlds
Silent God Father rocks
I feel His hand in shades
And rock my son, my son.

 


Gabriela Mistral (7 april 1889 – 10 januari 1957)
Cover

 

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Henk Fedder werd op 7 april 1890 te Amsterdam geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Henk Fedder op dit blog.

 

Celwagen

De dievenwagen stopt vóór het station,
Geelgrijze auto op gloednieuwe banden.
Vier jonge mannen met geboeide handen
Staan plotseling in ’t licht van d’ochtendzon.

Eén tilt een oogenblik zijn wit gezicht
naar lang ontbeerde zeeg’ning van dit stralen.
De tweede blijft onwennig even dralen,
Dan slaat een marechaussee de deuren dicht.

De derde proeft opeens een bloemengeur,
Hij ziet een venter met een mand vol rozen
– (Sie haben gegen Wehrmacht sich verstossen) –
De haat brandt aan zijn kop met koorts’ge kleur.

De vierde wou dat ’t einde nu maar kwam,
Hij hoort de tram hard door een railsbocht gillen
en ziet de stad – zijn dunne lippen trillen,
Zóó neemt hij afscheid van zijn Amsterdam.

‘Die snuiters hebben vast wat uitgevoerd’,
‘Ze deejen niks dan oov’ral fietsen gappe’,
‘Nou motte ze hun jaartjes op gaan knappe’,
‘Ze binne jong’ – ‘Afijn’ – ‘’t Is toch beroerd’.

Hoog boven dit geroddel straalt de zon,
Ze denken: straks zal die onz’ angst genezen,
Waar zal het salvo in de hei op wezen?
Recht op ons hoofd? – Nee, dwars door ’t hart als ’t kon.

 

 
Henk Fedder (7 april 1890 – 29 mei 1979)
Een arrestatie in Amsterdam, 1940

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Donald Barthelme werd geboren op 7 april 1931 in Philadelphia. Zie ook alle tags voor Donald Barthelme op dit blog.

Uit: The School

“Well, we had all these children out planting trees, see, because we figured that … that was part of their education, to see how, you know, the root systems … and also the sense of responsibility, taking care of things, being individually responsible. You know what I mean. And the trees all died. They were orange trees. I don’t know why they died, they just died. Something wrong with the soil possibly or maybe the stuff we got from the nursery wasn’t the best. We complained about it. So we’ve got thirty kids there, each kid had his or her own little tree to plant and we’ve got these thirty dead trees. All these kids looking at these little brown sticks, it was depressing.
It wouldn’t have been so bad except that just a couple of weeks before the thing with the trees, the snakes all died. But I think that the snakes – well, the reason that the snakes kicked off was that … you remember, the boiler was shut off for four days because of the strike, and that was explicable. It was something you could explain to the kids because of the strike. I mean, none of their parents would let them cross the picket line and they knew there was a strike going on and what it meant. So when things got started up again and we found the snakes they weren’t too disturbed.
With the herb gardens it was probably a case of overwatering, and at least now they know not to overwater. The children were very conscientious with the herb gardens and some of them probably … you know, slipped them a little extra water when we weren’t looking. Or maybe … well, I don’t like to think about sabotage, although it did occur to us. I mean, it was something that crossed our minds. We were thinking that way probably because before that the gerbils had died, and the white mice had died, and the salamander … well, now they know not to carry them around in plastic bags.
Of course we expected the tropical fish to die, that was no surprise. Those numbers, you look at them crooked and they’re belly-up on the surface. But the lesson plan called for a tropical fish input at that point, there was nothing we could do, it happens every year, you just have to hurry past it.
We weren’t even supposed to have a puppy.
We weren’t even supposed to have one, it was just a puppy the Murdoch girl found under a Gristede’s truck one day and she was afraid the truck would run over it when the driver had finished making his delivery, so she stuck it in her knapsack and brought it to the school with her. So we had this puppy. As soon as I saw the puppy I thought, Oh Christ, I bet it will live for about two weeks and then…”

 

 
Donald Barthelme (7 april 1931 – 23 juli 1989)
Cover

 

De Deense dichter en schrijver Jens Peter Jacobsen werd geboren op 7 april 1847 in Thisted. Zie ook alle tags voor Jens Peter Jacobsen op dit blog.

Uit: Niels Lyhne (Vertaald door Annelies van Hees)

“Hij was moe, uitgeput, hij kon al die poëzie niet meer verdragen, hij snakte ernaar op de vaste grond van het dagelijks leven te staan, zoals een vis die stikt in de warme lucht moet snakken naar de heldere, frisse koelte van de golven. Het moest ophouden, het moest vanzelf overgaan. Bartholine stond niet meer onervaren tegenover leven en literatuur, ze was er evenzeer mee bekend als hij, hij had haar alles gegeven wat hij had gekregen en nu moest hij blijven geven. Dat was onmogelijk, hij had niet meer – zijn enige troost was dat Bartholine zwanger was.
Al een tijdje had Bartholine tot haar verdriet gemerkt dat haar beeld van Lyhne langzamerhand was veranderd en dat hij zich niet meer op de duizelingwekkende hoogte bevond waar zij hem in hun verlovingstijd had geplaatst. Ze twijfelde er nog niet aan dat hij een poëtische natuur was, zoals ze dat noemde, maar ze was afgeschrikt nu het proza af en toe zijn lelijke gezicht begon te tonen. Des te ijveriger joeg zij de poëzie na en poogde zij de oude toestand weer op te roepen door hem met een nog grotere rijkdom aan stemmingen, een nog diepere begeestering te overweldigen, maar ze vond zo weinig weerklank dat ze zichzelf bijna sentimenteel en geaffecteerd vond. Nog een poos probeerde ze de tegenstribbelende Lyhne mee te lokken. Ze wilde niet geloven wat ze vermoedde, maar toen langzamerhand het vruchteloze van haar pogingen twijfel wekte of haar geest en haar hart werkelijk zo’n grote rijkdom bevatten als ze had gedacht, liet ze hem opeens los, werd koel, zwijgzaam en gesloten en zocht de eenzaamheid om in alle rust om haar verloren illusies te treuren. Want dat zag ze nu in, dat ze bitter teleurgesteld was en dat Lyhne diep van binnen eigenlijk niet verschilde van haar oude omgeving en dat wat haar om de tuin had geleid zoiets gewoons was als dat zijn liefde hem een poosje een vluchtig aureool van geest en grootheid had verleend, zoals zo vaak gebeurt bij lagere naturen.”

 

 
Jens Peter Jacobsen (7 april 1847 – 30 april 1885)
Jacobsen leest voor in de literaire kring “De Moderne Doorbraak”. Getekend door Erik Henningsen, ca 1910

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 7e april ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

Juliana Spahr, William Wordsworth, Özcan Akyol, Gabriela Mistral

De Amerikaanse dichteres, critica en uitgeefster Juliana Spahr werd geboren op 7 april 1966 in Chillicothe, Ohio. Zie ook alle tags voor Juliana Spahr op dit blog.

 

Dynamic Positioning (Fragment)

It is a blowout preventer, a series of valves
That seal off the excessive pressure should

The wellhead kick then blowout. There are all
These variables. Various valves. Pressures.

Buoyancies. Mixes of cements. Currents. Claims.
Humans. Bow spring. Top plug. Shoe track. Floatshoe.

I could go on and on here calling the
New muses of innovation, common

Vocabulary, that covers over the
Elaborate simplicity of this,

This well, Macondo well, was drilled by
Deepwater Horizon and it went through

Five thousand feet, through the abyssal zones,
The epipelagic with its sunlight

The mesopelagic with its twilight
The bathypelagic with its midnight

Then where the sea meets floor, the deep ocean,
A blowout preventer there with the fish,

The darker fish, the large detritevars
That feed on the drizzle of the moulted

Exoskeletons, the carnivores, snipe eels
Big lantern fish, and zooplankton, corals.

This well then went on reaching for the oil
Another thirteen thousand feet. When it hits

The pay zone, down through it, down deeper, deep.
This well, Macondo well, was exploratory.

This story then begins with other wells,
But I will tell the story of This Well:

In April twenty ten, the setting south
And east of Louisiana’s long coast.

 

 
Juliana Spahr (Chillicothe, 7 april 1966)

Lees verder “Juliana Spahr, William Wordsworth, Özcan Akyol, Gabriela Mistral”

Juliana Spahr, William Wordsworth, Özcan Akyol, Gabriela Mistral, Henk Fedder, Donald Barthelme, Jens Peter Jacobsen, Hervé Bazin, Johannes Mario Simmel

De Amerikaanse dichteres, critica en uitgeefster Juliana Spahr werd geboren op 7 april 1966 in Chillicothe, Ohio. Zie ook alle tags voor Juliana Spahr op dit blog.

 

In Imitation Of For Love

If he or she is clumsy in places, those are clumsy places
and when he or she says I have a lover or a husband or a wife, we or I feel sad,
or is it just clumsy?
can’t one make it simple, or at least simpler?
or why can’t it be that way for just one moment?
I am writing this on a hip pocket pad, a waterproof one
but I am not crying, never crying
and it never rains when or where in some northern or southern or western

or eastern city I am writing
to tell you I’ve got a crush on you
cootchi coo
the waterproof cost me extra
the words are extra; they don’t come with the pad
the crush, the love is extra
and you are extra.
oh, wake up.

 

Dynamic Positioning (Fragment)

It is dynamic positioning that
Allows a semi-submersible the

Ability to hover there over
The well. It is a thirty-six inch tube,

A casing, that extends down to allow
The drill and bit to be rotated there;

The drill then spudding in; the seafloor, dark,
And giving way. It is a thick column

Of drilling mud that keeps natural gas
And oil beneath the seafloor while the well

Is capped and it is a cement that
Fills in the casing so the drill pipe stays

Unmoving, stable, in this ever moving sea.
It is a sort of drilling mud that is

Then pumped through the drill pipe and out through
The drill bit then up through the casing and

Then back up to the oil rig in the space
Between the drill pipe and the inner wall.

 

 
Juliana Spahr (Chillicothe, 7 april 1966)

Lees verder “Juliana Spahr, William Wordsworth, Özcan Akyol, Gabriela Mistral, Henk Fedder, Donald Barthelme, Jens Peter Jacobsen, Hervé Bazin, Johannes Mario Simmel”

William Wordsworth, Özcan Akyol, Gabriela Mistral, Henk Fedder, Johannes Mario Simmel, Donald Barthelme, Jens Peter Jacobsen, Quinsy Gario

De Engelse dichter William Wordsworth werd geboren op 7 april 1770 in Cockermouth, Cumberland. Zie ook alle tags voor William Wordsworth op dit blog.

 

The World Is Too Much With Us; Late And Soon

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.–Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

 

A Character

I marvel how Nature could ever find space
For so many strange contrasts in one human face:
There’s thought and no thought, and there’s paleness and bloom
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There’s weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;
Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain
Could pierce through a temper that’s soft to disease,
Would be rational peace–a philosopher’s ease.

There’s indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,
And attention full ten times as much as there needs;
Pride where there’s no envy, there’s so much of joy;
And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There’s freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she’s there,
There’s virtue, the title it surely may claim,
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.

This picture from nature may seem to depart,
Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;
And I for five centuries right gladly would be
Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.

 

 
William Wordsworth (7 april 1770 – 23 april 1850)
Borstbeeld tegenover het Wordsworth House in Cockermouth

Lees verder “William Wordsworth, Özcan Akyol, Gabriela Mistral, Henk Fedder, Johannes Mario Simmel, Donald Barthelme, Jens Peter Jacobsen, Quinsy Gario”

William Wordsworth, Gabriela Mistral, Henk Fedder, Johannes Mario Simmel, Donald Barthelme, Jens Peter Jacobsen

De Engelse dichter William Wordsworth werd geboren op 7 april 1770 in Cockermouth, Cumberland. Zie ook alle tags voor William Wordsworth op dit blog.

 

The world is too much with us; late and soon

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.–Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

 

With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh

With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly vessel did I then espy
Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.
The ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a lover’s look;
This ship to all the rest did I prefer:
When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:
On went she, and due north her journey took.

 

To A Butterfly

STAY near me—do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find I thee,
Historian of my infancy !
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring’st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father’s family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:—with leaps and spring
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

 

 
William Wordsworth (7 april 1770 – 23 april 1850)
Wordsworth House in Cockermouth

Lees verder “William Wordsworth, Gabriela Mistral, Henk Fedder, Johannes Mario Simmel, Donald Barthelme, Jens Peter Jacobsen”

William Wordsworth, Gabriela Mistral, Quinsy Gario, Henk Fedder, Victoria Ocampo, Donald Barthelme

De Engelse dichter William Wordsworth werd geboren op 7 april 1770 in Cumberland. Zie ook alle tags voor William Wordsworth op dit blog.

It was an April morning: fresh and clear

It was an April morning: fresh and clear
The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man’s speed; and yet the voice
Of waters which the winter had supplied
Was softened down into a vernal tone.
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
And hopes and wishes, from all living things
Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
The budding groves seemed eager to urge on
The steps of June; as if their various hues
Were only hindrances that stood between
Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed
Such an entire contentment in the air
That every naked ash, and tardy tree
Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance
With which it looked on this delightful day
Were native to the summer.–Up the brook
I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice
Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
The shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrush
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,
Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth
Or like some natural produce of the air,
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here;
But ’twas the foliage of the rocks–the birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
And, on a summit, distant a short space,
By any who should look beyond the dell,
A single mountain-cottage might be seen.
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
‘Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.’
—-Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
May call it by the name of EMMA’S DELL.

 
William Wordsworth (7 april 1770 – 23 april 1850)
Borstbeeld door Sir Francis Chantrey, rond 1820

Lees verder “William Wordsworth, Gabriela Mistral, Quinsy Gario, Henk Fedder, Victoria Ocampo, Donald Barthelme”

William Wordsworth, Victoria Ocampo, Gabriela Mistral, Donald Barthelme, Johannes Mario Simmel

De Engelse dichter William Wordsworth werd geboren op 7 april 1770 in Cumberland. Zie ook alle tags voor William Wordsworth op dit blog.

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed–and gazed–but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

 

A Night Thought

Lo! where the Moon along the sky
Sails with her happy destiny;
Oft is she hid from mortal eye
Or dimly seen,
But when the clouds asunder fly
How bright her mien!

Far different we–a froward race,
Thousands though rich in Fortune’s grace
With cherished sullenness of pace
Their way pursue,
Ingrates who wear a smileless face
The whole year through.

If kindred humours e’er would make
My spirit droop for drooping’s sake,
From Fancy following in thy wake,
Bright ship of heaven!
A counter impulse let me take
And be forgiven.

 

William Wordsworth (7 april 1770 – 23 april 1850)

Lees verder “William Wordsworth, Victoria Ocampo, Gabriela Mistral, Donald Barthelme, Johannes Mario Simmel”

Berthold Brecht, William Wordsworth, Victoria Ocampo, Gabriela Mistral, Donald Barthelme

Bij Stille Zaterdag

giotto
Giotto, Bewening van Christus, ca 1304 – 1306,

Padua, Capella Scrovegni

 

Karsamstaglegende – Den Verwaisten gewidmet”

Seine Dornenkrone
Nahmen sie ab
Legten ihn ohne
die Würde ins Grab.

Als sie gehetzt und müde
andern Abends wieder zum Grabe kamen
siehe, da blühte
aus dem Hügel jenes Dornes Samen.

Und in den Blüten, abendgrau verhüllt
sang wunderleise
eine Drossel süss und mild
eine helle Weise.

Da fühlten sie kaum
mehr den Tod am Ort
sahen über Zeit und Raum
lächelten im hellen Traum
gingen träumend fort.



Berthold Brecht (10 februari 1898 – 14 augustus 1956)

Brecht-Haus in Berlin-Weißensee

Lees verder “Berthold Brecht, William Wordsworth, Victoria Ocampo, Gabriela Mistral, Donald Barthelme”

William Wordsworth, Victoria Ocampo, Gabriela Mistral, Donald Barthelme, Johannes Mario Simmel

De Engelse dichter William Wordsworth werd geboren op 7 april 1770 in Cumberland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2009 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2010.

 

Evening On Calais Beach

 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

The holy time is quiet as a Nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquility;

The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the sea:

Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder — everlastingly.

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,

If thou appear untouch’d by solemn thought,

Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;

And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,

God being with thee when we know it not.

 

 

London, 1802

 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life’s common way,

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart

The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

 

 

Mutability

 

From low to high doth dissolution climb,

And sink from high to low, along a scale

Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;

A musical but melancholy chime,

Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,

Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.

Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear

The longest date do melt like frosty rime,

That in the morning whiten’d hill and plain

And is no more; drop like the tower sublime

Of yesterday, which royally did wear

His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain

Some casual shout that broke the silent air,

Or the unimaginable touch of Time.

 

 

William Wordsworth (7 april 1770 – 23 april 1850)

Portret door Benjamin Robert Haydon, 1842. National Portrait Gallery Londen

 

Lees verder “William Wordsworth, Victoria Ocampo, Gabriela Mistral, Donald Barthelme, Johannes Mario Simmel”

William Wordsworth, Victoria Ocampo, Gabriela Mistral, Donald Barthelme, Johannes Mario Simmel

De Engelse dichter William Wordsworth werd geboren op 7 april 1770 in Cumberland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2009.

 

A Night-Piece

 

——THE sky is overcast

With a continuous cloud of texture close,

Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,

Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,

A dull, contracted circle, yielding light

So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,

Chequering the ground–from rock, plant, tree, or tower.

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam

Startles the pensive traveller while he treads

His lonesome path, with unobserving eye

Bent earthwards; he looks up–the clouds are split

Asunder,–and above his head he sees

The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.

There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,

Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small

And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss

Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,

Yet vanish not!–the wind is in the tree,

But they are silent;–still they roll along

Immeasurably distant; and the vault,

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,

Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

At length the Vision closes; and the mind,

Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,

Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,

Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

 

 

“A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL”

 

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seemed a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.

 

No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;

Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,

With rocks, and stones, and trees.

 

wordsworth

William Wordsworth (7 april 1770 – 23 april 1850)
Portret door Henry Edridge, 1806

 

De Argentijnse schrijjfster Victoria Ocampo werd geboren op 7 april 1890 in Buenos Aires. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2009.

 

Uit: This America of Ours. The Letters of Gabriela Mistral and Victoria Ocampo (Introductie door Elizabeth Horan and Doris Meyer)

 

Victoria Ocampo was the oldest of six girls born in the heart of Buenos Aires into a patrician family of successful businessmen and nation builders. She grew up trilingual as a consequence of her traditional home education provided by French and English governesses and lengthy stays in Europe with her family. She read voraciously in these languages, and her self-image was formed under their influence. By the time she was in her teens, however, Ocampo had already developed an aversion to the values of her social class vis-à-vis women’s status, and she determined to resist its dictates. Against the expectation of a traditional marriage and children, Victoria Ocampo quickly rejected the callow husband she had married in 1912 in a misguided effort to gain freedom from parental constraints. Thereafter she had a secret love affair for many years; since no public separation from her husband was possible without wounding her family, she never married again. Eventually, this relationship ended as well, and Ocampo then had a number of other affairs, often with men much younger than herself.”

In her elegant public profile, Ocampo reflected her class and era. She was strikingly beautiful well into middle age, which was noted even by her enemies, who use
d it to mock her. Photos of Ocampo in her twenties through her fifties show her dressed in couture clothes in the latest European fashions. A lover of avant-garde music and the arts, Ocampo chose a modernist design inspired by Le Corbusier for the first home she built for herself in 1927. The total effect of her bearing and appearance was the very opposite of Mistral’s impromptu style and disregard for formal attire. As often happens with women of power, Ocampo’s beauty, wealth, and cultural sophistication sparked resentment among those in Argentina who coveted her privilege while condemning the oligarchy. In fact, under the military dictatorship of Juan Domingo Perón, Ocampo was persona non grata in her own country, the complete antithesis of Evita, who dominated headlines with her defense of the
descamisados.“

 

Victoria_Ocampo

Victoria Ocampo (7 april 1890 – 27 januari 1979)

 

De Chileense dichteres en diplomate Gabriela Mistral werd geboren in Vicuña, Chili op  7 april 1889. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2009.

 

The Sad Mother

 

Sleep, sleep, my beloved,

without worry, without fear,

although my soul does not sleep,

although I do not rest.

 

Sleep, sleep, and in the night

may your whispers be softer

than a leaf of grass,

or the silken fleece of lambs.

 

May my flesh slumber in you,

my worry, my trembling.

In you, may my eyes close

and my heart sleep.

 

 

To See Him Again

 

Never, never again?

Not on nights filled with quivering stars,

or during dawn’s maiden brightness

or afternoons of sacrifice?

 

Or at the edge of a pale path

that encircles the farmlands,

or upon the rim of a trembling fountain,

whitened by a shimmering moon?

 

Or beneath the forest’s

luxuriant, raveled tresses

where, calling his name,

I was overtaken by the night?

Not in the grotto that returns

the echo of my cry?

 

Oh no. To see him again —

it would not matter where —

in heaven’s deadwater

or inside the boiling vortex,

under serene moons or in bloodless fright!

 

To be with him…

every springtime and winter,

united in one anguished knot

around his bloody neck!

 

AncudGabrielaMistral

Gabriela Mistral (7 april 1889 – 10 januari 1957)
Monument in Ancud

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Donald Barthelme werd geboren op 7 april 1931 in Philadelphia. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2008.en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2009.

 

Uit: The Dead Father’s Head

 

The Dead Father’s head. The main thing is, his eyes are open. Staring up into the sky. The eyes a two-valued blue, the blues of the Gitanes cigarette pack. The head never moves. Decades of staring. The brow is noble, good Christ, what else? Broad and noble. And serene, of course, he’s dead, what else if not serene? From the tip of his finely shaped delicately nostriled nose to the ground, fall of five and one half meters, figure obtained by triangulation. The hair is gray but a young gray. Full, almost to the shoulder, it is possible to admire the hair for a long time, many do, on a Sunday or other holiday or in those sandwich hours neatly placed between fattish slices of work. Jawline compares favorably to a rock formation. Imposing, rugged, all that. The great jaw contains thirty-two teeth, twenty-eight of the whiteness of standard bathroom fixtures and four stained, the latter a consequence of addiction to tobacco, according to legend, this beige quartet to be found in the center of the lower jaw. He is not perfect, thank God for that. The full red lips drawn back in a slight rictus, slight but not unpleasant rictus, disclosing a bit of mackerel salad, lodged between two of the stained four. We think it’s mackerel salad. It appears to be mackerel salad. In the sagas, it is mackerel salad.”

 

Barthelme

Donald Barthelme (7 april 1931 – 23 juli 1989)

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijver Johannes Mario Simmel werd op 7 april 1924 in Wenen geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007,  mijn blog van 5 januari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2009.

 

Uit: Hurra wir leben noch

 

“Der Hase musste sich an seinem Fahrrad festhalten und dreimal ansetzen, bevor er flüsterte: „Vierzigtausend?“
„Ja“, sagte Jakob mit einem freundlichen Blick seiner tiefdunklen Augen. „Und du radelst sofort weiter nach Theresienkron und alarmierst sämtliche Bauern. Sie sollen sich darauf vorbereiten, dass die vierzigtausend kommen – im Lauf der Nacht!“
„Aber das ist doch Diebstahl, Bärchen!“ sagte der Hase.
„Jetzt gilt Moral nur für die Sieger!“
„Da hast du natürlich auch wieder recht“, sagte der Hase.
Das Gespräch zwischen dem Bären und dem Hasen fand außerhalb des Fliegerhorsts statt, neben dem oben Strom geladenen Stacheldrahtzaun. Gleißendes Licht warfen Scheinwerfer über das ganze Gelände, über Tower, Hangars, Mannschaftsunterkünfte und draußen, weit entfernt, am Ende einer Landebahn, über die ‚Fliegende Festung’. Denn da in der Nähe, auf einem Flecken ausgedörrten Ackers, sollte nun auf Befehl des Cononel Hobson die gesamte Fracht der Eins-acht-eins mit Benzin übergossen und verbrannt werden.
Der Hase war schlank, hatte aufregende Kurven genau dort, wo sie hingehören, außerdem rehbraune Augen mit langen Wimpern und braunes Haar. Die Hase Hieß Julia Martens. Er trug ein Kornblumenblaues Kleid mit weißen Abnähern und weiße Schuhe. Der Hase hatte am 3. November 1946 nur ein einziges Kleid und ein einziges Paar Schuhe. Sonst besaß er noch selbst gefertigte, einigermaßen abenteuerlich aussehende Hosenanzüge. Und für seinen Bären hatte der Hase einen ebenso abente
uerlichen Anzug genäht. Derselbe war jedoch so beschaffen, dass Jakob – Multimillionär von 1965 – doch lieber in seinen eingefärbten Sachen herumlief. Im übrigen ist es jedermann bekannt, dass Verliebte sich zärtlich Tiernamen geben. Und Julia, genannt Hase, und Jakob, genannt Bär, liebten einander.
Jakob hatte aus Gründen, über die noch zu sprechen sein wird, seine Stellung als Dolmetscher bei der amerikanischen Militärpolizei in Wien Knall und Fall aufgegeben und mit Hilfe des Liebenswerten Generals Mark Clark in einer Verbindungsmaschine nach Linz fliegen müssen.”

 

Simmel

Johannes Mario Simmel (7 april 1924 – 1 januari 2009)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 7e april ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.