Tag: Hai Zi

A. E. Housman, Bettina Galvagni, Hai Zi, Erica Jong, Artur Landsberger

De Engelse dichter Alfred Edward Housman werd geboren op 26 maart 1859 in Fockbury, Worcestershire. Zie ook alle tags voor A. E. Housman op dit blog.

 

To An Athlete Dying Young

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl’s.

 

Here Dead We Lie

Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.

Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.

 

 
A. E. Housman (26 maart 1859 – 30 april 1936)
Standbeeld in Bromsgrove

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A. E. Housman, Bettina Galvagni, Hai Zi, Erica Jong, Artur Landsberger

De Engelse dichter Alfred Edward Housman werd geboren op 26 maart 1859 in Fockbury, Worcestershire. Zie ook alle tags voor A. E. Housman op dit blog.

 

The Carpenter’s Son

“Here the hangman stops his cart:
Now the best of friends must part.
Fare you well, for ill fare I:
Live, lads, and I will die.

“Oh, at home had I but stayed
‘Prenticed to my father’s trade,
Had I stuck to plane and adze,
I had not been lost, my lads.

“Then I might have built perhaps
Gallows-trees for other chaps,
Never dangled on my own,
Had I left but ill alone.

“Now, you see, they hang me high,
And the people passing by
Stop to shake their fists and curse;
So ’tis come from ill to worse.

“Here hang I, and right and left
Two poor fellows hang for theft:
All the same’s the luck we prove,
Though the midmost hangs for love.

“Comrades all, that stand and gaze,
Walk henceforth in other ways;
See my neck and save your own:
Comrades all, leave ill alone.

“Make some day a decent end,
Shrewder fellows than your friend.
Fare you well, for ill fare I:
Live lads, and I will die.”

 

 
A. E. Housman (26 maart 1859 – 30 april 1936)

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Gregory Corso, Tennessee Williams, Hwang Sun-won, Martin McDonagh, Bettina Galvagni, Hai Zi

De Amerikaanse dichter Gregory Corso werd geboren in New York op 26 maart 1930. Zie ook alle tags voor Gregory Corso op dit blog.

 

1959

Uncomprising year—I see no meaning to life.
Though this abled self is here nonetheless,
either in trade gold or grammaticness,
I drop the wheelwright’s simple principle—
Why weave the garland? Why ring the bell?

Penurious butchery these notoriously human years,
these confident births these lucid deaths these years.
Dream’s flesh blood reals down life’s mystery—
there is no mystery.
Cold history knows no dynastic Atlantis.
The habitual myth has an eagerness to quit.

No meaning to life can be found in this holy language
nor beyond the lyrical fabricator’s inescapable theme
be found the loathed find—there is nothing to find.

Multitudinous deathplot! O this poor synod—
Hopers and seekers paroling meaning to meaning,
annexing what might be meaningful, what might be meaningless.

Repeated nightmare, lachrymae lachrymae—
a fire behind a grotto, a thick fog, shredded masts,
the nets heaved—and the indescribable monster netted.
Who was it told that red flesh hose be still?
For one with smooth hands did with pincers
snip the snout—It died like a yawn.
And when the liver sack was yanked
I could not follow it to the pan.

I could not follow it to the pan—
I woke to the reality of cars; Oh
the dreadful privilege of that vision!
Not one antique faction remained;

Egypt, Rome, Greece,
and all such pedigree dreams fled.
Cars are real! Eternity is done.
The threat of Nothingness renews.
I touch the untouched.
I rank the rose militant.
Deny, I deny the tastes and habits of the age.
I am its punk debauche …. A fierce lampoon
seeking to inherit what is necessary to forfeit.

Lies! Lies! Lies! I lie, you lie, we all lie!
There is no us, there is no world, there is no universe,
there is no life, no death, no nothing—all is meaningless,
and this too is a lie—O damned 1959!
Must I dry my inspiration in this sad concept?
Delineate my entire stratagem?
Must I settle into phantomness
and not say I understand things better than God?

 

Gregory Corso (26 maart 1930 – 17 januari 2001)
Hier met Allen Ginsberg (links)

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100 Jaar Tennessee Williams, Hwang Sun-won, Martin McDonagh, Gregory Corso, Bettina Galvagni, Hai Zi

100 Jaar Tennessee Williams

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Tennessee Williams (eigenlijk Thomas Lanier Williams) werd geboren in Columbus (Mississippi op 26 maart 1911. Dat is vandaag precies 100 jaar geleden. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2010.

 

Uit: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

 

„BRICK: Why d’ya call Gooper’s kiddies no-neck monsters?

MARGARET: Because they’ve got no necks! Isn’t that a good enough reason?

BRICK: Don’t they have any necks?

MARGARET: None visible. Their fat little heads are set on their fat little bodies without a bit of connection.

BRICK: That’s too bad.

MARGARET: Yes, it’s too bad because you can’t wring their necks if they’ve got no necks to wring! Isn’t that right, honey?

[She steps out of her dress, stands in a slip of ivory satin and lace.]

Yep, they’re no-neck monsters, all no-neck people are monsters …

[Children shriek downstairs.]

Hear them? Hear them screaming? I don’t know where their voice boxes are located since they don’t have necks. I tell you I got so nervous at that table tonight I thought I would throw back my head and utter a scream you could hear across the Arkansas border an’ parts of Louisiana an’ Tennessee. I said to your charming sister-in-law, Mae, honey, couldn’t you feed those precious little things at a separate table with an oilcloth cover? They make such a mess an’ the lace cloth looks so pretty! She made enormous eyes at me and said, “Ohhh, noooooo! On Big Daddy’s birthday? Why, he would never forgive me!” Well, I want you to know, Big Daddy hadn’t been at the table two minutes with those five no-neck monsters slobbering and drooling over their food before he threw down his fork an’ shouted, “Fo’ God’s sake, Gooper, why don’t you put them pigs at a trough in th’ kitchen?”-Well, I swear, I simply could have di-ieed!

 

 

Paul Newman en Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958).

 

 

Think of it, Brick, they’ve got five of them and number six is coming. They’ve brought the whole bunch down here like animals to display at a county fair. Why, they have those children doin’ tricks all the time! “Junior, show Big Daddy how you do this, show Big Daddy how you do that, say your little piece fo’ Big Daddy, Sister. Show your dimples, Sugar. Brother, show Big Daddy how you stand on your head!”-It goes on all the time, along with constant little remarks and innuendos about the fact that you and I have not produced any children, are totally childless and therefore totally useless! -Of course it’s comical but it’s also disgusting since it’s so obvious what they’re up to!

BRICK [without interest]: What are they up to, Maggie?“

 

 

Tennessee Williams (26 maart 1911 – 25 februari 1983)

 

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Gregory Corso, Patrick Süskind, Bettina Galvagni, Hai Zi, Martin McDonagh

De Amerikaanse dichter Gregory Corso werd geboren in New York op 26 maart 1930. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008. en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

Friend

 

Friends be kept
Friends be gained
And even friends lost be friends regained
He had no foes he made them all into friends
A friend will die for you
Acquaintances can never make friends
Some friends want to be everybody’s friend
There are friends who take you away from friends
Friends believe in friendship with a vengeance!
Some friends always want to do you favors
Some always want to get NEAR you
You can’t do this to me I’m your FRIEND
My friends said FDR
Let’s be friends says the USSR
Old Scrooge knew a joy in a friendless Christmas
Leopold and Loeb planning in the night!
Et tu Brute
I have many friends yet sometimes I am nobody’s friend
The majority of friends are male
Girls always prefer male friends
Friends know when you’re troubled
It’s what they crave for!
The bonds of friendship are not inseparable
Those who haven’t any friends and want some are often creepy
Those who have friends and don’t want them are doomed
Those who haven’t any friends and don’t want any are grand
Those who have friends and want them seem sadly human
Sometimes I scream Friends are bondage! A madness!
All a waste of INDIVIDUAL time —
Without friends life would be different not miserable
does one need a friend in heaven —

 

Corso

Gregory Corso (26 maart 1930 – 17 januari 2001)

 

 

De Duitse schrijver Patrick Süskind werd geboren in Ambach op 26 maart 1949. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

Uit: Das Parfum

 

“Zu der Zeit, von der wir reden, herrschte in den Städten ein für uns moderne Menschen kaum vorstellbarer Gestank. Es stanken die Straßen nach Mist, es stanken die Hinterhöfe nach Urin, es stanken die Treppenhäuser nach fauligem Holz und nach Rattendreck, die Küchen nach verdorbenem Kohl und Hammelfett; die ungelüfteten Stuben stanken nach muffigem Staub, die Schlafzimmer nach fettigen Laken, nach feuchten Federbetten und nach dem stechend süßen Duft der Nachttöpfe. Aus den Kaminen stank der Schwefel, aus den Gerbereien stanken die ätzenden Laugen, aus den Schlachthöfen stank das geronnene Blut. Die Menschen stanken nach Schweiß und nach ungewaschenen Kleidern; aus dem Mund stanken sie nach verrotteten Zähnen, aus ihren Mägen nach Zwiebelsaft und an den Körpern, wenn sie nicht mehr ganz jung waren, nach altem Käse und nach saurer Milch und nach Geschwulstkrankheiten. Es stanken die Flüsse, es stanken die Plätze, es stanken die Kirchen, es stank unter den Brücken und in den Palästen. Der Bauer stank wie der Priester, der
Handwerksgeselle wie die Meistersfrau, es stank der gesamte Adel, ja sogar der König stank, wie ein Raubtier stank er, und die Königin wie eine alte Ziege, sommers wie winters. Denn der zersetzenden Aktivität der Bakterien war im achtzehnten Jahrhundert noch keine Grenze gesetzt, und so gab es keine menschliche Tätigkeit, keine aufbauende und keine zerstörende, keine Äußerung des aufkeimenden oder verfallenden Lebens, die nicht von Gestank begleitet gewesen wäre.

Und natürlich war in Paris der Gestank am größten, denn Paris war die größte Stadt Frankreichs. Und innerhalb von Paris wiederum gab es einen Ort, an dem der Gestank ganz besonders infernalisch herrschte, zwischen der Rue aux Fers und der Rue de la Ferronnerie, nämlich den Cimetière des Innocents. Achthundert Jahre lang hatte man hierher die Toten des Krankenhauses Hôtel-Dieu und der umliegenden Pfarrgemeinden verbracht, achthundert Jahre lang Tag für Tag die Kadaver zu Dutzenden herbeigekarrt und in lange Gräben geschüttet, achthundert Jahre lang in den Grüften und Beinhäusern Knöchelchen auf Knöchelchen geschichtet.”

 

Sueskind

Patrick Süskind (Ambach, 26 maart 1949)

 

De Italiaanse, Duitstalige, dichteres en schrijfster Bettina Galvagni werd geboren op 26 maart 1976 in Neumarkt. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

Der Ball der Nausikaa

 

Die Odyssee wird aus den Muscheln gespült,
wo die Insel Strand ist,
und die Physis weckt Leidenschaft in
Hirtenknaben, die
mengegüthlinglos die Aeneis übersetzen,
am Flusse sitzen und wissen, wie er fließt.

 

Die Dinge tropfen wie Regen und fallen wie
Stein.
Die Insel schickt die Wellen fort.
Der Dichter ist erschöpft und fällt in den
Schlaf.

 

Hirtenknaben gibt es wenige:

 

nenn es Ananke.

 

Nur der Vergleich ist noch da und wartet,
daß das Wasser ihn befließt.

 

Bettina_galvagni

Bettina Galvagni (Neumarkt, 26 maart 1976)

 

De Chinese dichter Hai Zi (pseudoniem van de Chinese dichter Cha Haisheng) werd geboren op 26 maart 1964 in Huaining, een klein dorpje in de provincie Anhui. Hij bracht zijn jeugd door op het traditionele Chinese platteland toen het hele land betrokken was bij de Culturele Revolutie. In 1979 werd hij ingeschreven bij de Universiteit van Peking op de leeftijd van 15 jaar. Hij begon gedichten te schrijven als student in de vroege jaren 1980. Na zijn afstuderen werkte hij aan de China University of Political Science and Law. Hij bleef onbekend voor de meeste lezers tot na zijn dood. Hai Zi was in zijn laatste jaren gefascineerd door de Tibetaanse cultuur en Qigong. Hij maakte een einde aan zijn leven door op een spoo rails te gaan liggen niet ver van Shanhaiguan op zijn 25e verjaardag. Zijn dood wordt nu beschouwd als een belangrijke gebeurtenis in de moderne Chinese literatuur. Met suggereert wel dat zijn dood “het offer van de agrarische beschaving” symboliseert.

From June to October

Woman of June gathers water, gathers moonlight
Woman of July sells cotton
Woman under the August tree
washes her ears
I hear in the opposite window
that the woman of September is engaged
her ring like a wet chick in her pocket
Woman of October blows out the candles
of her wedding. Black doors
fall on the grasslands

 

Moon

Chimney smoke up and down
The moon is a white ape digging a well
The moon is a white ape smiling wanly on the river

How many times blood trickles out of the sky
The white ape flows past a bell tower
The moon is a white ape smiling wanly
The moon breaks its own heart

 

Vertaald door Ye Chun

Haizi

Hai Zi (26 maart 1964 – 26 maart 1989)

 

De Engels-Ierse schrijver en regisseur Martin McDonagh werd geborenop 26 maart 1970 in Camberwell, Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

Uit: The Beauty Queen of Leenane

 

„MAG. Young girls should not be out gallivanting with fellas …!

MAUREEN. Young girls! I’m forty years old, for feck’s sake! Finish it!

Mag drinks again

MAUREEN. ‘Young girls’! That’s the beste yet. And how did Annette or Margo ever get married if it wasn’t first out gallivanting that they were?

MAG. I don’t know.

MAUREEN. Drink!

MAG. I don’t like it, Maureen.

MAUREEN. Would you like it better over your head?

Mag drinks again

MAUREEN. I’ll tell you, eh? ‘Young girls out gallivanting.’ I’ve heard it all now. What have I ever done but kissed two men the past forty years
?

MAG. Two men is plenty!

MAUREEN. Finish!

MAG. I’ve finished! (Mag holds out the mug. Maureen washes it.) Two men is two men too much!

MAUREEN. To you, maybe. To you. Not to me.

MAG. Two men too much!

MAUREEN. Do you think I like being stuck up here with you? Eh? Like a dried up oul …

MAG. Whore!

Maureen laughs

MAUREEN. Whore? (Pause) Do I not wish, now? Do I not wish? (Pause) Sometimes I dream …“

 

mcdonagh

Martin McDonagh (Camberwell, 26 maart 1970)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 26e maart ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.