Kazim Ali, Jakob Ejersbo, John Pepper Clark, Günter Herburger, Uljana Wolf

De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver en essayist Kazim Ali werd geboren op 6 april 1971 in Croydon, Engeland. Zie ook alle tags voor Kazim Ali op dit blog.

 

Autobiography

we didn’t really speak
my summer wants to answer

the architecture doesn’t matter
this is not my real life

when I am here I want to know
why do I believe what I was taught

a storm is on the way
close all the windows

begin at the earliest hour
is there a self

 

Rain

With thick strokes of ink the sky fills with rain.
Pretending to run for cover but secretly praying for more rain.

Over the echo of the water, I hear a voice saying my name.
No one in the city moves under the quick sightless rain.

The pages of my notebook soak, then curl. I’ve written:
“Yogis opened their mouths for hours to drink the rain.”

The sky is a bowl of dark water, rinsing your face.
The window trembles; liquid glass could shatter into rain.

I am a dark bowl, waiting to be filled.
If I open my mouth now, I could drown in the rain.

I hurry home as though someone is there waiting for me.
The night collapses into your skin. I am the rain.

 

 
Kazim Ali (Croydon, 6 april 1971)

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Kazim Ali, Jakob Ejersbo, John Pepper Clark, Günter Herburger, Uljana Wolf

De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver en essayist Kazim Ali werd geboren op 6 april 1971 in Croydon, Engeland. Zie ook alle tags voor Kazim Ali op dit blog.

 

Hymn

 

My father’s silence I cannot brook. By now he must know I live and well.

My heart is nickel, unearthed and sent. We are a manmade catastrophe.

Unable to forgive, deeply mine this earthly light that swells sickly inside.

Like wind I drift westward and profane when the doors of ice slide open.

While he prays my father swallows the sickle moon, its bone sharp path spent.

Preyed upon by calendars of stone unbound the nickel of the mountain in streams.

Mine this awful empty night. Mine this unchiming bell, his unanswered prayers.

Mine the rain-filled sandals, the road out of town. Like a wind unbound this shining river mine.

 

 

Sleep Door

 

a light knocking on the sleep door

like the sound of a rope striking the side of a boat

 

heard underwater

boats pulling up alongside each other

 

beneath the surface we rub up against each other

will we capsize in

 

the surge and silence

of waking from sleep

 

you are a lost canoe, navigating by me

I am the star map tonight

 

all the failed echoes

don’t matter

 

the painted-over murals

don’t matter

 

you can find your way to me

by the faint star-lamp

 

we are a fleet now

our prows zeroing in

 

praying in the wind

to spin like haywire compasses

 

toward whichever direction

will have us

 

 

Kazim Ali (Croydon, 6 april 1971)

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Kazim Ali, Jakob Ejersbo, John Pepper Clark, Günter Herburger, Uljana Wolf

De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver en essayist Kazim Ali werd geboren op 6 april 1971 in Croydon, Engeland. Zie ook alle tags voor Kazim Ali op dit blog.

Night Prayer

I lived near the archive for years but never read it.
Instead dropped letters folded as boats into the stream at midnight.

The white lines of a graph moored me to them.
From that moment I was thirsty, remembering my earlier thirst.

Standing still at the sill of the window, wanting to know
who was looking out. But how can a window answer?

All my naval missives were cast between map and maelstrom,
and if I ever dared to pray for something real

would it be for my thirst to be quenched or for unquenchable thirst—

 

Dear Father, Dear Sound

I exist only two cosmic minutes after you.
What does an echo know?

You recited into my ears before I had either language or sight
“there is a Thing in the universe so immense you can’t say It”

Your whisper hand in hand with what I whispered back
is going out to the end of the universe.

Will they ever reach it?
Will they ever begin traveling back?

Kazim Ali (Croydon, 6 april 1971)

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Ottokar Kernstock, Sytze van der Zee, Albert Knapp, Kazim Ali, Louise Boege

De Oostenrijkse dichter, priester en Augustijner Koorheer Ottokar Kernstock werd geboren op 25 juli 1848 in Marburg an der Drau. Zie ook alle tags voor Ottckar Kernstock op dit blog.

 

Im Dichterheim

Es wanderten durch den rauschenden Tann
Drei Mädel, flink wie die Wiesel,
Den Bergpfad zur ragenden Feste hinan
Die Ilse, die Gretel, die Lisel.

Sie rasteten unter dem Lindengeäst,
Durchs Burgtor sind sie gezogen.
Sie fanden des Singvogels heimliches Nest,
Doch der Sänger war ausgeflogen.

Ihr lieblichen Wanderer macht euch nichts draus,
Weil heute im Hause ich fehle!
In meinen Liedern bin ich zu Haus,
Im Sange wohnt meine Seele.

Dort habt ihr manch trauliches Stündlein geweilt
Beim Dichter, dem Bringer des Schönen.
Habt Wonne und Wehmut mit mir geteilt,
Mein Lächeln und meine Tränen.

Ergründet habt ihr mein innerstes Sein
Und meine Sendung gesegnet –
So wurde ich euer, so wurdet ihr mein,
Obgleich wir uns niemals begegnet.

Und kommt jetzt das Herbsten und kommt das Verblüh’n,
Ich weiß doch, trotz Blättergeriesel
Bleibt mir ein herziges Kleeblatt grün:
Die Ilse, die Gretel, die Lisel.

 


Ottokar Kernstock (25 juli 1848 – 5 november 1928)
Bronzen medaille uit 1928

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Kazim Ali

De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver en essayist Kazim Ali werd geboren op 6 april 1971 in Croydon, Engeland. Hij behaalde zijn Bachelor of Arts (1993) en Master of Arts (1995) in Albany (NY) en zijn Master of Fine Arts aan de New York University in 2001.KazimisAliisde schrijver vantwee bundels poëzie,The Far Mosque (2005) enThe Fortieth Day (2008). Als vertalerpubliceerde hijWater’s Footfall doorSohrabSepehri(2011).Verder schreef hij de romansQuinn’s Passage (2005) en The Disappearance of Seth (2009),BrightFelon: Autobiography and Cities (2009) en Orange Alert: Essays on Poetry, Art and the Architecture of Silence (2010), enFasting for Ramadan,2011.Hij isassistent-professorCreativeWritingaan het OberlinCollege endoceert aan deUniversity of SouthernMaine.Zijn werk isin veletijdschriften, zoals Best American Poetry 2007, American Poetry Review en de Boston Review gepubliceerd. Daarnaast is hij medeoprichter van uitgeverij Nightboat Books.

Uit: The Disappearance of Seth

„A week after the Manhattan sky revised itself and he had to abandon work on the building he was redesigning, a building that was now underneath tons of debris and ash, Saif meets Zel in a cafe near Washington Square, the air washing its hands with the thick quilt of ash, scraps of paper, dirt, a glittering net that billows.
Flesh leaking into me. A person casts themselves into the sky and dissolves. A theory Saif remembers reading about: that a person falling from a great height dies before hitting the ground: scares himself to death.
Unproveable.
Or the soul is like smoke. Likes that idea. A person casts himself into the clouds and the soul disperses. Maybe the soul is like water and once in the air, the soul can condense on any available surface, like a window, or a drinking glass.
Can rain down again into him.
The night can rain down again into him.
A night raining orange and ruin. The blue day cut with it.
He was like that: drinking the air and letting it burn his inside.
Zel doesn’t think it could happen like that. “They didn’t jump, Saif. I read in the paper that it was the change in air pressure due to the burning jet fuel. The windows were blown out and the people were pulled from the building into the air.”
Saif thnks two things at once, grotesque and sublime: first Gibreel and Saladin, falling from Rushdie’s airplane: bits of ash from the end of a cigar; and then: how strange that the sky pulled the people into itself.
Is he still human that he can think poetically about monstrosity?”

Kazim Ali (Croydon, 6 april 1971)