Next time you speak to you-know-who I’ve got a message for him. Tell him that I have lost a stone Since the last time I saw him. Tell him that I’ve got three new books Coming out soon, but play it Cool, make it sound spontaneous. Don’t say I said to say it.
He might ask if I’ve mentioned him. Say I have once, in passing. Memorize everything he says And, no, it won’t be grassing When you repeat his words to me ? Its the only way to play it. Tell him I’m toned and tanned and fine. Don’t say I said to say it.
Say that serenity and grace Have taken root inside me. My top-note is frivolity But beneath, dark passions guide me. Tell him I’m radiant and replete And add that everyday it Seems I am harder to resist. Don’t say I said to say it.
Tell him that all my ancient faults Have been eradicated. I do not carp or analyse As I might have when we dated. Say I’m not bossy any more Or, better still, convey it Subtly, but get the point across. Don’t say I said to say it.
Rondeau Redoublé
I know the rules and hear myself agree Not to invest beyond this one night stand. I know your patter: in, out, like the sea. The sharp north wind must blow away the sand.
Soon my supply will meet your last demand And you will have no further use for me. I will not swim against the tide, to land. I know the rules. I hear myself agree.
I’ve kept a stash of hours, just two or three To smuggle off your coast like contraband. We will both manage (you more easily) Not to invest beyond this one night stand.
To narrow-minded friends I will expand On cheap not being the same as duty free. I’ll say this was exactly what I planned. I know your pattern: in, out, like the sea.
It’s not as if we were designed to be Strolling along the beach front, hand in hand. Things change, of natural necessity. The sharp north wind must blow away the sand
And every storm to rage, however grand, Will end in pain and shipwreck and debris And each time there’s a voice I have to strand On a bare rock, hardened against its plea; I know the rules.
Met welk een dorst raas je naar je talloze ontmoetingen, als was ik een stuk droog brood bij de aanblik waarvan je meteen om water vraagt –
Met welk een gretigheid ga je uit eten (als belichaamde ik de hongerdood), terwijl de straathonden al als wolven keffen en mijn ziel de seconden meet –
From the River Cam and the A14 To the Aire and the tall Ml, We left the place where home had been, Still wondering what we’d done, And we went to Yorkshire, undeterred By the hearts we’d left down South And we couldn’t believe the words we heard From the lettings agent’s mouth.
He showed us a flat near an abbatoir Then one where a man had died Then one with nowhere to park our car Then one with no bath inside. With the undertone of cheering Of a person who impedes, He looked straight at us, sneeering, ‘You won’t find a bath in Leeds’.
‘We have come to Leeds from Cambridge. We have heard that Leeds is nice. A bath is seen in Cambridge As an integral device, So don’t tell me that a shower Is sufficient to meet my needs,’ I said. I received a glower And ‘You won’t find a bath in Leeds’.
He fingered a fraying curtain And I said, ‘You can’t be sure. Some things in life are uncertain And that’s what hope is for. One day I might meet Robert Redford At Bristol Temple Meads. I’ve found baths in Bracknell and Bedford And I might find a bath in Leeds.’
He replied with a refutation Which served to increase our pain But we didn’t head for the station Or run for a rescue train, Though we felt like trampled flowers Who’d been set upon by weeds. We told him to stuff his showers And we would find a bath in Leeds.
Some people are snide and scathing And they try to undermine Your favourite form of bathing Or the way you write a line. At night, while you’re busy praying That your every plan succeeds, There are killjoys somewhere saying, ‘You won’t find a bath in Leeds’.
A better definition Might be reading all of Proust, But the concept of ambition Has been radically reduced. While the London wits are burning Their cash in the Groucho club, In Yorkshire we’re simply yearning To locate an enamel tub.
I win, Mr Bath Bad Tidings. I have not one bath but two. En-suite in the sweet West Ridings And no bloody thanks to you. I may never run fast, or tower Over Wimbledon’s top seeds Or hit sixes like David Gower But I have found a bath in Leeds.
De straat is een ongesorteerd magazine. Wat erin komt of eruit gaat – niemand weet het noch wanneer de volgende levering komt.
Van bijna alles bestaan er slechts unieke exemplaren. Aan het einde van mijn arm pas worden ze – second hand? Nee, second hand wordt vriendelijk weggegeven en niet weggegooid, dus: Afval!
Maar wat het ongeduld van het consumentenafval, dat is het geluk van de oogvingers van de dichter. Ongecensureerd betasten en ontvangen ze, wat, vrijgelaten uit het nuttige detentiecentrum, eindelijk vrij is, niets meer te moeten zijn,
alleen (als het wil) die wens misschien die mijn lieve, deze goed verstopte fee, altijd op de vlucht voor mensen, het hoort fluisteren.
I have portrayed temptation as amusing. Now he can either waver or abstain. His is a superior kind of losing And mine is an inferior brond of gain.
His sacrifice, his self-imposed restriction Will get through this controversy intact For his is a superior kind of fiction And mine is an inferior brand of fact.
I have displayed my most attractive feature And he his least, yet still the match seems odd. For I am a superior kind of creature And he is an inferior brand of god
And if he cuts me off without warning His is the book from which I’ll take a leaf For his is a superior kind of mourning And ours a most inferior brand of grief.
Wells-Next-the-Sea
I came this little seaside town And went a pub they call The Crown Where straight away I happened see A man who seemed quite partial me. I proved susceptible his charms And fell right in his open arms. From time time, every now and then, I hope meet up with him again.
The During Months
Like summer in some countries and like rain in mine, for nuns like God, for drunks like beer, like food for chefs, for invalids like pain, You’ve occupied a large part of the year.
The during months to those before and since would make a ratio of ten to two, counting the ones spent trying to convince myself there was a beating heart in you
when diagrams were all you’d let me see. Hearts should be made of either blood or stone, of both, like mine. There’s still December free – the month in which I’ll save this year, alone.
Laten we de geschiedenis ingaan. Maar waarmee? Onze handen zijn leeg na de transformatie van de wereld in goederen. ……………………Neurotisch worden onze handen wanneer ze dit overvolle magazijn om zich heen betasten. ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,Zij voelen zich gedwongen te kiezen. ……………………………………………Maar ze weten niet wat ze nu moeten doen. Voor wie? Waar? En waarom? Zonder sigaret, zonder koffie lijken ze allebei al veel op langdurig werklozen. ………………………………….Grijs geworden, beginnen ze te trillen.
Bekijk ze goed als je ze uit je zak haalt. Ze worden kleiner en kleiner. Spoedig groeien ze van binnenuit je schedel in, om daar een verschrikkelijke opstanding te vieren.
When I leave you postcode and your commuting station, When I left undone all the things we planned to do You may feel you have been left by association But there is leaving and leaving you.
When I leave your town and the club that you belong to, When I leave without much warning or much regret, Remember, there’s doing wrong and there’s doing wrong to You, which I’ll never do and I haven’t yet,
And when I have gone, remember that in weighing Everything up, from love to a cheaper rent, You were all the reasons I thought of staying, And none of the reasons why I went
And although I leave your sight and I leave your setting, And our separation is soon to be a fact, Though you stand beside what I’m leaving and forgetting, I’m not leaving you, not if motive makes the act.
Symptoms
Although you have given me a stomach upset, Weak knees, a lurching heart, a fuzzy brain, A high-pitched laugh, a monumental phone bill, A feeling of unworthiness, sharp pain When you are somewhere else, a guilty conscience, A longing, and a dread of what’s in store, A pulse rate for the Guinness Book of Records – Life now is better than it was before.
Although you have given me a raging temper,
Insomnia, a rising sense of panic, A hopeless challenge, bouts of introspection, Raw, bitten nails, a voice that’s strangely manic, A selfish streak, a fear of isolation, A silly smile, lips that are chapped and sore, A running joke, a risk, an inspiration – Life now is better than it was before.
Although you have given me a premonition, Chattering teeth, a goal, a lot to lose,
A granted wish, mixed motives, superstitions, Hang-ups and headaches, fear of awful news, A bubble in my throat, a dare to swallow, A crack of light under a closing door, The crude, fantastic prospect of forever – Life now is better that it was before.
De geest van de weide waar ik als kind op speelde gaat naar de sociale dienst. Word ik een zacht ei? Of gaat de herinnering ervandoor aan brandende bladeren waarin de wens gloeide?
We leefden in het reservaat. Maar we waren niet genoeg Indiaan om te ontaarden na de eerste glazen cola met rum. We hebben steunsel gemaakt uit fijne stof om onze lichamen, zetten ze behoedzaam in de auto en reden naar onze kantoren waar de plannen al klaar lagen voor mensen zoals wij.
Le violon, d’un chant très profond de tristesse, Remplit la douce nuit, se mêle aux sons des cors, Les sylphes vont pleurant comme une âme en détresse, Et les coeurs des arbres ont des plaintes de morts.
Le souffle du Veillant anime chaque feuille ; Aux amers souvenirs les bois ouvrent leur sein ; Les oiseaux sont rêveurs ; et sous l’oeil opalin De la lune d’été ma Douleur se recueille…
Lentement, au concert que font sous la ramure Les lutins endiablés comme ce Faust ancien, Le luth dans tout mon coeur éveille en parnassien
La grande majesté de la nuit qui murmure Dans les cieux alanguis un ramage lointain, Prolongé jusqu’à l’aube, et mourant au Matin.
Uit: The Father (Vertaald door Christopher Hampton)
“ANNE. Where? Where did you leave it? ANDRÉ. Mm? Somewhere. Can’t remember. All I know is it’s now nowhere to be found. Nowhere to be found. I can’t find it, there’s your proof. That girl stole it from me. I know it. So yes, maybe I called her a… Like you say. It’s possible. Maybe I got a bit annoyed. All right. If you like. But, really, Anne, a curtain rod, come on…raving mad, I’m telling you. Anne sits down. She looks winded. What’s the matter? ANNE. I don’t know what to do. ANDRÉ. About what? ANNE. We have to talk, Dad. ANDRÉ. That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it? ANNE. I mean, seriously.Pause.This is the third one you’ve… ANDRÉ. I said, I don’t need her! I don’t need her or anyone else! I can manage very well on my own! ANNE. She wasn’t easy to find, you know. It’s not that easy. I thought she was really good. A lot of good qualities. She… And now she doesn’t want to work here anymore. ANDRÉ. You’re not listening to what I’m telling you. That girl stole my watch! My watch, Anne! I’ve had that watch for years. For ever! It’s of sentimental value. It’s… I’m not going to live with a thief. ANNE. (Exhaustedly.) Have you looked in the kitchen cupboard? ANDRÉ. What? ANNE. In the kitchen cupboard. Behind the microwave. Where you hide your valuables. Pause. ANDRÉ. (Horrified.) How do you know? ANNE. What? ANDRÉ. How do you know? ANNE. I just know, that’s all. Have you looked there for your watch?”
Where they have been, if they have been away, or what they’ve done at home, if they have not – you make them write about the holiday. One writes My Dad did. What? Your Dad did what?
That’s not a sentence. Never mind the bell. We stay behind until the work is done. You count their words (you who can count and spell); all the assignments are complete bar one
and though this boy seems bright, that one is his. He says he’s finished, doesn’t want to add anything, hands it in just as it is. No change. My Dad did. What? What did his Dad?
You find the ‘E’ you gave him as you sort through reams of what this girl did, what that lad did, and read the line again, just one ‘e’ short: This holiday was horrible. My Dad did.
Occupational Hazard
He has slept with accountants and brokers, With a cowgirl (well, someone from Healds). He has slept with non-smokers and smokers In commercial and cultural fields.
He has slept with book-keepers, book-binders, Slept with auditors, florists, PAs Child psychologists, even child minders, With directors of firms and of plays.
He has slept with the stupid and clever. He has slept with the rich and the poor But he sadly admits that he’s never Slept with a poet before.
Real poets are rare, he confesses, While it’s easy to find a cashier. So I give him some poets’ addresses And consider a change of career.
Now that I know you didn’t die: the grind of a braking tram, the telegram, a sharply shattered glance, the dream about a bloodless child, the weather forecast and—whatever happened now that I know it’s not about you, they speak of someone else to others, strangers, kin, in graying voices they become mirrors
My beloved
My beloved, moments ago you still walked in your favorite black dress beneath a sun projecting shadows of shifting triangles (legible even to me, who never understood geometry):
the distance grows, draws close, a relentless straight line penetrates my heart, between us lies not even the smoke of a train departing years ago
but this intimate remoteness in labyrinths of seals, stamps, coiled wire and borders
“To the question what is the difference between Venice and Milan other than a difference in tone, in the sunlight, and in the air, the answer is that Milan is where you busy yourself with the world as if what you did really mattered, and there time seems not to exist. But in Venice time seems to stop, you are busy only if you are a fool, and you see the truth of your life. And, whereas in Milan beauty is overcome by futility, in Venice futility is overcome by beauty. It isn’t because of the architecture or the art, the things that people go to look at and strain to preserve. The quality of Venice that accomplishes what religion so often cannot is that Venice has made peace with the waters. It is not merely pleasant that the sea flows through, grasping the city like the tendrils of a vine, and, depending upon the light, making alleys and avenues of emerald or sapphire, it is a brave acceptance of dissolution and an unflinching settlement with death. Though in Venice you may sit in courtyards of stone, and your heels may click up marble stairs, you cannot move without riding upon or crossing the waters that someday will carry you in dissolution to the sea. To have made peace with their presence is the great achievement of Venice, and not what tourists come to see. What Rosanna can do with her voice — the sublime elevation that is the province of artists, anyone can do in Venice if he knows what to look for and what to ignore. Should you concentrate there on the exquisite, or should you study too closely the monuments and museums, you will miss it, for it comes gently and without effort, and moves as slowly as the tide. Despite the fact that you are more likely to feel this quality if you are not distracted by luxury, I registered at the Celestia. The streets near San Marco are far too crowded and not as interesting as those quieter areas on other islands and in other districts, and they have a deficit of greenery and sunlight. And the Celestia, with its 2,600-count linen and stage-lit suites, is the kind of luxury that removes one from the spirit of life, but I went there anyway almost as a way of spiting Rosanna, who was paying for it, and because that is where we always stayed in Venice, and I wanted to accumulate more hotel-stay points. In that I am compulsive. Once I start laying-in a store of a certain commodity, like money, I get very enthusiastic about building it up.”
„Es war nicht wegen des Sex. Sie macht ihm keinen Vorwurf wegen des Sex. Aber es war alles schwierig geworden, und die Probleme schleppten sich so unlösbar weiter, weil sie im Bett nicht mehr zueinander fanden und danach dann wieder miteinander lachen hätten können. (Andrea S., Seite 5) Er war noch zu jung. Er sollte sich nicht Gedanken machen. Er musste sich nicht entscheiden. Die Eydergün hätte den Vorteil gehabt, dass sie mit seinen Eltern reden hätte können. Seine Mutter hätte sich über eine Frau wie die Eydergün gefreut. Deswegen. Seine Mutter trug das Kopftuch nicht so. Seine Mutter trug immer ein Kopftuch. Aber sie verbarg ihre Haare nicht ganz. Sie trug kein Untertuch. Die Eydergün. Man konnte kein Haar von ihr sehen. Er musste seine Mutter fragen. Mit der Frau von Ömar waren seine Eltern freundlich. Sie waren zur Hochzeit gegangen und seine Mutter hatte geweint und ihnen Glück gewünscht. Von der Sandra wusste er jede neue Farbschattierung. Die Sandra färbte ihre Haare alle Augenblicke anders und hatte ihre Haare damit kaputtgemacht. Aber die Punkfrisur schaute gut aus. Im Kurs wurde das besprochen. Dass er sich für die Sandra interessierte, aber dass er der Eydergün beim Lernen half. Die alte Frau hatte mit dem Kopieren aufgehört. Sie kam zur Kassa und fragte, ob er ihr einen Locher borgen könnte. Er stand auf und nahm den Locher. Sie gingen nebeneinander zum Kopiergerät. Da sei sie sehr froh, das er einen Locher herborgen könne. Dann könne sie nämlich dieses Blatt einordnen. Er reichte ihr den Locher. Sie habe in diesem Ordner jetzt schon einen großen Teil ihrer Bücher eingefangen, sagte die alte Frau. Sie lochte ein Blatt, auf dem die Buchrücken klar zu sehen waren. Sie kopiere die Buchrücken und habe sich diesen Ordner gemacht, weil sie aus ihrer Wohnung müsse und dann kein Platz mehr sein würde. Für die Bücher würde dann kein Platz mehr sein. Und dann habe sie die Ordner. Als stünden sie noch im Regal. Die alte Frau reichte ihm den Locher und er nahm ihn zurück. Die alte Frau steckte vorsichtig den Ordner in ihren Rucksack Dann begann sie die Bücher einzuordnen.“
De Britse dichteres en schrijfster Sophie Hannah werd geboren in Manchester op 28 juni 1971. Hannah is de dochter van een hoogleraar politicologie en een jeugdboekenschrijfster. Haar eerste gepubliceerde werk was het kinderboek “Carrot the Goldfish” (1992). Tussen 1993 en 2007 publiceerde ze tien poëziebundels, waarvan het merendeel verscheen bij uitgever Carcanet Press. Ook vertaalde ze twee boeken van Tove Jansson uit de Mumintrollet-serie in het Engels. Van 1997 tot 2001 was ze verbonden aan twee universiteiten, respectievelijk Cambridge (Trinity College) en Oxford (Wolfson College). In 2006 publiceerde ze voor het eerst een boek voor volwassenen, “Little Face”, een psychologische misdaadroman. Er werden 100.000 exemplaren van verkocht, en in de jaren daarna verscheen nog een tiental misdaadromans, waaronder “The Monogram Murders” (2014), een detectiveroman met Hercule Poirot, de Belgische detective geschapen door Agatha Christie, 39 jaar na “Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case”.
The Storming
There are differences, one assumes,
between us and the people we know who storm out of rooms,
sometimes crying, but not every time; sometimes muttering, sometimes an angry marching mime
is their exit mode. Where do they go, all those people who storm out of rooms? Will we ever know?
Are there sandwiches there, and a flask of hot tea? We won’t find out if we never ask.
Once they’ve fled the provoking scene, do they all get together somewhere? Do they reconvene
in a basement, an attic, a flat? Do they also reserve the right to storm out of that,
and if so, do they take turns to storm or link arms and desert en masse in a furious swarm,
leaving nobody in their wake? Would there be any point in the storming, for nobody’s sake?
There are differences, one fears, between us and the people who storm out of rooms in tears,
as if, having ruined it all, in the snug, they imagine they’ll be better off in the hall,
and that anyone left in a chair automatically gets to be wrong and to blame and unfair,
unaware of how bad stormers feel, and quite lacking in feelings themselves. That is part of the deal.
Notice how I don’t leap to my feet, how I nestle in cushions and curl myself into my seat.
Leave at once for the moral high ground. I’ll stay here by the fire, mocking storms and just lounging around.