Erik Spinoy, Arthur Conan Doyle, Alfonsina Storni, Anne de Vries, Kees Winkler

In verband met een korte vakantie van Romenu zijn de postings even wat minder uitvoerig.




De Vlaamse dichter en schrijver Erik Spinoy werd geboren op 22 mei 1960 in Sint-Niklaas. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 mei 2006.



Je weet niet wat je zegt


Je weet niet wat je zegt

in welke grond het valt


of het in lentes opschiet

als een distel




verdooft of wekt

wanneer je


in je stenen klokhuis zit

en het geschrevene

nog leeft

of niet


en vreemde grond en verse regen

voor je spreken gaan

of niet.


Je weet het niet.




Come on, baby, light my fire


Weeg deze koude hand, leg vingers

op een steen. Druk zwijgend

beide ogen toe.


Haal adem oeverloos en sla,

versplinter het gebit.

Verzink in mij.


Drink van dit bloed.

Eet van dit vlees.




Licht van de hoogtezon


Een pop die, draden

in de rug, een leven leidt

in vreemde hand.


Zo ligt, vlak bij de kloof,

het kleine hoofd. Zoekt naar

een verre ademtocht

en vindt.


Traag echter glijdt het lijf

verleiding in.





Erik Spinoy (Sint-Niklaas, 22 mei 1960)






De Britse schrijver Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle werd geboren in Edinburgh op 22 mei 1859. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 mei 2007.


Uit: The Exploits and Adventures of Brigadier Gerard


You do very well, my friends, to treat me with some little reverence, for in honouring me you are honouring both France and yourselves. It is not merely an old, grey-moustached officer whom you see eating his omelette or draining his glass, but it is a fragment of history. In me you see one of the last of those wonderful men, the men who were veterans when they were yet boys, who learned to use a sword earlier than a razor, and who during a hundred battles had never once let the enemy see the colour of their knapsacks. For twenty years we were teaching Europe how to fight, and even when they had learned their lesson it was only the thermometer, and never the bayonet, which could break the Grand Army down. Berlin, Naples, Vienna, Madrid, Lisbon, Moscow—we stabled our horses in them all. Yes, my friends, I say again that you do well to send your children to me with flowers, for these ears have heard the trumpet calls of France, and these eyes have seen her standards in lands where they may never be seen again.

Even now, when I doze in my arm-chair, I can see those great warriors stream before me—the green-jacketed chasseurs, the giant cuirassiers, Poniatowsky’s lancers, the white-mantled dragoons, the nodding bearskins of the horse grenadiers. And then there comes the thick, low rattle of the drums, and through wreaths of dust and smoke I see the line of high bonnets, the row of brown faces, the swing and toss of the long, red plumes amid the sloping lines of steel. And there rides Ney with his red head, and Lefebvre with his bulldog jaw, and Lannes with his Gascon swagger; and then amidst the gleam of brass and the flaunting feathers I catch a glimpse of him, the man with the pale smile, the rounded shoulders, and the far-off eyes. There is an end of my sleep, my friends, for up I spring from my chair, with a cracked voice calling and a silly hand outstretched, so that Madame Titaux has one more laugh at the old fellow who lives among the shadows.




Arthur Conan Doyle (22 mei 1850 – 7 juli 1930)






De Argentijnse dichteres Alfonsina Storni werd geboren in Sala Capriasca, Zwitserland op 22 mei 1892. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 mei 2007.



Little Little Man


Little little man, little little man,
set free your canary that wants to fly.
I am that canary, little little man,
leave me to fly.

I was in your cage, little little man,
little little man who gave me my cage.
I say “little little” because you don’t understand me
Nor will you understand.

Nor do I understand you, but meanwhile,
open for me the cage from which I want to escape.
Little little man, I loved you half an hour,
Don’t ask me again.





They’ve Come


Today my mother and sisters
came to see me.

I had been alone a long time
with my poems, my pride . . . almost nothing.

My sister—the oldest—is grown up,
is blondish. An elemental dream
goes through her eyes: I told the youngest
“Life is sweet. Everything bad comes to an end.”

My mother smiled as those who understand souls
tend to do;
She placed two hands on my shoulders.
She’s staring at me . . .
and tears spring from my eyes.

We ate together in the warmest room
of the house.
Spring sky . . . to see it
all the windows were opened.

And while we talked together quietly
of so much that is old and forgotten,
My sister—the youngest—interrupts:
“The swallows are flying by us.”





Alfonsina Storni
(22 mei 1892 – 25 oktober 1938)






Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 22 mei 2007.


De Nederlandse schrijver en onderwijzer Anne de Vries werd geboren op 22 mei 1904.

De Nederlandse dichter Kees Winkler werd op 22 mei 1927 in Hoorn geboren.