Bas Belleman, Clara Eggink, Kathy Acker, Joy Davidman, Richard Harding Davis, Henry Kendall
Uit: De drift van Sneeuwwitje (Twee Koningskinderen, fragment)
Ze renden hand in hand over de paden,
zigzaggend tussen de bomen
en sprongen over glinsterende beekjes,
in hun rug de rode gloed van de opgaande zon. Steeds feller prikten de blakende zonnestralen
door de bladeren van de bomen.
De koning stond radeloos,
met lege handen,
tegenover zijn koningin.
‘Ga hen achterna,’ zei ze.
Dus besteeg de koning zijn snelste paard
en galoppeerde hen achterna
door de bossen, hij kwam steeds dichterbij.
Wat moesten de koningskinderen doen?
De prinses kreeg een idee.
‘Ik verander jou in een rozenstruik
en mijzelf in een roos tussen jouw doornen.’
De vingers van de prins werden lang en dun
en splitsen zich, krulden alle kanten op,
net als zijn armen en benen,
Zijn tenen boorden zich de grond in
en de wind waaide door hem heen,
er ritselden blaadjes in zijn buik
en midden in de prinselijke rozenstruik
bloeide een roos.
De koning zag hen nergens en droop af.
‘Je had de roos moeten plukken,’ zei de koningin,
‘dan was de struik wel meegekomen.’
De koning kon het nauwelijks geloven:
dat waren ze, dat waren ze!
Bas Belleman (Alkmaar, april 1978)
Ik lees een boek, ik schrijf een brief,
Ik kom bij jou, wij praten.
Die dingen zijn mij even lief;
Ik kan ze ook wel laten.
Het voorjaar buiten is altijd zoel,
Maar niet dat wilde wonder
Toen ik weg wou gaan, alleen en koel;
Nu kan ik ook wel zonder.
Ik meende aan 't strand te zijn geboren,
Mijn huis te hebben in het duin.
Dat alles is al lang verloren,
Nu voer ik meeuwen in mijn tuin.
Clara Eggink (18 april 1906 - 3 maart 1991)
Uit: Great Expectations
“My father’s name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit that Pip. So I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.
I give Pirrip as my father’s family name on the authority of his tombstone and my sister—Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith.
On Christmas Eve 1978 my mother committed suicide and in September of 1979 my grandmother (on my mother’s side) died. Ten days ago, it is now almost Christmas 1979, Terence told my fortune with the Tarot cards. This was not so much a fortune—whatever that means—but a fairly, it seems to me, precise psychic map of the present, therefore: the future.
I asked the cards about future boyfriends. This question involved the following thoughts: Would the guy who fucked me so well in France be in love with me? Will I have a new boyfriend? As Terence told me, I cut the cards into four piles: earth water fire air. We found my significator, April 18th, in the water or emotion fantasy pile. The cards were pointing to my question. We opened up this pile. The first image was a fat purring humper cat surrounded by the Empress and the Queen of Pentacles »
Kathy Acker (18 april 1947 – 30 november 1997)
Letter to a Comrade (Fragment)
Pray for us
pray for us; we the sons of the French adventurers
salt and dry codfish beside a salty stream
here with no buyers; here our bread
stands to the flies; here our children
have no teeth, live on the thin flesh of fishes
and the pallid taste of Christmas berries plucked by the roadside
while waiting for the cars and money of tourists;
and because we have no teeth in our heads with which to bite
therefore priest pray for us, you sitting in the house of yellow
which we have made beside the church of yellow bricks
which we have built and made bright with decorations of metal
and three white saints, and which we have given a tower
sheeted with tin, and of which we are proud because it is fine.
Priest give us good words and make intercession
to the Virgin that she may make intercession
since now every hour is the hour of our death.
Joy Davidman (18 april 1915 – 13 juli 1960)
Hier met haar echtgenoot C.S. Lewis
Uit:Once Upon A Time
“The standard of life to which Everett was accustomed was high. In his home in Boston it had been set for him by a father and mother who, though critics rather than workers in the world, had taught him to despise what was mean and ungenerous, to write the truth and abhor a compromise. At Harvard he had interested himself in municipal reform, and when later he moved to New York, he transferred his interest to the problems of that city. His attack upon Tammany Hall did not utterly destroy that organization, but at once brought him to the notice of the editors. By them he was invited to tilt his lance at evils in other parts of the United States, at "systems," trusts, convict camps, municipal misrule. His work had met with a measure of success that seemed to justify Lowell's Weekly in sending him further afield, and he now was on his way to tell the truth about the Congo. Personally, Everett was a healthy, clean-minded enthusiast. He possessed all of the advantages of youth, and all of its intolerance. He was supposed to be engaged to Florence Carey, but he was not. There was, however, between them an "understanding," which understanding, as Everett understood it, meant that until she was ready to say, "I am ready," he was to think of her, dream of her, write love-letters to her, and keep himself only for her. He loved her very dearly, and, having no choice, was content to wait. His content was fortunate, as Miss Carey seemed inclined to keep him waiting indefinitely.”
Richard Harding Davis (18 april 1864—11 april 1916)
The Austral Months
Now sings a cool, bland wind, where falls and flows
The runnel by the grave of last year's rose;
Now, underneath the strong perennial leaves,
The first slow voice of wintering torrent grieves.
Now in a light like English August's day,
Is seen the fair, sweet, chastened face of May;
She is the daughter of the year who stands
With Autumn's last rich offerings in her hands;
Behind her gleams the ghost of April's noon,
Before her is the far, faint dawn of June;
She lingers where the dells and dewy leas
Catch stormy sayings from the great bold seas;
Her nightly raiment is the misty fold
That zones her round with moonlight-coloured gold;
And in the day she sheds, from shining wings,
A tender heat that keeps the life in things.
Henry Kendall (18 april 1839 – 1 augustus 1882)