Joseph Brodsky, Michael Chabon, 75 jaar Bob Dylan, Henri Michaux, William Trevor, Tobias Falberg, Arnold Wesker
De Russisch-Amerikaanse dichter Joseph Brodsky werd op 24 mei 1940 in Leningrad (het huidige St.Petersburg) geboren als Iosif Brodski. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 mei 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Joseph Brodsky op dit blog.
A List Of Some Observation...
A list of some observation. In a corner, it's warm.
A glance leaves an imprint on anything it's dwelt on.
Water is glass's most public form.
Man is more frightening than its skeleton.
A nowhere winter evening with wine. A black
porch resists an osier's stiff assaults.
Fixed on an elbow, the body bulks
like a glacier's debris, a moraine of sorts.
A millennium hence, they'll no doubt expose
a fossil bivalve propped behind this gauze
cloth, with the print of lips under the print of fringe,
mumbling "Good night" to a window hinge
A Polar Explorer
All the huskies are eaten. There is no space
left in the diary, And the beads of quick
words scatter over his spouse's sepia-shaded face
adding the date in question like a mole to her lovely cheek.
Next, the snapshot of his sister. He doesn't spare his kin:
what's been reached is the highest possible latitude!
And, like the silk stocking of a burlesque half-nude
queen, it climbs up his thigh: gangrene.
As though the mercury's under its tongue, it won't
talk. As though with the mercury in its sphincter,
immobile, by a leaf-coated pond
a statue stands white like a blight of winter.
After such snow, there is nothing indeed: the ins
and outs of centuries, pestered heather.
That's what coming full circle means -
when your countenance starts to resemble weather,
when Pygmalion's vanished. And you are free
to cloud your folds, to bare the navel.
Future at last! That is, bleached debris
of a glacier amid the five-lettered "never."
Hence the routine of a goddess, nee
alabaster, that lets roving pupils gorge on
the heart of color and the temperature of the knee.
That's what it looks like inside a virgin.
Joseph Brodsky (24 mei 1940 – 28 januari 1996)
“Friends of yours?” he said.
It was a reasonable inference, given the fact that, in her bowling shirt, she stood out from the other women in attendance, most of them done up in cocktail attire. She was also one of a strikingly few women of color in the room. She nodded again, more stiffly, no longer playing along with the bass, stare going glassy. Feeling big, he supposed, underdressed, and trapped behind a cactus by a celebrated black man in a fancy house full of white folks. He went further out a limb.
“My man on bass?”
The pregnant woman looked sidelong at him, a droll look, and seemed to recover from her initial bout of self¬-consciousness. “Well, that’s the question, now,” she said with an asperity that took him aback. “Isn’t it?”
“That is quite a suit,” Obama said. “Takes a special kind of man to go around wearing a suit like that.”
“You know, he isn’t even aware of that?” the pregnant woman said. “Man doesn’t feel self¬-conscious, not one little bit embarrassed, walking around in that thing.” Scorn and admiration in her tone in about equal measure. “The outside of him matches perfectly with the inside. It’s like, I can’t even tell you. Not stubborn, I mean, yes, he can be stub¬born as hell, stubborn and full of pride, but to walk around looking like that, I mean, a purple suit, even a pimp might have doubts about it, and saddle shoes … you have to have—”
At the sound of the word, the pregnant woman looked at him. A strange expression passed over her face, as if, he thought, she might be experiencing a contraction.
“He just had a loss,” she said.
“I gathered that, something about a man named Jones.”
“Yeah, yes, he was supposed to be here, he played the organ. It’s Cochise Jones.”
Michael Chabon (Washington, 24 mei 1963)
De Amerikaanse zanger, songwriter en dichter Bob Dylan werd geboren als Robert Allen Zimmerman op 24 mei 1941 in Duluth, Minnesota. Zie ook alle tags voor Bob Dylan op dit blog. Bob Dylan viert vandaag zijn 75e verjaardag.
Highway 61 Revisited
Oh God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son”
Abe says, “Man, you must be puttin’ me on”
God say, “No.” Abe say, “What?”
God say, “You can do what you want Abe, but
The next time you see me comin’ you better run”
Well Abe says, “Where do you want this killin’ done?”
God says, “Out on Highway 61”
Well Georgia Sam he had a bloody nose
Welfare Department they wouldn’t give him no clothes
He asked poor Howard where can I go
Howard said there’s only one place I know
Sam said tell me quick man I got to run
Ol’ Howard just pointed with his gun
And said that way down on Highway 61
Well Mack the Finger said to Louie the King
I got forty red, white and blue shoestrings
And a thousand telephones that don’t ring
Do you know where I can get rid of these things
And Louie the King said let me think for a minute son
And he said yes I think it can be easily done
Just take everything down to Highway 61
Now the fifth daughter on the twelfth night
Told the first father that things weren’t right
My complexion she said is much too white
He said come here and step into the light, he says hmm you’re right
Let me tell the second mother this has been done
But the second mother was with the seventh son
And they were both out on Highway 61
Now the rovin’ gambler he was very bored
He was tryin’ to create a next world war
He found a promoter who nearly fell off the floor
He said I never engaged in this kind of thing before
But yes I think it can be very easily done
We’ll just put some bleachers out in the sun
And have it on Highway 61
Bob Dylan (Duluth, 24 mei 1941)
Parfois, tout d'un coup, sans cause visible, s'étend sur moi un grand frisson de bonheur.
Venant d'un centre de moi-même si intérieur que je l'ignorais, il met, quoique roulant à une vitesse extrême, il met un temps considérable à se développer
jusqu'à mes extrémités.
Ce frisson est parfaitement pur.
Si longuement qu'il chemine en moi, jamais il ne rencontre d'organe bas, ni d'ailleurs d'aucune sorte, ni ne rencontre non plus idées ni sensations, tant est absolue son
Lui et moi sommes parfaitement seuls.
Peut-être bien, me parcourant dans toutes mes parties, demande-t-il au passage à celles-ci : «
Eh bien? ça va?
Est-ce que je peux faire quelque chose pour vous ici? »
C'est possible, et qu'il les réconforte à sa façon.
Mais je ne suis pas mis au courant.
Je voudrais aussi crier mon bonheur, mais quoi dire? cela est si strictement personnel.
Bientôt la jouissance est trop forte.
Sans que je m'en rende compte, en quelques secondes cela est devenu une souffrance atroce, un assassinat.
La paraiysie! me dis-je.
Je fais vite quelques mouvements, je m'asperge de beaucoup d'eau, ou plus simplement, je me couche sur le ventre et cela passe.
Henri Michaux (24 mei 1899 – 19 oktober 1984)
Uit: After Rain
“The Annunciation in the church of Santa Fabiola is by an unknown artist, perhaps of the school of Filippo Lippi, no one is certain. The angel kneels, gray wings protruding, his lily half hidden by a pillar. The floor is marble, white and green and ochre. The Virgin looks alarmed, right hand arresting her visitor’s advance… Harriet’s eye records the details: the green folds of the angel’s dress, the red beneath it, the mark in the sky that is a dove, the Virgin’s book, the stately pillars and the empty vase, the Virgin’s slipper, the bare feet of the angel. The distant landscape is soft, as if no heat had ever touched it. It isn’t alarm in the Virgin’s eyes, it’s wonderment. In another moment there’ll be serenity. A few tourists glide about the church, whispering now and again. A man in a black overall is mopping the floor of the central aisle and has roped it off at either end. An elderly woman prays before a statue of the Virgin, each bead of her rosary fingered, lips silently murmuring…
The rain has stopped when Harriet leaves the church, the air is fresher. Too slick and glib, to use her love affairs to restore her faith in love: that thought is there mysteriously. She has cheated in her love affairs: that comes from nowhere, too… He backed away, as others had, when she asked too much of love, when she tried to change the circumstances that are the past by imposing a brighter present, and constancy in the future above all else. She has been the victim of herself: with vivid clarity she knows that now and wonders why she does and why she didn’t before. Nothing tells her when she ponders the solitude of her stay in the Pensione Cesarina, and she senses that nothing ever will. She sees again the brown-and-green-striped tie of the old man who talked about being on your own, and the freckles that are blotches on his forehead. She sees herself walking in the morning heat past the graveyard and the rusted petrol pumps. She sees herself seeking the shade of the chestnut trees in the park, and crossing the piazza to the trattoria when the first raindrops fell. She hears the swish of the cleaner’s mop in the church of Santa Fabiola, she hears the tourist’s whisper. The fingers of the praying woman flutter on her beads, the candles flare. The story of Santa Fabiola is lost in the shadows that were once the people of her life, the family tomb reeks odorlessly of death. Rain has sweetened the breathless air, the angel comes mysteriously also.”
William Trevor (Mitchelstown, 24 mei 1928)
Nähen Teilchen sich durch unsere Stirn, das Mark,
ziehen fester den Zwirn, lautlos, geruchlos, leicht,
der, durchs Nervenmeer webend,
unsre sinnliche Welt umspannt,
durch Schablonen ersetzt. Orte und Namen sind
hinter Rastern verblasst, deine Pupille, sie
formt sich jeden Tag fremder,
findet was sie sonst fand nicht vor.
Tobias Falberg (Wittenberg, 24 mei 1976)
"JENNY BEALS is by the sink washing up. She is singing a recent pop song. She is short, fat and friendly, and wears glasses. A child's voice is heard from the bedroom crying 'Sweet, Mamma,
JENNY(good-naturedly). Shut you up Daphne and get you to sleep now. (Moves to get a dishcloth.)
DAPHY wan' sweet, sweet, sweet.
JENNY(going to cupboard to get sweet). My word child, Father come home and find you awake he'll be after you. (Disappears to bedroom with sweet.) There — now sleep, gal, don't wan' you grumpy wi' me in mornin'.
(Enter JIMMY BEALS. Also short, chubby, blond though hardly any hair left, ruddy complexion. He is a garage mechanic. Wears blue dungarees and an army pack slung over his shoulder. He wheels his bike in and lays it by the wall. Seems to be in some sort of pain — around his back.
JENNY returns.) Waas matter wi' you then?
JIMMY. I don' know gal. There's a pain in my guts and one a'tween my shoulder blades I can hardly stand up.
JENNY Sit you down then an' I'll git you your supper on the table.
JIMMY Blust gal ! I can't eat yit. (Jimmy picks up a pillow from somewhere and lies down on
the sofa holding pillow to stomach. Jenny watches him a while.)
JENNY Don't you know what 'tis yit?
JIMMY Well, how should I" know what 'tis.
JENNY I told Mother about the pain and she says it's indigestion.
JIMMY What the hell's indigestion doin' a'tween my shoulder blades then ?
JENNY She say some people get indigestion so bad it go right through their stomach to the back."
Arnold Wesker (24 mei 1932 – 12 april 2016)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 24e mei ook mijn blog van 24 mei 2015 deel 2.