Alan Tate, Anna Seghers, Elise Bürger, Girolamo de Rada, Veronika Aydin


De Amerikaanse dichter Alan Tate werd geboren op 19 november 1899 in de buurt van Winchester, Kentucky. Zie ook alle tags voor Alan Tate op dit blog.


Winter Mask
To the memory of W. B. Yeats

I supposed two scenes of hell,
Two human bestiaries,
Might uncommonly well
Convey the doom I thought;
But lest the horror freeze
The gentler estimation
I go to the sylvan door
Where nature has been bought
In rational proration
As a thing worth living for.

Should the buyer have been beware?
It is an uneven trade
For man has wet his hair
Under the winter weather
With only fog for shade:
His mouth a bracketed hole
Picked by the crows that bore
Nature to their hanged brother,
Who rattles against the bole
The thing that he lived for.

I asked the master Yeats
Whose great style could not tell
Why it is man hates
His own salvati6n,
Prefers the way to hell,
And finds his last safety
In the self-made curse that bore
Him towards damnation:
The drowned undrowned by the se
The sea worth living for.


Allen Tate (19 november 1899 – 9 februari 1979)

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Alan Tate, Anna Seghers, Elise Bürger, Girolamo de Rada, Veronika Aydin


De Amerikaanse dichter Alan Tate werd geboren op 19 november 1899 in de buurt van Winchester, Kentucky. Zie ook alle tags voor Alan Tate op dit blog.


Winter Mask
To the memory of W. B. Yeats

Towards nightfall when the wind
Tries the eaves and casements
(A winter wind of the mind
Long gathering its will)
I lay the mind's contents
Bare, as upon a table,
And ask, in a time of war,
Whether there is still
To a mind frivolously dull
Anything worth living for.


If I am meek and dull
And a poor sacrifice
Of perverse will to cull
The act from the attempt,
Just look into damned eyes
And give the returning glare;
For the damned like it, the more
Damnation is exempt
From what would save its heir
With a thing worth living for.


The poisoned rat in the wall
Cuts through the wall like a knife,
Then blind, drying, and small
And driven to cold water,
Dies of the water of life:
Both damned in eternal ice,
The traitor become the boor
Who had led his friend to slaughter,
Now bites his head not nice,
The food that he lives for.

Allen Tate (19 november 1899 – 9 februari 1979)
Winchester, Kentucky

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Scott Cairns, Sharon Olds, Mark Harris, Karel van den Oever, Christoph Wilhelm Aigner, Alan Tate


De Amerikaanse dichter, librettist en essayist Scott Cairns werd geboren op 19 november 1954 in Tacoma, Washington. Zie ook alle tags voor Scott Cairns op dit blog.


A Word
For A.B.

She said God. He seems to be there
when I call on Him but calling
has been difficult too. Painful.

And as she quieted to find
another word, I was delivered
once more to my own long grappling

with that very angel here — still
here — at the base of the ancient
ladder of ascent, in foul dust

languishing yet at the very
bottom rung, letting go my grip
long before the blessing.


Idiot Psalms


     A psalm of Isaak, whispered mid the Philistines, beneath the breath.

Master both invisible and notoriously  
                     slow to act, should You incline to fix  
                     Your generous attentions for the moment
                     to the narrow scene of this our appointed
                     tedium, should You—once our kindly
                     secretary has duly noted which of us
                     is feigning presence, and which excused, which unexcused,
                     You may be entertained to hear how much we find to say
                     about so little. Among these other mediocrities,
                     Your mediocre servant gets a glimpse of how
                     his slow and meager worship might appear
                     from where You endlessly attend our dreariness.
Holy One, forgive, forgo and, if You will, fend off  
                     from this my heart the sense that I am drowning here  
                     amid the motions, the discussions, the several
                     questions endlessly recast, our paper ballots.


Scott Cairns (Tacoma, 19 november 1954)

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Scott Cairns, Sharon Olds, Mark Harris, Karel van den Oever, Christoph Wilhelm Aigner, Alan Tate


De Amerikaanse dichter, librettist en essayist Scott Cairns werd geboren op 19 november 1954 in Tacoma, Washington. Zie ook alle tags voor Scott Cairns op dit blog.



The thing to remember is how
Tentative all of this really is.
You could wake up dead.

Or the woman you love
Could decide you’re ugly.
Maybe she’ll finally give up
Trying to ignore the way
You floss your teeth as you
Watch television. All I’m saying
Is that there are no sure things here.

I mean, you’ll probably wake up alive,
And she’ll probably keep putting off
Any actual decision about your looks.
Could be she’ll be glad your teeth
are so clean. The morning could
be full of all the love and kindness
you need. Just don’t go thinking
you deserve any of it.



Possible Answers to Prayer

Your petitions—though they continue to bear  
just the one signature—have been duly recorded.  
Your anxieties—despite their constant,

relatively narrow scope and inadvertent  
entertainment value—nonetheless serve  
to bring your person vividly to mind.

Your repentance—all but obscured beneath  
a burgeoning, yellow fog of frankly more  
conspicuous resentment—is sufficient.

Your intermittent concern for the sick,  
the suffering, the needy poor is sometimes  
recognizable to me, if not to them.

Your angers, your zeal, your lipsmackingly  
righteous indignation toward the many  
whose habits and sympathies offend you—         

these must burn away before you’ll apprehend  
how near I am, with what fervor I adore
precisely these, the several who rouse your passions.


Scott Cairns (Tacoma, 19 november 1954)

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Sharon Olds, Mark Harris, Christoph Wilhelm Aigner, Anna Seghers, Alan Tate


De Amerikaanse dichteres Sharon Olds werd geboren op 19 november 1942 in San Francisco. Zie ook alle tags voor Sharon Olds op dit blog.



Still Life in Landscape


It was night, it had rained, there were pieces of cars and
half-cars strewn, it was still, and bright,
a woman was lying on the highway, on her back,
with her head curled back and tucked under her shoulders
so the back of her head touched her spine
between her shoulder-blades, her clothes
mostly accidented off, and her
leg gone, a long bone
sticking out of the stub of her thigh—
this was her her abandoned matter,
my mother grabbed my head and turned it and
clamped it into her chest, between
her breasts. My father was driving—not sober
but not in this accident, we’d approached it out of
neutral twilight, broken glass
on wet black macadam, like an underlying
midnight abristle with stars. This was
the world—maybe the only one.
The dead woman was not the person
my father had recently almost run over,
who had suddenly leapt away from our family
car, jerking back from death,
she was not I, she was not my mother,
but maybe she was a model of the mortal,
the elements ranged around her on the tar—
glass, bone, metal, flesh, and the family.





Sharon Olds (San Francisco, 19 november 1942)

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Sonnets At Christmas I, II (Alan Tate)


Aan alle bezoekers en mede-bloggers een Prettig Kerstfeest!





L'adoration des bergers (détail), Jean Le Clerc (1586 – 1633)




Sonnets At Christmas I 


This is the day His hour of life draws near,

Let me get ready from head to foot for it

Most handily with eyes to pick the year

For small feed to reward a feathered wit.


Some men would see it an epiphany

At ease, at food and drink, others at chase

Yet I, stung lassitude, with ecstasy

Unspent argue the season's difficult case


So: Man, dull critter of enormous head,

What would he look at in the coiling sky?

But I must kneel again unto the Dead


While Christmas bells of paper white and red,

Figured with boys and girls spilt from a sled,

Ring out the silence I am nourished by.




Sonnets At Christmas II 


Ah, Christ, I love you rings to the wild sky

And I must think a little of the past:

When I was ten I told a stinking lie

That got a black boy whipped; but now at last


The going years, caught in an accurate glow,

Reverse like balls englished upon green baize-

Let them return, let the round trumpets blow

The ancient crackle of the Christ's deep gaze.


Deafened and blind, with senses yet unfound,

Am I, untutored to the after-wit

Of knowledge, knowing a nightmare has no sound;


Therefore with idle hands and head I sit

In late December before the fire's daze

Punished by crimes of which I would be quit.




Allen Tate (19 november 1899 – 9 februari 1979)

Zie voor de schrijvers van de 26e december mijn vorige blog van vandaag en eveneens mijn derde, mijn tweede en mijn eerste blog van vandaag.


12:28 Gepost door Romenu in Literatuur | Permalink | Commentaren (0) | Tags: kerstmis, kerst, alan tate, romenu |  Facebook |


Sharon Olds, Anna Seghers, Alan Tate

De Amerikaanse dichteres Sharon Olds werd geboren op 19 november 1942 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 november 2006.



Sex Without Love


How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health--just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.




The Victims


When Mother divorced you, we were glad. She took it and
took it in silence, all those years and then
kicked you out, suddenly, and her
kids loved it. Then you were fired, and we
grinned inside, the way people grinned when
Nixon's helicopter lifted off the South
Lawn for the last time. We were tickled
to think of your office taken away,
your secretaries taken away,
your lunches with three double bourbons,
your pencils, your reams of paper. Would they take your
suits back, too, those dark
carcasses hung in your closet, and the black
noses of your shoes with their large pores?
She had taught us to take it, to hate you and take it
until we pricked with her for your
annihilation, Father. Now I
pass the bums in doorways, the white
slugs of their bodies gleaming through slits in their
suits of compressed silt, the stained
flippers of their hands, the underwater
fire of their eyes, ships gone down with the
lanterns lit, and I wonder who took it and
took it from them in silence until they had
given it all away and had nothing
left but this.




Sharon Olds (San Francisco, 19 november 1942)






Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 19 november 2006.


De Duitse schrijfster Anna Seghers werd op 19 november 1900 geboren in Mainz.


De Amerikaanse dichter Alan Tate werd geboren op 19 november 1899 in de buurt van Winchester, Kentucky.



20:36 Gepost door Romenu | Permalink | Commentaren (0) | Tags: anna seghers, sharon olds, alan tate, romenu |  Facebook |


Anna Seghers, Sharon Olds, Alan Tate, Kris Cuppens

De Duitse schrijfster Anna Seghers werd op 19 november 1900 geboren in Mainz als Anna Reiling. Anna was de dochter van kunsthandelaar Isidor Reiling. Zij studeerde kunstgeschiedenis, geschiedenis, sinologie en filologie in Keulen en Heidelberg.
In 1924 schreef Anna Seghers haar eerste verhaal "Die Toten der Insel Djal", dat pas na haar dood werd gepubliceerd. In 1925 trad Anna in het huwelijk met László Radványi, die later bekend zou worden onder de naam Johann-Lorenz Schmidt. Uit dit huwelijk kwamen twee kinderen voort. Anna Seghers maakte haar debuut in 1927 met "Grubetsch". Een jaar later publiceerde zij "Aufstand der Fischer von St. Barbara" onder de naam Anna Seghers. Voor dit boek kreeg zij de Kleist-prijs. Het verhaal werd in 1934 door Erwin Pascator in de Sovjet-Unie verfilmd. Inmiddels was Anna Seghers toegetreden tot de communistische partij van Duitsland (KPD) en was betrokken bij het werk van de Bond voor proletarisch revolutionaire schrijvers (BPRS).

In haar in 1932 verschenen roman "Die Gefährten" waarschuwde Anna voor het gevaar, dat het fascisme voor Duitsland zou kunnen gaan vormen. Een jaar later werd ze door de Gestapo gearresteerd. Na haar vrijlating vluchtte Anna Seghers naar Parijs, waar zij meewerkte aan verschillende tijdschriften. In de in Parijs geschreven roman "Der Kopflohn", onderzocht Seghers de oorzaken, die tot de opkomst van het fascisme in Duitsland geleid hadden.
Na de Duitse inval in Frankrijk in 1940 vestigde Seghers zich in Marseille, in het zuiden van Frankrijk. In 1941 vestigde ze zich in Mexico, waar zij een Duitse cultuurvereniging oprichtte. Met Ludwig Renn gaf ze het tijdschrift "Freies Deutschland" uit. Internationaal brak Anna Seghers door met "Das siebte Kreuz" (1942).

Via Zweden en Frankrijk keerde Anna Seghers na de Tweede Wereldoorlog terug naar Duitsland. Ze vestigde zich in het door de Russen bezette deel van Duitsland en werd lid van de socialistische partij SED. In de jaren vijftig was Anna Seghers lid van de Vredesbeweging in Oost-Duitsland. Bovendien was zij lid van de internationale Vredesbeweging. Van 1952 tot 1978 was zij daarnaast voorzitster van de schrijversbond van de DDR.
Seghers kreeg veel onderscheidingen in de DDR. Zij kreeg onder meer in 1980 de Oost-Duitse onderscheiding "Held der Arbeit" en werd ereburger van haar geboortestad Mainz.

Uit: Transit

«Das Hotel in der Rue de Vaugirard, schmal und hoch, war ein Durchschnittshotel. Die Patronin war über dem Durchschnitt hübsch. Sie hatte ein zartes, frisches Gesicht und pechschwarzes Haar. Sie trug eine weiße Seidenbluse. Ich fragte ganz ohne Überlegung, ob ein Zimmer frei sei. Sie lächelte, während mich ihre Augen kalt musterten. "Soviel Sie wollen." - "Zuerst etwas anderes", sagte ich, "Sie haben hier einen Mieter, Herrn Weidel; ist er zufällig daheim?"

Ihr Gesicht, ihre Haltung veränderten sich, wie das nur bei Franzosen zu sehen ist: Die höflichste unnachahmliche Gleichmütigkeit schlägt plötzlich, wenn da die Fäden reißen, in rasende Wut um. Sie sagte, ganz heiser vor Wut, aber schon wieder in den geläufigen Redensarten:

"Man fragt mich zum zweitenmal an einem Tag nach diesem Menschen. Der Herr hat sein Domizil gewechselt - wie oft soll ich das noch erklären?" - Ich sagte: "Sie erklären es jedenfalls mir zum erstenmal. Haben Sie doch die Güte, mir zu sagen, wo der Herr jetzt wohnt." - "Wie soll ich das wissen", sagte die Frau. Ich merkte langsam, auch sie hatte Furcht, aber warum?

"Sein jetziger Aufenthalt ist mir unbekannt, ich kann Ihnen wirklich nicht mehr sagen." Den hat am Ende doch die Gestapo geholt, dachte ich. Ich legte meine Hand auf den Arm der Frau. Sie zog ihren Arm nicht weg, sondern sah mich an mit einem Gemisch von Spott und Unruhe. "Ich kenne ja diesen Mann überhaupt nicht", versicherte ich, "man hat mich gebeten, ihm etwas auszurichten. Das ist alles. Etwas, was für ihn wichtig ist. Ich möchte auch einen Unbekannten nicht nutzlos warten lassen."

Sie sah mich aufmerksam an. Dann führte sie mich in das kleine Zimmer neben dem Eingang. Sie rückte nach einigem Hin und Her mit der Sprache heraus.


Anna Seghers (19 november 1900 – 1 juni 1983)


De Amerikaanse dichteres Sharon Olds werd geboren op 19 november 1942 in San Francisco. Volgens eigen zeggen werd zij opgevoed als een "hellfire Calvinist." Zij studeerde af aan de Stanford University en promoveerde in de Engelse taal aan de Columbia University. Zij is docente creatief schrijven aan de universiteit van New York. Sharon Olds ontving al veel onderscheidingen, waaronder de San Francisco Poetry Center Award, de Lamont Poetry Prize, de National Books Critics Circle Award, en de T. S. Eliot Prize.


Werk o.a: Satan Says (1980), The Dead and the Living (1984), The Gold Cell (1987), Blood, Tin, Straw (1999), The Unswept Room (2002), Strike Sparks: Selected Poems (2004)


His Stillness


The doctor said to my father, “You asked me

to tell you when nothing more could be done.

That’s what I’m telling you now.” My father

sat quite still, as he always did,

especially not moving his eyes. I had thought

he would rave if he understood he would die,

wave his arms and cry out. He sat up,

thin, and clean, in his clean gown,

like a holy man. The doctor said,

“There are things we can do which might give you time,

but we cannot cure you.” My father said,

“Thank you.” And he sat, motionless, alone,

with the dignity of a foreign leader.

I sat beside him. This was my father.

He had known he was mortal. I had feared they would have to

tie him down. I had not remembered

he had always held still and kept quiet to bear things,

the liquor a way to keep still. I had not

known him. My father had dignity. At the

end of his life his life began

to wake in me.



Rite of Passage



As the guests arrive at our son’s party

they gather in the living room—

short men, men in first grade

with smooth jaws and chins.

Hands in pockets, they stand around

jostling, jockeying for place, small fights

breaking out and calming. One says to another

How old are you? —Six. —I’m seven. —So?

They eye each other, seeing themselves

tiny in the other’s pupils. They clear their

throats a lot, a room of small bankers,

they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you

up, a seven says to a six,

the midnight cake, round and heavy as a

turret behind them on the table. My son,

freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,

chest narrow as the balsa keel of a

model boat, long hands

cool and thin as the day they guided him

out of me, speaks up as a host

for the sake of the group.

We could easily kill a two-year-old,

he says in his clear voice. The other

men agree, they clear their throats

like Generals, they relax and get down to

playing war, celebrating my son’s life.




Sharon Olds (San Francisco, 19 november 1942)


De Amerikaanse dichter Alan Tate werd geboren op 19 november 1899 in de buurt van Winchester, Kentucky. In 1918 bezocht Tate de Vanderbilt University en ontmoette daar een andere dichter, Robert Penn Warren. Zij werden gevraagd zich aan te sluiten bij de Fugitive Poets, later Southern Agrarians, een groep dichters uit het zuiden onder leiding van John Crowe Ransom. Tate volgde Ramson ook naar het Kenyon College in Ohio om er les te geven. In 1924 verhuisde Tate naar New York, waar hij Hart Crane ontmoette. Hij werkt er freelance voor de Nation Magazine en leverde ook bijdragen aan de Hound and Horn, Poetry Magazine en andere bladen. In 1928 publiceerde hij zijn beroemdste gedicht Ode To the Confederate Dead. In de jaren 30 publiceerde hij Who Owns America?, een conservatief antwoord aan Franklin D. Roosevelt's New Deal. In deze jaren werd werd hij ook mede-uitgever van The American Review, dat geleid werd door de fascist Seward Collins. Tate zag The American Review als een mogelijkheid het werk van de Southern Agrarians te promoten, maar hij maakte bezwaar tegen Collins steun aan Hitler en Mussolini en veroordeelde het fascisme in een artikel in The New Republic in 1936. In 1938 publiceerde Tate zijn enige roman The Fathers. In 1942 vormde hij samen met romancier en vriend Andrew Lytle Amerikaas oudste literaire kwartaalblad The Sewanee Review, om van een bescheiden periodiek tot het meest prestigieuze van de VS


The Mediterranean


Quen das finem, rex magne, dolorum?


Where we went in the boat was a long bay

a slingshot wide, walled in by towering stone--

Peaked margin of antiquity's delay,

And we went there out of time's monotone:

Where we went in the black hull no light moved

But a gull white-winged along the feckless wave,

The breeze, unseen but fierce as a body loved,

That boat drove onward like a willing slave:

Where we went in the small ship the seaweed

Parted and gave to us the murmuring shore

And we made feast and in our secret need

Devoured the very plates Aeneas bore:

Where derelict you see through the low twilight

The green coast that you, thunder-tossed, would win,

Drop sail, and hastening to drink all night

Eat dish and bowl--to take that sweet land in!

Where we feasted and caroused on the sandless

Pebbles, affecting our day of piracy,

What prophecy of eaten plates could landless

Wanderers fulfil by the ancient sea?

We for that time might taste the famous age

Eternal here yet hidden from our eyes

When lust of power undid its stuffless rage;

They, in a wineskin, bore earth's paradise.

Let us lie down once more by the breathing side

Of Ocean, where our live forefathers sleep

As if the Known Sea still were a month wide--

Atlantis howls but is no longer steep!

What country shall we conquer, what fair land

Unman our conquest and locate our blood?

We've cracked the hemispheres with careless hand!

Now, from the Gates of Hercules we flood

Westward, westward till the barbarous brine

Whelms us to the tired land where tasseling corn,

Fat beans, grapes sweeter than muscadine

Rot on the vine: in that land were we born.





Allen Tate (19 november 1899 – 9 februari 1979)


Toneelschrijfprijs 2006 voor Kris Cuppens


De Vlaming Kris Cuppens heeft de Taalunie Toneelschrijfprijs 2006 ter waarde van 10.000 euro gewonnen. Hij kreeg de prijs voor "Lied", een muziektheaterproductie van Braakland/ZheBilding. In deze monoloog plaatst Cuppens zijn eigen herinneringen binnen het bredere kader van zijn familiegeschiedenis en de geschiedenis van België. De jury prijst de openhartigheid waarmee hij zijn twijfels en gevoelens als veertiger beschrijft. "Hoewel het gevaar op de loer ligt, is "Lied" door zijn authenticiteit en eerlijkheid nergens huilerig of sentimenteel. Ook overstijgt het door de herkenbaarheid en invoelbaarheid het persoonlijke en particuliere," luidt het juryrapport. De Taalunie Toneelschrijfprijs wordt jaarlijks uitgereikt aan de schrijver of schrijvers van een oorspronkelijk Nederlandstalig stuk dat het voorbije seizoen voor het eerst werd opgevoerd.



Kris Cuppens (Bree, 22 mei 1962)


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