26-03-17

A. E. Housman, Bettina Galvagni, Hai Zi, Erica Jong, Artur Landsberger

 

De Engelse dichter Alfred Edward Housman werd geboren op 26 maart 1859 in Fockbury, Worcestershire. Zie ook alle tags voor A. E. Housman op dit blog.

 

To An Athlete Dying Young

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

To-day, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their honours out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.

 

 

Here Dead We Lie

Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.

Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.

 

 
A. E. Housman (26 maart 1859 – 30 april 1936)
Standbeeld in Bromsgrove

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26-03-16

A. E. Housman, Bettina Galvagni, Hai Zi, Erica Jong, Artur Landsberger

 

De Engelse dichter Alfred Edward Housman werd geboren op 26 maart 1859 in Fockbury, Worcestershire. Zie ook alle tags voor A. E. Housman op dit blog.

 

The Carpenter's Son

"Here the hangman stops his cart:
Now the best of friends must part.
Fare you well, for ill fare I:
Live, lads, and I will die.

"Oh, at home had I but stayed
'Prenticed to my father's trade,
Had I stuck to plane and adze,
I had not been lost, my lads.

"Then I might have built perhaps
Gallows-trees for other chaps,
Never dangled on my own,
Had I left but ill alone.

"Now, you see, they hang me high,
And the people passing by
Stop to shake their fists and curse;
So 'tis come from ill to worse.

"Here hang I, and right and left
Two poor fellows hang for theft:
All the same's the luck we prove,
Though the midmost hangs for love.

"Comrades all, that stand and gaze,
Walk henceforth in other ways;
See my neck and save your own:
Comrades all, leave ill alone.

"Make some day a decent end,
Shrewder fellows than your friend.
Fare you well, for ill fare I:
Live lads, and I will die."

 

 
A. E. Housman (26 maart 1859 – 30 april 1936)

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26-03-12

Robert Frost, Erica Jong, Patrick Süskind, A. E. Housman, Artur Landsberger

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Robert Lee Frost werd geboren op 26 maart 1874 in San Francisco. Zie ook alle tags voor Robert Frost op dit blog.

 

A Brook In The City

 

The farmhouse lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear
A number in. But what about the brook
That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown
Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run --
And all for nothing it had ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever under,
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.

 

 

 


Robert Frost (26 maart 1874 – 29 januari 1963)

Portret door John McCormick

 

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26-03-11

Robert Frost, Erica Jong, Patrick Süskind, A. E. Housman, Artur Landsberger

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Robert Lee Frost werd geboren op 26 maart 1874 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2010.

 

 

A Prayer in Spring

 

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;

And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here

All simply in the springing of the year.

 

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,

Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;

And make us happy in the happy bees,

The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

 

And make us happy in the darting bird

That suddenly above the bees is heard,

The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,

And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

 

For this is love and nothing else is love,

To which it is reserved for God above

To sanctify to what far ends he will,

But which it only needs that we fulfill.

 

 

 

 

Putting in the seed

 

You come to fetch me from my work to-night
When supper's on the table, and we'll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea);
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a Springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

 

 

 

 

Robert Frost  (26 maart 1874 – 29 januari 1963)

Hier met zijn zoon Carol in 1916 of 1917

 

 

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26-03-10

Robert Frost, Erica Jong, A. E. Housman, Tennessee Williams, Artur Landsberger


De Amerikaanse dichter Robert Lee Frost werd geboren op 26 maart 1874 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

 

To The Thawing Wind

 

Come with rain. O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
bath my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.

 

 

 

 

Acceptance

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud
And goes down burning into the gulf below,
No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud
At what has happened. Birds, at least must know
It is the change to darkness in the sky.
Murmuring something quiet in her breast,
One bird begins to close a faded eye;
Or overtaken too far from his nest,
Hurrying low above the grove, some waif
Swoops just in time to his remembered tree.
At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe!
Now let the night be dark for all of me.
Let the night bee too dark for me to see
Into the future. Let what will be, be.'

 

 

 

 

robert-frost
Robert Frost  (26 maart 1874 – 29 januari 1963)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Erica Jong werd geboren in New York op 26 maart 1942. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

 

After the Earthquake

 

After the first astounding rush,
after the weeks at the lake,
the crystal, the clouds, the water lapping the rocks,
the snow breaking under our boots like skin,
& the long mornings in bed. . .

 

After the tangos in the kitchen,
& our eyes fixed on each other at dinner,
as if we would eat with our lids,
as if we would swallow each other. . .

 

I find you still
here beside me in bed,
(while my pen scratches the pad
& your skin glows as you read)
& my whole life so mellowed & changed

 

that at times I cannot remember
the crimp in my heart that brought me to you,
the pain of a marriage like an old ache,
a husband like an arthritic knuckle.

 

Here, living with you,
love is still the only subject that matters.
I open to you like a flowering wound,
or a trough in the sea filled with dreaming fish,
or a steaming chasm of earth
split by a major quake.

 

You changed the topography.
Where valleys were,
there are now mountains.
Where deserts were,
there now are seas.

 

We rub each other,
but we do not wear away.

 

 

 

 

Erica_Jong
Erica Jong (New York, 26 maart 1942)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter Alfred Edward Housman werd geboren op 26 maart 1859 in  Fockbury, Worcestershire. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

 

When I was one-and-twenty

 

When I was one-and-twenty

I heard a wise man say,

`Give crowns and pounds and guineas

But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies

But keep your fancy free.'

But I was one-and-twenty

No use to talk to me.

 

When I was one-and-twenty

I heard him say again,

`The heart out of the bosom

Was never given in vain;

'Tis paid with sighs a plenty

And sold for endless rue.'

And I am two-and-twenty

And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

 

 

 

 

If truth in hearts that perish

 

If truth in hearts that perish

Could move the powers on high,

I think the love I bear you

Should make you not to die.

 

Sure, sure, if stedfast meaning,

If single thought could save,

The world might end to-morrow,

You should not see the grave.

 

This long and sure-set liking,

This boundless will to please,

-- Oh, you should live for ever,

If there were help in these.

 

But now, since all is idle,

To this lost heart be kind,

Ere to a town you journey

Where friends are ill to find.

 

 

 

 

Houseman
A. E. Housman (26 maart 1859 – 30 april 1936)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Tennessee Williams (eigenlijk Thomas Lanier Williams) werd geboren in Columbus (Mississippi op 26 maart 1911. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

Uit: A Streetcar Named Desire

 

[BLANCHE.] „Afterward we pretended that nothing had been discovered. Yes, the three of us drove out to Moon Lake Casino, very drunk and laughing all the way.

[Polka music sounds, in a minor key faint with distance]

We danced the Varsouviana! Suddenly, in the middle of the dance the boy I had married broke away from me and ran out of the casino. A few moments later -- a shot!

[The polka stops abruptly. Blanche rises stiffly. Then, the polka resumes in a major key]

I ran out -- all did! -- all ran and gathered about the terrible thing at the edge of the lake! I couldn't get near for the crowding. Then somebody caught my arm. "Don't go any closer! Come back! You don't want to see!" See? See what! Then I heard voices say -- Allan! Allan! The Grey boy! He'd stuck the revolver into his mouth, and fired -- so that the back of his head had been -- blown away!

[She sways and covers her face]

It was because -- on the dance floor -- unable to stop myself -- I'd suddenly said -- "I saw! I know! You disgust me ..." And then the searchlight which had been turned on the world was turned off again and never for one moment since has there been any light that's stronger than this -- kitchen -- candle ...

[Mitch gets up awkwardly and moves toward her a little. The polka music increases. Mitch stands beside her]

MITCH. [drawing her slowly into his arms] You need somebody. And I need somebody, too. Could it be -- you and me, Blanche?

[She stares at him vacantly for a moment. Then with a soft cry huddles in his embrace. She makes a sobbing effort to speak but the words won't come. He kisses her forehead and her eyes and finally her lips. The polka tune fades out. Her breath is drawn and released in long, grateful sobs]

BLANCHE. Sometimes -- there's God -- so quickly!“

 

 

 

tennessee_williams_stamp
Tennessee Williams (26 maart 1911 – 25 februari 1983)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver en criticus Artur Hermann Landsberger werd geboren op 26 maart 1876 in Berlijn. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2009.

 

Uit: Liebe und Bananen

 

„Es lebte lange nach Kaiser Karl einmal ein großer Dichter, Dr. h. c. Johann Wolfgang Gerhart, das Haupt einer schlesischen Familie, der dem deutschen Volke unvergängliche Dichtungen geschenkt, im Alter aber der Metaphysik und dem Snobismus verfallen war. Metaphysik und Snobismus vertragen sich schlecht miteinander. Also geschah es, daß der große Dichter im Klub der deutschen Filmindustrie am 28. August, dem Geburtstage Goethes – was seine metaphysischen und snobistischen Gründe hatte – einen Vortrag über den deutschen Film zu halten gedachte. Goethe hätte das vielleicht auch getan. – Was war näher liegend, als daß man ihm zu ehren eins seiner eigenen Werke verfilmte? Das scheiterte an dem hohen Preise, den der Dichter für das Verfilmungsrecht forderte. Also mußte man etwas Neues schaffen.
»Wenn schon !« sagte der deutschamerikanische Impresario S. Rachitis, der überall, wo er etwas zu verdienen schnupperte, seine schmutzigen Hände im Spiel hatte. Er trommelte, indem er Berge versprach, ein Dutzend der prominentesten Schauspieler in einem teuren Weinlokale  am Zoo zusammen und erklärte:
»Der Gerhart ist ein Dichter, der sich hat den Kopf serbrochen für euch dutzende von Malen, damit ihr habt gute Rollen. Serbrecht ihr euch den Kopf für ihn einmal. ich sahle alles.«
Und da Künstler Kinder sind, so saßen sie da und zerbrachen sich den Kopf, während S. Rachitis sich entfernte und zu zahlen vergaß.
»Gerhart ist Metaphysiker«, erklärte Albert Stein-brück. »Was also liegt näher, als daß wir ihm zu Ehren ein Stück von Aristophanes verfilmen.«
Den Zusammenhang verstand – obschon manch einer wußte, wer Aristophanes war – niemand. Aber den Mut, das zu bekennen, fand nur die schwarze Pola, genannt  Djojo, die mit viel Temperament Aristophanes für überlebt erklärte und sich leidenschaftlich für Hanns Heinz Ewers und die Verfilmung der Alraune einsetzte.“

 

 

 

Landsberger

Artur Landsberger ( 26 maart 1876 – 4 oktober 1933)

 

26-03-09

Patrick Süskind, Martin McDonagh, Gregory Corso, Bettina Galvagni, Erica Jong, Robert Frost, A. E. Housman, Tennessee Williams, Artur Landsberger


De Duitse schrijver Patrick Süskind werd geboren in Ambach op 26 maart 1949. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.

 

Uit: Drei Geschichten

 

Wie war die Frage? Achsoja: Welches Buch mich beeindruckt, geprägt, gestempelt, gebeutelt, gar 'auf ein Gleis' gesetzt oder 'aus der Bahn geworfen' hätte. Aber das klingt ja nach Schockerlebnis oder traumatischer Erfahrung, und diese pflegt der Geschädigte sich allenfalls in Angstträumen zu vergegenwärtigen, nicht aber bei wachem Bewußtsein, geschweige denn schriftlich und vor aller Öffentlichkeit, worauf, so scheint mir, bereits ein österreichischer Psychologe, dessen Name mir momentan entfallen ist, in einem sehr lesenswerten Aufsatz, an dessen Titel ich mich nicht mehr mit Bestimmtheit erinnern kann, der aber in einem Bändchen unter der Sammelüberschrift "Ich und Du" oder "Es und Wir" oder "Selbst Ich" oder so ähnlich erschienen ist (ob neuerdings bei Rowohlt, Fischer, dtv oder Suhrkamp wiederaufgelegt, wüßte ich nicht mehr zu sagen, wohl aber, daß der Umschlag grün-weiß oder hellblau- gelblich, wenn nicht gar grau-blau-grünlich war), zu Recht hingewiesen hat. Nun, vielleicht ist die Frage ja gar nicht nach neurotraumatischen Leseerfahrungen gerichtet, sondern meint eher jenes aufrüttelnde Kunsterlebnis, wie es in dem berühmten Gedicht "Schöner Apollo" ... nein, es hieß, glaube ich, nicht "Schöner Apollo", es hieß irgendwie anders, der Titel hatte etwas Archaisches, "Junger Torso" oder "Uralter schöner Apoll" oder so ähnlich hieß es, aber das tut nichts zur Sache... - wie es also in diesem berühmten Gedicht von ... von ... - ich kann mich im Augenblick nicht auf seinen Namen besinnen, aber es war wirklich ein sehr berühmter Dichter mit Kuhaugen und einem Schnauzbart, und er hat diesem dicken französischen Bildhauer (wie hieß er doch gleich?) eine Wohnung in der Rue de Varenne besorgt - Wohnung ist kein Ausdruck, ein Palazzo ist das, mit einem Park, den man in zehn Minuten nicht durchmessen kann! (Man fragt sich beiläufig, wovon die Leute das damals alles bezahlt haben) - wie es jedenfalls seinen Ausdruck in diesem herrlichen Gedicht findet, das ich in seiner Gänze nicht mehr zitieren könnte, dessen letzte Zeile mir jedoch unauslöschlich im Gedächtnis eingegraben steht, sie lautet nämlich: "Du mußt dein Leben ändern."

 

 

 

 

sueskind3
Patrick Süskind (Ambach, 26 maart 1949)

 

 

 

 

 

De Engels-Ierse schrijver en regisseur Martin McDonagh werd geborenop 26 maart 1970 in Camberwell, Londen, Engeland in een Iers gezin.  Tijdens zijn zomervakanties in Galway, raakte McDonagh bekend met het dialect dat in deze streek van Ierland gesproken werd, hetgeen een inspiratie werd voor de toneelstukken die hij zou schrijven. Van zijn zestiende tot vierentwintigste schreef McDonagh hoorspelen en screenplays zonder succes, tot hij zich uiteindelijk waagde aan het schrijven voor theater. Hij schreef twee trilogieën in ongeveer negen maanden in 1994, alle zes toneelstukken speelden zich af in County Galway. De eerste trilogie is de Leenane trilogie, bestaande uit The Beauty Queen of Leenane (1996), A Skull in Connemara (1997) en The Lonesome West (1997). De tweede trilogie bestaat uit The Cripple of Inishmaan (1997), The Lieutenant of Inishmore (2001) en The Banshees of Inisheer  - de trilogie speelt zich af op de Aran Islands aan de kust van Galway. In 2003 kwam The Pillowman uit, het eerste toneelstuk dat zich niet afspeelde in Ierland. Zijn toneelstukken hebben meerdere Tony nominaties ontvangen en zijn over de hele wereld geproduceerd. In 2006 kwam zijn eerste cinematografische werk uit, de korte film Six Shooter. In 2007 begon het filmen van In Bruges, waarvan hij zowel de schrijver als regisseur was. De hoofdrollen werden vertolkt door Colin Farrell, Brendan Gleeson en Ralph Fiennes.

 

Uit: The Beauty Queen of Leenane

 

„MAUREEN: I'll do you some of your Complan.

MAG. Have I not had me Complan already, Maureen? I have.

MAUREEN: Sure, another one won't hurt.

MAG. (wary) No, I suppose.

Maureen tops the drink up with tap water to cool it, stirs it just twice to keep it lumpy, takes the spoon out, hands the drink to Mag, then leans back against the table to watch her drink it. Mag looks at it in distaste.

MAG. A bit lumpy, Maureen.

MAUREEN. Never mind lumpy, Mam. The lumps will do you good. That's the best part of Complan is the lumps. Drink ahead.

MAG. A little spoon, do you have?

MAUREEN. No, I have no little spoon. There's no little spoons for liars in this house. No little spoons at all. Be drinking ahead.

Mag takes the smallest of sickly sips

MAUREEN. The whole of it now!

MAG. I do have a funny tummy, Maureen, and I do have no room.

MAUREEN. Drink ahead, I said! You had room enough to be spouting your lies about Ray Dooley had no message! Did I not meet him on the road beyond as he was going? The lies of you. The whole of that Complan you'll drink now, and suck the lumps down too, and whatever's left you haven't drank, it is over your head I will be emptying it, and you know well enough I mean it!

Mag slowly drinks the rest of the sickly brew

MAUREEN. Arsing me around, eh? Interfering with my life again? Isn't it enough I've had to be on beck and call for you every day for the past twenty year? Is it one evening out you begrudge me?“

 

 

 

 

 

McDonagh
Martin McDonagh (Camberwell, 26 maart 1970)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Gregory Corso werd geboren in New York op 26 maart 1930. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.

 

 

Birthplace Revisited

(from Gasoline)

 

I stand in the dark light in the dark street

and look up at my window, I was born there.

The lights are on; other people are moving about.

I am with raincoat; cigarette in mouth,

hat over eye, hand on gat.

I cross the street and enter the building.

The garbage cans haven't stopped smelling.

I walk up the first flight; Dirty Ears

aims a knife at me...

I pump him full of lost watches.

 

 

 

 

 

Poets Hitchiking on the Highway

 

Of course I tried to tell him

but he cranked his head

without an excuse.

I told him the sky chases

the sun

And he smiled and said:

'What's the use.'

I was feeling like a demon

again

So I said: 'But the ocean chases

the fish.'

This time he laughed

and said: 'Suppose the

strawberry were

pushed into a mountain.'

After that I knew the

war was on--

So we fought:

He said: 'The apple-cart like a

broomstick-angel

snaps & splinters

old dutch shoes.'

I said: 'Lightning will strike the old oak

and free the fumes!'

He said: 'Mad street with no name.'

I said: 'Bald killer! Bald killer! Bald killer!'

He said, getting real mad,

'Firestoves! Gas! Couch!'

I said, only smiling,

'I know God would turn back his head

if I sat quietly and thought.'

We ended by melting away,

hating the air!

 

 

 

 

 

Corso
Gregory Corso
(26 maart 1930 – 17 januari 2001)

 

 

 

 

 

De Italiaanse, Duitstalige, schrijfster Bettina Galvagni werd geboren op 26 maart 1976 in Neumarkt. Zij bezocht het gymnasium in Bozen en studeerde medicijnen in Wenen. In 1997 verscheen haar eerste roman Melancholia, waarvoor zij in 1998 de Rauriser Literaturpreis ontving. In 2002 verscheen haar tweede roman Persona. Tegenwoordig werkt zij als arts in Parijs.

 

Uit: Persona

 

“Kleine, durchsichtige Schneeflocken fielen auf die Scheiben des Taxis, das langsam den Hügel hinauffuhr. Lori spürte die eisige Kälte, die durch irgendwelche Ritze zu kommen schien. Andererseits war ihr warm; sie war gekleidet wie nach hohem Fieber. Und so würden ihre ersten Schritte sein, die sie vom Taxi aus imaginierte: wie nach hohem Fieber.

Der Taxifahrer hielt an, fragte, ob er sie ganz hineinfahren solle, und sie verneinte.

Ohne sich noch einmal umzudrehen, ging sie am Portier im weißen Mantel vorbei, der eine Bewegung mit den Armen machte, als ob er Tauben fütterte.

Eine dünne Schneeschicht bedeckte die Spitze der kleinen Jugendstilkirche und die großen Pavillons aus Backstein. Die Vorderseite der Pavillons war hell und glasig, und durch ihren unregelmäßigen Farbton wirkte sie zerbrechlich und verschlissen wie ausgetanzte Spitzenschuhe. Ihre Hinterseiten leuchteten wie das Fell einer roten Katze.

Lori öffnete die Tür eines Pavillons und setzte sich auf die Stufen des Treppenaufgangs. Sie hörte zu, wie aus dem Inneren der Station Stimmen, Radiomusik und das Scheppern von Geschirr drangen, und betrachtete die Flügeltür, deren obere Hälfte aus eingefaßtem Glas bestand. Darin war ein grün schimmernder stilisierter Baum durch ein zartes schmückendes ebenfalls grünes Band mit weiteren Bäumen verbunden, deren Stämme alle die Farbe trüber, abgestandener Milch hatten und dahinter konnte man schemenhaft die Köpfe von Alten sehen, die über Tassen gebeugt waren, und braune Tische und etwas, das sich wie ein Triangelstab bewegte.”

 

 

 

 

Galvagni
Bettina Galvagni (Neumarkt, 26 maart 1976)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Erica Jong werd geboren in New York op 26 maart 1942. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.

 

 

The Poetry Suit

 

I put on my poetry suit.

The prose falls away

like a dream I cannot remember,

the images unraveling like threads

in a cheap dress, sewn in Hong Kong

to feed the hungry mouths

of sweet-faced Chinese children.

 

Now I am in my poetry suit.

I zip myself into it,

pink as flesh, tight as the suit

I was born it, & looking

seamless as a perfect poem,

gleaming as the golden fleece,

slim as a stripper at the Crazy Horse Saloon,

transparent as silk stockings,

& smelling of jasmine & tea rose.

 

But what was that old perfume

I left in the pocket,

that cotton ball soaked

in Bal a Versailles,

that yellowing glace glove

that lacks a mate,

that fine cambric handkerchief

brown with dried blood

from an old nosebleed?

 

Even poetry, pure as nothing

but snow or music,

drags life along

in its hidden pockets.

 

Oh for an art

that is not made of words

with all their odors

& indiscretions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

erica_jong
Erica Jong (New York, 26 maart 1942)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Robert Lee Frost werd geboren op 26 maart 1874 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.

 

 

Good Hours

I had for my winter evening walk--
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o'clock of a winter eve

 

 

 

 

 

Spring Pools

 

These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,

And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods --

Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.

 

 

 

 

Frost
Robert Frost  (26 maart 1874 – 29 januari 1963)

Robert Frost in New Hampshire door James Chapin

 

 

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter Alfred Edward Housman werd geboren op 26 maart 1859 in  Fockbury, Worcestershire. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.

 

 

ILLIC JACET

 

Oh hard is the bed they have made him,

  And common the blanket and cheap;

But there he will lie as they laid him:

  Where else could you trust him to sleep?

 

To sleep when the bugle is crying

  And cravens have heard and are brave,

When mothers and sweethearts are sighing

  And lads are in love with the grave.

 

Oh dark is the chamber and lonely,

  And lights and companions depart;

But lief will he lose them and only

  Behold the desire of his heart.

 

And low is the roof, but it covers

  A sleeper content to repose;

And far from his friends and his lovers

  He lies with the sweetheart he chose.

 

 

 

 

 

When I would muse in boyhood

 

When I would muse in boyhood

  The wild green woods among,

And nurse resolves and fancies

  Because the world was young,

It was not foes to conquer,

  Nor sweethearts to be kind,

But it was friends to die for

  That I would seek and find.

 

I sought them and I found them,

  The sure, the straight, the brave,

The hearts I lost my own to,

  The souls I could not save.

They braced their belts around them,

  They crossed in ships the sea,

They sought and found six feet of ground,

  And there they died for me.

 

 

 

 

 

Housman
A. E. Housman (26 maart 1859 – 30 april 1936)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Tennessee Williams (eigenlijk Thomas Lanier Williams) werd geboren in Columbus (Mississippi op 26 maart 1911. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 maart 2008.

 

Uit: A Streetcar Named Desire


” MITCH. She wants me to be settled down before the -- [His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat twice, shuffling nervously around with his hands in and out of his pockets]

BLANCHE. You love her very much, don't you?

MITCH. Yes.

BLANCHE. I think you have a great capacity for devotion. You will be lonely when she passes on, won't you? [Mitch clears his throat and nods] I understand what that is.

MITCH. To be lonely?

BLANCHE. I loved someone, too, and the person I loved I lost.

MITCH. Dead? [She crosses to the window and sits on the sill, looking out. She pours herself another drink] A man?

BLANCHE. He was a boy, just a boy, when I was a very young girl. When I was sixteen, I made the discovery -- love. All at once and much, much too completely. It was like you suddenly turned a blinding light on something that had always been half in shadow, that's how it struck the world for me. But I was unlucky. Deluded. There was something different about the boy, a nervousness, a softness and tenderness which wasn't like a man's, although he wasn't the least bit effeminate looking -- still -- that thing was there ... He came to me for help. I didn't know that. I didn't find out anything till after our marriage when we'd run away and come back and all I knew was I'd failed him in some mysterious way and wasn't able to give the help he needed but couldn't speak of! He was in the quicksands and clutching at me -- but I wasn't holding him out, I was slipping in with him! I didn't know that. I didn't know anything except I loved him unendurably but without being able to help him or help myself. Then I found out. In the worst of all possible ways. By coming suddenly into a room that I thought was empty -- which wasn't empty, but had two people in it ... the boy I had married and an older man who had been his friend for years ...

[A locomotive is heard approaching outside. She claps her hands to her ears and crouches over. The headlight of the locomotive glares into the room as it thunders past. As the noise recedes she straightens slowly and continues speaking.]

Afterward we pretended that nothing had been discovered. Yes, the three of us drove out to Moon Lake Casino, very drunk and laughing all the way.”

 

 

 

 

Tennessee-Williams
Tennessee Williams (26 maart 1911 – 25 februari 1983)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver en criticus Artur Hermann Landsberger werd geboren op 26 maart 1876 in Berlijn. Hij promoveerde weliswaar in de rechten, maar was vooral een succesvolle schrijver van romans. In de jaren twintig verscherpte hij zijn toon. In werken als Wie Satan starb (1919), Das Blut (1920), en vooral in zijn als reactie op Hugo Bettauers publicatie Stadt ohne Juden (1922) geschreven Berlin ohne Juden (1925) hield hij de maatschappij een bepaald niet vleiende spiegel voor. De laatse roman was eigenlijk bedoeld als satire op de antisemitische agitatie, maar kwam de latere realiteit op een griezelige wijze nabij. Als maatschappijcriticus werd Landsberger door de Nazi’s vervolgd. Om daaraan te ontkomen pleegde hij in 1933 zelfmoord.

 

Uit: Berlin ohne Juden

 

Die jüdische Bevölkerung entwickelte jetzt eine fieberhafte Tätigkeit. Verständlich, daß alles in Berlin zusammenströmte. Die Zeitungen mit Verkaufsinseraten aus dem ganzen Reich erschienen im Umfang von dreißig bis fünfzig Seiten. Man konnte alles, was schwer mitzunehmen war, vor allem also Häuser, Möbel, Gardinen, Teppiche, Kronen, Porzellane, Bilder, Bücher, Wagen, Geräte, Pferde, Haustiere, Weine, Konserven und anderes mehr zu lächerlichen Preisen kaufen. Die christliche Bevölkerung kaufte sich satt. Die Leute verkauften ihre Papiere und hoben von den städtischen Kassen ihre Ersparnisse ab. Die Billigkeit reizte und die Freude, den Juden, von denen sie sich sonst übervorteilt glaubten, nun ihrerseits für das, was sie ihnen abkauften, Preise vorzuschreiben, die bis zur Hälfte, oft bis zu einem Zehntel hinter dem wirklichen Wert zurückblieben. Natürlich, sie überkauften sich, und als die Juden raus waren, fehlte ihnen das Geld für das Nötigste. Meist wußten sie gar nichts mit dem Geramschten anzufangen. Was sollte man mit einer Villa vor den Toren Berlins anfangen, wenn man Mühe hatte, seine teuere Wohnung in der Stadt zu halten, was mit einem Auto, wenn man sich das Geld für Chauffeur und Benzin vom Munde absparte, was mit echten Persern in Größen von 6 x 5 und 5 x 4, wenn die Zimmer nur 4 x 3 und 3 x 2 groß waren, was mit Handfiletgardinen für 24 Fenster, wenn man nebbich - ach, man brauchte jetzt so gern die jüdischen Worte! - nur fünf Fenster Front hatte. Die Kronen paßten nicht zu den Möbeln, die Bilder nicht zu den Tapeten, und in den bei der Eile natürlich im ganzen gekauften Bibliotheken fand man statt der gesuchten Rudolfe (Herzog und Stratz) Juden, wie Wassermann, Hirschfeld und Georg Hermann, ja, manchmal stieß man sogar auf Bücher in hebräischer Sprache, vor denen man sich bekreuzigte, sofern man nicht in Krämpfe fiel.
Alles das aber bemerkte man leider erst, als der große Taumel sich legte und die Juden schon draußen waren. Sonst hätte man sie gewiß des Wuchers bezichtigt und sie gezwungen, die Geschäfte rückgängig zu machen.“

 

 

 

landsberger
Artur Landsberger ( 26 maart 1876 – 4 oktober 1933)