10-01-16

Robinson Jeffers, Giselher Werner Hoffmann, Jan H. Eekhout, Vicente Huidobro, Aubrey Thomas de Vere, Alexei Tolstoy

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver John Robinson Jeffers werd geboren op 10 januari 1887 in Allegheny, nu Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Zie ook ook alle tags voor Robinson Jeffers op dit blog.

 

Hurt Hawks

I
The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,

No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.

He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.

He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,

The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.

You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.


II
I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk;
but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.

We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance.

I gave him the lead gift in the twilight.
What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.

 

 
Robinson Jeffers (10 januari 1887 – 20 januari 1962)
 

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10-01-15

Robinson Jeffers, Giselher Werner Hoffmann, Jan H. Eekhout, Vicente Huidobro, Aubrey Thomas de Vere, Alexei Tolstoy

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver John Robinson Jeffers werd geboren op 10 januari 1887 in Allegheny, nu Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Zie ook ook alle tags voor Robinson Jeffers op dit blog.

 

Delusion Of Saints

The old pagan burials, uninscribed rock,
Secret-keeping mounds,
Have shed the feeble delusions that built them,
They stand inhumanly
Clean and massive; they have lost their priests.
But the cross-bearing stones
Still foot corruption, and their faces carved
With hopes and terrors
At length too savagely annulled to be left
Even ridiculous.
Long-suffering saints, flamelike aspirers,
You have won your reward:
You sleep now as easily as any dead murderer
Or worn-out lecher.
To have found your faith a liar is no thorn
In the narrow beds,
Nor laughter of unfriends nor rumor of the ruinous
Churches will reach you.
As at Clonmacnoise I saw them all ruined,
And at Cong, at Glendalough,
At Monasterboice; and at Kilrnacduagh
All ruined, all roofless
But the great cyclopean-stoned spire
That leans toward its fall.
A place perfectly abandoned of life,
Except that we heard
One old horse neighing across the stone hedges
In the flooded fields.

 

 

End Of The World

When I was young in school in Switzerland, about the time of the Boer War,
We used to take it for known that the human race
Would last the earth out, not dying till the planet died. I wrote a schoolboy poem
About the last man walking in stoic dignity along the dead shore
Of the last sea, alone, alone, alone, remembering all
His racial past. But now I don't think so. They'll die faceless in flocks,
And the earth flourish long after mankind is out.

 

 
Robinson Jeffers (10 januari 1887 – 20 januari 1962)
Portret door  Hamilton Wolf, 1919

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10-01-11

Robinson Jeffers, Alexei Tolstoy, Jan H. Eekhout, Aubrey Thomas de Vere, Giselher Werner Hoffmann

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver John Robinson Jeffers werd geboren op 10 januari 1887 in Allegheny, nu Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 januari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 januari 2010. 

 

 

To A Young Artist

 

It is good for strength not to be merciful
To its own weakness, good for the deep urn to run
over, good to explore
The peaks and the deeps, who can endure it,
Good to be hurt, who can be healed afterward: but
you that have whetted consciousness
Too bitter an edge, too keenly daring,
So that the color of a leaf can make you tremble
and your own thoughts like harriers
Tear the live mind: were your bones mountains,
Your blood rivers to endure it? and all that labor
of discipline labors to death.
Delight is exquisite, pain is more present;
You have sold the armor, you have bought shining
with burning, one should be stronger than
strength
To fight baresark in the stabbing field
In the rage of the stars: I tell you unconsciousness
is the treasure, the tower, the fortress;
Referred to that one may live anything;
The temple and the tower: poor dancer on the flints
and shards in the temple porches, turn home.

 

 

 

 

The Bed By The Window

 

I chose the bed downstairs by the sea-window for a good death-bed
When we built the house, it is ready waiting,
Unused unless by some guest in a twelvemonth, who hardly suspects
Its latter purpose. I often regard it,
With neither dislike nor desire; rather with both, so equalled
That they kill each other and a crystalline interest
Remains alone. We are safe to finish what we have to finish;
And then it will sound rather like music
When the patient daemon behind the screen of sea-rock and sky
Thumps with his staff, and calls thrice: "Come, Jeffers."

 

 

 

 

Robinson Jeffers (10 januari 1887 – 20 januari 1962)

 

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10-01-10

Renate Schostack, Philip Levine, Ingeborg Drewitz, Vicente Huidobro, Robinson Jeffers, Alexei Tolstoy, Jan H. Eekhout, Aubrey Thomas de Vere, Giselher Werner Hoffmann


De Duitse schrijfster en journaliste Renate Schostack werd geboren op 10 januari 1938 in Pforzheim. Zij studeerde germanistiek en geschiedenis in München, Bazel, Parijs en Berlijn. In 1964 promoveerde zij in Freiburg im Breisgau tot doctor in de filosofie. Aansluitend werkte zij als lector aan de universiteiten van Toulouse en Bristol. Sinds 1969 is zij verbonden aan de "Frankfurter Allgemeinen Zeitung", als cultuur-correspondente, eerst in Londen, sinds 1989 in München. Naast haar journalistieke en kritische werk schrijft zij romans en verhalen.

 

Uit: Die eitle Schöne (Über Geist und Kultur in München)

 

„Das Allerweltswesen begann, die Atmosphäre der Stadt zu färben. Gruppierungen rückten jetzt mit ihren Anliegen in den Vordergrund der Szene, deren Namen die Marktfrauen am Viktualien markt noch vor wenigen Jahren nie gehört hatten: Schwule und Lesben; Blader und Skater. Selbst die stadtberühmten Nackerten hatten jetzt eine „message“. Die Damen und Herren, die bei zehn Grad minus kurz vor Weihnachten 1993 durch die Innenstadt zogen, demonstrierten für den Tierschutz.

Wehe, wenn sich ein Kommentator diesen Herrschaften nicht mit angemessenem Ernst genähert hätte. Als die Leiterin des Münchner Frauenamtes, die den Titel „Gleichstellungsbeauftragte“ trug,

in einem aufgeschnittenen Apfel, der eine städtische Werbebroschüre zierte, ein weibliches Geschlechtsorgan erkannte und empört „Sexismus!“ rief, sollte man über diesen Unsinn nicht einmal lachen dürfen. Diese Verstiegenheit, die aus der amerikanischen Debatte über „political correctness“ auch nach München schwappte, bedrohte die alte freche Unschuld.

War sie gar ans Ende gelangt? Als 1996 der Berufsplayboy „James“ Graser starb, waren manche dieser Ansicht. Er pfl egte auf dem Höhepunkt seiner Laufbahn, wenn er ein Lokal betrat, den frohgemuten Ruf auszustoßen: „Sind Hasen da?“ In den neunziger Jahren hätten ihn die Frauenbeauftragte und ihr Gefolge vor den Kadi gebracht.

Stattdessen nun also allerlei Minderheiten, denen man gern ihre Sonderlichkeiten zugesteht, wären sie bloß nicht so verbissen, und Ausgefl ippte, die mit Abgeschmacktheiten aller Art nur eines anstreben: aufzufallen um jeden Preis. Da gab es etwa die Käfer-Nächte im P1 mit Obdachlosen als Statisten („Penner-Party“), mit einem Jesus-Darsteller am Kreuz, mit halbnackten zotteligen

Höhlenbewohnern („Steinzeit-Party“), zu der per Post mit echten Tierknochen eingeladen worden war. Ein Magazin holte sich aus der EX-DDR ein nettes Mädchen, verwandelte es durch allerlei „Styling-Berater“ in eine Modepuppe, jagte es, von Fotografen und anderem Gefolge umlagert, durch Discos und Nachtclubs, um zu beweisen, dass in München mit entsprechenden Mitteln jeder Nobody zur Party-Größe gemacht werden könne. Die SZ gar befasste sich mit der ersten Münchner Bischöfin und ließ für sie eine Modekollektion entwerfen. Sie gipfelte in einer Gewandung, die das Undenkbare dachte: eine evangelische Päpstin.“

 

 

 

 

schostack
Renate Schostack (Pforzheim, 10 januari 1938)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Philip Levine werd geboren op 10 januari 1928 in Detroit, Michigan. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 januari 2009.

 

 

Another Song 

 

Words go on travelling from voice

to voice while the phones are still

and the wires hum in the cold. Now

and then dark winter birds settle

slowly on the crossbars, where huddled

they caw out their loneliness. Except

for them the March world is white

and barely alive. The train to Providence

moans somewhere near the end

of town, and the churning of metal

on metal from so many miles away

is only a high thin note trilling

the frozen air. Years ago I lived

not far from here, grown to fat

and austerity, a man who came

closely shaven to breakfast and ate

in silence and left punctually, alone,

for work. So it was I saw it all

and turned away to where snow

fell into snow and the wind spoke

in the incomprehensible syllable

of wind, and I could be anyone:

a man whose life lay open before him,

a book with no ending, a widow

bearing white carnations at dusk

to a hillside graveyard turned

to blank rubble, a cinder floating

down to earth and blinking slowly out,

too small to mean a thing, too tired

to even sigh. If life comes back,

as we are told it does, each time one

step closer to the edge of truth,

then I am ready for the dawn

that calls a sullen boy from sleep

rubbing his eyes on a white window

and knowing none of it can last the day.

 

 

 

 

Holy Day 

 

Los Angeles hums

a little tune --

trucks down

for Monday Market

packed with small faces

blinking in the dark.

My mother dreams

by the open window.

On the drainboard

the gray roast humps

untouched, the oven

bangs its iron jaws,

but it's over.

Before her on the table

set for so many

her glass of fire

goes out.

The childish photographs,

the letters and cards

scatter at last.

The dead burn alone

toward dawn.

 

 

 

 

 

levine1
Philip Levine (Detroit, 10 januari 1928)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijfster Ingeborg Drewitz werd geboren op 10 januari 1923 in Berlijn. Na eerst in een bedrijf gewerkt te hebben studeerde zij tot 1945 filosofie, germanistiek en geschiedenis in Berlijn, waar zij later ook doceerde aan de Freie Universität. Zij schreef toneel, tijd- en maatschappijkritische romans, verhalen, non-fictie boeken, autobiografisch werk en hoorspelen. In veel van haar werk hield zij zich bezig met het nationaal-socialisme.

 

Uit: Gestern war Heute - Hundert Jahre Gegenwart

 

"Es ist alles so schnell gegangen, Jörgs Anstellung bei Schering, im Altbau, sehr beengt, aber Chemie - da wird was draus! Und seine Frage. Und ihre zögernde Antwort: Warum eigentlich nicht? Warum eigentlich nicht. Sie mögen sich. Sie erzählt ihm von dem Sommertag in Grünau. Ganz nüchtern, ganz offen wollen sie beginnen. Seine Mutter ist gestorben, ein Männerhaushalt, der Vater und der Sohn brauchen eine Frau.
Angst, Angst vor dieser Idylle: Mann und Frau, vielleicht auch ein Kind oder zwei. Angst vor der Immer-Wiederkehr: Mann und Frau und Mann und Frau. Angst vor dem Leben, das Mutter gelebt hat und Großmutter und Urgroßmutter: Draußen die Welt und hinter den vier Wänden - nein keine Geborgenheit.
Bisher hat sie doch immer gehofft, mit jedem Jahr deutlicher zu werden, endlich wieder so unbefangen Ich zu sagen, wie als Kind. ICH."

 

 

 

 

drewitz
Ingeborg Drewitz
(10 januari 1923 – 26 november 1986)

 

 

 

 

 

De Chileense dichter Vicente García-Huidobro Fernández werd op 10 januari 1893 geboren in Santiago. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 januari 2009.

 

 

 

Ekloge

 

Sterbende Sonne

Eine Autopanne

Und ein Duft von Frühling
Bleibt im Vorbeigehen in der Luft

Irgendwo
                                                                ein Lied

WO BIST DU

An einem Nachmittag wie diesem
                                                           Suchte ich vergeblich nach dir

Im Nebel aller Straßen
Traf ich mich selbst

Und im Rauch meiner Zigarre
Sah ich einen verlorenen Vogel

Niemand antwortete

Die letzten Schäfer ertränkten sich

Und die verirrten Schafe
Fraßen Blumen und gaben keinen Honig

Der Winde der vorbeistrich
Häuft ihre Wolle auf

Zwischen den Wolken
                                                Benetzt mit meinen Tränen

Warum das bereits Beweinte
                                                    nochmals beweinen

Und da die Schafe Blumen fressen
Ein Zeichen daß du bereits vorbeigegangen bist.

 

 

 

Vertaald door Johannes Beilharz 

 

 

 

 

huidobro
Vicente Huidobro (10 januari 1893 – 2 januari 1948)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver John Robinson Jeffers werd geboren op 10 januari 1887 in Allegheny, nu Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 januari 2009.

 

 

Promise Of Peace 

 

The heads of strong old age are beautiful

Beyond all grace of youth. They have strange quiet,

Integrity, health, soundness, to the full

They've dealt with life and been tempered by it.

A young man must not sleep; his years are war,

Civil and foreign but the former's worse;

But the old can breathe in safety now that they are

Forgetting what youth meant, the being perverse,

Running the fool's gauntlet and being cut

By the whips of the five senses. As for me,

If I should wish to live long it were but

To trade those fevers for tranquillity,

Thinking though that's entire and sweet in the grave

How shall the dead taste the deep treasure they have?

 

 

 

 

Sign-Post

 

Civilized, crying: how to be human again; this will tell you how.

Turn outward, love things, not men, turn right away from humanity,

Let that doll lie. Consider if you like how the lilies grow,

Lean on the silent rock until you feel its divinity

Make your veins cold; look at the silent stars, let your eyes

Climb the great ladder out of the pit of yourself and man.

Things are so beautiful, your love will follow your eyes;

Things are the God; you will love God and not in vain,

For what we love, we grow to it, we share its nature. At length

You will look back along the star's rays and see that even

The poor doll humanity has a place under heaven.

Its qualities repair their mosaic around you, the chips of strength

And sickness; but now you are free, even to be human,

But born of the rock and the air, not of a woman.

 

 

 

 

 

jeffers
Robinson Jeffers (10 januari 1887 – 20 januari 1962)

 

 

 

 

 

De Russische schrijver Alexei Tolstoy werd geboren op 10 januari 1883 in Sosnovka. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 januari 2009.

 

Uit: Ordeal

 

Dasha pushed her way up to the platform. A tall young'fellow, turning his head, opened his mouth in a broad smile, his teeth showing white against his begrimed face; nodding towards a bench, he stretched out his hand, and Dasha climbed up beside him to the lathe beneath the window. The faces in the vast crowd - several thousand strong - were morose, the brows lined, the lips compressed. She saw such faces every day in the streets and trams, weary Russian faces, with forbidding eyes. Dasha remembered walking about the islands in Petersburg one Sunday, before the war, when her escorts - two barristers - had turned the conversation upon just faces. "Take the Paris crowd, Darya Dmitrievna - gay, good-humoured, bubbling with fun... And here you see nothing but scowling countenances. Look at these two workers coming towards us! Shall I go up to them, and try and joke with them? They wouldn't understand, they'd be offended. Russians are so ridiculously slow on the uptake, so heavy in hand..." And now these humourless folk stood there, agitated, sombre, tense and determined. The same faces, but dark with hunger now, the same eyes, but the expression fiery, impatient.D

Dasha forgot what she was there for. The impressions of the life into which she had plunged from her lonely window in Krasniye Zori Street, carried her away like a storm bird, and she abandoned herself to them with pristine innocence. She was not really stupid but, like many other people, she had been left to herself, with only her own tiny store of experience to guide her. But she thirsted for truth-she thirsted for it as an individual, as a woman, as a member of the human race.
A new speaker had ascended the platform, a short man in a grey jacket, his waistcoat showing horizontal wrinkles. His bald, bumpy head was bent over the notes on the table before him. "Comrades!" he began, and Dasha noticed that he spoke with a slight burr, and that he looked worried, screwing up his eyes as if the light was in them. His hands rested on the table, on a sheaf of notes. When he said that his subject today would be the acute crisis which was bearing down upon the whole of Europe and on Russia heaviest of all, and that his subject was famine, three thousand people held their breath beneath the smoke-blackened roof.“

 

 

 

 

ATolstoy

Alexei Tolstoy (10 januari 1883 – 23 februari 1945)

 

 

 

 

 

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Jan Eekhout werd geboren op 10 januari 1900 in Sluis. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 januari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 10 januari 2009.

 

 

 

De Waanzinnige

 

'k Heb hard om God gebeden, en Hij kwam,

drong plots zich driftig in mijn felle zinnen

als wilde Hij in mij opnieuw beginnen

Zichzelf, nu het al losbrak uit den ban

van een zoo groot, roofzuchtig haast, beminnen

Sindsdien laait onophoudelijk in mij van

Zijn vreemd Bestaan de folterende vlam,

doch kan Hij mij, noch ik Hem overwinnen.

 

Een was die zag hoe Hij in mij ging wijken,

en daarom bracht men God en mij tezamen

in dit grafnauw en beendernaakt vertrek.

 

Hier zullen vechten wij tot wij bezwijken,

gillend verward dooreen elkanders namen,

scheldend elkander schaamteloos voor gek.

 

 

 

 

 

Eekhout
Jan H. Eekhout (10 januari 1900 – 6 maart 1978)

 

 

 

 

 

De Ierse dichter en criticus Aubrey Thomas de Vere werd geboren in Adare, County Limerick, op 10 januari 1814.  Aubrey Thomas de Vere studeerde aan het Trinity College in Dublin. Op 28-jarige leeftijd publiceerde hij The Waldenses, een jaar later gevolgd door The Search after Proserpine. Vanaf dat moment hield hij zich tot zijn dood in 1902 bezig met poëzie en literaire en politieke essays. Als jonge dichter werd hij sterk beïnvloed door de Engelse romantische dichters William Wordsworth en Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Hij bracht lange tijd door in Engeland, waar hij bevriend raakte met Alfred Tennyson en Robert Browning. Zijn hart lag echter in Ierland. In 1851 werd hij rooms-katholiek.

 

 

 

The Children Band 

 

  ALL holy influences dwell within

The breast of Childhood: instincts fresh from God

   Inspire it, ere the heart beneath the rod

Of grief hath bled, or caught the plague of sin.

How mighty was that fervour which could win

   Its way to infant souls!--and was the sod

   Of Palestine by infant Croises trod?

Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin,

In all their touching beauty to redeem?

   And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre?

Alas! the lovely pageant as a dream

   Faded! They sank not through ignoble fear;

They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain, stream,

   In sands, in fens, they died--no mother near!

 

 

 

 

 

DeVere
Aubrey Thomas de Vere (10 januari 1814 - 20 januari 1902
)

Portret door Julia Margaret Cameron

 

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 10 januari 2009.

 

De Duitstalige, uit Namibië stammende, schrijver Giselher Werner Hoffmann werd geboren op 10 januari 1958 in Windhoek.