12-09-17

Michael Ondaatje, James Frey, Chris van Geel, Louis MacNeice, Hannes Meinkema, Eduard Elias, Jan Willem Schulte Nordholt, Werner Dürrson, Gust Van Brussel

 

De Canadese dichter en schrijver Philip Michael Ondaatje werd op 12 september 1943 geboren in Colombo, Ceylon (nu Sri Lanka). Zie ook mijn blog van 12 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Michael Ondaantje op dit blog

 

Wells II

The last Sinhala word I lost
was vatura.
The word for water.
Forest water. The water in a kiss. The tears
I gave to my ayah Rosalin on leaving
the first home of my life.

More water for her than any other
that fled my eyes again
this year, remembering her,
a lost almost-mother in those years
of thirsty love.

No photograph of her, no meeting
since the age of eleven,
not even knowledge of her grave.

Who abandoned who, I wonder now.

 

 

What were the names of the towns

What were the names of the towns
we drove into and through

stunned lost

having drunk our way
up vineyards
and then Hot Springs
boiling out the drunkenness

What were the names
I slept through
my head
on your thigh
hundreds of miles
of blackness entering the car

All this
darkness and stars
but now
under the Napa Valley night
a star arch of dashboard
the ripe grape moon
we are together
and I love this muscle

I love this muscle
that tenses

and joins
the accelerator
to my cheek

 

 

Kissing the stomach

Kissing the stomach
kissing your scarred
skin boat. History
is what you've travelled on
and take with you

We've each had our stomachs
kissed by strangers
to the other

and as for me
I bless everyone
who kissed you here

 

 
Michael Ondaatje (Colombo, 12 september 1943)

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12-09-16

Dolce far niente, Vachel Lindsay, Michael Ondaatje, James Frey, Louis MacNeice, Hannes Meinkema, Eduard Elias, Jan Willem Schulte Nordholt

 

Dolce far niente

 

Indian Summer in the White Mountains door Sanford Gifford, 1862

 

 

An Indian Summer Day on the Prarie

(In The Beginning)

THE sun is a huntress young,
The sun is a red, red joy,
The sun is an indian girl,
Of the tribe of the Illinois.

(Mid-Morning)

The sun is a smouldering fire,
That creeps through the high gray plain,
And leaves not a bush of cloud
To blossom with flowers of rain.

(Noon)

The sun is a wounded deer,
That treads pale grass in the skies,
Shaking his golden horns,
Flashing his baleful eyes.

(Sunset)

The sun is an eagle old,
There in the windless west.
Atop of the spirit-cliffs
He builds him a crimson nest.

 


Vachel Lindsay (10 november 1879 - 5 december 1931)
Springfield. Vachel Lindsay werd geboren in Springfield.

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12-09-15

Michael Ondaatje, James Frey, Louis MacNeice, Hannes Meinkema, Eduard Elias, Jan Willem Schulte Nordholt

 

De Canadese dichter en schrijver Philip Michael Ondaatje werd op 12 september 1943 geboren in Colombo, Ceylon (nu Sri Lanka). Zie ook mijn blog van 12 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Michael Ondaantje op dit blog.

Uit: The English Patient

“There are stories the man recites quietly into the room which slip from level to level like a hawk. He wakes in the painted arbour that surrounds him with its spilling flowers, arms of great trees. He remembers picnics, a woman who kissed parts of his body that now are burned into the colour of aubergine.
I have spent weeks in the desert, forgetting to look at the moon, he says, as a married man may spend days never looking into the face of his wife. These are not sins of omission but signs of preoccupation.
His eyes lock onto the young woman’s face. If she moves her head, his stare will travel alongside her into the wall. She leans forward. How were you burned?
It is late afternoon. His hands play with a piece of sheet, the back of his fingers caressing it.
I fell burning into the desert.
They found my body and made me a boat of sticks and dragged me across the desert. We were in the Sand Sea, now and then crossing dry riverbeds. Nomads, you see. Bedouin. I flew down and the sand itself caught fire. They saw me stand up naked out of it. The leather helmet on my head in flames. They strapped me onto a cradle, a carcass boat, and feet thud­ded along as they ran with me. I had broken the spareness of the desert.
The Bedouin knew about fire. They knew about planes that since 1939 had been falling out of the sky. Some of their tools and utensik were made from the metal of crashed planes and tanks. It was the time of the war in heaven. They could recognize the drone of a wounded plane, they knew how to pick their way through such shipwrecks. A small bolt from a cockpit became jewellery. I was perhaps the first one to stand up alive out of a burning machine. A man whose head was on fire. They didn’t know my name. I didn’t know their tribe.
Who are you?
I don’t know. You keep asking me.
You said you were English.”

 

 
Michael Ondaatje (Colombo, 12 september 1943)
Willem Dafoe als David Caravaggio en Juliette Binoche als Hana
in de gelijknamige film uit 1996

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12-09-14

Michael Ondaatje, James Frey, Louis MacNeice, Hannes Meinkema, Eduard Elias, Jan Willem Schulte Nordholt

 

De Canadese dichter en schrijver Philip Michael Ondaatje werd op 12 september 1943 geboren in Colombo, Ceylon (nu Sri Lanka). Zieook mijn blog van 12 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Michael Ondaantje op dit blog.

Uit: The English Patient

She stands up in the garden where she has been working and looks into the distance. She has sensed a shift in the weather. There is another gust of wind, a buckle of noise in the air, and the tall cypresses sway. She turns and moves uphill toward the house, climbing over a low wall, feeling the first drops of rain on her bare arms. She crosses the loggia and quickly enters the house.
In the kitchen she doesn't pause but goes through it and climbs the stairs which are in darkness and then continues along the long hall, at the end of which is a wedge of light from an open door.
She turns into the room which is another garden--this one made up of trees and bowers painted over its walls and ceiling. The man lies on the bed, his body exposed to the breeze, and he turns his head slowly towards her as she enters.
Every four days she washes his black body, beginning at the destroyed feet. She wets a washcloth and holding it above his ankles squeezes the water onto him, looking up as he murmurs, seeing his smile.
Above the shins the burns are worst. Beyond purple. Bone.
She has nursed him for months and she knows the body well, the penis sleeping like a sea horse, the thin tight hips. Hipbones of Christ, she thinks. He is her despairing saint. He lies flat on his back, no pillow, looking up at the foliage painted onto the ceiling, its canopy of branches, and above that, blue sky.
She pours calamine in stripes across his chest where he is less burned, where she can touch him. She loves the hollow below the lowest rib, its cliff of skin. Reaching his shoulders she blows cool air onto his neck, and he mutters.
What? she asks, coming out of her concentration.
He turns his dark face with its gray eyes towards her. She puts her hand into her pocket. She unskins the plum with her teeth, withdraws the stone and passes the flesh of the fruit into his mouth.
He whispers again, dragging the listening heart of the young nurse beside him to wherever his mind is, into that well of memory he kept plunging into during those months before he died.“

 

 
Michael Ondaatje (Colombo, 12 september 1943)

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12-09-13

Michael Ondaatje, James Frey, Louis MacNeice, Hannes Meinkema, Eduard Elias

 

De Canadese dichter en schrijver Philip Michael Ondaatje werd op 12 september 1943 geboren in Colombo, Ceylon (nu Sri Lanka). Zieook mijn blog van 12 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Michael Ondaantje op dit blog.

 

 

Notes For The Legend Of Salad Woman

 

Since my wife was born
she must have eaten
the equivalent of two-thirds
of the original garden of Eden.
Not the dripping lush fruit
or the meat in the ribs of animals
but the green salad gardens of that place.
The whole arena of green
would have been eradicated
as if the right filter had been removed
leaving only the skeleton of coarse brightness.

All green ends up eventually
churning in her left cheek.
Her mouth is a laundromat of spinning drowning herbs.
She is never in fields
but is sucking the pith out of grass.
I have noticed the very leaves from flower decorations
grow sparse in their week long performance in our house.
The garden is a dust bowl.

On our last day in Eden as we walked out
she nibbled the leaves at her breasts and crotch.
But there's none to touch
none to equal
the Chlorophyll Kiss

 

 

 

 

Michael Ondaatje (Colombo, 12 september 1943)

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12-09-12

Michael Ondaatje, James Frey, Louis MacNeice, Hannes Meinkema, Gust Van Brussel

 

De Canadese dichter en schrijver Philip Michael Ondaatje werd op 12 september 1943 geboren in Colombo, Ceylon (nu Sri Lanka). Zieook mijn blog van 12 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Michael Ondaantje op dit blog.

 

 

Application For A Driving License

 

Two birds loved
in a flurry of red feathers
like a burst cottonball,
continuing while I drove over them.
I am a good driver, nothing shocks me.

 

 

 

Bearhug

 

Griffin calls to come and kiss him goodnight
I yell ok. Finish something I'm doing,
then something else, walk slowly round
the corner to my son's room.
He is standing arms outstretched
waiting for a bearhug. Grinning.

Why do I give my emotion an animal's name,
give it that dark squeeze of death?
This is the hug which collects
all his small bones and his warm neck against me.
The thin tough body under the pyjamas
locks to me like a magnet of blood.

How long was he standing there
like that, before I came?

 

 

 

Michael Ondaatje (Colombo, 12 september 1943)

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12-09-11

Michael Ondaatje, Werner Dürrson, James Frey, Louis MacNeice, Eduard Elias

 

De Canadese dichter en schrijver Philip Michael Ondaatje werd op 12 september 1943 geboren in Colombo, Ceylon (nu Sri Lanka). Zie ook mijn blog van 12 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 12 september 2010

 

 

(Inner Tube)

 

On the warm July river
head back

upside down river
for a roof

slowly paddling
towards an estuary between trees

there's a dog
learning to swim near me
friends on shore

my head
dips
back to the eyebrow
I'm the prow
on an ancient vessel,
this afternoon
I'm going down to Peru
soul between my teeth

a blue heron
with its awkward
broken backed flap
upside down

one of us is wrong

he
his blue grey thud
thinking he knows
the blue way
out of here

or me

 

 

 

 

The Time Around Scars

 

A girl whom I've not spoken to
or shared coffee with for several years
writes of an old scar.
On her wrist it sleeps, smooth and white,
the size of a leech.
I gave it to her
brandishing a new Italian penknife.
Look, I said turning,
and blood spat onto her shirt.

My wife has scars like spread raindrops
on knees and ankles,
she talks of broken greenhouse panes
and yet, apart from imagining red feet,
(a nymph out of Chagall)
I bring little to that scene.
We remember the time around scars,
they freeze irrelevant emotions
and divide us from present friends.
I remember this girl's face,
the widening rise of surprise.

And would she
moving with lover or husband
conceal or flaunt it,
or keep it at her wrist
a mysterious watch.
And this scar I then remember
is a medallion of no emotion.

I would meet you now
and I would wish this scar
to have been given with
all the love
that never occurred between us.

 

 

 

Michael Ondaatje (Colombo, 12 september 1943)

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12-09-10

Michael Ondaatje, Werner Dürrson, James Frey, Louis MacNeice, Eduard Elias, Hannes Meinkema, Gust Van Brussel, Stanislaw Lem, Marya Zaturenska, Elsa Triolet

 

Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 12e september mijn blog bij seniorennet.be 

  

Michael Ondaatje, Werner Dürrson, James Frey, Louis MacNeice, Eduard Elias

 

Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 12e september ook bij seniorennet.be mijn vorige blog van vandaag.  

 

Hannes Meinkema, Gust Van Brussel, Stanislaw Lem, Marya Zaturenska, Elsa Triolet

 

12-09-09

Michael Ondaatje, Werner Dürrson, James Frey, Gust Van Brussel, Hannes Meinkema, Stanislaw Lem


De Canadese schrijver Philip Michael Ondaatje werd op 12 september 1943 geboren in Colombo, Ceylon (nu Sri Lanka). Toen zijn ouders op zijn negende scheidden, verhuisde hij samen met zijn moeder, broer en zus naar Londen. In Engeland ging hij naar het Dulwich College. Op negentienjarige leeftijd verhuisde hij naar Canada. Zijn broer Christopher leefde toen al enkele jaren in Montreal. Hij haalde een licentie in Engels en geschiedenis aan de Bishop's University in Lennoxville, enkele jaren later zou hij zelf professor worden. Hij las grote dichters als Browning, Elliot en Yeats en kwam in contact met hedendaagse Engelse dichters als D.G. Jones. Het waren zijn ideeën dat Canada geen literaire traditie had, dat Ondaatje aanzette om te schrijven. In 1967 verscheen zijn eerste gedichtenbundel The Dainty Monsters, waarvan de titel afkomstig is van een gedicht van Baudelaire. In 1978 reisde Michael Ondaatje naar Sri Lanka om vijf maanden bij zijn familie te verblijven. De impressies die hij hieraan overhield vinden deels hun weerslag in Ondaatje's dichtbundel There's A Trick With A Knife I'm Learning To Do, maar vooral in Running In The Family, zijn enige autobiografische roman.Tien jaar later publiceerde hij In The Skin Of A Lion, waarin een gedetailleerd beeld wordt gegeven van het Toronto van de vroege jaren '20. In vele opzichten vormt dit werk één geheel met zijn volgende en tevens bekendste roman The English Patient.

 

Uit: Anil's Ghost

 

“She arrived in early March, the plane landing at Katunayake airport before the dawn. They had raced it ever since coming over the west coast of India, so that now passengers stepped onto the tarmac in the dark.

By the time she was out of the terminal the sun had risen. In the West she'd read, The dawn comes up like thunder, and she knew she was the only one in the classroom to recognize the phrase physically. Though it was never abrupt thunder to her. It was first of all the noise of chickens and carts and modest morning rain or a man squeakily cleaning the windows with newspaper in another part of the house.

As soon as her passport with the light-blue UN bar was processed, a young official approached and moved alongside her. She struggled with her suitcases but he offered no help.

'How long has it been? You were born here, no?'

'Fifteen years.'

'You still speak Sinhala?'

'A little. Look, do you mind if I don't talk in the car on the way into Colombo -- I'm jet-lagged. I just want to look. Maybe drink some toddy before it gets too late. Is Gabriel's Saloon still there for head massages?'

'In Kollupitiya, yes. I knew his father.'

'My father knew his father too.'

Without touching a single suitcase he organized the loading of the bags into the car. 'Toddy!' He laughed, continuing his conversation. 'First thing after fifteen years. The return of the prodigal.'

'I'm not a prodigal.'

An hour later he shook hands energetically with her at the door of the small house they had rented for her.

'There's a meeting tomorrow with Mr. Diyasena.'

'Thank you.'

'You have friends here, no?'

'Not really.'

Anil was glad to be alone. There was a scattering of relatives in Colombo, but she had not contacted them to let them know she was returning. She unearthed a sleeping pill from her purse, turned on the fan, chose a sarong and climbed into bed. The thing she had missed most of all were the fans. After she had left Sri Lanka at eighteen, her only real connection was the new sarong her parents sent her every Christmas (which she dutifully wore), and news clippings of swim meets. Anil had been an exceptional swimmer as a teenager, and the family never got over it; the talent was locked to her for life. As far as Sri Lankan families were concerned, if you were a well-known cricketer you could breeze into a career in business on the strength of your spin bowling or one famous inning at the Royal-Thomian match. Anil at sixteen had won the two-mile swim race that was held by the Mount Lavinia Hotel.”

 

 

 

ondaatje
Michael Ondaatje (Colombo, 12 september 1943)

 

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Werner Dürrson werd geboren op 12 september 1932 in Schwenningen am Neckar. Van 1953 tot 1955 volgde hij een opleiding tot muziekleraar in Trossingen. In 1957  behaalde hij alsnog zijn gymnasiumdiploma en aansluitend studeerde hij germanistiek, romanistiek en muziekwetenschappen in München und Tübingen. In 1962 promoveerde hij in Tübingen. Van 1962 tot 1968 was hij docent Duitse Taal– en Literatuur aan de universiteit van Poitiers en van 1968 tot 1978 aan een privé-instituut in Zürich. Daarna werkte hij als zelfstandig schrijver en vertaler in Oberschwaben en Parijs. Hij schreefgedichten, verhalen en essays. In Frankrijk onderging hij de invloed van surrealisten als Max Ernst en René Char

 

 

 

Unter Bäumen

 

 

Tröstlich die Fichten.

In ihrem Lidschatten zu

ichten, zu dichten

 

Anders die Buchen

blaudurchleuchteter Wald: wie

da Wörter suchen –

 

Im Park die Eiben

lassen mir Zeit, Verse um-

und umzuschreiben

 

Unter der Eiche

ein Gedankenblitz, den ich

fasse, dann streiche

 

Die echten Tannen

windverschwistert, schicken mich

schweigsam von dannen

 

Unter den Linden:

wie bei soviel Blätterschwall

noch Worte finden –

 

Am Fluß die Erlen

ließen zu guter Stunde

die Zeilen perlen

 

Holunder im Mai:

Zur Stunde des Strauchelns ein

Verszeilenwunder

 

Am Apfelbaum kaum,

auch am Birn-, am Kirschbaum nicht

gedeiht mein Gedicht

 

Schrieb A-Horn, B-Horn,

C-Horn, suchte nach Deinem,

triebs wieder von vorn

 

Daß ich die Weide

meide, wen wunderts, wenn ich

ohne sie leide –

 

Höre mich, Föhre:

Als harzige Kiefer reimt

sich`s tiefer, schiefer

 

Ach der Wacholder!

Stichhaltiges Wort macht das

Haiku nicht holder

 

Jaja, die Espe

alias Zwitterpappel,

mir fremd, die Lesbe

 

Frankreichs Platanen

wie´s im Herbst ihre Blätter

treiben, beschreiben

 

Sterbende Ulme,

wie fang ich dich auf mit wurm-

stichigen Silben –

 

Tut mir leid, lichte

Birke, wenn ich für dich kein

Dunkel bewirke

 

Was soll mir, kühle

Akazie, sag, deine

Pseudo-Grazie

 

Am Bach, ihr Eschen

Wolframs. Vielblättrig auch ich.

Wortdreschen im Wind.

 

Lärche, verballhornt

meinem Tirili lausche,

genannt Poesie

 

Nicht jeder Zeder

entlocke ich Daktylen

(eigentlich keiner)

 

Doch Roms Pinien-

hochmut ließ mich (vorüber-

gehend) verstummen

 

Unvergessen vor

Arles das Windharfenspiel van

Goghscher Zypressen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

duerrson
Werner Dürrson (12 september 1932 – 17 april 2008)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver James Frey werd geboren op 12 september 1969 in Cleveland.

 

Uit: A Million Little Pieces

 

„I wake to the drone of an airplane engine and the feeling of something warm dripping down my chin. I lift my hand to feel my face. My front four teeth are gone, I have a hole in my cheek, my nose is broken and my eyes are swollen nearly shut. I open them and I look around and I'm in the back of a plane and there's no one near me. I look at my clothes and my clothes are covered with a colorful mixture of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood. I reach for the call button and I find it and I push it and I wait and thirty seconds later an

Attendant arrives.

How can I help you?

Where am I going?

You don't know?

No.

You're going to Chicago, Sir.

How did I get here?

A Doctor and two men brought you on.

They say anything?

They talked to the Captain, Sir. We were told to let you sleep.

How long till we land?

About twenty minutes.

Thank you.

Although I never look up, I know she smiles and feels sorry for me. She shouldn't.

A short while later we touch down. I look around for anything I might have with me, but there's nothing. No ticket, no bags, no clothes, no wallet. I sit and I wait and I try to figure out what happened. Nothing comes.

Once the rest of the Passengers are gone I stand and start to make my way to the door. After about five steps I sit back down. Walking is out of the question.

I see my Attendant friend and I raise a hand.

Are you okay?

No.

What's wrong?

I can't really walk.

If you make it to the door I can get you a chair.

How far is the door?

Not far.

I stand. I wobble. I sit back down. I stare at the floor and take a deep breath.

You'll be all right.

I look up and she's smiling.“

 

 

 

 

james-frey
James Frey (Cleveland, 12 september 1969)

 

 

 

 

 

De Nederlandse dichteres en schrijfster  Hannes Meinkema werd op 12 september 1943 geboren in Tiel. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 september 2006.

 

Uit: Het binnenste ei

 

"Joost zit daar zijn krant te lezen en ik ben blij met hem. Zijn haar is aan de lange kant, zijn krullen steken horizontaal uit zijn hoofd. Ik ben trots als ik met hem op straat loop: alle meisjes kijken, Joost is een knappe jongen. Waarom heb je mij getrouwd, vroeg ik, ik ben zo onopvallend. Om de kuiltjes in je wangen als je lacht, zei hij - en ik lach veel als hij er is, ik lach nu hoewel hij niet naar me kijkt, ik lach omdat Joost me door met me te trouwen, de kans gegeven heeft een echt volwassenmensen-leven te leiden."

(...)

"Ik weet het niet met Max. Soms denk ik hij is aardig, maar dan weer lijkt het of ik alleen de oppervlakte zie, dat hij daar onder al die tijd zijn eigen dingen denkt. Ik ken hem niet. [...] Zijn manier van spreken is precieus. Ja, zegt hij dan, nu word ik wel heel persoonlijk - en komt met iets gewoons. Of: ik weet niet waarom ik er lust in heb je dit te vertellen - en ik denk: lust. Maar hij is niet iemand om in vertrouwen te nemen, dat zie ik wel."

 

 

 

 

Meinkema
Hannes Meinkema (Tiel, 12 september 1943)

 

 

 

 

 

De Vlaamse schrijver Gust Van Brussel werd geboren in Antwerpen op 12 september 1924.

 

Uit: De helm van Parsival

 

De jonge Oostenrijkse soldaat Johan Marthaler had geen greep meer op de realiteit. Zijn leven sijpelde weg, terwijl de boot op en neer ging in de golven. De storm gierde. De planken van de kajuit kraakten. Hij lag vast- gebonden op een brits. In Polen was hij haast een held geweest. Het bleef in zijn kop rondspoken. Wat in die kleine Poolse kerk gebeurd was, had niemand kunnen voorzien. Omdat het allemaal zo vlug gebeurde. Uit de deur van de sacristie viel een schot. In een flits zag hij hoe de polak aanlegde. Hansel viel achterover met een kogel in zijn kop. Wat kon je meer doen dan zorgen datje niet bij Hansel op de vloer terechtkwam? Kerk of geen kerk. Toen hij vuurde, zag hij de Pool neervallen en bloed spuwen! Op enkele meters voor hem! Zeg me watje doen moet, als het om je vel gaat! Dat moet de Pfarrer dan maar eens verklaren! Een Pfarrer weet niet wat er in je omgaat op dat moment. Het gebeurt in je buik, in je borst, in je armen en benen. Het heeft niks te maken met je vaderland. Dat is je reinste larie. Als hij het zo op de hoeve vertelde, zou zijn vader voorzeker knorren ach- ter zijn pijp. Met zijn kleine ogen. Daar bleef je beter onderuit. Hij zou nooit een echte zoon zijn voor hem. Gott mit Uns! Enkele jaren terug spuwde hij Hitier nog uit. Toen verdachten vele Oostenrijkers Hîtler ervan de hand te hebben gehad in de moord op Dollfuss. Dat herinnerde hij zich nog heel precies. Na de Anschluss werd het anders. Toen stond zijn vader met zijn grote bek open, stil voor dat tieren van die man. Dat was zijn leider.“

 

 

 

 

VanBrussel
Gust Van Brussel (Antwerpen, 12 september 1924)

 

 

 

 

 

Zie voor de drie bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 12 september 2007 en ook mijn blog van 12 september 2008.

 

 

 

De Poolse schrijver Stanislaw Lem werd geboren op 12 september 1921 in Lwów. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 september 2006.