15-02-18

Richard Blanco, Stacie Cassarino, Elke Heidenreich, Chrystine Brouillet, Hans Kruppa, Douglas Hofstadter, Wilhelm Jensen, Demetrius Vikelas, Tobias Amslinger

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Richard Blanco werd geboren op 15 februari 1968 in Madrid. Zie ook alle tags voor Richard Blanco op dit blog.

Uit:For All of Us, One Today

“Days before our field trip to the science center, Mrs. Bermudez tells our class the sun is actually hundreds of times larger than the earth. We move around it. We’re nothing, zooming through dark space, she says, matter-of-factly, as if it didn’t matter that we were no longer the center of our own little worlds. We, with crayons in our hands coloring dittos of the sun and our nine planets. We, at our desks but also helplessly zooming through cold, empty space. I don’t want to believe her; the sun is the size of a sunflower, I insist. I draw lemon-yellow petals around it and color its center sienna brown. The first time I see a lion I am nine years old, my grandfather’s hands holding me back from the cage I want to open. I can still feel his grip and the lion’s eyes staring at me like tiny, amber planets behind bars, asking me to set him free. My first kiss was under the shade of moonlit palms in Janet Carballo’s backyard, exactly two days before the end of the school year. But I’m still feeling the powdery skin behind her earlobes, smelling her strawberry lip gloss and the orange blossoms in the air already thick with summer. I never saw a comet until I was twenty-four, cupped in the darkness of the Everglades and the arms of a man I loved. It was past midnight on a Sunday, I remember; I didn’t go to work the next day. I’m still sleeping with the mangroves and the ibis, under a masterpiece of stars. The comet’s tail a brushstroke of pure, genius light.
These are more than memories. They are what lives—and relives—inside our bodies, in every cell and heartbeat. The undiscovered DNA of our souls imprinted with the minute details of those eternal moments that change our lives, our stories, forever. Sometimes they’re subtle, sometimes dramatic, but we know nothing will ever be the same the instant we experience them. And quite often they are unexpected.
On the afternoon of December 12, while casually driving back to my home in Maine, I receive a phone call with the news that I have been chosen as inaugural poet. Bewildered, I first wonder if it could be some cruel joke a friend might be playing on me. You mean like Robert Frost? Like Maya Angelou? I ask, wanting confirmation that what I just heard is true. Yes. Yes, I’m told, as I keep driving down the interstate in a daze, trying to speak, trying to fathom what has just happened. But I know. My body knows it’s the most important moment of my life as a poet, a day by which I will mark the rest of my life, the day I learned that I will be named the fifth poet ever in our history to be US Inaugural Poet.

 

 
Richard Blanco (Madrid, 15 februari 1968)
Hier bij de 2e inauguratie van president Obama in 2013

Lees meer...

21-06-17

Summer Solstice (Stacie Cassarino), Ed Leeflang, Thomas Blondeau, Adam Zagajewski

 

Dolce far niente

 

 
Soleil couchant door Pierre Bonnard, 1913

 

 

Summer Solstice

I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.

 

 
Stacie Cassarino (Hartford, 15 februari 1975)
Hartford.

Lees meer...

15-02-17

Stacie Cassarino

 

De Amerkiaanse dichteres en schrijfster Stacie Cassarino werd geboren op 15 februari 1975 in Hartford, Connecticut. Zij studeerde aan Middlebury College (BA, 1997), aan de Universiteit van Washington (MA, 2000) en UCLA (PhD, 2014). Cassarino doceerde aan de faculteiten Engels van Middlebury College in Vermont, het Pratt Institute in Brooklyn en UCLA. Ze heeft ook als privé chef-kok gewerkt en in Babbo in New York City gekookt. Zij werkt als copy editor op ELLE.com. Haar poëzie werd gepubliceerd in belangrijke literaire tijdschriften zoals The New Republic, Verse Daily, Gulf Coast, Crazyhorse, Iowa Review, Georgia Review, AGNI en de Comstock Review. Haar gedicht "Summer Solstice" kreeg prominente aandacht op de radio in Garrison Keillor's The Writers 'Almanac in 2011. In 2005 won ze de "Discovery" / De Joan Leiman Jacobson Poetry Award, in 2007 werd zij genomineerd voor de Rona Jaffe Writer Award en zij werd twee keer genomineerd voor de Pushcart-prijs. Zij heeft ook een grote prijs ontvangen van het Astraea Foundation Writer's Fund. Haar dichtbundel “Zero at the Bone” werd in 2009 gepubliceerd. Daarvoor kreeg zij in 2010 de Lambda Literary Award en de Audre Lorde Award.

 

Firework

The day my body caught fire
the woodland darkened. The horizon
was a sea of maids, rushing to piece me
back into a girl. Out of the girl came yellow
flowers, came stem & sepal.
You never happened, they said.
The meadow was a narration of lessness.
Inside the corral, horses fell
from the impact of lightning. They broke
down. I heard gunshots in my sleep.
I was a keeper of breath,
of hay. I walked a field, collecting bones.
You can build a house out of bones.
You can stand at the doorway
quarrelling with your legs to enter
or run until you turn to ash.

 

 

Snowshoe to Otter Creek

love lasts by not lasting
—Jack Gilbert

I’m mapping this new year’s vanishings:
lover, yellow house, the knowledge of surfaces.
This is not a story of return.
There are times I wish I could erase
the mind’s lucidity, the difficulty of Sundays,
my fervor to be touched
by a woman two Februarys gone. What brings the body
back, grieved and cloven, tromping these woods
with nothing to confide in? New snow reassumes
the circleting trees, the bridge above the creek
where I stand like a stranger to my life.
There is no single moment of loss, there is
an amassing. The disbeliever sleeps at an angle
in the bed. The orchard is a graveyard.
Is this the real end? Someone shoveling her way out
with cold intention? Someone naming her missing?

 

 
Stacie Cassarino (Hartford, 15 februari 1975)

18:30 Gepost door Romenu in Literatuur | Permalink | Commentaren (0) | Tags: stacie cassarino, romenu |  Facebook |