De Nederlandse dichter, schrijver, songwriter en vertaler Pé Hawinkels werd geboren op 29 september 1942 in Heerlen. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 september 2006 en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2007 en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2008.
Nu de herfst koud als god
Nu de herfst koud als god in nekwervels en wortels vaart
Word ik ontmanteld, is er geen vindplaats.
In mijn ondersteboven gebouwd huis van kurk
Scharrel ik broedziek en betoverd
En ken geen andere genade
Dan de vampier die mij de slagaders opent.
Bevreesd, vliespotig op dit sterk water
Dat de geur van verbrand mensenhaar
En oude paringen bewaart,
Waag ik mijn hals. Luchtbel en lopend vuur
Houden mij drijvend. Een brandende kamstaart
In de diepte is mijn verspieder.
Mijn weer met bezemen gekeerd huis
Beeft van heugenis. Schedelbeen sluit zijn naden hechter
En versteent. Ik slaap op spijkers,
Naakt, holhoofdig en gereed.
The neon light, of the “Open all night”,
Was just in time replaced by
The magic appearance of a new day-while
A melancholic Reno was crawling on his back
Just in front of the supermarket door-way, child
Hey girl, on a cold summernight
As we stood on the corner,
As a man passed by and asked us
What we were doing, what we need
As he pointed his big fat finger
To the people hangin’ round at the corner
Of the – other side of street
Doin’ nothing, just hanging around
What do you mean doin’ nothing, Sir
So we had to hit him to the ground
Doin’ nothing just hanging around
His head all busted
Lookin’ just a little too wise child
I just can’t wait
I just can’t wait for saturday night
(Tekst: Pé Hawinkels, Muziek: Herman Brood)
Pé Hawinkels (29 september 1942 – 16 augustus 1977)
Throw Yourself Like Seed
Shake off this sadness, and recover your spirit; sluggish you will never see the wheel of fate that brushes your heel as it turns going by, the man who wants to live is the man in whom life is abundant.
Now you are only giving food to that final pain which is slowly winding you in the nets of death, but to live is to work, and the only thing which lasts is the work; start then, turn to the work.
Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into your own field, don’t turn your face for that would be to turn it to death, and do not let the past weigh down your motion.
Leave what’s alive in the furrow, what’s dead in yourself, for life does not move in the same way as a group of clouds; from your work you will be able one day to gather yourself.
Miguel de Unamuno (29 september 1864 – 31 december 1936)
The Tale Of Honour
It was an honour I had not
Expected, to be sure.
The Devil asked me in and offered
Me his best liqueur.
A candle gilt his profile.
Puffing smoke rings in a haze,
With moist eyes Mephistopheles
Upon me fixed gaze.
His mien, though tinged with autumn grief,
Was proud and cheerful too.
He cried: “In vino veritas –
I shall be frank with you!
“I can no longer bear the yoke
Of cunning and deceit.
here’s to my other-worldly warmth
And worldly woes we meet!
“Long, long ago I came to earth
And for a joke, you see,
Took worldly Truth to be my life
But she cuckolded me.
“My honour to avenge I vowed
In jealousy and pain.
I trampled others’ honour down
But mine I’ve not regained.
“I thought in exploits to excel.
I died in many a fray.
Though worthy causes I upheld
No honours came my way.
“Then in the street one day I showed
A sign I had prepared.
“Here is a man without a scrap
“But, strangely, no one looked askance!
With interest I was viewed
And everywhere men doffed their hats:
‘No honour? Good for you!’
“A gentleman embraced me: ‘Brother,
You too?! Man alive!’
Two pretty ladies said: ‘Tomorrow
Come to tea at five!’
“Amazing! Such attention rare
All did to me devote.
Kings, ministers, court ladies fair
Fond letters to me wrote.
“Behold me rolling now in gold.
A man of place and pride!
A thief, a shameless rogue – I know –
But… honoured far and wide!”
He paused, our glasses he refilled
And raised a toast with glee
As, blowing rings of smoke, he fixed
His bright green eyes on me.
Hristo Smirnenski (29 september 1898 – 18 juni 1923)
„The chapel was up a narrow street, or rather cul-de-sac, close by. It stood on the outskirts of the town, almost in fields. It was built about the time of Matthew and Philip Henry, when the Dissenters were afraid of attracting attention or observation, and hid their places of worship in obscure and out-of-the-way parts of the towns in which they were built. Accordingly, it often happened, as in the present case, that the buildings immediately surrounding, as well as the chapels themselves, looked as if they carried you back to a period a hundred and fifty years ago. The chapel had a picturesque and old world look, for luckily the congregation had been too poor to rebuild it, or new-face it, in George the Third’s time. The staircases which led to the galleries were outside, at each end of the building, and the irregular roof and worn stone steps looked grey and stained by time and weather. The grassy hillocks, each with a little upright headstone, were shaded by a grand old wych-elm. A lilac bush or two, a white rose-tree, and a few laburnums, all old and gnarled enough, were planted round the chapel yard; and the casement windows of the chapel were made of heavy- leaded, diamond-shaped panes, almost covered with ivy, producing a green gloom, not without its solemnity within. This ivy was the home of an infinite number of little birds, which twittered and warbled, till it might have been thought that they were emulous of the power of praise possessed by the human creatures within, with such earnest, long-drawn strains did this crowd of winged songsters rejoice and be glad in their beautiful gift of life. The interior of the building was plain and simple as plain and simple could
be. When it was fitted up, oak-timber was much cheaper than it is now, so the woodwork was all of that description: but roughly hewed, for the early builders had not much wealth to spare. The walls were whitewashed, and were recipients of the shadows of the beauty without; on their “white plains” the tracery of the ivy might be seen, now still, now stirred by the sudden flight of some little bird.”
Elizabeth Gaskell (29 september 1810 – 12 november 1865)
Portret door William John Thomson
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 29e september ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.