Dylan Thomas, Sylvia Plath, Nawal el Saadawi, Enid Bagnold, Zadie Smith, Albrecht Rodenbach, Fran Lebowitz, Reza Allamehzadeh, Kazimierz Brandys

De Engelse dichter Dylan Thomas werd geboren op 27 oktober 1914 in Swansea in Wales. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2006 en ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2007 en ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2008.

 

Clown in the Moon 

 

My tears are like the quiet drift

Of petals from some magic rose;

And all my grief flows from the rift

Of unremembered skies and snows.

 

I think, that if I touched the earth,

It would crumble;

It is so sad and beautiful,

So tremulously like a dream.

 

 

 

Deaths and Entrances 

 

On almost the incendiary eve

Of several near deaths,

When one at the great least of your best loved

And always known must leave

Lions and fires of his flying breath,

Of your immortal friends

Who’d raise the organs of the counted dust

To shoot and sing your praise,

One who called deepest down shall hold his peace

That cannot sink or cease

Endlessly to his wound

In many married London’s estranging grief.

 

On almost the incendiary eve

When at your lips and keys,

Locking, unlocking, the murdered strangers weave,

One who is most unknown,

Your polestar neighbour, sun of another street,

Will dive up to his tears.

He’ll bathe his raining blood in the male sea

Who strode for your own dead

And wind his globe out of your water thread

And load the throats of shells

with every cry since light

Flashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.

 

On almost the incendiary eve

Of deaths and entrances,

When near and strange wounded on London’s waves

Have sought your single grave,

One enemy, of many, who knows well

Your heart is luminous

In the watched dark, quivering through locks and caves,

Will pull the thunderbolts

To shut the sun, plunge, mount your darkened keys

And sear just riders back,

Until that one loved least

Looms the last Samson of your zodiac.

 

 

Lie Still, Sleep Becalmed 

 

Lie still, sleep becalmed, sufferer with the wound

In the throat, burning and turning. All night afloat

On the silent sea we have heard the sound

That came from the wound wrapped in the salt sheet.

 

Under the mile off moon we trembled listening

To the sea sound flowing like blood from the loud wound

And when the salt sheet broke in a storm of singing

The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind.

 

Open a pathway through the slow sad sail,

Throw wide to the wind the gates of the wandering boat

For my voyage to begin to the end of my wound,

We heard the sea sound sing, we saw the salt sheet tell.

Lie still, sleep becalmed, hide the mouth in the throat,

Or we shall obey, and ride with you through the drowned.

 

dylan_thomas

Dylan Thomas (27 oktober 1914 – 9 november 1953)

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Sylvia Plath werd geboren op 27 oktober 1932 in Jamaica Plain, een buitenwijk van Boston. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2006 en ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2008.

 

 

Mad Girl’s Love Song

 

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;

I lift my lids and all is born again.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

 

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,

And arbitrary blackness gallops in:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

 

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed

And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

 

God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:

Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

 

I fancied you’d return the way you said,

But I grow old and I forget your name.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

 

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;

At least when spring comes they roar back again.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)”

 

 

Frog Autumn

 

Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.

The insects are scant, skinny.

In these palustral homes we only

Croak and wither.

 

Mornings dissipate in somnolence.

The sun brightens tardily

Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.

he fen sickens.

 

Frost drops even the spider. Clearly

The genius of plenitude

Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin

Lamentably.

 

 

 

The Times Are Tidy

 

Unlucky the hero born

In this province of the stuck record

Where the most watchful cooks go jobless

And the mayor’s rotisserie turns

Round of its own accord.

 

There’s no career in the venture

Of riding against the lizard,

Himself withered these latter-days

To leaf-size from lack of action :

History’s beaten the hazard.

 

The last crone got burnt up

More than eight decades back

With the love-hot herb, the talking cat,

But the children are better for it,

The cow milks cream an inch thick.

 

 

SylviaPlathSelfPortrait

Sylvia Plath (27 oktober 1932 – 11 februari 1963)
Zelfportret

 

De Egyptische schrijfster, gynaecologe, moslimfeministe en politiek activiste Nawal el Saadawi werd geboren in Kafr Tahla op 27 oktober 1931. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2008.

 

Uit: Memoirs from the Women’s Prison

“From the moment I opened my eyes upon my first morning in prison, I understood from the motion of my body as I was rising and stretching the muscles of my neck and back, that I had made a firm decision: I would live in this place as I had lived in any other. It was a decision which appeared insane to me, for it would cancel out reality, logic, the walls and the steel doors.

I tossed and turned upon the wooden board, unable to close an eyelid. I became aware that torture in prison does not take place by means of the bars, or the walls, or the stinging insects, or hunger or thirst or insults or beating. Prison is doubt. And doubt is the most certain of tortures. It is doubt that kills the intellect and body – not doubt in others, but doubt in oneself…The baffling, crushing question for the mind: was I right or wrong?

In prison I came to know both extremes together. I experienced the height of grief and joy, the peaks of pain and pleasure, the greatest beauty and the most intense ugliness… In prison I found my heart opened to love – how I don’t know – as if I were back in early adolescence. In prison, I remembered the way I had burst out laughing when a child, while the taste of tears from the harshest and hardest days of my life returned to my mouth.“

 

nawal-el-saadawi

Nawal el Saadawi (Kafr Tahla, 27 oktober 1931)

 

De Britse schrijfster Enid Algerine Bagnold werd geboren op 27 oktober 1889 in Rochester, Kent. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2008.

 

Uit: National Velvet

“Unearthly humps of land curved into the darkening sky like the backs of browsing pigs, like the rumps of elephants. At night when the stars rose over them they looked like a starlit herd of divine pigs. The villagers called them Hullocks.

The valleys were full of soft and windblown vegetation. The sea rolled at the foot of all as though God had brought his herd down to water.

The Hullocks were blackening as Velvet cantered down the chalk road to the village. She ran on her own slender le
gs, making horse-noises and chirrups and occasionally striking her thigh with a switch, holding at the same time something very small before her as she ran. The light on the chalk road was the last thing to gleam and die. The flints slipped and flashed under her feet. Her cotton dress and her cottony hair blew out, and her lips were parted for breath in a sweet metallic smile. She had the look of a sapling-Dante as she ran through the darkness downhill.

At the entrance to the village the sea was pounding up the sewer with a spring gale behind it. She passed to the third cottage, stopped at the door, opened it, let a gush of light onto the pavement, closed it and carried her tender object inside.

Edwina, Malvolia and Meredith sat in their father’s, Mr. Brown’s, sitting room just before suppertime. It was dark outside and hot inside, and outside in the darkness the Hullocks went up in great hoops above the village. There was an oil stove in the comer of the sitting room and lesson books on the table. The ceiling was low, and sagged. A lamp with a green glass shade lit the table. There was no electric light. Donald, the boy of four, was asleep upstairs.

Edwina, Malvolia andMeredith were all exactly alike, like golden greyhounds. Their golden hair was sleek, their fine faces like antelopes, their shoulders still and steady like Zulu women carrying water, and their bodies beneath the shoulders rippled when they moved. They were seventeen, sixteen, and fifteen. Velvet was fourteen. Velvet had short pale hair, large, protruding teeth, a sweet smile and a mouthful of metal.

Mr. Brown was swilling down the slaughterhouse, as Mi Taylor was away for the day. The sound of the hose swished at the wooden partition which separated the slaughterhouse from the sitting room.

“He went beautifully!” said Velvet, and laying down a tiny paper horse on the table she wrenched at the gold band that bound her teeth back and laid it beside the horse.

“Father’ll be in in a minute,” said Edwina warningly.

“It’s going in again directly I hear a sound,” said Velvet and sitting down she swept the band into her lap.

“Look at him,” she said lovingly, taking up the paper horse. “I must unsaddle him and rub him down.” The heads were bent on the lesson books again and Velvettook a tiny bridle of cotton thre ‘ ads from the horse. Thengoing to a shell-box on the sideboard she brought it tothe table.”

 

enid-bagnold-1

Enid Bagnold ( 27 oktober 1889 – 3 maart 1981)

 

De Engelse schrijfster Zadie Smith werd geboren op 27 oktober 1975 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2008.

 

Uit: On Beauty

 

“One may as well begin with Jerome’s e-mails to his father:

To: HowardBelsey@fas.Wellington.edu
From: Jeromeabroad@easymail.com
Date: 5 November
Subject:

Hey, Dad – basically I’m just going to keep on keeping on with these mails – I’m no longer expecting you to reply, but I’m still hoping you will, if that makes sense.

Well, I’m really enjoying everything. I work in Monty Kipps’s own office (did you know that he’s actually Sir Monty??), which is in the Green Park area. It’s me and a Cornish girl called Emily. She’s cool. There’re also three more yank interns downstairs (one from Boston!), so I feel pretty much at home. I’m a kind of an intern with the duties of a PA – organizing lunches, filing, talking to people on the phone, that sort of thing. Monty’s work is much more tha
n just the academic stuff: he’s involved with the Race Commission, and he has Church charities in Barbados, Jamaica, Haiti, etc. – he keeps me really busy. Because it’s such a small set-up, I get to work closely with him – and of course I’m living with the family now, which is like being completely integrated into something new. Ah, the family. You didn’t respond, so I’m imagining your reaction (not too hard to imagine . . .). The truth is, it was really just the most convenient option at the time. And they were totally kind to offer – I was being evicted from the ‘bedsit’ place in Marylebone. The Kippses aren’t under any obligation to me, but they asked and I accepted – gratefully. I’ve been in their place a week now, and still no mention of any rent, which should tell you something. I know you want me to tell you it’s a nightmare, but I can’t – I love living here. It’s a different universe. The house is just wow – early Victorian, a ‘terrace’ – unassuming-looking outside but massive inside – but there’s still a kind of humility that really appeals to me – almost everything white, and a lot of handmade things, and quilts and dark wood shelves and cornices and this four-storey staircase – and in the whole place there’s only one television, which is in the basement anyway, just so Monty can keep abreast of news stuff, and some of the things he does on the television – but that’s it. I think of it as the negativized image of our house sometimes . . . It’s in this bit of North London called ‘Kilburn’, which sounds bucolic, but boy oh boy is not bucolic in the least, except for this street we live on off the ‘high road’, and it’s suddenly like you can’t hear a thing and you can just sit in the yard in the shadow of this huge tree – eighty feet tall and ivy-ed all up the trunk . . . reading and feeling like you’re in a novel . . . Fall’s different here – much less intense and trees balder earlier – everything more melancholy somehow.”

 

zadie-smith

Zadie Smith (Londen, 27 oktober 1975)

 

 

 

De Belgische dichter en schrijver Albrecht Rodenbach werd geboren te Roeselare op 27 oktober 1856. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2006 en ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2008.

 

Stoet

 

Langzaam trekt een blanke stoet door d’heemlen.
Jesus eerst, der maagden koning, ’t aanzicht
lijk de zonne glanzend en de kleedren
lijk de sneeuw, en hunne koninginne,
de Onbevlekte met haar sterrenkrone.
Zeven englen volgen, blank in ’t slepend
koorkleed, houdend hare wijd ontvouwde
hemelsblauwe goudgesternde mantel,
dragend hare blauwe lelievane.
Duizend, duizend, duizend maagden volgen,
sneeuwblank door de nevelige sluiers,
dragend in de hand de blanke lelie,
zingend zoete koren door de heemlen,
volgend waar hij gaat der maagden koning
en hunne onbevlekte koninginne.

 

Dichterliefde

 

Mijne tranen baren bloemen
lijk lentelach over de wei,
en mijne zuchten worden
een nachtegalenrei.

En wils du mi wederlieven,
voor di bloem op bloemken ontschiet,
en voor dijne venster zal klingen*
der nachtegalen lied.

 

Albrecht_Rodenbach-Roeselare

Albrecht Rodenbach (27 oktober 1856 – 23 juni 1880)
Standbeeld in Roeselaere

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2008.

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Frances Ann “Fran” Lebowitz werd geboren op 27 oktober 1950 in Morristown, New Jersey.

 

De Iraanse schrijver en filmmaker Reza Allamehzadeh werd geboren op 27 oktober 1943 in Sari, Mazandaran.

 

De Poolse schrijver Kazimierz Brandys werd geboren op 27 oktober 1916 in Lodz.