Sharon Olds, Mark Harris, Christoph Wilhelm Aigner, Anna Seghers

De Amerikaanse dichteres Sharon Olds werd geboren op 19 november 1942 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 november 2006 en ook mijn blog van 19 november 2007 en ook mijn blog van 19 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 19 november 2009.


A Week Later 


A week later, I said to a friend: I don’t

think I could ever write about it.

Maybe in a year I could write something.

There is something in me maybe someday

to be written; now it is folded, and folded,

and folded, like a note in school. And in my dream

someone was playing jacks, and in the air there was a

huge, thrown, tilted jack

on fire. And when I woke up, I found myself

counting the days since I had last seen

my husband-only two years, and some weeks,

and hours. We had signed the papers and come down to the

ground floor of the Chrysler Building,

the intact beauty of its lobby around us

like a king’s tomb, on the ceiling the little

painted plane, in the mural, flying. And it

entered my strictured heart, this morning,

slightly, shyly as if warily,

untamed, a greater sense of the sweetness

and plenty of his ongoing life,

unknown to me, unseen by me,

unheard, untouched-but known, seen,

heard, touched. And it came to me,

for moments at a time, moment after moment,

to be glad for him that he is with the one

he feels was meant for him. And I thought of my

mother, minutes from her death, eighty-five

years from her birth, the almost warbler

bones of her shoulder under my hand, the

eggshell skull, as she lay in some peace

in the clean sheets, and I could tell her the best

of my poor, partial love, I could sing her

out with it, I saw the luck

and luxury of that hour.




The Unborn 


Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,

Like gnats around a streetlight in summer,

The children we could have,

The glimmer of them.


Sometimes I feel them waiting, dozing

In some antechamber – servants, half-

Listening for the bell.


Sometimes I see them lying like love letters

In the Dead Letter Office


And sometimes, like tonight, by some black

Second sight I can feel just one of them

Standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea

In the dark, stretching its arms out

Desperately to me.



Sharon Olds (San Francisco, 19 november 1942)



Continue reading “Sharon Olds, Mark Harris, Christoph Wilhelm Aigner, Anna Seghers”

Allen Tate, Girolamo de Rada, Veronika Aydin

De Amerikaanse dichter Alan Tate werd geboren op 19 november 1899 in de buurt van Winchester, Kentucky. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 november 2006 en ook mijn blog van 19 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 19 november 2009.



Last night I fled until I came
To streets where leaking casements dripped
Stale lamplight from the corpse of flame;
A nervous window bled.

The moon swagged in the air.
Out of the mist a girl tossed
Spittle of song; a hoarse light
Spattered the fog with heavy hair.

Damp bells in a remote tower
Sharply released the throat of God,
I leaned to the erect night
Dead as stiff turf in winter sod.

Then with the careless energy
Of a dream, the forward curse
Of a cold particular eye
In the headlong hearse.


The Cross

There is a place that some men know,
I cannot see the whole of it
Nor how I came there. Long ago
Flame burst out of a secret pit
Crushing the world with such a light
The day-sky fell to moonless black,
The kingly sun to hateful night
For those, once seeing, turning back:
For love so hates mortality
Which is the providence of life
She will not let it blessed be
But curses it with mortal strife,
Until beside the blinding rood
Within that world-destroying pit
-Like young wolves that have tasted blood,
Of death, men taste no more of it.
So blind, in so severe a place
(All life before in the black grave)
The last alternatives they face
Of life, without the life to save,
Being from all salvation weaned-
A stag charged both at heel and head:
Who would come back is turned a fiend
Instructed by the fiery dead.


Allen Tate (19 november 1899 – 9 februari 1979)



Continue reading “Allen Tate, Girolamo de Rada, Veronika Aydin”