Eve Ensler, Friedrich Dieckmann, Egyd Gstättner, Claire Castillon, Jamaica Kincaid, Robert Ludlum

De Amerikaanse schrijfster en feminste Eve Ensler werd op 25 mei 1953 in New York geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 25 mei 2010

 

Uit: Insecure at Last

 

„Security watch. Security clearance. Why has all this focus on security made me feel so much more insecure? What does anyone mean when they speak of security? Why are we suddenly a nation and a people who strive for security above all else?

In fact, security is essentially elusive, impossible. We all die. We all get sick. We all get old. People leave us. People surprise us. People change us. Nothing is secure. And this is the good news. But only if you are not seeking security as the point of your life.

When security is paramount you can’t travel very far or venture too far outside a certain circle. You can’t allow too many conflicting ideas into your mind at one time, as they might confuse you or challenge you. You can’t open yourself to new experiences, new people, and new ways of doing things. They might take you off course.

You can’t not know who you are; it’s more secure to cling to hard-matter identity. So you become a Christian or a Muslim or a Jew, you are an Indian, or an Egyptian or an Italian or an American. You are heterosexual or homosexual or you never have sex or at least that’s what you say when you identify yourself. You become part of an US, and in order to be secure, you must defend against THEM. You cling to your land because it is your secure place, and you must fight anyone who encroaches on it.

You become your nation, you become your religion. You become whatever it is that will freeze you, numb you, and protect you from change or doubt. But all this does is shut down your mind. In reality, you are not a drop safer. A meteor could still fall from the sky, a tsunami could rise up next to your beach house, someone could fly a plane through your building.“

 

 

 Eve Ensler (New York, 25 mei 1953)

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Theodore Roethke, Georges Bordonove, W. P. Kinsella, Max von der Grün

De Amerikaanse dichter Theodore Huebner Roethke werd geboren in Saginaw, Michigan op 25 mei 1908. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 mei 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Theodore Roethke op dit blog..

 

Root Cellar

 

Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,

Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,

Shoots dangled and drooped,

Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,

Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.

And what a congress of stinks!

Roots ripe as old bait,

Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,

Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.

Nothing would give up life:

Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

 

 

Pickle Belt

 

The fruit rolled by all day.

They prayed the cogs would creep;

They thought about Saturday pay,

And Sunday sleep.

 

Whatever he smelled was good:

The fruit and flesh smells mixed.

There beside him she stood,–

And he, perplexed;

 

He, in his shrunken britches,

Eyes rimmed with pickle dust,

Prickling with all the itches

Of sixteen-year-old lust.

 

 

 

Theodore Roethke (25 mei 1908 – 1 augustus 1963)

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Raymond Carver, John Gregory Dunne, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Rosario Castellanos, Alain Grandbois, Naim Frashëri

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Raymond Carver werd geboren op 25 mei 1938 in Port Angeles. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 25 mei 2010

 

Happiness

 

So early it’s still almost dark out.

I’m near the window with coffee,

and the usual early morning stuff

that passes for thought.

 

When I see the boy and his friend

walking up the road

to deliver the newspaper.

 

They wear caps and sweaters,

and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.

They are so happy

they aren’t saying anything, these boys.

 

I think if they could, they would take

each other’s arm.

It’s early in the morning,

and they are doing this thing together.

 

They come on, slowly.

The sky is taking on light,

though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

 

Such beauty that for a minute

death and ambition, even love,

doesn’t enter into this.

 

Happiness. It comes on

unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,

any early morning talk about it.

 

 

 

Photograph of My Father in His Twenty-Second Year

 

October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen

I study my father’s embarrassed young man’s face.

Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string

of spiny yellow perch, in the other

a bottle of Carlsbad Beer.

 

In jeans and denim shirt, he leans

against the front fender of a 1934 Ford.

He would like to pose bluff and hearty for his posterity,

Wear his old hat cocked over his ear.

All his life my father wanted to be bold.

 

But the eyes give him away, and the hands

that limply offer the string of dead perch

and the bottle of beer. Father, I love you,

yet how can I say thank you, I who can’t hold my liquor either,

and don’t even know the places to fish?

 

 
Raymond Carver (25 mei 1938 – 2 augustus 1988)

Continue reading “Raymond Carver, John Gregory Dunne, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Rosario Castellanos, Alain Grandbois, Naim Frashëri”