De Spaanse dichter en toneelschrijver Federico Garcia Lorca werd geboren op 5 juni 1898 in Fuente Vaqueros, Granada. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Federico Garcia Lorca op dit blog.
Carmen is aan het dansen
door de straten van Sevilla.
Met haren wit
en fonkelende ogen.
doe de gordijnen dicht!
Op haar hoofd kronkelt
een gele slang,
en ze droomt dat ze danst
met vroegere vrijers.
doe de gordijnen dicht!
De straten liggen verlaten,
en in de verte verloren
zoeken Andalusische harten
doe de gordijnen dicht!
De zes snaren
laat dromen huilen.
Het snikken van de verdoolde
ontsnapt uit haar ronde
En zoals de tarantula
weeft ze een grote ster
om te jagen op zuchten
die drijven op haar zwarte
Vertaald door Bart Vonck
Night of Insomniac Love
Night approached us, with a full moon.
I began to cry, and you to laugh.
Your contempt was a god, and my whinings
a chain of doves and minutes.
Night left us. Crystal of pain
you wept for distant depths.
My sadness was a cluster of agonies,
over your fragile heart of sand.
Morning joined us on the bed,
our mouths placed over the frozen jet
of a blood ,without end, that was shed.
And the sun shone through the closed balcony,
and the coral of life opened its branch,
over my shrouded heart.
Vertaald door A. S. Kline
De maan als een uit mij gevallen oog,
een iris die te groot was voor mijn kassen.
Het heeft nooit in mijn voorhoofd willen passen.
Ik kon er niets door zien, het leek te hoog.
Nu kijk ik achter sterren en moerassen.
Alles wordt klein en zeeën stromen droog
tot op een traan, om engelen te verrassen,
verdwalend in ’t gezichtsveld van mijn oog.
Ik staar door tijd en ruimte als door glas.
Ik zie mijzelf als kind, ik zie mijn vader
toen ik nog in zijn ingewanden was.
Toekomst en ver verleden schuiven nader.
Ik speel bij mijn beide dochters op schoot.
Mijn moeder heft haar beide handen uit de dood.
Van de taal werd spaarzaam gebruik gemaakt:
liefkozingen moesten worden ontvreemd.
Als mijn moeder mij streelde schaamde zij zich
en ik schaamde mij – onze schaamte was nog
Ik hield van de schaar waarmee zij knipte,
haar vingerhoed, de draad die zij bevochtigde,
het gesnor van de naaimachine
en de stilte wanneer de machine zweeg.
Zij sliep in een weergaloos bed
en als mijn vader opstond voor zijn werk
nam ik zijn plaats in in haar warmte.
Ik raakte haar aan zoals een ander kind
de muur aanraakt waartegen het slaapt
met levensgrote vingertoppen
en zonder dat de muur het merkt.
Adriaan Morriën (5 juni 1912 – 7 juni 2002)
Uit: Night Over Water
“It was the most romantic plane ever made.
Standing on the dock at Southampton, at half-past twelve on the day war was declared, Tom Luther peered into the sky, waiting for the plane with a heart full of eagerness and dread. Under his breath he hummed a few bars of Beethoven over and over again: the first movement of the ‘Emperor’ concerto, a stirring tune, appropriately warlike.
There was a crowd of sightseers around him: aircraft enthusiasts with binoculars, small boys and curiosity seekers. Luther reckoned this must be the ninth time the Pan American Clipper had landed on Southampton Water, but the novelty had not worn off. The plane was so fascinating, so enchanting, that people flocked to look at it even on the day their country went to war. Beside the same dock were two magnificent ocean liners, towering over people’s heads, but the floating hotels had lost their magic: everyone was looking at the sky.
However, while they waited they were all talking about the war in their English accents. The children were excited by the prospect; the men spoke knowingly in low tones about tanks and artillery; the women just looked grim. Luther was an American, and he hoped his country would stay out of the war: it was none of their business. Besides, one thing you could say for the Nazis, they were tough on Communism.“
Uit: Red Spikes
„“Well, at least it’s a fine night,” said Mum.
She looked enormous, but that was mostly the bedding she’d gathered as she hurried out of the hut. Her hair, coming undone from its nighttime tail, was a shock of silver on her shoulders.
“Though how we’ll sleep with this moon I don’t know. It’s like the floodlights at the Cricket Ground. We need to find a place in the shade. Not under these gums, though-if they drop a branch, we’re dead. Down by the creek there, among the casuarinas-“
A bellow interrupted her. Everyone looked up at the hut. Mum walked away down the hill, trailing a corner of the quilt across the moon-white grass. “And a good distance from that. That could go on for hours. Days. Come on, everyone, let’s get settled.”
Dylan followed her slowly. She wasn’t acting right. Anything to do with babies and births, Mum usually took over. She became queenly herself, moving differently, spreading a radiant
peacefulness all around. She paused the world so the baby could land on it safely. Yet here she was, walking away from a woman in labor.
“I think we should get the police,” grumbled Ella, lumbering down the slope. She was pregnant, too; she was what Mum described as about ready to drop. “It’s outrageous. Whoever heard of it? Where did those people escape from-some kind of costume party?” Todd gave an enormous yawn. “Dunno what you’re moaning about-you weren’t asleep anyway. You never sleep, remember? ‘S what you’re always saying.”
“I do never sleep,” said Ella. “Not these days. Or nights.” The family moved down the slope ahead, in among the darker trees. They weren’t nearly alarmed enough; that must be part of the magic. Dylan was panting, as if his body were trying to pump out the strong, wet-grass smell of bear and replace it with the proper bush smells of eucalypt and pine.”
Margo Lanagan (Waratah, 5 juni 1960)
De Engelse schrijfster Margaret Drabble werd geboren op 5 juni 1939 in Sheffield, Yorkshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2008 en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2009 en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010
Uit: The Red Queen
„This hard school served me well in my hard life. My mother, too, endured hardship in her early years. I used to wonder, childishly, whether it was my longing for red silk that brought all these disasters upon me and my house. For my desire was fulfilled, but no good came of it, and it brought me no happiness.
I was still a child when I received a red silk skirt of my own. It was brought to me from the palace, with other precious garments made for me at the queen’s command. I was presented with a long formal dress jacket of an opaque leaf-green brocade, and a blouse in buttercup-yellow silk with a grape pattern, and another blouse of a rich pale foxglove silk. I had been measured for these robes by the matron of the court, and they were lifted out and displayed to me by a court official, with much ambiguous and bewildering deference. I think my response to these rich and splendid artefacts was lacking in spontaneous delight and gratitude, though I did do my best to conceal my fear.
The red silk skirt was not a gift from the palace, although it was included in the fine royal display of gifts. I was to learn later that it had been made for me by my mother, as a reward and as a compensation for my elevation. She had made it secretly, at night, hanging curtains over her windows to hide the lights in her chamber as she worked. This is how she performed many of her household tasks – discreetly, quietly, modestly. My mother liked to hide her thrift and industry, and she avoided compliments on her domestic labours. At this time, I knew nothing of this special undertaking on my behalf. I stared at the red silk skirt in ungracious silence.
My mother reminded me that I had once expressed a wish for such things, and she watched my face for smiles of gratitude. I did not remember having expressed this wish, but I confess that she was right to have divined it in me. But now I was too sad and too oppressed to raise my eyes to look at my new finery. My illustrious future hung heavily upon me. I was nine years old, and I was afraid.“
Margaret Drabble (Sheffield, 5 juni 1939)
Uit: Sammy’s House
„I looked quickly around for help, but most people seemed frozen, capable only of staring with wide-open mouths. The stereo system played on, its background hum now transformed into a striptease soundtrack. Someone needed to shut it off. Someone needed to shut her off. I searched for the Secret Service agents posted throughout the boat. Would they get involved only if they deemed the stripper a security threat? By now, she’d reached a point where concealed weapons seemed an impossibility. Upon closer examination, the dragon tatooed on her shoulder appeared to be wearing a tufted pink tutu. I pondered its significance. Perhaps this unknown woman, who until a minute ago everyone had taken for an inhibited waitress offering shrimp dip and taquitos, belonged to a hard-livin’, rough-and-tumble gang of rebel ballerinas. She was certainly nimble, judging by the ease with which she was now pirouetting out of her panties.
I was blinking from the flashes, both photographic and pornographic, and had just noticed the tattoo of a tap-dancing minotaur on the stripper’s upper thigh when Harry Danson, the president’s chief of staff, suddenly pushed through the crowd and covered her with his jacket. She tried to shrug it off, but Harry was very firm. It’s in his job description.“
Kristin Gore (Carthage, 5 juni 1977)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 5e juni ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.