Dirkje Kuik, Steven Erikson, Wilhelm Müller

De Nederlandse schrijfster en beeldend kunstenares Dirkje Kuik werd geboren in Utrecht op 7 oktober 1929. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 7 oktober 2010

Studie van een wilg, tekening

 

Etalageroos

Paars-rose roos, fijnbesneden, shantung roos

verdroogde pioen in het fruitglas

speel met mijn gedachten

gaas en eeuwig als de nachtvlinder

of nog minder
de laagste trap, de orde van plezier

der dames,

verwelkt dier uit naald en draad

masker, make-up zonder reden

scherf van het gelaat.

 

Dirkje Kuik (7 oktober 1929 – 18 maart 2008)

Hier met vriend Jos te Water Mulder (rechts)

 

De Canadese schrijver, archeoloog, antropoloog Steven Erikson (pseudoniem van Steve Rune Lundin) werd geboren in Toronto op 7 oktober 1959. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 oktober 2009 en ookmijn blog van 7 oktober 2010

Uit: Dust of Dreams

“There was light, and then there was heat. He knelt, carefully taking each brittle fold in his hands, ensuring that every crease was perfect, that nothing of the baby was exposed to the sun. He drew the hood in until little more than a fist-?sized hole was left for her face, her features grey smudges in the darkness, and then he gently picked her up and settled her into the fold of his left arm. There was no hardship in this.

They’d camped near the only tree in any direction, but not under it. The tree was a gamleh tree and the gamlehs were angry with people. In the dusk of the night before, its branches had been thick with fluttering masses of grey leaves, at least until they drew closer. This morning the branches were bare.

Facing west, Rutt stood holding the baby he had named Held. The grasses were colourless. In places they had been scoured away by the dry wind, wind that had then carved the dust out round their roots to expose the pale bulbs so the plants withered and died. After the dust and bulbs had gone, sometimes gravel was left. Other times it was just bedrock, black and gnarled. Elan Plain was losing its hair, but that was something Badalle might say, her green eyes fixed on the words in her head. There was no question she had a gift, but some gifts, Rutt knew, were curses in disguise.”

Badalle walked up to him now, her sun-charred arms thin as stork necks, the hands hanging at her sides coated in dust and looking oversized beside her skinny thighs. She blew to scatter the flies crusting her mouth and intoned:

’Rutt he holds Held Wraps her good
In the morning
And then up he stands—’

’Badalle,’ he said, knowing she was not finished with her poem but knowing, as well, that she would not be rushed, ‘we still live.’

 


Steven Erikson
(Toronto, 7 oktober 1959)

 

De Duitse, romantische dichter Wilhelm Müller werd geboren op 7 oktober 1794 in Dessau. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Wilhelm Müller op dit blog.

 

Die Post

Von der Straße her ein Posthorn klingt.
Was hat es, daß es so hoch aufspringt,
Mein Herz?

Die Post bringt keinen Brief für dich:
Was drängst du denn so wunderlich,
Mein Herz?

Nun ja, die Post kommt aus der Stadt,
Wo ich ein liebes Liebchen hatt’,
Mein Herz!

Willst wohl einmal hinübersehn
Und fragen, wie es dort mag gehn,
Mein Herz?

 


Wilhelm Müller (7 oktober 1794 – 1 oktober 1827)

Getekend door Wilhelm Hensel