Allen Hoey, Patrick Kavanagh, Nikos Engonopoulos

De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver en criticus Allen Hoey werd geboren op 21 oktober 1952 in Kingston, New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 21 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 21 oktober 2010


Uit: Provençal Light, a long poem


After the Orchard: “Souvenir de Mauve” (fragment)

At last! These are the days, filled with such light
a Dutchman could never dream, even steeped in absinthe,
I came seeking. If I thought my palette inadequate to the sky
damped with clouds, the fields and orchards sunk beneath
two feet of snow, how paler it seems with the sun finally streaming,
not mere atmospherics, but light, pure and intense–greens
beyond any in Holland or the chestnuts of a Paris arcade,
and cobalts and ultramarines–abandon your greys! Not pale but
chrome yellows, reds deep as the wine-colored Seine at dusk.
And you, down from Denmark, can your eyes be any less
dazzled than mine, reared under Dutch skies, soot-smudged
the year round, the close–some call them “cozy”–homes,
low-ceilinged and dark all day. No wonder Dutch painting is so murky,
all chiaroscuro and the varnished sheen applied after–nothing else
but the finish could glow. But here–the sun might burn
the eyes right out of the heads of cold-blooded painters like us,
schooled on shadow, our palettes tricked out with greys and bistre.
Earth tones? Here, the earth is tinged violet, the sky
carries the green of blossoming pears to cast heaven
azure, topaz–the chromatic scale at a sitting!
The whole day
spent in the orchard–and see this peach tree, the way the earth
seems by centering strokes to rise into the tree,
the violets and pinks of the soil, the slightest trace of shadow,
mirrored–no, itself come to bloom in the blossoms that grace
each limb, pink runners of flame to the thinnest twig,
and the clouds, released blossoms riding the wind, a meringue
whipped of plain air. The whole canvas wrenched from the mistral,
wind beating the canvas like sails, the easel pegged down, dust
driven into the pigment. See how the brusque strokes convey
color seized from the turmoil of growth, the traces–here and here–
where the canvas shows through. Enough of technique.


Allen Hoey (21 oktober 1952 – 16 juni 2010)


De Ierse dichter Patrick Kavanagh werd geboren op 21 oktober 1904 in County Monaghan. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Patrick Kavanagh op dit blog.


On An Apple-Ripe September Morning

On an apple-ripe September morning
Through the mist-chill fields I went

With a pitch-fork on my shoulder

Less for use than for devilment.

The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,

In Cassidy’s haggard last night,

And we owed them a day at the threshing

Since last year. O it was delight

To be paying bills of laughter

And chaffy gossip in kind

With work thrown in to ballast

The fantasy-soaring mind.

As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered

As I looked into the drain

If ever a summer morning should find me

Shovelling up eels again.

And I thought of the wasps’ nest in the bank

And how I got chased one day

Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,

How I covered my face with hay.

The wet leaves of the cocksfoot

Polished my boots as I

Went round by the glistening bog-holes

Lost in unthinking joy.

I’ll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,

The best job at the mill

With plenty of time to talk of our loves

As we wait for the bags to fill.

Maybe Mary might call round…

And then I came to the haggard gate,

And I knew as I entered that I had come

Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.


Patrick Kavanagh (21 oktober 1904 – 30 november 1967)

Portret door Patrick Swift, 1960



De Griekse dichter en schilder Nikos Engonopoulos werd geboren op 21 oktober 1907 in Athene. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 21 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 21 oktober 2010


A Greek Poem

Bolivár! You were reality, and you are, even now, you are
no dream.
When the wild hunters nail the wild eagles, and the other wild
birds and animals,
Over their wooden doors in the wild forests,
You live again, and shout, and grieve,
And you are yourself the hammer, nail and eagle.

If on the isles of coral, winds blow and the empty fishing boats
And the parrots are a riot of voices when the day ends and
the gardens grow quiet drowned in humidity,
And in the tall trees the crows perch,
Consider, beside the waves, the iron tables of the cafeneion,
How the damp eats at them in the gloom, and far off the light
that flashes on, off, on again, turning back and forth.
And day breaks – what frightful anguish – after a night without
And the water reveals nothing of its secrets. Such is life.
And the sun comes, and the houses on the wharf, with their
island-style arches,
Painted pink, and green, with white sills (Naxos, Chios),
How they live! How they shine like translucent fairies! Such is

Bolivár! I cry out your name, reclining on the peak of
Mount Ere,
The highest peak on the isle of Hydra.
From here the view, enchanting, extends as far as the Saronic
isles, Thebes,
Beyond Monemvasia, far below, to august Egypt,
And as far as Panama, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Honduras, Haiti,
San Domingo, Bolivia, Colombia, Peru, Venezuela,
Chile, Argentina, Brazil, Uraguay, Paraguay, Ecuador,
As far even as Mexico.
With hard stone I carve your name in rock, that afterwards men
may come in pilgrimage.
As I carve sparks fly – such, they say, was Bolivár – and I
watch my hand as it writes, gleaming in the sun.


Vertaald door David Connolly

Nikos Engonopoulos (21 oktober 1907 – 31 oktober 1985)