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 alle tags voor Sharon Olds op dit blog.

The Borders

To say that she came into me,
from another world, is not true.
Nothing comes into the universe
and nothing leaves it.
My mother—I mean my daughter did not
enter me. She began to exist
inside me—she appeared within me.
And my mother did not enter me.
When she lay down, to pray, on me,
she was always ferociously courteous,
fastidious with Puritan fastidiousness,
but the barrier of my skin failed, the barrier of my
body fell, the barrier of my spirit.
She aroused and magnetized my skin, I wanted
ardently to please her, I would say to her
what she wanted to hear, as if I were hers.
I served her willingly, and then
became very much like her, fiercely
out for myself.
When my daughter was in me, I felt I had
a soul in me. But it was born with her.
But when she cried, one night, such pure crying,
I said I will take care of you, I will
put you first. I will not ever
have a daughter the way she had me,
I will not ever swim in you
the way my mother swam in me and I
felt myself swum in. I will never know anyone
again the way I knew my mother,
the gates of the human fallen.

 

Primitive

I have heard about the civilized,
the marriages run on talk, elegant and honest,

rational. But you and I are
savages. You come in with a bag,
hold it out to me in silence.
I know Moo Shu Pork when I smell it
and understand the message: I have
pleased you greatly last night. We sit
quietly, side by side, to eat,
the long pancakes dangling and spilling,
fragrant sauce dripping out,
and glance at each other askance, wordless,
the corners of our eyes clear as spear points
laid along the sill to show
a friend sits with a friend here.

 

Sharon Olds (San Francisco, 19 november 1942)

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

Allen Tate, Girolamo de Rada, Elise Bürger, Veronika Aydin

De Amerikaanse dichter Alan Tate werd geboren op 19 november 1899 in de buurt van Winchester, Kentucky. Zie ook alle tags voor Alan Tate op dit blog.

Aeneas At Washington

I myself saw furious with blood

Neoptolemus, at his side the black Atridae,

Hecuba and the hundred daughters, Priam

Cut down, his filth drenching the holy fires.

In that extremity I bore me well,

A true gentleman, valorous in arms,

Distinterested and honourable. Then fled

That was a time when civilization

Run by the few fell to the many, and

Crashed to the shout of men, the clang of arms:

Cold victualing I seized, I hoisted up

The old man my father upon my back,

In the smoke made by sea for a new world

Saving little—a mind imperishable

If time is, a love of past things tenuous

As the hesitation of receding love.

(To the reduction of uncitied littorals

We brought chiefly the vigor of prophecy,

Our hunger breeding calculation

And fixed triumphs)

I saw the thirsty dove

IN the glowing fields of Troy, hemp ripening

And tawny corn, the thickening Blue Grass

All lying rich forever in the green sun.

I see all things apart, the towers that men

Contrive I too contrived long, long ago.

Now I demand little. The singular passion

Abides its object and consumes desire

In the circling shadow of its appetite.

There was a time when the young eyes were slow,

Their flame steady beyond the firstling fire,

I stood in the rain, far from home at nightfall

By the Potomac, the great Dome lit the water,

The city my blood had built I knew no more

While the screech-owl whistled his new delight

Consecutively dark.

Stuck in the wet mire

Four thousand leagues from the ninth buried city

I thought of Troy, what we had built her for.

 


Allen Tate (19 november 1899 – 9 februari 1979)

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