Mario Petrucci, Jean Senac, Carlo Levi, Jean-Philippe Toussaint, C.S. Lewis, Wilhelm Hauff, Louisa May Alcott, Franz Stelzhamer

 

De Engelse dichter en schrijver Mario Petrucci werd geboren op 29 november 1958 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Mario Petrucci op dit blog.

 

Last Wish
(Chernobyl, 1986)

You bury me in concrete.   Bury me
in lead.   Rather I was buried
with a bullet in the head.

You seal me in powder.   Cut the hair
last.   Then take the trimmings
and seal them in glass.

You wrap me in plastic.   Wash me
in foam.   Weld the box airless
and ram the box home.

For each tomb that’s hidden a green
soldier turns.  
None decomposes.
Nothing for worms.

A buckle.   A pencil.   Break one thing
I left.   Give some small part of me
ordinary death.

 

 

Lessons

Easy for me, your son,
youthful lungs trawling in one sweep –

cigar smoke, omelette,
the girl next door.

One day I told you
how in physics we’d calculated a cough holds

billions of atoms Galileo
inhaled.   It took a full

week for your retort –
as always, off the nail.  
Must be I’ve used it

all then.   From Siberia
to Antarctica – from slack-

pit to spire.   That’s
why each draw’s so, so bloody hard.

Your drenched face was me,
silenced.   Had to catch you

last thing, at the foot
of your Jacob’s Ladder, ascending to the one

bulb of the landing
toilet, to tell you

I’d checked with sir.
You can’t use it all, I piped, not in a hundred

million years.   You’ll get
better.  
Just wait and see.

Mouth bluish, a slur
suspended over your chest.   Fist white

on the rail.   You said
Don’t hold your breath.

 

 
Mario Petrucci (Londen, 29 november 1958)

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Antanas Škėma, Madeleine L’Engle, Ludwig Anzengruber, Silvio Rodríguez, Maurice Genevoix, Andrés Bello

 

De Litouwse dichter en schrijver Antanas Škėma werd op 29 november 1910 geboren in Lodz in Polen. Zie ook alle tags voor Antanas Škėma op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 29 november 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 november 2010.

Uit: Steps And Stairs (Vertaald door Kęstutis Girnius)

„You thought you sailed west, west the whole day. But your boat turned around, and you return to land again. An old fisherman, a friend of your youth, sits on the rocky shore. His campfire smolders. Dead fish lie around him. In the silk sphere fish and stars, sparks and embers, veined hands and mermaid scales. In the silk sphere a round night is reflected in the electric lamp.
I think all of this when I stop two yards below the old man and see the holes in his soles, while the half-blind man feels something completely other.
He cleaned banks. In Manhattan and Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx. In the cellar were ladders and rags, cleaning oil and soap powders, and in the marbled rooms dust stuck to furniture, walls, ceilings, lampshades, and curtains—the unctuous dust of banks, like a thick layer of frozen fat. The Ukrainian stooped often, crawled on all fours, and swayed below the ceiling; hot water flowed through his unfeeling fingers; tables and chairs, telephones and ashtrays, the steel of safes and the blue veins of marble rejuvenated themselves with damp leather, redwood mirrors, the matted shine of plastic; his hands stuck together from the cleaning oil, they smelled of pine sap, of bare feet in the morning mist, the filth of old age, and wrung-out underwear.
I.R.T., B.M.T., Independent. Every night the subways, ruled by magic hieroglyphics, carpets from “A Thousand and One Nights,” flew the Ukrainian to a different part of the city. He still walked a few blocks. The same taverns with different names licked his eyes. Gondola, New Orleans, On the 7th Corner. Store windows were jammed with shirts and shoes tied with red ribbons, presents for a girl friend, children, and for oneself.“

 

 
Antanas Škėma (29 november 1910 – 11 augustus 1961)

Continue reading “Antanas Škėma, Madeleine L’Engle, Ludwig Anzengruber, Silvio Rodríguez, Maurice Genevoix, Andrés Bello”