September (C. S. Adama van Scheltema)

Dolce far niente


September Afternoon door Joseph DeCamp, rond 1895



September blaas uw gouden vlammen
Door al de wijde wereld heen!
Blaas van nog boordevolle stammen
Het kwijnend afval naar beneên!
Begraaf ons in uw gulle goud,
Tot ons ontstuimige verlangen
Barst boven al uw wilde zangen
En feest in al uw vruchten houdt!

September blaas uw witte buien
Als blâren van een rozenstok!
Blaas aan ons hart, tot het gaat luien
Als de uit goud gegoten klok!
Totdat ons hoofd zijn lichten draagt
Als de aan uw goud ontstoken lampen,
Tot straalt door al uw blinde dampen
De dag, die uit uw donker daagt!

September blaas de hemel open!
Blaas door de wolken wagenwijd!
Tot onze harten overlopen
Van ’t goud dat uit de hemel glijdt!
Tot onze schoot uw licht bewaart,
Tot wij de lichte wereld loven –
Tot onze ogen gaan geloven
Aan alle heerlijkheid op aard!


C. S. Adama van Scheltema (26 februari 1877 – 6 mei 1924)


Zie voor de schrijvers van de 20e september ook mijn blog van 20 september 2014 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.


In Memoriam Jackie Collins


In Memoriam Jackie Collins

De Britse romanschrijfster Jackie Collins is op 77-jarige leeftijd overleden. Jackie Collins werd geboren in Londen op 4 oktober 1937. Zie ook alle tags voor Jackie Collins op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 4 oktober 2010. Jackie Collins was de jongere zuster van actrice Joan Collins.

Uit: Married Lovers

“She was twenty-one when she’d first landed in L.A., and because of her exceptional looks, she could’ve easily followed the actress or modeling route. But that kind of career was not for her, she was after something more substantial. So what better plan than working toward eventually opening her own fitness studio? And since everyone in L.A. seemed to be obsessed with the way they looked, it was a business she could definitely tap into. She knew plenty about health and how to be in optimum shape — at least Gregg had taught her something. Best of all she was smart enough to realize that she could achieve her goal if she worked hard and didn’t allow herself to get caught up in the whole L.A. scene of recreational drugs, too many late-night clubs and endless parties.
“Hey, beauty,” Dorian, a buff trainer with a Fabio-style mane of flaxen hair and several
flamboyant tattoos, called out as she pulled on a fresh tank top. “That old dude of yours is gettin’ impatient. He’s mutterin’ obscenities under his breath.”
“Oh God!” Cameron exclaimed. “That man is such a dud!”
“Somebody needs to put him down,” Dorian warned. “And I do not mean in a good way.”
“I’d love to,” Cameron quipped, hurrying toward the main workout area. “Only I suspect he’d get off on it.”
“She’s so right,” Dorian agreed, tossing back his precious mane.
Her un-favorite client, Mr. Lord, was indeed waiting. A bizarre figure in red-and-black bicycle shorts, stuffed with what could only be described as a fake penis; a Rat Pack T-shirt circa tour 1965; and a crooked slime-brown toupee perched jauntily on top of his head. He was the author of crap biographies, filled with information gleaned from newspaper files, all out-of-date and totally inaccurate. The celebrities he’d written about regarded him as a pathetic joke who couldn’t write his way out of a corner, but he kept on trying.”


Jackie Collins ( 4 oktober 1937 – 19 september 2015)