Christian Schloyer, Louis Auchincloss, William Empson, Bernat Manciet, Edvard Kocbek

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Christian Schloyer werd geboren op 27 september 1976 in Erlangen. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Christian Schloyer op dit blog.

sich spurlos in ein bild [hǽken]

an deinen lippen hängt ein wasserspeier

falls du den bildausschnitt
verschiebst & irgendwo ein echtes

rot das bild verlässt
      von deinen lippen springt · er dann wie

von einem sims mit schwerem lid
schlag (am rande deines körpersinns) & stürzt

sich in die gegenwelt wo keine stirn je
aufschlägt wo der grund

so weich
gezeichnet als hätte jeder farbton

sein eigenes gewicht
        vergessen · jedes wort! so
             geh doch! · nicht so planvoll vor sei

        wir kommen wieder · nicht vom fleck

Christian Schloyer (Erlangen, 27 september 1976)


De Amerikaanse schrijver Louis Stanton Auchincloss werd geboren op 27 september 1917 in Lawrence, New York.Louis Auchincloss overleed op 26 januari van dit jaar op 92-jarige leeftijd. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010.

Uit: The Young Apollo and Other Stories

« My own “sacred circle,” as some envious folk have described it, came through without a scratch. How shall I describe the circle? It consists of a small group of individuals, more or less prominent in the arts — writing, sculpture, painting — all of whom live in Washington without being native to the city, and none of whom, with the notable exception of George Manning, has the least connection with government. All are old, of course, and none hail from the kind of background that might be expected to produce great art. Ella Robinson, the novelist, for example, was born of Boston Brahmins; Elihu Tweed, the sculptor, was the son of a New York governor; and my own father, siring a historian, was a United States Supreme Court justice.
We used to fancy that we represented a kind of American renaissance. In the two decades preceding the war, our country was emerging from its long dependence on European culture. The notorious low value that Henry James accorded the subject material which America offered to the writer of fiction had been totally revised; we now claimed equal rights, so to speak, on Parnassus. And the young man whom we all held as our joint heir apparent, who was going to be the great poet of the future, to whom we were all more or less John the Baptists, was Lion Manning.
Why does George Manning not write the life of his own son? I have never much liked George. He is as deeply conservative as a Republican senator from Rhode Island can get; he is shrewd, raspingly sarcastic, and basically mean.
But he exercises a hefty political influence, and he purports to be a stout supporter of the arts. He had no patience with Lion’s ambition to be a poet, however. He wanted him to become a lawyer, a statesman, a great man. He adored the boy but never understood him and lectured him constantly on his duty to follow in the paternal footsteps. Lion simply grinned and didn’t listen. He could always wind the old man around his little finger. Yet I know he deeply loved his father. And I think the reason the senator wouldn’t write the book himself may have been that he was a bit scared of the boy and would have fancied him looking over his shoulder as he wrote.“

Louis Auchincloss (27 september 1917 – 26 januari 2010)


De Engelse dichter en criticus William Empson werd geboren op 27 september 1906 in Howden, Yorkshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010.


It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
Your chemic beauty burned my muscles through.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

What later purge from this deep toxin cures?
What kindness now could the old salve renew?
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.

The infection slept (custom or changes inures)
And when pain’s secondary phase was due
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

How safe I felt, whom memory assures,
Rich that your grace safely by heart I knew.
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.

My stare drank deep beauty that still allures.
My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

You are still kind whom the same shape immures.
Kind and beyond adieu. We miss our cue.
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.

William Empson (27 september 1906 – 15 april 1984)
Portret door Rupert Shephard, rond 1944


De Occitaanse dichter en schrijver Bernat Manciet werd geboren op 27 september 1923 in Sabres. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010.

Uit: LITURGY: The Mystery of Glory

Uzeste, August 1998

 horse steps through stone
silences in the stone
clams & knives
& ferns & frost flowers
fires in the holy stone
deep glory within the rock
fire frozen in the lithostrata
fire safe fire that speaks
boulder heart Our Lady
you kept it all to yourself
they burn in your heart
you sleep & cannot sleep
temblored by springs
immaculatest architecture
impatience of live dew
of constrained power
cloistered fire enisles you
to sing exacts you
to nighten disperses you
to humble yourself exalts you
& you reach like a branch

Bernat Manciet (27 september 1923 – 3 juni 2005)


De Sloveense dichter, schrijver en essayist Edvard Kocbek werd in Sloveens Stiermarken geboren op 27 september 1904. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Edward Kocbek op dit blog

All Doors Are Open

The world is full of blood-thirsty persecutors,
but the worst persecution is
when you are not hunted,
but still act like a lost wild animal
tracked by an invisible hunter: when
you sit in your studio drinking coffee
or stretching bored in the office,
when even the fanciest cigar in your mouth
cannot relieve you from a dreadful sense of guilt
as if someone has a grip on you, making you
perspire with deadly fear, wishing, either you
didn’t know who you were or could
throw yourself from the ninth floor.
This persecution is the most horrifying flight
from oneself, the most fatal capture.
Nothing helps, even though all doors are open
and all guns at your disposal, when you sit
amid black night or clear day
unable to move from the deadly fear
of an unknown, ineffable guilt.


Primeval Mother

Where are you, oblivion? Where are you, transient winds?
Everything passes but my sad punishment,
look at me revered lo the highest mountain,
] am the oldest and closest to the beginning.

I no longer know to whom I call, who I beseech,
I am crazed by horror, singing from sorrow;
shouting and weeping blend into a melody
I’ve swung the angst of man since times immemorial.

I rock him with ineffable movements,
precipices amass in my blindness,
clear waterfalls storm through my deafness —
my story is older than darkness.

In my long ritual toga
I am the world’s oldest sorrow,
torn apart by pain on the mountaintop
I cradle lost man in my arms.

Vertaald door Sonja Kravanja

Edvard Kocbek (27 september 1904 – 3 november 1981)


Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 27e september ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.