Martin Suter, Yórgos Seféris, Marin Sorescu, Howard Nemerov, Saul Williams, John Byrom


De Zwitserse schrijver Martin Suter werd geboren op 29 februari 1948 in Zürich. Zie ook alle tags voor Martin Suter op dit blog.

Uit: Lila, Lila

“Marie hatte Weihnachten nicht immer gehast. Als ganz kleines Madchen hatte sie es fast nicht erwarten konnen, das nachste Fensterchen im Adventskalender öffnen zu durfen. Und am Abend, an dem dann endlich, endlich das Christkind kam, sas sie stumm vor Ergriffenheit unter dem Christbaum und muste von ihren Eltern dazu aufgefordert werden, die Geschenke zu öffnen.
Aber nach der Scheidung war Weihnachten nur noch dazu da, sie daran zu erinnern, das ihre Eltern nicht mehr zusammenwaren.
Sie muste jetzt zweimal feiern, einmal mit Myrtha und ihrem jeweiligen Freund, einmal mit ihrem Vater und seiner furchtbaren neuen Frau.
Mit zwolf gab sie bekannt, das sie nicht mehr Weihnachten feiern wolle. Bei ihrem Vater sties sie dabei auf keinerlei Widerstand. Bei Myrtha war es komplizierter. Wenn sie von ihrer Weihnachtsdepression heimgesucht wurde, was, je alter sie wurde, desto o∫er eintraf, brachte Marie es nicht ubers Herz, Weihnachten zu ignorieren.
Aber jetzt, wo Myrtha in Crans Montana war und Marie unbeschwerte Weihnachten mit ein paar Videos und Fertigpizzas verbringen konnte, hatte sie plotzlich das Bedürfnis nach Gesellschaft.. Deshalb verbrachte sie die letzten Abende des Weihnachts-Countdowns zu ihrer eigenen Verwunderung mit ihrer neuen Ersatzfamilie im Esquina. Und selbst in den Nachten blieb sie nicht immer allein.
Zwei davon verbrachte sie mit Ralph, auf den sie sich doch eigentlich gar nicht hatte einlassen wollen.
Fur jeden Abend nahm sie sich vor, nur kurz auf ein Glas hereinzuschauen und vor zwolf zu Hause zu sein. Aber jedesmal blieb sie hangen. Nicht, weil das Gesprach gerade so interessant war oder die Gesellscha∫ so angenehm oder die Nacht so schon. Es war die Vorstellung, allein in der Wohnung ihrer Mutter vor dem Fernseher zu sitzen, die sie im Esquina hielt.“


Martin Suter (Zürich, 29 februari 1948)


De Griekse dichter Yórgos Seféris werd geboren in Smyrna (nu Izmir, in Turkije) op 29 februari 1900. Zie ook alle tags voor Yórgos Seféris op dit blog.


In The Goddess’ Name I Summon You

Oil on limbs,
maybe a rancid smell
as on the chapel’s
oil-press here,
as on the rough pores
of the unturning stone.

Oil on hair
wreathed in rope
and maybe other scents
unknown to us
poor and rich
and statuettes offering
small breasts with their fingers.

Oil in the sun
the leaves shuddered
when the stranger stopped
and the silence weighed
between the knees.
The coins fell:
‘In the goddess’s name I summon you…’

Oil on the shoulders
and the flexing waist
legs grass-dappled,
and that wound in the sun
as the bell rang for vespers
as I spoke in the churchyard
with a crippled man.



Flowers of the rock

Flowers of the rock facing the green sea
with veins that reminded me of other loves
glowing in the slow fine rain,
flowers of the rock, figures
that came when no one spoke and spoke to me
that let me touch them after the silence
among pine-trees, oleanders, and plane-trees.


Yórgos Seféris (29 februari 1900 – 20 september 1971)



De Roemeense dichter Marin Sorescu werd geboren op 29 februari 1936 in Bulzeşti. Zie ook alle tags voor Marin Sorescu op dit blog.


Carbon Paper

Someone overnight sticks a gigantic
piece of carbon paper on my door.
Everything I am thinking immediately
comes through on the Other side of the wall.

Inquisitive people from all over the place
come in throngs, I hear the soles of their shoes
lift up the stairs to my apartment
and. leaving,
put them down again.

They are birds of every species,
moon farm dogs,
transitions, forest aisles and
old acacias that
suffer from insomnia.

They put on spectacles and
read me, are moved or
threaten me with their fists, it
depends, for I have a
clear idea of it all.

Only about my soul
I know nothing.
About my soul that perpetually
slides away from me between days,
like a cake of soap
in the bath.

Vertaald door Irina Livezeanu



Marin Sorescu (29 februari 1936 – 8 december 1996)
Affiche voor een expositie van zijn schilderijen, 2012


De Amerikaanse dichter en literatuurdocent Howard Nemerov werd geboren op 29 februari 1920 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Howard Nemerov op dit blog.


The View From An Attic Window

Among the high-branching, leafless boughs
Above the roof-peaks of the town,
Snowflakes unnumberably come down.

I watched out of the attic window
The laced sway of family trees,
Intricate genealogies

Whose strict, reserved gentility,
Trembling, impossible to bow,
Received the appalling fall of snow.

All during Sunday afternoon,
Not storming, but befittingly,
Out of a still, grey, devout sky,

The snowflakes fell, until all shapes
Went under, and thickening, drunken lines
Cobwebbed the sleep of solemn pines.

Up in the attic, among many things
Inherited and out of style,
I cried, then fell asleep awhile,

Waking at night now, as the snow-
flakes from darkness to darkness go
Past yellow lights in the street below.

I cried because life is hopeless and beautiful.
And like a child I cried myself to sleep
High in the head of the house, feeling the hull
Beneath me pitch and roll among the steep
Mountains and valleys of the many years
That brought me to tears.

Down in the cellar, furnace and washing machine,
Pump, fuse-box, water heater, work their hearts
Out at my life, which narrowly runs between
Them and this cemetery of spare parts
For discontinued men, whose hats and canes
Are my rich remains.

And women, their portraits and wedding gowns
Stacked in the corners, brooding in wooden trunks;
And children’s rattles, books about lions and clowns;
And headless, hanging dresses swayed like drunks
Whenever a living footstep shakes the floor;
I mention no more;

But what I thought today, that made me cry,
Is this, that we live in two kinds of thing:
The powerful trees, thrusting into the sky
Their black patience, are one, and that branching
Relation teaches how we endure and grow;
The other is the snow,

Falling in a white chaos from the sky,
As many as the sands of all the seas,
As all the men who died or who will die,
As stars in heaven, as leaves of all the trees;
As Abraham was promised of his seed;
Generations bleed,

Till I, high in the tower of my time
Among familiar ruins, began to cry
For accident, sickness, justice, war and crime,
Because all died, because I had to die.
The snow fell, the trees stood, the promise kept,
And a child I slept.


Howard Nemerov (29 februari 1920 – 5 juli 1991)


De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver, acteur, rapper en musicus Saul Stacey Williams werd geboren in Newburgh, New York op 29 februari 1972. Zie ook alle tags voor Saul Williams op dit blog.


Untimely Meditations

Time is money. Money is time.
So, I keep seven o’clock in the
bank and gain interest in the
hour of God.  I’m saving to buy
my freedom. God grant me wings.
I’m too fly not to fly. Eye sore
to look at humans without wings.
So, I soar. And find tickle in the
feather of my wings. Flying
hysterically over land. Numerically,
I am seven mountains higher than
the valley of death, seven dimensions
deeper than dimensions of breath.

The fiery sun of my passions
evaporates the love lakes of my
soul, clouds my thoughts and
rains you into existence. As I take
flights on bolts of lightening.
Claiming chaos as my concubine
and you as my me. I of the storm.
You of the sea. We of the moon.
Land of the free. What have I done
to deserve this? Am I happy?


Saul Williams (Newburgh, 29 februari 1972)



De Engelse dichter John Byrom werd geboren op 29 februari 1692 in Manchester. Zie ook alle tags voor John Byrom op dit blog.


The Three Black Crows

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the hand;
“Hark ye,” said he, “‘tis an odd story this
About the crows!” — “I don’t know what it is,”
Replied his friend. — “No! I’m surprised at that;
Where I come from, it is the common chat;
But you shall hear an odd affair indeed!
And that it happen’d they are all agreed;
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman, who lives not far from ‘Change,
This week, in short, as all the Alley knows,
Taking a vomit, threw up Three Black Crows!”
  “Impossible!” —— “Nay, but ‘tis really true;
I had it from good hands, and so may you.” ——
“From whose I pray?” —— So, having named the man,
Straight to enquire, his curious comrade ran.
“Sir did you tell?” —— relating the affair.
“Yes sir, I did; and, if ‘tis worth your care,
‘Twas Mr.” — such a one — “who told it me;
But, by the bye, ‘twas Two black crows, not Three!”
  Resolved to trace so wondrous an event,
Quick to the third the virtuoso went.
“Sir,” — and so forth. — “Why, yes; the thing is fact,
Though in regard to number not exact.
It was not Two black crows, ‘twas only One;
The truth of that you may depend upon;
The gentleman himself told me the case.”—
“Where may I find him?” — “Why in” — such a place.
  Away he went, and having found him out,
“Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt.”——
Then to his last informant he referr’d,
And begg’d to know, if true what he had heard:
“Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?” — “Not I!”—
“Bless me! — how people propagate a lie!
Black crows have been thrown up, Three, Two, and One:
And here, I find, all comes at last to None!
Did you say nothing of a crow at all?”——
“Crow — crow — perhaps I might; now I recall
The matter over.” — “And pray, sir, what was’t?”
“Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last
I did throw up, and told my neighbour so,
Something that was —— as black sir, as a crow.”


John Byrom (29 februari 1692 – 26 september 1763)