Charlotte Brontë, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Charles den Tex, Michael Mann, Peter Schneider, Meira Delmar, Alistair MacLean, Gerrit Wustmann

 De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: Villette

“In the autumn of the year  —  —  I was staying at Bretton; my godmother having come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was at that time fixed my permanent residence. I believe she then plainly saw events coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which the faint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me glad to change scene and society.
Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother’s side; not with tumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the gliding of a full river through a plain. My visits to her resembled the sojourn of Christian and Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with “green trees on each bank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round.” The charm of variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but I liked peace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when the latter came I almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had still held aloof.
One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently caused Mrs. Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was from home, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous communication: to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass.
The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered my bedroom, an unexpected change. In, addition to my own French bed in its shady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped with white; and in addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tiny rosewood chest. I stood still, gazed, and considered.
“Of what are these things the signs and tokens?” I asked. The answer was obvious. “A second guest is coming: Mrs. Bretton expects other visitors.”
On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I was told, would shortly be my companion: the daughter of a friend and distant relation of the late Dr. Bretton’s. This little girl, it was added, had recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton ere long subjoined, the loss was not so great as might at first appear.

Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Charlotte Brontë, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Charles den Tex, Michael Mann, Peter Schneider, Meira Delmar, Alistair MacLean, Gerrit Wustmann”

Ahmed Arif

De Turkse dichter van Koerdische afkomst Ahmed Arif werd geboren op 21 april 1927 in Diyarbakır, Zijn echte naam was Ahmed Önal, Hij veranderde zijn achternaam naar die van zijn vader Arif Hikmet Zijn moeder stierf al vroeg. Arif groeide op in Diyarbakir en Siverek in een multiculturele omgeving en naast het Turkse beheerste hij ook Dimilkî (Zazaki), Kurmancien en Arabisch. Hij ging naar de middelbare school in Urfa en Afyon. Later ging hij naar Ankara om aan de universiteit filosofie te studeren. Tussen 1944 en 1955 publiceerde hij veel gedichten in verschillende tijdschriften. Om politieke redenen zat hij van 1950 tot 1952 in de gevangenis. Ahmed Arif werd een van de populairste dichters in Turkije. Met zijn dichtkunst bereikte hij vanwege zijn uitbeelding van Anatolische folklore en door zijn originaliteit een groot publiek. Tot op heden zijn er 49 nieuwe uitgaven van zijn boek verschenen, en er zijn talloze illegale exemplaren gedrukt. Daarnaast gebruikten veel linkse muziekgroepen en zangers delen uit zijn gedichten in hun teksten. Tijdens zijn leven publiceerde Arif slechts een verzameling gedichten, in 1968, getiteld “Hasretinden Prangalar Eskittim”. (“Door mijn verlangen naar jouw heb ik ketenen versleten”). Zijn zoon publiceerde in 2003 een andere collectie getiteld “Yurdum Benim Şahdamarım”.

Through my longing for you I have worn out fetters

Being able to tell about you,
To good guys and heroes.
Being able to tell about you,
To the disgraceful, rude
Filthy lie.

How many ice cold winters have passed?
The wolves sleep, the birds sleep, the dungeons sleep.
Outside life keeps going on, roaring…
Only I don’t sleep,
Damn, how many springtimes,
Have I, through my longing for you, worn out fetters?
Let me put bloodroses in your hairs,
Once on this side,
Then on that side…

Being able to scream you out,
Into bottomless pits,
To a falling star,
To somebody that reaches a matchstick
A matchstick that is fallen
On the most barren wave of an ocean.

To him who has lost the passion of first loves,
Who has lost the kisses,
Who shows no interest in the sudden dusk
Who dreams away over a cigarette and a drink
Being able to tell about you, to him…
Your absence is another word for hell
I’m cold, don’t close your eyes…


So early falls the night over our prison

It does not help
even if you were a dragon
even if you are fight competent
even if you are a handsome smart-hearted
nothing of use to you
it is Sneaking sharply
to bring you the sorrow and longing
so early falls the night over our prison
with its seven iron arms
with his seven gates
beyond one of it .. Your crying garden
against and below the wall
three branched night prime rose
three wet-rooted violet flowers
the same fears are there with the beloved
same clouds and same strikes of the waves
prison is putting the darkness
suffering of the soul
one maltian sings the song ” a pride fro kurdistan ”
I am residing in the floor bed
I do everything
clown .. Butler … or a fresh one
sometimes I say .. I am to be shot or fade away
get naked in the fight
I pretend being a hero
sometimes a friend and others as an enemy
I am neither this nor that
passing by barrels with peaks
and barrels full of sharp peaks
and police patrol

watching my weapon
finished the half of my cigarette with one breath
filling my chest with the smoke
or killing my self
you may say ” what you are doing “
but early the night will fall
outside the spring with its youth
I love you

Ahmed Arif (21 april 1927 – 2 juni 1991)