Altweibersommer (Klaus Ender), Dolce far niente

Dolce far niente

 

 
Indian Summer door Vasily Polenov, 1893

 

Altweibersommer

Der Abschied ist nun angesagt,
es trauert die Natur,
der Sommer ist zu sehr betagt,
es läuft jetzt seine Uhr.

Das Werden ist Vergangenheit,
es setzt das Scheiden ein,
es zeigt sich in Erhabenheit
als herbstlich schöner Schein.

Ein silberfarbnes Nachtgewand
ummantelt Berg und Tal,
die Welt – sie glänzt im Ruhestand,
die Sonne leuchtet fahl.

Es perlt der Tau von Halm und Blatt,
der Himmel zeigt sein Blau
und jeder Tropfen spiegelt matt,
verschönt des Abschieds Grau.

Vollzogen wird ein schwerer Gang
in stiller Harmonie,
es ist des Lebens Abgesang,
erlöschen wird es nie.

 

 
Klaus Ender (Berlijn, 2 april 1939)
Berlijn, de geboorteplaats van Klaus Ender

 

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

Irvine Welsh, Ko de Laat, Kay Ryan, Esther Verhoef, Ignace Schretlen, Josef ¦kvorecký, Christian Schloyer, Tanja Kinkel, Edvard Kocbek

De Schotse schrijver Irvine Welsh werd geboren op 27 september 1958 in Leith, Edinburgh. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Irvine Welsh op dit blog.

Uit:The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

“She Came to Dance, 20 January 1980
– THIS IS THE fuckin Clash! The green-haired girl had screamed into the face of the flinty-eyed bouncer, who’d shoved her back into her seat. — And this is a fuckin cinema, he’d told her. It was the Odeon cinema, and the security personnel seemed determined to stop any dancing. But after the local band, Joseph K, had finished their set, the main act had come out all guns blazing, blasting out ‘Clash City Rockers’, and the crowd immediately surged down to the front of the house. The girl with the green hair scanned around for the bouncer, who was preoccupied, then sprang back up. For a while the security staff tried to stem the tide, but finally capitulated about halfway through the set, between ‘I Fought the Law’ and ‘(White Man) in Hammersmith Palais’. The crowd was lost in the thrashing noise; at the front of the house they bounced along in rapture, while those at the back climbed on to their seats to dance. The girl with green hair, now right at the front centre of the stage, seemed to be rising higher than the rest, or perhaps it was just her hair, and the way the strobes hit it, making it appear as if a spectacular emerald flame was bursting from her head. A few, only a few, were gobbing at the band and she was screaming at them to cut it out as he – her hero – had only just recovered from hepatitis. She’d been to the Odeon only a few times before, most recently to see Apocalypse Now, but it wasn’t like this and she could bet that it had never been. Her friend Trina was a few feet from her, the only other girl so near the front that she could almost smell the band. Taking a last gulp from the plastic Im Bru bottle she’d filled with snakebite, she killed it and let it fall to the sticky, carpeted floor. Her brain fizzed with the buzz of it working in tandem with the amphetamine sulphate she’d taken earlier. She roared the words of the songs as she leapt, working herself into a defiant frenzy, going to a place where she could almost forget what he had told her earlier that afternoon. Just after they’d made love when he’d gone so quiet and distant, his thin, wiry frame shivering on the mattress. — What’s up, Donnie? What is it? she’d asked him. — It’s all fucked, he’d said blankly. She told him not to be daft, everything was brilliant and the Clash gig was happening tonight, they’d been waiting for this for ages. Then he turned round and his eyes were moist and he looked like a child. It was then that her first and only lover had told her that he’d been fucking someone else earlier; right there on the mattress they shared every night, the place where they’d just made love. It had meant nothing; it was a mistake, he immediately claimed, panic rising in him as the extent of his transgression became apparent in her reaction.”

 
Irvine Welsh (Edinburg, 27 september 1958)

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Irvine Welsh, Ko de Laat, Kay Ryan, Esther Verhoef, Ignace Schretlen, Josef ¦kvorecký, Christian Schloyer, Tanja Kinkel, Edvard Kocbek”

Nate Pritts

De Amerikaanse dichter en letterkundige Nate Pritts werd geboren in Syracuse, New York, op 27 september 1974. Pritts behaalde een PhD in schrijven met een specialisatie in de Britse romantiek aan de Universiteit van Louisiana, een Master of Fine Arts in Poetry aan het Warren Wilson College, en een bachelordiploma in Engels en film aan de State University of New York. Dr. Pritts heeft aan alle leeftijden les gegeven met behulp van verschillende methoden, waaronder Blackboard, Moodle en Desire2Learn, eCollege en Canvas. Hij vindt het leuk hoe online leren de kruising van creativiteit en technologie mogelijk maakt. Pritts is ook de auteur van acht poëziebundels, waaronder “The Wonderfull Yeare”, “Post Human” en “Decoherence”,waarvoor hij de 42 Miles Press Poetry Award ontving. Zijn creatieve werk en essays over creativiteit, onderwijs en leren zijn gepubliceerd in American Poetry Review, Poets & Writers, Writers Digest en op vele andere plaatsen.

 

We’re making mistakes together

Forget all your dreams since they’re forgetting
about you. They pretend that you’re capable,
or better than you are. You wake up much worse-

wrecked in the morning with birds in that light.
That light promises a whole new landscape but
don’t believe it!
Hold tight to the failures that fill up

your outline like a cloud silhouette made out of anger.
Stacks of paper were shuffled & machine-mangled
while you slept through the mist. Find the lost page

that fits in, that helps it make sense: a signature
needed or else the parcel rejected. Let me sing
a few more of these ruins to you. The starting

is over & we’re both living still. Stand up
if you can because I’m talking to you & the whispers
assail my affections again. Look: even things that evade me

still lodge in my cosmos & the stars that I’m thinking
shoot themselves out. Here’s where I write another
line about galaxies because it’ll sound like I’ve got science

to back me up. I’ll use the word orbit but maybe mean
plunge then I’ll talk about heaven & mean something less.
My circling degrades & leads me to you & we both

know better but seem not to care. Tell me when you hear
a reason to blare from my radio static.
My hope is a bare hope since it’s naked & fleeting.

 

Intentional Noise

In the kitchen my gypsy stew
comes together, any leftover vegetables
mingling, as the glass back door
fogs with heat. I can’t see
what’s happening out there
in the kitchen—the bread rising
& spreading.
I obsess
about my decisions on certain days
but mostly act without worry.
I save the regret for later.
It’s probably only possible
to believe in something
the way I want to if you can’t see it.
The observable universe is full
of real but invisible force that helps
shunt light from source to destination,
to bang off something & into
something else. I roll over in the morning
to see Jenny so solidly sleeping
or sometimes only see her pillow
illuminated in actual absence
which is temporary.
Researchers point out
that you actually hear less
when the air is suffused with sound.

 

 
Nate Pritts (Syracuse, 27 september 1974)