Poem for the father (Alejandra Pizarnik)

Dolce far niente

 


Man on Bench door J. Coates, z. j.

 

Poem for the father

And it was then
that with a dead and cold tongue in his mouth
he sang the song they didn’t let him sing
in this world of obscene gardens and of shadows
that came at the wrong time to remind him
of songs from his boyhood
in which he couldn’t sing the song he wanted to sing
the song they didn’t let him sing
except through his absent mouth
through his absent voice.
Then from the highest tower of absence
his song echoes in the opacity of the hidden
in the silent extension
full of shifting hollows like the words I write.

 

Vertaald door Jose Valqui

 
Alejandra Pizarnik (29 april 1936 – 25 september 1972)
Avellaneda, de geboorteplaats van Alejandra Pizarnik

 

Zie voor de schrijvers van de 30e april ook mijn blog van 30 april 2018 en ook mijn blog van 30 april 2016 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.

Fannie Stearns Davis

De Amerikaanse dichteres Fannie Stearns Davis werd geboren in Cleveland, Ohio, op 6 maart 1884. Ze studeerde af aan het Smith College in 1904. Ze heeft twee dichtbundels gepubliceerd: “Myself and I”, 1913, en “Crack O ‘Dawn”, 1915. Haar poëzie wordt gekenmerkt door een gevoelig poëtisch gevoel en delicate kunstzinnigheid. Davis gaf van 1906-07 Engels les aan de Kemper Hall in Kenoshay, Wisconsin. In 1910 hielp ze haar broer, William Stearns Davis, bij het bewerken van zijn klassieke historische boek, “A Day in Old Athens”. Jessie Bell Rittenhouse was een van de vele mensen die de lyrische kwaliteit van de poëzie van Davis prezen.

Souls

My Soul goes clad in gorgeous things,
  Scarlet and gold and blue;
And at her shoulder sudden wings
  Like long flames flicker through.

And she is swallow-fleet, and free
  From mortal bonds and bars.
She laughs, because Eternity
  Blossoms for her with stars!

O folk who scorn my stiff gray gown,
  My dull and foolish face,—
Can ye not see my Soul flash down,
  A singing flame through space?

And folk, whose earth-stained looks I hate,
  Why may I not divine
Your Souls, that must be passionate,
  Shining and swift, as mine!

 

Home

Home, to the hills and the rough, running water;
Home, to the plain folk and cold winds again.
Oh, I am only a gray farm’s still daughter,
Spite of my wandering passion and pain!

Home, from the city that snares and enthralls me;
Home, from the bold light and bold weary crowd.
Oh, it’s the blown snow and bare field that calls me;
White star and shy dawn and wild lonely cloud!

Home, to the gray house the pine-trees guard, sighing;
Home, to the low door that laughts to my touch.
How should I know till my wings failed me, flying,
Home-nest, – my heart’s nest, – I loved you so much?

 

Fannie Stearns Davis (30 april 1877 – 15 februari 1930)
Cover (Geen portret beschikbaar)