Magdalene—The Seven Devils (Marie Howe)

 

Bij de derde zondag na Pinksteren

 

 
La guérison du Démoniaque door Sébastien Bourdon, 1660

 

Magdalene—The Seven Devils

“Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven devils had been cast out”,Luke 8:2.

The first was that I was very busy.

The second—I was different from you: whatever happened to you could
not happen to me, not like that.

The third—I worried.

The fourth—envy, disguised as compassion.

The fifth was that I refused to consider the quality of life of the aphid,
The aphid disgusted me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The mosquito too—its face. And the ant—its bifurcated body.

Ok the first was that I was so busy.

The second that I might make the wrong choice,
because I had decided to take that plane that day,
that flight, before noon, so as to arrive early
and, I shouldn’t have wanted that.
The third was that if I walked past the certain place on the street
the house would blow up.

The fourth was that I was made of guts and blood with a thin layer
of skin lightly thrown over the whole thing.

The fifth was that the dead seemed more alive to me than the living

The sixth—if I touched my right arm I had to touch my left arm, and if I
touched the left arm a little harder than I’d first touched the right then I had
to retouch the left and then touch the right again so it would be even.

The seventh—I knew I was breathing the expelled breath of everything that
was alive, and I couldn’t stand it.
I wanted a sieve, a mask, a, I hate this word—cheesecloth—
to breath through that would trap it—whatever was inside everyone else that
entered me when I breathed in.

No. That was the first one.

The second was that I was so busy. I had no time. How had this happened?
How had our lives gotten like this?

The third was that I couldn’t eat food if I really saw it—distinct, separate
from me in a bowl or on a plate.

Ok. The first was that. I could never get to the end of the list.
The second was that the laundry was never finally done.

The third was that no one knew me, although they thought they did.
And that if people thought of me as little as I thought of them then what was
love?

The fourth was I didn’t belong to anyone. I wouldn’t allow myself to belong
to anyone.

The fifth was that I knew none of us could ever know what we didn’t know.

The sixth was that I projected onto others what I myself was feeling.

The seventh was the way my mother looked when she was dying,
the sound she made—her mouth wrenched to the right and cupped open
so as to take in as much air… the gurgling sound, so loud
we had to speak louder to hear each other over it.

And that I couldn’t stop hearing it—years later—grocery shopping, crossing the street—

No, not the sound—it was her body’s hunger
finally evident—what our mother had hidden all her life.

For months I dreamt of knucklebones and roots,
the slabs of sidewalk pushed up like crooked teeth by what grew underneath.

The underneath. That was the first devil. It was always with me
And that I didn’t think you—if I told you—would understand any of this—

 

 
Marie Howe (Rochester, 1950)
Christ Church, in Rochester, New York, de geboorteplaats van Marie Howe

 

Zie voor de schrijvers van de 10e juni ook mijn vorige twee blogs van vandaag.

Pinksteren II (Willem de Mérode)

Prettige Pinksterdagen!

 

 
De nederdaling van de Heilige Geest door Francesco de Mura, midden 18e eeuw

 

Pinksteren II

Wij smeeken: met Uw Geestes gloed
Verteer ons als een offerande.
O, dit is onze diepe schande
Dat wij zoo koud zijn van gemoed.

Als een versiersel op ons hoofd
Willen we uw stille vlam wel dulden,
O God, vergeef ons onze schulden,
Dit: dat ons hart is uitgedoofd.

Neem weg, het vooze pronkend woord,
Dat U niet kent, ons niet behoort,
Geleend geluk, geborgde schande,

En hoor de oprechte rauwe kreet,
Die scheuren in Uw hemel reet
Verteer ons als een offerande.

 

 
Willem de Mérode (2 september 1887 –  22 mei 1939)
Spijk, de geboorteplaats van Willem de Mérode, geschilderd door Ciano Siewert, z.j.

 

Zie voor de schrijvers van de 21e mei ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

Pinksteren (Muus Jacobse), Gonzalo Torrente Ballester, Fernando Pessoa, Willem Brakman, Marcel Theroux

Prettige Pinksterdagen!

 

Pfingsten, Jozseph Ignaz Mildorfer (1719 –1775), rond 1750

 

Pinksteren

Gij hebt dit graf gebroken nu
En wij kunnen niet blijven staan
Nu Gij daaruit zijt opgestaan,
Maar toch, hoe was het vol van U.

Het hart dat gij geschapen hebt
Werd ledig van Uw hemelvaart,
En ’t oog heeft blind omhoog gestaard
Omdat Gij het verlaten hebt.

Het is zo vreemd geworden nu,
Want wij, uw kindren, zijn verweesd
En wachten ledig op Uw Geest,
En toch, wij zijn niet zonder U.

Ach, dat wij op dezelfde tijd
Verweesde zijn en deelgenoot,
Horen aan leven en aan dood,
Verlossing en verlorenheid.



Muus Jacobse (13 september 1909 – 21 november 1972)

Continue reading “Pinksteren (Muus Jacobse), Gonzalo Torrente Ballester, Fernando Pessoa, Willem Brakman, Marcel Theroux”