Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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Catherine Pozzi
(1884-1934)
Ave
Très haut amour, s’il se peut que je meure
Sans avoir su d’où je vous possédais,
En quel soleil était votre demeure
En quel passé votre temps, en quelle heure
Je vous aimais,
Très haut amour qui passez la mémoire,
Feu sans foyer dont j’ai fait tout mon jour,
En quel destin vous traciez mon histoire,
En quel sommeil se voyait votre gloire,
Ô mon séjour..
Quand je serai pour moi-même perdue
Et divisée à l’abîme infini,
Infiniment, quand je serai rompue,
Quand le présent dont je suis revêtue
Aura trahi,
Par l’univers en mille corps brisée,
De mille instants non rassemblés encor,
De cendre aux cieux jusqu’au néant vannée,
Vous referez pour une étrange année
Un seul trésor
Vous referez mon nom et mon image
De mille corps emportés par le jour,
Vive unité sans nom et sans visage,
Coeur de l’esprit, ô centre du mirage
Très haut amour.
Catherine Pozzi poésie
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Pozzi, Catherine
Esther Porcelijn
De superstorm
De keren dat ik verwaai
zijn gevaarlijk voor ons al.
Vluchten doet zelfs de kraai
op het dakje, opgeschrikt door vreemd geschal.
Weggedoken onder een stoel.
De krant vliegt in het rond,
mijn haren overeind bij het gevoel
dat ik dove woorden pers uit mijn mond.
Gegil verstomt bij elke schreeuw
van menig man die loopt op straat.
De kraai zoekt schutting bij een meeuw.
De weerman heeft geen paraplu paraat.
Als ik gedwongen word de oorsprong van dit noodweer op te sporen
kijk ik naast me, zie mijn vriendje, met benen opgetrokken, dromend
over chili-con-carne.
Esther Porcelijn gedicht
uit de nieuwe bundel: De keren dat ik verwaai
De keren dat ik verwaai is verkrijgbaar
of te bestellen via de reguliere boekhandel
of via uitgeverij teleXpress – www.telespress.nl
ISBN/EAN: 978-90-76937-44-1
Prijs: 15 euro
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Art & Literature News, Porcelijn, Esther
MARTIN BEVERSLUIS
Tijdbom
Woorden zijn gordijnen die je toedoet
zodra het spektakel is afgelopen het
waren mooie beelden een stuk of acht
jongens die in het midden van de nacht
iemand aanvielen en helemaal verrot
schopten na de daden komen dan altijd
de woorden die van afschuw het eerst
dan is het gevaar geweken kunnen we
de toedracht gaan verklaren deze tijden
zijn van teruggang en onbegrip dat vatten
we onvermijdelijk persoonlijk op hoe kan
dit mij overkomen een frustratio die er
toe doet die smeekt om een uitlaatklep
het grote verklaren is begonnen na ieder
conflict begrijpen we meer tot begrip ook
niet meer helpt en het recht van de sterkste
geldt deze woorden zijn gordijnen die
je dicht doet als je het denkraam sluit
een tijdbom wordt terloops ontploft.
Martin Beversluis poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Beversluis, Martin
William Butler Yeats
(1865 – 1939)
The Heart of the Woman
O what to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.
O what to me my mother’s care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.
O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.
William Butler Yeats poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
James Joyce
(1882-1941)
A Little Cloud
Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few fellows had talents like his and fewer still could remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher’s heart was in the right place and he had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.
Little Chandler’s thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher’s invitation and of the great city London where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth.
As he sat at his desk in the King’s Inns he thought what changes those eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He turned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving figures, on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and on everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.
He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.
When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal arch of the King’s Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air had grown sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood or ran in the roadway or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors or squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no thought. He picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the old nobility of Dublin had roystered. No memory of the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy.
He had never been in Corless’s but he knew the value of the name. He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before the door and richly dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day and whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his footsteps troubled him, the wandering, silent figures troubled him; and at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf.
He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before? Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of fellows at that time. drank freely and borrowed money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money transaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody denied him talent. There was always a certain . . . something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out at elbows and at his wits’ end for money he kept up a bold face. Little Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher’s sayings when he was in a tight corner
“Half time now, boys,” he used to say light-heartedly. “Where’s my considering cap?”
That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn’t but admire him for it.
Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some London paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not sure what idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward bravely.
Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so old, thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried weigh his soul to see if it was a poet’s soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get. “Mr. Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse.” . . . “wistful sadness pervades these poems.” . . . “The Celtic note.” It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother’s name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it.
He pursued his revery so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back. As he came near Corless’s his former agitation began to overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he opened the door and entered.
The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways for a few moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wine-glasses The bar seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there, sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far apart.
“Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you have? I’m taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water. Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I’m the same Spoils the flavour. . . . Here, garçon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow. . . . Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God, how old we’re getting! Do you see any signs of aging in me, eh, what? A little grey and thin on the top, what?”
Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely cropped head. His face was heavy, pale and cleanshaven. His eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless. He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius Galaher put on his hat again.
“It pulls you down,” be said, “Press life. Always hurry and scurry, looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few days. I’m deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country. Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I landed again in dear dirty Dublin. . . . Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say when.”
Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.
“You don’t know what’s good for you, my boy,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “I drink mine neat.”
“I drink very little as a rule,” said Little Chandler modestly. “An odd half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that’s all.”
“Ah well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, “here’s to us and to old times and old acquaintance.”
They clinked glasses and drank the toast.
“I met some of the old gang today,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “O’Hara seems to be in a bad way. What’s he doing?”
“Nothing,” said Little Chandler. “He’s gone to the dogs.”
“But Hogan has a good sit, hasn’t he?”
“Yes; he’s in the Land Commission.”
“I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush. . . . Poor O’Hara! Boose, I suppose?”
“Other things, too,” said Little Chandler shortly.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
“Tommy,” he said, “I see you haven’t changed an atom. You’re the very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You’d want to knock about a bit in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?”
“I’ve been to the Isle of Man,” said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
“The Isle of Man!” he said. “Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice. That’d do you good.”
“Have you seen Paris?”
“I should think I have! I’ve knocked about there a little.”
“And is it really so beautiful as they say?” asked Little Chandler.
He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his boldly.
“Beautiful?” said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink. “It’s not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it is beautiful. . . . But it’s the life of Paris; that’s the thing. Ah, there’s no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement. . . . ”
Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in catching the barman’s eye. He ordered the same again.
“I’ve been to the Moulin Rouge,” Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed their glasses, “and I’ve been to all the Bohemian cafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.”
Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses: then he touched his friend’s glass lightly and reciprocated the former toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher’s accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was something vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.
“Everything in Paris is gay,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “They believe in enjoying life, and don’t you think they’re right? If you want to enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they’ve a great feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man.”
Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass.
“Tell me,” he said, “is it true that Paris is so . . . immoral as they say?”
Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm.
“Every place is immoral,” he said. “Of course you do find spicy bits in Paris. Go to one of the students’ balls, for instance. That’s lively, if you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You know what they are, I suppose?”
“I’ve heard of them,” said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his had.
“Ah,” he said, “you may say what you like. There’s no woman like the Parisienne, for style, for go.”
“Then it is an immoral city,” said Little Chandler, with timid insistence, “I mean, compared with London or Dublin?”
“London!” said Ignatius Gallaher. “It’s six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when he was over there. He’d open your eye. . . . I say, Tommy, don’t make punch of that whisky: liquor up.”
“No, really. . . . ”
“O, come on, another one won’t do you any harm. What is it? The same again, I suppose?”
“Well . . . all right.”
“François, the same again. . . . Will you smoke, Tommy?”
Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served.
“I’ll tell you my opinion,” said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after some time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, “it’s a rum world. Talk of immorality! I’ve heard of cases, what am I saying?, I’ve known them: cases of . . . immorality. . . . ”
Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm historian’s tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarised the vices of many capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some things he could not vouch for (his friends had told him), but of others he had had personal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. He revealed many of the secrets of religious houses on the Continent and described some of the practices which were fashionable in high society and ended by telling, with details, a story about an English duchess, a story which he knew to be true. Little Chandler as astonished.
“Ah, well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “here we are in old jog-along Dublin where nothing is known of such things.”
“How dull you must find it,” said Little Chandler, “after all the other places you’ve seen!”
Well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “it’s a relaxation to come over here, you know. And, after all, it’s the old country, as they say, isn’t it? You can’t help having a certain feeling for it. That’s human nature. . . . But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had . . . tasted the joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn’t it?”
Little Chandler blushed and smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “I was married last May twelve months.”
“I hope it’s not too late in the day to offer my best wishes,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “I didn’t know your address or I’d have done so at the time.”
He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.
“Well, Tommy,” he said, “I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And that’s the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?”
“I know that,” said Little Chandler.
“Any youngsters?” said Ignatius Gallaher.
Little Chandler blushed again.
“We have one child,” he said.
“Son or daughter?”
“A little boy.”
Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back.
“Bravo,” he said, “I wouldn’t doubt you, Tommy.”
Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower lip with three childishly white front teeth.
“I hope you’ll spend an evening with us,” he said, “before you go back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little music and, , ”
“Thanks awfully, old chap,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “I’m sorry we didn’t meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night.”
“Tonight, perhaps . . . ?”
“I’m awfully sorry, old man. You see I’m over here with another fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a little card-party. Only for that . . . ”
“O, in that case . . . ”
“But who knows?” said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. “Next year I may take a little skip over here now that I’ve broken the ice. It’s only a pleasure deferred.”
“Very well,” said Little Chandler, “the next time you come we must have an evening together. That’s agreed now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s agreed,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “Next year if I come, parole d’honneur.”
“And to clinch the bargain,” said Little Chandler, “we’ll just have one more now.”
Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked a it.
“Is it to be the last?” he said. “Because you know, I have an a.p.”
“O, yes, positively,” said Little Chandler.
“Very well, then,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “let us have another one as a deoc an doruis, that’s good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe.”
Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his face a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle made him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three small whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher’s strong cigar had confused his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher in Corless’s surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher’s stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher’s vagrant and triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt acutely the contrast between his own life and his friend’s and it seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was sure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, or could ever do, something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he only got the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate timidity He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert his manhood. He saw behind Gallaher’s refusal of his invitation. Gallaher was only patronising him by his friendliness just as he was patronising Ireland by his visit.
The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his friend and took up the other boldly.
“Who knows?” he said, as they lifted their glasses. “When you come next year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr. and Mrs. Ignatius Gallaher.”
Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips decisively, set down his glass and said:
“No blooming fear of that, my boy. I’m going to have my fling first and see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack, if I ever do.”
“Some day you will,” said Little Chandler calmly.
Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon his friend.
“You think so?” he said.
“You’ll put your head in the sack,” repeated Little Chandler stoutly, “like everyone else if you can find the girl.”
He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he had betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, he did not flinch from his friend’s gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for a few moments and then said:
“If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there’ll be no mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She’ll have a good fat account at the bank or she won’t do for me.”
Little Chandler shook his head.
“Why, man alive,” said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, “do you know what it is? I’ve only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the woman and the cash. You don’t believe it? Well, I know it. There are hundreds, what am I saying?, thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten with money, that’d only be too glad. . . . You wait a while my boy. See if I don’t play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business, I tell you. You just wait.”
He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:
“But I’m in no hurry. They can wait. I don’t fancy tying myself up to one woman, you know.”
He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face.
“Must get a bit stale, I should think,” he said.
Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his arms. To save money they kept no servant but Annie’s young sister Monica came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in the evening to help. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a quarter to nine. Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley’s. Of course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said she would do without any tea but when it came near the time at which the shop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarter of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child deftly in his arms and said:
“Here. Don’t waken him.”
A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled horn. It was Annie’s photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausing at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which he had brought her home as a present one Saturday. It had cost him ten and elevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost him! How he had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop was empty, standing at the counter and trying to appear at his ease while the girl piled ladies’ blouses before him, paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd penny of his change, being called back by the cashier, and finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left the shop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely tied. When he brought the blouse home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and stylish; but when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the table and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and elevenpence for it. At first she wanted to take it back but when she tried it on she was delighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissed him and said he was very good to think of her.
Hm! . . .
He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answered coldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty. But he found something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious and ladylike? The composure of the eyes irritated him. They repelled him and defied him: there was no passion in them, no rapture. He thought of what Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing! . . . Why had he married the eyes in the photograph?
He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the room. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded him of her. It too was prim and pretty. A dull resentment against his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from his little house? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher? Could he go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid for. If he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way for him.
A volume of Byron’s poems lay before him on the table. He opened it cautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the child and began to read the first poem in the book:
Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom,
Not e’en a Zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret’s tomb
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the melancholy of his soul in verse? There were so many things he wanted to describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan Bridge, for example. If he could get back again into that mood. . . .
The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to hush it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in his arms but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked it faster while his eyes began to read the second stanza:
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay where once . . .
It was useless. He couldn’t read. He couldn’t do anything. The wailing of the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless! He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and suddenly bending to the child’s face he shouted:
“Stop!”
The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began to scream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down the room with the child in his arms. It began to sob piteously, losing its breath for four or five seconds, and then bursting out anew. The thin walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to soothe it but it sobbed more convulsively. He looked at the contracted and quivering face of the child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs without a break between them and caught the child to his breast in fright. If it died! . . .
The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting.
“What is it? What is it?” she cried.
The child, hearing its mother’s voice, broke out into a paroxysm of sobbing.
“It’s nothing, Annie . . . it’s nothing. . . . He began to cry . . . ”
She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him.
“What have you done to him?” she cried, glaring into his face.
Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his heart closed together as he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer:
“It’s nothing. . . . He . . . he began to cry. . . . I couldn’t . . . I didn’t do anything. . . . What?”
Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping the child tightly in her arms and murmuring:
“My little man! My little mannie! Was ’ou frightened, love? . . . There now, love! There now!… Lambabaun! Mamma’s little lamb of the world! . . . There now!”
Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back out of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child’s sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to his eyes.
James Joyce stories
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive I-J, Joyce, James, Joyce, James
Giacomo Leopardi
(1798-1837)
A Silvia
Silvia, rimembri ancora
Quel tempo della tua vita mortale,
Quando beltà splendea
Negli occhi tuoi ridenti e fuggitivi,
E tu, lieta e pensosa, il limitare
Di gioventù salivi?
Sonavan le quiete
Stanze, e le vie dintorno,
Al tuo perpetuo canto,
Allor che all’opre femminili intenta
Sedevi, assai contenta
Di quel vago avvenir che in mente avevi.
Era il maggio odoroso: e tu solevi
Così menare il giorno.
Io gli studi leggiadri
Talor lasciando e le sudate carte,
Ove il tempo mio primo
E di me si spendea la miglior parte,
D’in su i veroni del paterno ostello
Porgea gli orecchi al suon della tua voce,
Ed alla man veloce
Che percorrea la faticosa tela.
Mirava il ciel sereno,
Le vie dorate e gli orti,
E quinci il mar da lungi, e quindi il monte.
Lingua mortal non dice
Quel ch’io sentiva in seno.
Che pensieri soavi,
Che speranze, che cori, o Silvia mia!
Quale allor ci apparia
La vita umana e il fato!
Quando sovviemmi di cotanta speme,
Un affetto mi preme
Acerbo e sconsolato,
E tornami a doler di mia sventura.
O natura, o natura,
Perchè non rendi poi
Quel che prometti allor? perchè di tanto
Inganni i figli tuoi?
Tu pria che l’erbe inaridisse il verno,
Da chiuso morbo combattuta e vinta,
Perivi, o tenerella. E non vedevi
Il fior degli anni tuoi;
Non ti molceva il core
La dolce lode or delle negre chiome,
Or degli sguardi innamorati e schivi;
Nè teco le compagne ai dì festivi
Ragionavan d’amore.
Anche peria fra poco
La speranza mia dolce: agli anni miei
Anche negaro i fati
La giovanezza. Ahi come,
Come passata sei,
Cara compagna dell’età mia nova,
Mia lacrimata speme!
Questo è quel mondo? questi
I diletti, l’amor, l’opre, gli eventi
Onde cotanto ragionammo insieme?
Questa la sorte dell’umane genti?
All’apparir del vero
Tu, misera, cadesti: e con la mano
La fredda morte ed una tomba ignuda
Mostravi di lontano.
Giacomo Leopardi poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive K-L, Leopardi, Giacomo
I n M e m o r i a m A d W i l l e m e n
Jasper Mikkers
Teruggebracht Vuur (1)(2)
alle beelden zijn tot rust gekomen
het sneeuwt niet meer, niet in het hoofd, niet achter vensterglas
persen, lijsten, kasten, stiften en penselen
het water in de leiding: alles houdt zich stil
het ontbreekt de wil te zijn nu hij er niet meer is
door de verwildering van vlees is wie hij was
vermenigvuldigd tot een handvol gras
alle beelden zijn tot rust gekomen
de boeren die naar huis toe liepen na het planten van de rijst
de spelerstroep, halfweg een touwbrug over een ravijn
de vlokken die nog vielen, hangen roerloos in de lucht
nu hij is gestopt met dromen
geen naakt zijn netvlies raakt
schoonheid vond hier zwart en rood
geen wit van borsten, bil en dij wordt nog gevangen
in gebogen lijnen: wie stopt nu het verdwijnen
het verdrogen van de jonge vormen in de tijd, wie houdt
het woelen van verlangen ons voor ogen, legt
eeuwig voelen vast
een vuur teruggebracht tot minder dan miniatuur
geen tijd stroomt door zijn vlees, beweegt zijn hand
zijn stem heeft zich verzacht tot minder nog dan hees
zijn bril, een venster dat vergrootte wat zich aan het oog
onttrekken wou, een omgestoten whiskyfles en tekenblok
liggen op tafel, naast zijn broeksriem en een sok
(1) Dit gedicht schreef ik in mijn functie van stadsdichter.
(2) Op 24 september is kunstenaar Ad Willemen overleden. Hij was tekenaar, etser, lithograaf en fotograaf en maakte gouaches. Hij was de leermeester van Reinoud van Vugt en Marc Mulders, exposeerde in binnen- en buitenland en won prijzen. Hij gaf les aan het Koning Willem II College. Met zijn miniaturen van klassieke schilderijen en naakttekeningen (Het geheime oeuvre van Adriaan Willemen) verwierf hij een grote bekendheid.
Jasper Mikkers is stadsdichter van Tilburg
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Ad Willemen, Archive M-N, In Memoriam, Mikkers, Jasper
Ghanaian poet Kofi Awoonor
died during attack at Nairobian shopping mall
23 september 2013
Ghanaian poet Professor Kofi Awoonor has died during the attack at Nairobian shopping centre Westgate Mall. He died on Saturday, aged 78, from injuries sustained in the attack in Nairobi.
Kofi Awoonor was in Nairobi to speak at the Storymoja Hay Festival, a four-day international litarary festival. Performers were also Ghanaian poets Nii Parkes and Kwame Dawes. Awoonor was due to perform on this festival on Saturday evening.
Awoonor was born in 1935 and became known for his poetry, inspired by the oral poetry of his native Ewe tribe. Awoonor gained a masters degree in literature at London University in 1970. His second collection of poetry, Night of My Blood, was published in 1971, a series of poems that explore his roots of colonialism and foreign rule in Africa.
His son was also shot, but has later been discharged from hospital.
Kofi Awoonor
Songs of Sorrow
I
Dzogbese Lisa has treated me thus
It has led me among the sharps of the forest
Returning is not possible
And going forward is a great difficulty
The affairs of this world are like the chameleon faeces
Into which I have stepped
When I clean it cannot go.
I am on the world’s extreme corner,
I am not sitting in the row with the eminent
But those who are lucky
Sit in the middle and forget
I am on the world’s extreme corner
I can only go beyond and forget.
My people, I have been somewhere
If I turn here, the rain beats me
If I turn there the sun burns me
The firewood of this world
Is for only those who can take heart
That is why not all can gather it.
The world is not good for anybody
But you are so happy with your fate;
Alas! the travelers are back
All covered with debt.
II
Something has happened to me
The things so great that I cannot weep
I have no sons to fire the gun when I die
And no daughter to wail when I close my mouth
I have wandered on the wilderness
The great wilderness men call life
The rain has beaten me,
And the sharp stumps cut as keen as knives
I shall go beyond and rest.
I have no kin and no brother,
Death has made war upon our house;
And Kpeti’s great household is no more,
Only the broken fence stands;
And those who dared not look in his face
Have come out as men.
How well their pride is with them.
Let those gone before take note
They have treated their offspring badly.
What is the wailing for?
Somebody is dead. Agosu himself
Alas! a snake has bitten me
My right arm is broken,
And the tree on which I lean is fallen.
Agosi if you go tell them,
Tell Nyidevu, Kpeti, and Kove
That they have done us evil;
Tell them their house is falling
And the trees in the fence
Have been eaten by termites
That the martels curse them.
Ask them why they idle there
While we suffer, and eat sand.
And the crow and the vulture
Hover always above our broken fences
And strangers walk over our portion.
Publications
1964 Rediscovery and Other Poems (poetry)
1971 Night of My Blood (poetry)
1971 This Earth, My Brother … An Allegorical Tale of Africa (novel)
1972 Come Back, Ghana
1973 Ride Me, Memory (poetry)
1975 The Breast of the Earth: A Survey of the History, Culture and Literature of Africa South of the Sahara
1978 The House by the Sea (poetry)
1984 The Ghana Revolution: A Background Account from a Personal Perspective
1987 Until the Morning After: Collected Poems (poetry)
1990 Ghana: A Political History from Pre-European to Modern Times
1992 Comes the Voyager at Last: A Tale of Return to Africa (novel)
1992 The Latin American and Caribbean Notebook (poetry)
1994 Africa, the Marginalized Continent
2002 Herding the Lost Lamb (poetry)
2006 The African Predicament: Collected Essays
# More Ghanaian poetry on website POETRY FOUNDATION GHANA
# Website Hay Festival Nairobi
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, In Memoriam
Nieuwe wielerverhalen van
JACE van de Ven:
Mag ik nog wat wind van achteren?
Op vrijdag de dertiende, de ultieme datum waarop Tilburg het jaar 013 viert, presenteerde de eerste stadsdichter van Tilburg en voormalig journalist en columnschrijver JACE van de Ven het boek `Mag ik nog wat wind van achteren` in Boekhandel Livius in Tilburg. Dat gebeurt na sluitingsuur om 20,00 uur. Iedereen is welkom. Het boek bevat dertien vlot geschreven wielerverhalen, gebaseerd op voorvallen in veertig jaar fietservaring, waarin JACE ongeveer 100.000 kilometer aflegde.
Van de Ven is een geboren verteller met een scherp observatievermogen en een continue verwondering over de menselijke natuur. Zijn belevenissen en gedachten verwerkt hij sinds enkele jaren in korte fietsverhalen die soms hilarisch en relativerend zijn, dan weer ontroerend en serieus van toon. Zo neemt hij je in het nieuwe boek in gedachten mee langs de mooiste dorpjes van de Ardennen, legt hij uit wat er nodig is om een profwielrenner te worden, laat hij de lezer kennis maken met de kleurrijke figuren die hij onderweg ontmoet en ontroert hij met een verhaal waarin hij terugdenkt aan een wedstrijdje fietsen tegen zijn broer Toon, die ondertussen is overleden aan de gevolgen van kanker.
Van de Ven is een opvallende verschijning in het peloton van wielerauteurs. Zijn forse postuur en woeste baard hebben hem de bijnaam Raspoetin bezorgd. Verwacht geen geschoren benen, carbon frames en wetenschappelijk verantwoorde sportdrank. Van de Ven is eerder de bourgondische fietser die bovenop een col stopt om van een wijds uitzicht te genieten en eenmaal beneden… van de gastvrijheid van de lokale horeca.
Van de Ven leest regelmatig fietsverhalen voor bij feesten van wielerverenigingen, in de wielercafés van Oss en Bladel en op parties bij oud-wielrenners. ‘Mag ik nog wat wind van achteren?’ is zijn antwoord op de vele verzoeken om zijn teksten eens in boekvorm uit te brengen.
‘Mag ik nog wat wind van achteren?’ (ISBN/EAN: 978-94-90484-05-7 NUR: 303) kent een mooie omslag van Ivo van Leeuwen, het boek is vormgegeven door Chris Leenaars, ReflexBlue en geïllustreerd door Aleksei Makarov, InnoDoks uit Middelbeers is de uitgever. Het boek is gebonden met harde kaft en kost 14,95 euro.
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive U-V, Art & Literature News, Ven, Jace van de
Carina van der Walt
Bioskets | Biography
Carina van der Walt is in Welkom gebore. In Nederland word sy reëlmatig daaraan herinner hoe spesiaal dit is om op só ’n plek ’n mens se lewe te kon begin. Haar kinderjare het sy redelik sorgvry deurgebring.
Daarna volg wydverspreid oor baie jare ’n akademiese opleiding aan die PUK, later die NWU en ook die Katolieke Universiteit van Brabant in Tilburg. Sy cum in 2004 haar M in ’n vergelykende studie tussen Afrikaanse en Nederlandse poësie. Tussendeur trou sy, word ma, hou skool, gee klas aan die NWU, word weduwee met twee klein kindertjies, en reël wyd en syd vier jaar lank ’n skrywerskompetisie vir die ATKV. SAVN-kongresreëlings in Potchefstroom (2004) en simposium-organiseerder in Tilburg (2009) pas binne haar portefeulje. Sy ontmoet Geno Spoormans tydens navorsingstyd in Nederland. Drie jaar later trou hulle. Carina verplaas begin 2007 haar lewe na Nederland. Hier skryf sy voltyds.
Die appel van haar oog is 25 en woon in Durban. Sy het hom so lief soos die sand en die branders van die see … met die intensiteit van elke volmaakte sewende golf.
Haar hart se punt is ’n 21-jarige student in Stellenbosch. Sy het haar so lief soos die sterre in die Melkweg … en die Suiderkruis wat rigting gee.
Daarom bly haar bande met Suid-Afrika sterk. Die invloed en blootstelling van verskillende Europese lande, kulture, tale en denkwyses is ’n boks Quality Street. Sy deel dit graag. Dit maak haar ’n beter Suid-Afrikaner en wêreldburger.
carina van der walt
Vrouestemme oorheers digterswêreld
Carina van der Walt
2013-02-05
Nasionale Gedigtedag 2013 het vir ’n dubbele verrassing gesorg. Op Donderdagaand 31 Januarie is Anne Vegter (54) aangekondig as die opvolger van Ramsey Nasr. Sy is die eerste vroulike Dichter des Vaderlands. Die vorige aand is Ester Naomi Perquin (33) aangekondig as die wenner van die VSB-poësieprys met haar digbundel Celinspecties. Albei hierdie stemme kom uit Rotterdam. ’n Week vroeër is die Constantijn Huygens-prys (’n oeuvreprys) toegeken aan Joke van Leeuwen. Dis nou die tyd vir die erkenning van uitsonderlike vrouestemme.
Vegter was uiters verbaas toe sy deur Bas Kwakman, direkteur van Poetry International, gebel is met die vraag of sy vaderlandsdigter wil word: “Ik viel van mijn stoel. Echt. Het was surreëel.”
En saam het haar het omtrent driekwart van die Nederlandse poësiewêreld van hulle stoele afgetuimel, want die persepsie van Vegter se poësie is dat dit nogal onverstaanbaar is. Kreek Daey Ouwens, ’n kollega van Vegter, beskryf haar gedigte as rou en eroties. Fynproewerlesers ken Vegter veral deur Ongekuiste versies (1994). Dis ’n bundeltjie met erotiese kortverhale. In die inleiding van haar laaste digbundel – Eiland, berg, gletsjer (2011) – staan: “Haar poëzie is heel fysiek, alles is hier lichamelijk en aanraakbaar. … We hebben het hier over erotiek die zo sterk is dat ze overal in doordringt, zeker in haar poëzie waarin ze voortdurend tot uitbarsting komt.”
Die titelgedig, “Eiland, berg, gletsjer”,begin met op elke bladsy twee lang tweereëlige sinne:
Ook als je wakker word boven een sterfgebied en je gespt kinderen vast als gordels: laat mij
eens door een raam kijken of het daar erg is, zie je er niets van want het is een diepteoorlog.
Ook als een doelwit vanaf die grond toch naar je zwaait en je verlangt naar bleke sterren
op zo’n voorhoofdje, taxie je over het oefenveldje van je grimassen en je speelt elk karakter.
*
Ook als haar schacht krimpt en tembaarheid ontsnapt haar rode lassen, wakkert ze
vuur aan dat het stelsel doorwarmt en haar brille ontstolt tot ja! Optimisme, stokt ze.
Ook als haar XXL-geluksmaatje boven de grond komt ‘als een dode kompel’ (eerste tel ik
mijn vrouwen, daarna mijn dagen) weet ze weer de kleine methode van zijn handen.
Vegter se laaste twee bundels was albei genomineer vir die VSB-poësieprys, maar sy het dit nie gekry nie. Dit was Eiland, berg, gletsjer en Spamfighter (2007). Haar oeuvre is relatief klein, met vier digbundels versprei oor twintig jaar. Die stadsdigterskap van Rotterdam het ook nie na haar kant toe gegaan nie – iets waarop sy heimlik gehoop het en waarvoor sy bevoeg genoeg gevoel het. Iets groters het egter op haar gewag: Dichter des Vaderlands, 2013–2017.
y is (anders as haar voorganger, Ramsey Nasr) nie deur die publiek gekies vir hierdie uitsonderlike funksie nie. Sy is daarvoor gevra. Nadat sy herstel het van haar aanvanklike verbasing, was haar reaksie daarop bietjie droog: “Ik ben niet tegen positieve discriminatie. En er zijn veel vrouwelijke dichters, dus er was keuze genoeg.”
Nog verskille met Nasr is dat Vegter nie die podium so benut nie en dat sy waarskynlik nie politieke kommentaar gaan lewer op die Nederlandse samelewing nie. Laasgenoemde is iets waarvoor Nasr beide gerespekteer en gekruisig is. Ondanks die vermoede dat Vegter nie so ‘n groot podiumdigter soos Nasr sal wees nie, het sy haar vinger op die pols van nuwe ontwikkelinge. Haar voornemens vir haar tyd as vaderlandsdigter sluit onder andere gedigte op You Tube-filmpies en digterlike flashmops met minstens 500 mense op ’n slag in.
Die samestelling van die kommissie vir die benoeming van ’n nuwe vaderlandsdigter het die tipe digter weerspieël waarna hulle gesoek het: iemand wat veelsydig is. Die kommissie het uit ses lede bestaan uit die wêrelde van skrywers, televisie, koerant, politiek en poësiekritiek. Vegter ís veelsydig. Haar oeuvre bevat meer prosa as poësie, en selfs toneel. Haar eerste literêre toekenning was die Woutertje Pieterse-prys vir die kinderboek De dame en de neushoorn (1989). In haar oeuvre kry lesers dus die vreemde kombinasie van kinderboeke en volwasse erotiek. Maar hierdie oënskynlik onversoenbare aspekte verbind sy moeiteloos as beweer word dat haar beste werk uit ’n kinderlike blik ontstaan, met: “De gewetensvolle, volwassen blik corrigeert dat weer.”
Vegter se oeuvre het raakpunte met dié van die sestigjarige Joke van Leeuwen. Albei hierdie digteresse skryf ernstige, volwasse werk – maar óók werk vir kinders. Volgens die jurie van die Constantijn Huygens-prys het Van Leeuwen haar nog altyd verset ten die tweedeling tussen kinderliteratuur en volwasse literatuur. Haar werk verbreek telkens hierdie grens deur met ’n kindperspektief te skryf oor ernstige sake soos byvoorbeeld geweld, mag en rassisme. Met die erkenning van twee sulke prominente digteresse se veelsydige oeuvres en die sigbare ooreenkomste daarin, kan die noukeurige leser egter vra of alle vrouestemme dan uit ’n kinderperspektief moet kan skryf.
Beide Van Leeuwen en Vegter hou van visuele aspekte by hulle poësie. Eiland, berg, gletsjer is ook deur Vegter geïllustreer met krabbelrige sketsies. Van Leeuwen se agtergrond as grafiese ontwerper het veral gedurende haar tydperk as stadsdigter van Antwerpen konkreet in die stad tot uiting gekom.
Die jurie van die Constantijn Huygens-prys het hulle keuse vir Van Leeuwen onder andere so verwoord:
Haar werk is onconventioneel en verrassend speels. Ze schrijft over innemende wezens, kinderen en volwassenen die hun eigen eigenzinnige gang proberen te gaan. Tedere anarchie is haar handelsmerk. Ze houdt van taal en elk boek getuigt van de tover van 26 letters. Vooral in haar werk voor kinderen, maar ook in dat voor volwassenen gaan woord en beeld een vrolijk gevecht aan, of vallen in elkaars armen.
Van Leeuwen is al ’n bekende in Suid-Afrika – net soos Luuk Gruwes en Menno Wigman, wat albei genomineer was vir die VSB-poësieprys. Hulle genomineerde bundels was onderskeidelik Wijvenheide (Gruwes) en Mijn naam is Legioen (Wigman). Dit was swaar sluk vir Wigman toe Perquin met Celinspecties (2012) die prys voor sy neus weggeraap het, want hy was verreweg as die gunsteling aangekondig in die pers. Ron Rijghard het byvoorbeeld sy artikel in die NRC-Handelsblad op 25 Januarie begin met: “De VSB-Poëzieprijs 2013 moet gaan naar Mijn naam is Legioen van Menno Wigman.” Die oproep waarmee Rijghard sy artikel ook geëindig het, het egter op dowe ore geval. Die jurie roem “de verraderlijk luchtige toon en de onvoorspelbare wendingen” in Perquin se bundel.
Die ander genomineerdes was die 74-jarige HH ter Balkt en die 88-jarige Sybren Polet. Na die aankondiging het die saal gesug. Perquin se bundel is goed, maar sy is nog so jonk. Sy kan dit altyd volgende jaar of die jaar daarna wen. Kon hulle nie maar die ouer manne soos Ter Balkt (wenner van die PC Hoofd-prys in 2003) ’n kans gee nie? Rijghard redeneer selfs dat HH ter Balkt se status die VSB-poësieprys se prestige weer ’n bietjie sou kon herstel, ná die “postmoderne nonpoëzie van Jan Lauwereyns” van die vorige jaar. Die kandidate van die VSB-poësieprys 2013 het een gemene deler gehad: ’n pessimistiese blik op mens en wêreld.
In ’n breër sin was die toekenning aan Perquin se bundel net so ’n verrassingselement soos by Vegter en ook soos die werklike betekenis van die einste bundel se titel. Wat is tog die verborge vermoë van poësie om lesers by Celinspecties eerstens te laat dink aan liggaam- of plantselle? Nee, dis baie blatanter. Hierdie bundel gaan oor die inspeksies in tronkselle uit ’n tyd toe Perquin ’n tronkbewaarder was. Sy is geïnteresseerd in die kwaad. Deur haar taal kry die moordenaars elkeen ’n gloed van ’n poëet. Oor haar gedigte hang ’n skadu van geweld. Celinspecties is haar derde digbundel.
Gesprek
Op straat zegt een man in zijn telefoon nee zegt niet schreeuwt
wie denk je eigenlijk, haalt adem, ziet mij staan,
wie denk je dat je bent
met je goede manieren zogenaamd die rijke vrienden van je
met je vol geplande week je goede baan
zijn stem breekt het toestel open,
die vrouw rolt ineens over straat, half aangekleed, mascara
uitgelopen, krabbelt overeind, staat verbaasd
en hij begint weer opnieuw
wie denk je dat je bent en kijkt naar mij terwijl hij slaat,
blijft kijken tot ik roep dat is genoeg stop ze ligt
al opgerold ze doet je niks man stop
maar hij is nog niet uitgepraat en kijkt naar mij en vraagt
wie denk je blijft maar doorgaan in zijn handpalm
woorden maken, dat je bent
houdt niet meer op.
(Uit Celinspecties, 2012)
Met haar gedigte se donker kante en suggesties van gevaar kan Perquin se poësie as hard ervaar word, maar haar seggingskrag sorg vir balans. Sy skryf uit ’n volwasse perspektief. Daardeur onderskei die jonge Perquin haar van beide Vegter en Van Leeuwen. En daarom moet sy fyn dopgehou word.
# Lees Anne Vegter se gedig, Gebed voor iedereen
fleursdumal.nl magazine for art & literature
More in: Archive W-X, Carina van der Walt, Walt, Carina van der
Esther Porcelijn
Argwaan
Ben jij nog wel mijn leider?
Ben jij nog wel de baas van alles?
Ben jij nog wel mijn sokpop?
Ben jij nog wel de klootzak?
Kook jij nog wel spinazie en eitjes voor mij?
Stop jij mij nog wel in?
Zing jij nog wel een liedje voor mij?
Knabbel je nog wel aan mijn vel?
Kus je nog wel op mijn nare gedachten?
Was je nog wel mijn hoofd en mijn haar?
Wil je mij nog wel soms een dag zien?
Wil je nog wel mijn regels verzinnen?
Ga je nog wel aan de afwas beginnen?
Snij je nog wel de uien voor de haring?
Bepaal je nog wel hoe het gaat?
Wil jij nog wel mij bekijken?
Ben ik nog wel je sokpop?
Lig je vannacht weer naast mij?
Esther Porcelijn gedicht
uit de nieuwe bundel: De keren dat ik verwaai
De keren dat ik verwaai is verkrijgbaar of te bestellen
via de reguliere boekhandel of
via uitgeverij teleXpress – www.telexpress.nl
ISBN/EAN: 978-90-76937-44-1
Prijs: 15 euro
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Porcelijn, Esther
U I T N O D I G I N G
t e l e X p r e s s
www.telexpress.nl
dubbelpresentatie teleXpress op 26 september 2013:
De keren dat ik verwaai, debuutbundel Esther Porcelijn en
De Hel van Ruud Welten
in theater DE NWE Vorst, aanvang 20.30 uur
Op 26 september a.s. lanceert uitgeverij teleXpress in theater De NWE Vorst in Tilburg een tweetal nieuwe, bijzondere publicaties. Het betreft De keren dat ik verwaai, de debuutbundel van Esther Porcelijn, stadsdichter van Tilburg 2011-2013. Daarnaast, ruim een maand voor de honderdste geboortedag van Albert Camus, De Hel, een toneelstuk over Sartre, Camus en (hedendaags) terrorisme van filosoof en publicist Ruud Welten.
Tijdens de presentatie zal Esther Porcelijn – als altijd op pakkende wijze – voordragen uit haar bundel. Daarnaast vormen gelezen tekstfragmenten door Esther Porcelijn (naast dichter ook acteur en filosofiestudent) en filosoof en Sartrekenner Paul Cobben aanleiding voor een discussie tussen Ruud Welten, Hans Achterhuis, filosoof en auteur van o.a. Met alle geweld, theaterregisseur Tarkan Köroğlu en de overige sprekers. Moderator is Leon Heuts, redacteur van Filosofie Magazine.
In De keren dat ik verwaai beziet de voormalige stadsdichter van Tilburg, Esther Porcelijn, de stad en haar bewoners met de scherpe, maar tegelijkertijd zachtmoedige blik van de buitenstaander. De intermenselijke relaties in al hun verschijningsvormen worden door haar op associatieve, soms dromerig-poëtische dan weer beschouwelijke wijze neergezet, zij het telkens gelardeerd met de nodige ironie en humor.
De naoorlogse controverse tussen Sartre en Camus blijkt ook in de 21ste eeuw nog niets aan actualiteit te hebben ingeboet. Door het gedachtegoed van Sartre en Camus te confronteren met dat van een jonge islamitische terroriste, zet Ruud Welten de zaak op scherp, houdt hij ethische en existentiële kwesties tegen een hedendaags licht en zet hij de lezer aan het denken. Op heldere en tegelijkertijd speelse wijze worden deze kwesties de 26ste ten tonele gevoerd.
Behalve het toneelstuk bevat De Hel bijdragen van Sartre, Camus en een interview met toneelregisseur Tarkan Köroğlu.
Ruud Welten (1962) is filosoof. Hij is als universitair docent werkzaam aan de Universiteit van Tilburg en als lector bij de hogeschool Saxion te Deventer. Van zijn hand verschenen tal van publicatie over o.m. Sartre. Onlangs verscheen eveneens van zijn hand: Het ware leven is elders. Filosofie van het toerisme.
Esther Eva Porcelijn (1985) is toneelspeler, theatermaker en dichter. Na een paar jaar Toneelacademie in Maastricht ging ze naar Tilburg om er aan de universiteit filosofie te gaan studeren. Al snel werd ze tot stadsdichter van Tilburg verkozen (2011 – 2013). Sindsdien treedt ze in heel Nederland op met haar poëzie, korte verhalen, columns en theatervoorstellingen.
Porcelijns gedichten en prozastukken zijn verschenen in Brabant Literair, Strak en Hollands Maandblad. In 2013 won ze de Hollands Maandblad Aanmoedigingsbeurs 2012-2013 voor haar poëzie.
agendagegevens
boekpresentatie debuutbundel Esther Porcelijn en toneelstuk Ruud Welten, presentatie Leon Heuts (Filosofie Magazine), m.m.v. filosoof Paul Cobben, theaterregisseur Tarkan Köroğlu en als speciale gast filosoof en publicist Hans Achterhuis
datum: 26 september
aanvang : 20.30 uur, inloop vanaf 20.00 uur
locatie: De NWE Vorst, Willem II straat 48, 5038 BD Tilburg
entree : 5 euro
kaarten bestellen: www.denwevorst.nl
De keren dat ik verwaai is verkrijgbaar of te bestellen via de reguliere boekhandel of via uitgeverij teleXpress – www.telespress.nl – ISBN/EAN: 978-90-76937-44-1 – Prijs: 15 euro
De Hel/ l’Enfer is verkrijgbaar of te bestellen via de reguliere boekhandel of via uitgeverij teleXpress – www.telexpress.nl – ISBN/EAN:978-90-76937-43-4 – Leverbaar: 27 september 2013 – Prijs: 15 euro
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