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Ton van Reen
vanaf de toren
Vanaf de toren
is de Maas een worm
met schubben
op het lijf
en de paarden
in de wei
zijn op hol geslagen mieren
uit dikke korrels zand
die de houten deuren
uit huizen vreten
Uit: Ton van Reen, Blijvend vers, Verzamelde gedichten (1965-2007). Uitgeverij De Contrabas, 2011, ISBN 9789079432462, 144 pagina’s, paperback
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Reen, Ton van
foto joep eijkens
Esther Porcelijn
In Breda en in Tilburg
Ik woonde in een ansichtkaart
Breda is één groot vroeger
Een raam op zolder starend naar
De kerk en alle kroegen;
Waar mensen feestend zweterig
Zich door de biertjes zwoegen.
Omlijst is elk klein detail
De hofjes en de muren
Van baksteen staat elk huis zo lang
Dat al eeuwenoude uren
Mensen turend hun gedachten
Op de stad afvuren.
Toch lijken de inwoners
De schoonheid niet te delen
Ze ogen rijk en carnaval
Religie gaat vervelen;
Het boordje is geruild voor polo
‘t Verstikt nog steeds hun kelen.
Hen lijkt de vreemdheid ongehoord
Ze houden niet van anders
Geen polo: is te stumperig
En de rest, de omstanders?
Zij drinken er lustig op los
En dansen hun polonaise om de bijstanders.
Nu ik verhuis naar een andere stad
Waar oude muren zeldzaam
En hofjes onbestaand
Kijk ik door mijn nieuwe raam:
Een plein met auto’s en bomen
Vroeger heeft hier een andere naam.
De mensen, echter, zijn zélf anders
Sferen van raarheid, hun gelaat
Is minder strak hooghartig
Rokerige dronkenmanspraat,
Tijdens lange cafénachten,
Dragen ze als een sieraad.
Ik woonde in een ansichtkaart
Waar ik de schoonheid had
De nieuwe plaats is anders, ja,
Maar vrolijk en minder glad
Bij dat besef verscheur ik mijn post
Een ansichtkaart is toch maar plat.
Esther Porcelijn is stadsdichter van Tilburg
Kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: City Poets / Stadsdichters, Porcelijn, Esther, Porcelijn, Esther
Jules Verne
(1828-1905)
Le génie
(Sonnet)
Comme un pur stalactite, oeuvre de la nature,
Le génie incompris apparaît à nos yeux.
Il est là, dans l’endroit où l’ont placé les Cieux,
Et d’eux seuls, il reçoit sa vie et sa structure.
Jamais la main de l’homme assez audacieuse
Ne le pourra créer, car son essence est pure,
Et le Dieu tout-puissant le fit à sa figure ;
Le mortel pauvre et laid, pourrait-il faire mieux ?
Il ne se taille pas, ce diamant byzarre,
Et de quelques couleurs dont l’azur le chamarre,
Qu’il reste tel qu’il est, que le fit l’éternel !
Si l’on veut corriger le brillant stalactite,
Ce n’est plus aussitôt qu’un caillou sans mérite,
Qui ne réfléchit plus les étoiles du ciel.
Jules Verne poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive U-V
E.E. Cummings
(1894 – 1962)
nobody loses all the time
nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added
my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Unde Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scrumptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol
and started a worm farm)
Edward Estlin Cummings
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive C-D
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
117
Accuse me thus, that I have scanted all,
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day,
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear-purchased right,
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down,
And on just proof surmise, accumulate,
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your wakened hate:
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets
Schrijver Ton van Reen
opent Bibliotheek Maasbree
Op zondag 26 februari a.s. opent de geheel vernieuwde Bibliotheek Maasbree haar deuren. De opening vindt plaats om 13.00 uur en wordt verricht door de auteur Ton van Reen. Speciaal voor deze gelegenheid heeft de Bibliotheek Maasbree een boekje van Ton van Reen uitgegeven met de titel “Een nog schonere schijn van witheid; Een winterverhaal”. Delen van deze tekst zijn straks in het interieur van de bibliotheek terug te vinden.
De Bibliotheek Maasbree maakt momenteel een ingrijpende ontwikkeling door. In juli 2011 al werden de openingstijden uitgebreid met een extra avondopenstelling op de maandag. Tevens werd toen een inloopspreekuur voor Poolse arbeidsmigranten ingesteld. Dat de bibliotheek hiermee in een grote behoefte voorziet is wel gebleken op een willekeurige maandagavond in augustus toen de bibliotheek tussen 18.00 uur en 20.00 uur door 240 mensen bezocht werd.
Daarna werd gestart met cursussen Nederlands voor Poolse migranten. Inmiddels worden er drie parallelle cursussen gegeven op dinsdag, woensdag en donderdag. Een vierde cursus start binnenkort op de zaterdagmiddagen. Daarnaast is een cursus Pools voor Nederlandse ondernemers in voorbereiding. Inmiddels is de bibliotheek ook van WiFi voorzien en verder is er een PC met Pools toetsenbord en de Poolse versie van het Office-pakket beschikbaar. De Poolse afdeling is in december officieel met een groots feest geopend.
Vanaf 1 januari is de Bibliotheek Maasbree nu ook op zondagen geopend. De bibliotheek gaat open om 10.30 uur en sluit om 14.00 uur. Deze uitbreiding is mogelijk geworden door de ingebruikname van zelfservice-apparatuur en de inzet van een Poolstalige medewerker. Hierdoor kunnen ook op zondagen extra diensten aan de Poolse migranten verleend worden. De Bibliotheek Maasbree is, buiten de bibliotheken van Maastricht, Heerlen en Roermond, overigens de enige Limburgse bibliotheek die op zondagen is geopend.
De inventaris van de bibliotheek was inmiddels al zo’n vijftig jaar oud en voldeed niet meer aan de eisen die aan de inrichting van een eigentijdse bibliotheek mogen worden gesteld. De nieuwe inrichting biedt veel mogelijkheden om de boeken frontaal te presenteren. Hierbij wordt gebruik gemaakt van principes uit de retail. De nieuwe opstelling nodigt uit tot snuffelen, tot ontdekken en tot verrast worden door de vele rijkdommen die de bibliotheek te bieden heeft.
Iedereen is van harte uitgenodigd om op zondag 26 februari om 13.00 uur aanwezig te zijn. Het boekje van Ton van Reen is door alle inwoners van Maasbree gratis af te halen bij de bibliotheek.
Volwassenen die nog geen lid van de bibliotheek zijn, maar dat willen worden, ontvangen ook nog eens het boek “Over geluk” van Twan Huys.
Speciaal voor de jeugd wordt er op zondag 11 maart om 13.30 uur in de bibliotheek een voorstelling geven door de Boxmeerse jeugdboekenauteur Gerard Sonnemans. Tijdens deze voorstelling staan de Middeleeuwse ridders en monniken centraal. De toegang is gratis.
fotojefvankempen
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Reen, Ton van, Ton van Reen
James Joyce
(1882-1941)
A Painful Case
Mr. James Duffy lived in Chapelizod because he wished to live as far as possible from the city of which he was a citizen and because he found all the other suburbs of Dublin mean, modern and pretentious. He lived in an old sombre house and from his windows he could look into the disused distillery or upwards along the shallow river on which Dublin is built. The lofty walls of his uncarpeted room were free from pictures. He had himself bought every article of furniture in the room: a black iron bedstead, an iron washstand, four cane chairs, a clothes-rack, a coal-scuttle, a fender and irons and a square table on which lay a double desk. A bookcase had been made in an alcove by means of shelves of white wood. The bed was clothed with white bedclothes and a black and scarlet rug covered the foot. A little hand-mirror hung above the washstand and during the day a white-shaded lamp stood as the sole ornament of the mantelpiece. The books on the white wooden shelves were arranged from below upwards according to bulk. A complete Wordsworth stood at one end of the lowest shelf and a copy of the Maynooth Catechism, sewn into the cloth cover of a notebook, stood at one end of the top shelf. Writing materials were always on the desk. In the desk lay a manuscript translation of Hauptmann’s Michael Kramer, the stage directions of which were written in purple ink, and a little sheaf of papers held together by a brass pin. In these sheets a sentence was inscribed from time to time and, in an ironical moment, the headline of an advertisement for Bile Beans had been pasted on to the first sheet. On lifting the lid of the desk a faint fragrance escaped, the fragrance of new cedarwood pencils or of a bottle of gum or of an overripe apple which might have been left there and forgotten.
Mr. Duffy abhorred anything which betokened physical or mental disorder. A medival doctor would have called him saturnine. His face, which carried the entire tale of his years, was of the brown tint of Dublin streets. On his long and rather large head grew dry black hair and a tawny moustache did not quite cover an unamiable mouth. His cheekbones also gave his face a harsh character; but there was no harshness in the eyes which, looking at the world from under their tawny eyebrows, gave the impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming instinct in others but often disappointed. He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glasses. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a predicate in the past tense. He never gave alms to beggars and walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel.
He had been for many years cashier of a private bank in Baggot Street. Every morning he came in from Chapelizod by tram. At midday he went to Dan Burke’s and took his lunch, a bottle of lager beer and a small trayful of arrowroot biscuits. At four o’clock he was set free. He dined in an eating-house in George’s Street where he felt himself safe from the society of Dublin’s gilded youth and where there was a certain plain honesty in the bill of fare. His evenings were spent either before his landlady’s piano or roaming about the outskirts of the city. His liking for Mozart’s music brought him sometimes to an opera or a concert: these were the only dissipations of his life.
He had neither companions nor friends, church nor creed. He lived his spiritual life without any communion with others, visiting his relatives at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died. He performed these two social duties for old dignity’s sake but conceded nothing further to the conventions which regulate the civic life. He allowed himself to think that in certain circumstances he would rob his hank but, as these circumstances never arose, his life rolled out evenly, an adventureless tale.
One evening he found himself sitting beside two ladies in the Rotunda. The house, thinly peopled and silent, gave distressing prophecy of failure. The lady who sat next him looked round at the deserted house once or twice and then said:
“What a pity there is such a poor house tonight! It’s so hard on people to have to sing to empty benches.”
He took the remark as an invitation to talk. He was surprised that she seemed so little awkward. While they talked he tried to fix her permanently in his memory. When he learned that the young girl beside her was her daughter he judged her to be a year or so younger than himself. Her face, which must have been handsome, had remained intelligent. It was an oval face with strongly marked features. The eyes were very dark blue and steady. Their gaze began with a defiant note but was confused by what seemed a deliberate swoon of the pupil into the iris, revealing for an instant a temperament of great sensibility. The pupil reasserted itself quickly, this half-disclosed nature fell again under the reign of prudence, and her astrakhan jacket, moulding a bosom of a certain fullness, struck the note of defiance more definitely.
He met her again a few weeks afterwards at a concert in Earlsfort Terrace and seized the moments when her daughter’s attention was diverted to become intimate. She alluded once or twice to her husband but her tone was not such as to make the allusion a warning. Her name was Mrs. Sinico. Her husband’s great-great-grandfather had come from Leghorn. Her husband was captain of a mercantile boat plying between Dublin and Holland; and they had one child.
Meeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make an appointment. She came. This was the first of many meetings; they met always in the evening and chose the most quiet quarters for their walks together. Mr. Duffy, however, had a distaste for underhand ways and, finding that they were compelled to meet stealthily, he forced her to ask him to her house. Captain Sinico encouraged his visits, thinking that his daughter’s hand was in question. He had dismissed his wife so sincerely from his gallery of pleasures that he did not suspect that anyone else would take an interest in her. As the husband was often away and the daughter out giving music lessons Mr. Duffy had many opportunities of enjoying the lady’s society. Neither he nor she had had any such adventure before and neither was conscious of any incongruity. Little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent her books, provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life with her. She listened to all.
Sometimes in return for his theories she gave out some fact of her own life. With almost maternal solicitude she urged him to let his nature open to the full: she became his confessor. He told her that for some time he had assisted at the meetings of an Irish Socialist Party where he had felt himself a unique figure amidst a score of sober workmen in a garret lit by an inefficient oil-lamp. When the party had divided into three sections, each under its own leader and in its own garret, he had discontinued his attendances. The workmen’s discussions, he said, were too timorous; the interest they took in the question of wages was inordinate. He felt that they were hard-featured realists and that they resented an exactitude which was the produce of a leisure not within their reach. No social revolution, he told her, would be likely to strike Dublin for some centuries.
She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he asked her, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable of thinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submit himself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its morality to policemen and its fine arts to impresarios?
He went often to her little cottage outside Dublin; often they spent their evenings alone. Little by little, as their thoughts entangled, they spoke of subjects less remote. Her companionship was like a warm soil about an exotic. Many times she allowed the dark to fall upon them, refraining from lighting the lamp. The dark discreet room, their isolation, the music that still vibrated in their ears united them. This union exalted him, wore away the rough edges of his character, emotionalised his mental life. Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascend to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul’s incurable loneliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. The end of these discourses was that one night during which she had shown every sign of unusual excitement, Mrs. Sinico caught up his hand passionately and pressed it to her cheek.
Mr. Duffy was very much surprised. Her interpretation of his words disillusioned him. He did not visit her for a week, then he wrote to her asking her to meet him. As he did not wish their last interview to be troubled by the influence of their ruined confessional they meet in a little cakeshop near the Parkgate. It was cold autumn weather but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse: every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. When they came out of the Park they walked in silence towards the tram; but here she began to tremble so violently that, fearing another collapse on her part, he bade her good-bye quickly and left her. A few days later he received a parcel containing his books and music.
Four years passed. Mr. Duffy returned to his even way of life. His room still bore witness of the orderliness of his mind. Some new pieces of music encumbered the music-stand in the lower room and on his shelves stood two volumes by Nietzsche: Thus Spake Zarathustra and The Gay Science. He wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay in his desk. One of his sentences, written two months after his last interview with Mrs. Sinico, read: Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse. He kept away from concerts lest he should meet her. His father died; the junior partner of the bank retired. And still every morning he went into the city by tram and every evening walked home from the city after having dined moderately in George’s Street and read the evening paper for dessert.
One evening as he was about to put a morsel of corned beef and cabbage into his mouth his hand stopped. His eyes fixed themselves on a paragraph in the evening paper which he had propped against the water-carafe. He replaced the morsel of food on his plate and read the paragraph attentively. Then he drank a glass of water, pushed his plate to one side, doubled the paper down before him between his elbows and read the paragraph over and over again. The cabbage began to deposit a cold white grease on his plate. The girl came over to him to ask was his dinner not properly cooked. He said it was very good and ate a few mouthfuls of it with difficulty. Then he paid his bill and went out.
He walked along quickly through the November twilight, his stout hazel stick striking the ground regularly, the fringe of the buff Mail peeping out of a side-pocket of his tight reefer overcoat. On the lonely road which leads from the Parkgate to Chapelizod he slackened his pace. His stick struck the ground less emphatically and his breath, issuing irregularly, almost with a sighing sound, condensed in the wintry air. When he reached his house he went up at once to his bedroom and, taking the paper from his pocket, read the paragraph again by the failing light of the window. He read it not aloud, but moving his lips as a priest does when he reads the prayers Secreto. This was the paragraph:
DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADE
A PAINFUL CASE
Today at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy Coroner (in the absence of Mr. Leverett) held an inquest on the body of Mrs. Emily Sinico, aged forty-three years, who was killed at Sydney Parade Station yesterday evening. The evidence showed that the deceased lady, while attempting to cross the line, was knocked down by the engine of the ten o’clock slow train from Kingstown, thereby sustaining injuries of the head and right side which led to her death.
James Lennon, driver of the engine, stated that he had been in the employment of the railway company for fifteen years. On hearing the guard’s whistle he set the train in motion and a second or two afterwards brought it to rest in response to loud cries. The train was going slowly.
P. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the train was about to start he observed a woman attempting to cross the lines. He ran towards her and shouted, but, before he could reach her, she was caught by the buffer of the engine and fell to the ground.
A juror. “You saw the lady fall?”
Witness. “Yes.”
Police Sergeant Croly deposed that when he arrived he found the deceased lying on the platform apparently dead. He had the body taken to the waiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance.
Constable 57 corroborated.
Dr. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of Dublin Hospital, stated that the deceased had two lower ribs fractured and had sustained severe contusions of the right shoulder. The right side of the head had been injured in the fall. The injuries were not sufficient to have caused death in a normal person. Death, in his opinion, had been probably due to shock and sudden failure of the heart’s action.
Mr. H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway company, expressed his deep regret at the accident. The company had always taken every precaution to prevent people crossing the lines except by the bridges, both by placing notices in every station and by the use of patent spring gates at level crossings. The deceased had been in the habit of crossing the lines late at night from platform to platform and, in view of certain other circumstances of the case, he did not think the railway officials were to blame.
Captain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade, husband of the deceased, also gave evidence. He stated that the deceased was his wife. He was not in Dublin at the time of the accident as he had arrived only that morning from Rotterdam. They had been married for twenty-two years and had lived happily until about two years ago when his wife began to be rather intemperate in her habits.
Miss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother had been in the habit of going out at night to buy spirits. She, witness, had often tried to reason with her mother and had induced her to join a League. She was not at home until an hour after the accident. The jury returned a verdict in accordance with the medical evidence and exonerated Lennon from all blame.
The Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful case, and expressed great sympathy with Captain Sinico and his daughter. He urged on the railway company to take strong measures to prevent the possibility of similar accidents in the future. No blame attached to anyone.
Mr. Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed out of his window on the cheerless evening landscape. The river lay quiet beside the empty distillery and from time to time a light appeared in some house on the Lucan road. What an end! The whole narrative of her death revolted him and it revolted him to think that he had ever spoken to her of what he held sacred. The threadbare phrases, the inane expressions of sympathy, the cautious words of a reporter won over to conceal the details of a commonplace vulgar death attacked his stomach. Not merely had she degraded herself; she had degraded him. He saw the squalid tract of her vice, miserable and malodorous. His soul’s companion! He thought of the hobbling wretches whom he had seen carrying cans and bottles to be filled by the barman. Just God, what an end! Evidently she had been unfit to live, without any strength of purpose, an easy prey to habits, one of the wrecks on which civilisation has been reared. But that she could have sunk so low! Was it possible he had deceived himself so utterly about her? He remembered her outburst of that night and interpreted it in a harsher sense than he had ever done. He had no difficulty now in approving of the course he had taken.
As the light failed and his memory began to wander he thought her hand touched his. The shock which had first attacked his stomach was now attacking his nerves. He put on his overcoat and hat quickly and went out. The cold air met him on the threshold; it crept into the sleeves of his coat. When he came to the public-house at Chapelizod Bridge he went in and ordered a hot punch.
The proprietor served him obsequiously but did not venture to talk. There were five or six workingmen in the shop discussing the value of a gentleman’s estate in County Kildare They drank at intervals from their huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting often on the floor and sometimes dragging the sawdust over their spits with their heavy boots. Mr. Duffy sat on his stool and gazed at them, without seeing or hearing them. After a while they went out and he called for another punch. He sat a long time over it. The shop was very quiet. The proprietor sprawled on the counter reading the Herald and yawning. Now and again a tram was heard swishing along the lonely road outside.
As he sat there, living over his life with her and evoking alternately the two images in which he now conceived her, he realised that she was dead, that she had ceased to exist, that she had become a memory. He began to feel ill at ease. He asked himself what else could he have done. He could not have carried on a comedy of deception with her; he could not have lived with her openly. He had done what seemed to him best. How was he to blame? Now that she was gone he understood how lonely her life must have been, sitting night after night alone in that room. His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, became a memory, if anyone remembered him.
It was after nine o’clock when he left the shop. The night was cold and gloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate and walked along under the gaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys where they had walked four years before. She seemed to be near him in the darkness. At moments he seemed to feel her voice touch his ear, her hand touch his. He stood still to listen. Why had he withheld life from her? Why had he sentenced her to death? He felt his moral nature falling to pieces.
When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he halted and looked along the river towards Dublin, the lights of which burned redly and hospitably in the cold night. He looked down the slope and, at the base, in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures lying. Those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair. He gnawed the rectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life’s feast. One human being had seemed to love him and he had denied her life and happiness: he had sentenced her to ignominy, a death of shame. He knew that the prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him and wished him gone. No one wanted him; he was outcast from life’s feast. He turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river, winding along towards Dublin. Beyond the river he saw a goods train winding out of Kingsbridge Station, like a worm with a fiery head winding through the darkness, obstinately and laboriously. It passed slowly out of sight; but still he heard in his ears the laborious drone of the engine reiterating the syllables of her name.
He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding in his ears. He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. He halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away. He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.
James Joyce: A Painful Case
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive I-J, Joyce, James, Joyce, James
Pierre-Jean de Béranger
(1780-1857)
Mon habit
Sois-moi fidèle, ô pauvre habit que j’aime !
Ensemble nous devenons vieux.
Depuis dix ans, je te brosse moi-même,
Et Socrate n’eut pas fait mieux.
Quand le sort à ta mince étoffe
Livrerait de nouveaux combats,
Imite-moi, résiste en philosophe :
Mon vieil ami, ne nous séparons pas.
Je me souviens, car j’ai bonne mémoire,
Du premier jour où je te mis.
C’était ma fête, et pour comble de gloire,
Tu fus chanté par mes amis ;
Ton indigence, qui m’honore,
Ne m’a point banni de leurs bras.
Tous ils sont prêts à nous fêter encore :
Mon vieil ami, ne nous séparons pas.
A ton revers, j’admire une reprise :
C’est encore un doux souvenir.
Feignant un soir de fuir la tendre Lise,
Je sens sa main me retenir.
On te déchire, et cet outrage
Auprès d’elle enchaîne mes pas.
Lisette a mis deux jours à tant d’ouvrage :
Mon vieil ami, ne nous séparons pas.
Y’ai-je imprégné des flots de musc et d’ambre
Qu’un fat exhale en se mirant !
M’a-t-on jamais vu dans une antichambre
T’exposer au mépris d’un grand ?
Pour des rubans, la France entière
Fut en proie à de longs débats.
La fleur des champs brille à ta boutonnière :
Mon vieil ami, ne nous séparons pas.
Ne crains plus tant ces jours de courses vaines
Où notre destin fut pareil :
Ces jours mêlés de plaisirs et de peines,
Mêlés de pluie et de soleil.
Je dois bientôt, il me le semble,
Mettre pour jamais habit bas.
Attends un peu ; nous finirons ensemble :
Mon vieil ami, ne nous séparons pas.
Pierre-Jean de Béranger poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive A-B
Norbert de Vries
De Tocht
Over Pierre Kemp
Het zou een groots opgezet dichtwerk worden dat hij zou hebben opgedragen aan pater Van Well. Hij heeft er jarenlang hard aan gewerkt (van 1915 tot 1922/23). Het telt 43 getypte pagina’s. Maar helaas, het geheel is in zijn nagelaten papieren terug te vinden met een wikkel eromheen waarop Pierre Kemp geschreven had: ‘Fragmenten van een mislukte Dantiade’.
Inderdaad, Kemp heeft als jong dichter het plan gehad om naar het voorbeeld van Dante een religieus meesterwerk te dichten waarin een tocht beschreven wordt langs hel, vagevuur (plaats van loutering), en paradijs.
Aldus begint Kemps ‘Commedia’ (als ik die zo noemen mag):
Het Kathedraal-Paleis
Een donkere wachter stond aan bronzen poort,
die op zijn wenk ging open, dicht en door ‘t
portaal van paars porfier klonk dof en drong
de donkere booggang in van het sluiten: “Gong”!
Het was of ik zacht op harpen liep,
wier snarentrillen uit de wanden riep
een nieuw geslacht van wijzen-blij, wijl ik
hun eeuwige stilte stoorde een ogenblik.
De grootste gang leidde naar een stil vertrek.
Daar zat een man, dicht bij een boekenrek,
aan effen tafel, keek naar het behang
dat zich bewoog en dit beweeg gezang.
Die man scheen donker, zijn gewaad was zwart,
maar daarin brandde als gouden lamp zijn hart,
waarvan de vlam zijn ziel op zang verliefde.
Toen zag ik hem mij ziende, want hij hief ‘t
gelaat terzijde en keek mij peinzend aan
tot hij glimlachend naast zijn stoel ging staan
en reikend mij de hand zich vriendelijk boog
en vroeg, waar ik zo laat nog henentoog.
Ik zei: “Mijmerend doolde ik door mijn tuin.
Er viel een ster, gelijk een appel schuin
valt door den boom, geluidloos neer op het perk.
Een donker licht scheen, waar zij, diep in het zwerk,
begon haar kort bestaan van lijnige vlam,
die in de dampkring om te sterven kwam.
Ik had geen rust, geen lust, noch slaap, noch droom
en leek een ding, dat willoos op een stroom
drijft, tot dit kathedraal-paleis mij schrok
door het doffe bonzen van zijn bronzen klok.”
Wel, lezer, wat dunkt u van deze regelen? Ik vind het verschrikkelijk pompeus allemaal. Maar toch, maar toch…
Die vijfde regel is puur Kempisch. We vinden hem terug in het op 14 november 1948 geschreven gedicht ‘Verloren componist’ dat aldus eindigt:
Lees straks mijn verzen maar en kijk
naar de enkele schilderijen, die ik schiep;
is dat niet alles of ik over harpen liep
toen ik mijn weg zocht naar het Eeuwige Rijk?
Ook puur Kempisch zijn de regels over de vallende ster en de appel in de tuin. “Lijnige vlam die in de dampkring om te sterven kwam’ dat is toch ware poëzie, nietwaar?
Dit is het gevoel dat ik bij het lezen van De Tocht heb: de echte Kemp schijnt her en der door alle bombast heen; af en toe zie je een glimp van de latere, grote dichter.
Hier en daar lees je passages die je bijvoorbeeld aan Gezelle of Gorter doen denken. Neem bijvoorbeeld de volgende regels op pagina 5 (uit Het Gele Land):
Hoort gij niet die muziek zo hel en ver,
in ruizelende suizeling, of er
uit zakken kleine zilvermuntjes rollen,
die tinkelende duiken in een bolle
kristallen schaal? Of kralen klateren? Risten
geluidjes-buitjes? Een harmonisch twisten
van muggen, zingend luid hun kleine veten
uit in een hete nacht. En vlugge beten
van vogeltjes, die zaadjes van geluid
pikken in kooitjes, meer nog morsen uit
hun bakjes, dan ze met hun bekjes pellen.
Ook een geschoven dans van kleine schellen,
door wind geschudde kleine drupjes dauw,
gebonden aan een héél broos webbetouw,
dat met nog honderde andere draden trilt
met het witte spingewin in morgenkilt!
Is dat een brief muziek, een verre groet
gelijk de liefste aan haar liefste doet!
Ik voel me bij het lezen Mei-lijk, Gezellig en Gorteriaans, en tegelijk voel ik Kemp zelf in het geluid van gemorst vogelzaad, of liever: zaadjes van geluid, en vooral in die brief muziek.
De Mei heb ik nooit uit kunnen lezen (ik beken het met een blos van schaamte), en ook De Tocht heb ik niet voltooid. Het is te veel van het goede, en vooral ook het minder goede.
Maar toch, maar toch…..
Het is toch ook mooi om te zien hoe Kemp geworsteld heeft met zijn Tocht.
Neem de vraag hoe je zo’n onderneming aanvangt.
Bij Dante zien we hoe de ik-figuur is verdwaald en zich in een huiveringwekkend donker woud bevindt. Dan bereikt hij een heuvel die hij opklimt, terwijl angstaanjagende beesten hem omringen. Hij ziet iemand en roept om hulp. Het is Vergilius die hem antwoordt, en hem tot gids zal dienen op zijn verdere tocht.
Pierre Kemp heeft – zo blijkt uit zijn aantekeningen – aanvankelijk aan een veel minder dramatisch begin van de tocht gedacht: geen panter, leeuw en wolvin, geen angstige dwaling door een donker bos, maar een onbekommerde wandeling door de idyllische contreien van Zuid-Limburg:
“De tocht begint op 15 Oct. (prachtig herfsttafereel, blik over Limburgsch landschap, daarna ingang in de mergelgrot die afscheidt van de aardsche wereld). Terwijl de dichter voortschrijdt en in het halfduister zich op een mergelstuk neerzet en uitrust en met zijn stok in het mergelzand begint te teekenen, teekent hij ook de kelk en de hostie, als zijnde een van zijn intiemste en geliefdste gedachten en terwijl hij het kruis teekent en daarbij een groet doet aan het Allerheiligste Sacrament, tikt iemand hem op den schouder. Hij kijkt om en ziet een lichtende gedaante die hem wenkt te volgen. Hij volgt haar niet angstig en meent in de gedaante te herkennen St. Teresia, die in de wereld zoo en zoo heet, zie boek.”
Enfin, de aantekeningen gaan verder, maar het beeld zal u duidelijk zijn: een zwaar katholieke tocht onder leiding van de heilige Theresia.
In de latere versie van het gedicht is deze heilige niet meer te vinden; zij heeft plaats gemaakt voor De Deugd. En de tocht begint, zoals we boven zagen, niet meer met een wandeling en het bezoek aan een grot, maar met een vallende ster en het gevoel van willoos wegdrijven van de dichter.
De Tocht is nooit gepubliceerd. Terecht niet. Maar interessant is de mislukte reis wèl.
Norbert de Vries over Pierre Kemp (Maastricht 2008)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Kemp, Pierre, Norbert de Vries
Robert Frost
(1874-1963)
The Death of the Hired Man
Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table
Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,
She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage
To meet him in the doorway with the news
And put him on his guard. “Silas is back.”
She pushed him outward with her through the door
And shut it after her. “Be kind,” she said.
She took the market things from Warren’s arms
And set them on the porch, then drew him down
To sit beside her on the wooden steps.
“When was I ever anything but kind to him?
But I’ll not have the fellow back,” he said.
“I told him so last haying, didn’t I?
‘If he left then,’ I said, ‘that ended it.’
What good is he? Who else will harbour him
At his age for the little he can do?
What help he is there’s no depending on.
Off he goes always when I need him most.
‘He thinks he ought to earn a little pay,
Enough at least to buy tobacco with,
So he won’t have to beg and be beholden.’
‘All right,’ I say, ‘I can’t afford to pay
Any fixed wages, though I wish I could.’
‘Someone else can.’ ‘Then someone else will have to.’
I shouldn’t mind his bettering himself
If that was what it was. You can be certain,
When he begins like that, there’s someone at him
Trying to coax him off with pocket-money,–
In haying time, when any help is scarce.
In winter he comes back to us. I’m done.”
“Sh! not so loud: he’ll hear you,” Mary said.
“I want him to: he’ll have to soon or late.”
“He’s worn out. He’s asleep beside the stove.
When I came up from Rowe’s I found him here,
Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep,
A miserable sight, and frightening, too–
You needn’t smile–I didn’t recognise him–
I wasn’t looking for him–and he’s changed.
Wait till you see.”
“Where did you say he’d been?”
“He didn’t say. I dragged him to the house,
And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke.
I tried to make him talk about his travels.
Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off.”
“What did he say? Did he say anything?”
“But little.”
“Anything? Mary, confess
He said he’d come to ditch the meadow for me.”
“Warren!”
“But did he? I just want to know.”
“Of course he did. What would you have him say?
Surely you wouldn’t grudge the poor old man
Some humble way to save his self-respect.
He added, if you really care to know,
He meant to clear the upper pasture, too.
That sounds like something you have heard before?
Warren, I wish you could have heard the way
He jumbled everything. I stopped to look
Two or three times–he made me feel so queer–
To see if he was talking in his sleep.
He ran on Harold Wilson–you remember–
The boy you had in haying four years since.
He’s finished school, and teaching in his college.
Silas declares you’ll have to get him back.
He says they two will make a team for work:
Between them they will lay this farm as smooth!
The way he mixed that in with other things.
He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft
On education–you know how they fought
All through July under the blazing sun,
Silas up on the cart to build the load,
Harold along beside to pitch it on.”
“Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.”
“Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream.
You wouldn’t think they would. How some things linger!
Harold’s young college boy’s assurance piqued him.
After so many years he still keeps finding
Good arguments he sees he might have used.
I sympathise. I know just how it feels
To think of the right thing to say too late.
Harold’s associated in his mind with Latin.
He asked me what I thought of Harold’s saying
He studied Latin like the violin
Because he liked it–that an argument!
He said he couldn’t make the boy believe
He could find water with a hazel prong–
Which showed how much good school had ever done him.
He wanted to go over that. But most of all
He thinks if he could have another chance
To teach him how to build a load of hay—-“
“I know, that’s Silas’ one accomplishment.
He bundles every forkful in its place,
And tags and numbers it for future reference,
So he can find and easily dislodge it
In the unloading. Silas does that well.
He takes it out in bunches like big birds’ nests.
You never see him standing on the hay
He’s trying to lift, straining to lift himself.”
“He thinks if he could teach him that, he’d be
Some good perhaps to someone in the world.
He hates to see a boy the fool of books.
Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk,
And nothing to look backward to with pride,
And nothing to look forward to with hope,
So now and never any different.”
Part of a moon was falling down the west,
Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.
Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw
And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand
Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,
Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,
As if she played unheard the tenderness
That wrought on him beside her in the night.
“Warren,” she said, “he has come home to die:
You needn’t be afraid he’ll leave you this time.”
“Home,” he mocked gently.
“Yes, what else but home?
It all depends on what you mean by home.
Of course he’s nothing to us, any more
Than was the hound that came a stranger to us
Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.”
“Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
They have to take you in.”
“I should have called it
Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”
Warren leaned out and took a step or two,
Picked up a little stick, and brought it back
And broke it in his hand and tossed it by.
“Silas has better claim on us you think
Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles
As the road winds would bring him to his door.
Silas has walked that far no doubt to-day.
Why didn’t he go there? His brother’s rich,
A somebody–director in the bank.”
“He never told us that.”
“We know it though.”
“I think his brother ought to help, of course.
I’ll see to that if there is need. He ought of right
To take him in, and might be willing to–
He may be better than appearances.
But have some pity on Silas. Do you think
If he’d had any pride in claiming kin
Or anything he looked for from his brother,
He’d keep so still about him all this time?”
“I wonder what’s between them.”
“I can tell you.
Silas is what he is–we wouldn’t mind him–
But just the kind that kinsfolk can’t abide.
He never did a thing so very bad.
He don’t know why he isn’t quite as good
As anyone. He won’t be made ashamed
To please his brother, worthless though he is.”
“I can’t think Si ever hurt anyone.”
“No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay
And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back.
He wouldn’t let me put him on the lounge.
You must go in and see what you can do.
I made the bed up for him there to-night.
You’ll be surprised at him–how much he’s broken.
His working days are done; I’m sure of it.”
“I’d not be in a hurry to say that.”
“I haven’t been. Go, look, see for yourself.
But, Warren, please remember how it is:
He’s come to help you ditch the meadow.
He has a plan. You mustn’t laugh at him.
He may not speak of it, and then he may.
I’ll sit and see if that small sailing cloud
Will hit or miss the moon.”
It hit the moon.
Then there were three there, making a dim row,
The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.
Warren returned–too soon, it seemed to her,
Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited.
“Warren,” she questioned.
“Dead,” was all he answered.
Robert Frost poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive E-F
Waterval
Je stille lippen, met een strootje
streel ik ze, loom
vaart je lazuren blik
mee op de bloesemrijke hemel
een lentecaleidoscoop
die ons verstart in climax
schepping, symbiose en ook
bezonkenheid, wij zijn
watervallen barend maanlicht
Het strootje in je witte mond
trilt in de schaduwvlekken
van illusoire wolken, de water-
val van toen is een kale rots
zinnen missen de woorden
het zwijgen stille deelneming.
Niels Landstra
Niels Landstra gedichten
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive K-L, Landstra, Niels
Ton van Reen
de eieren man
Soms
kwam de man naar hier
met een geknoopte handdoek
vol eieren
hij was van riet
een stuk licht riet uit de polder
doch zijn hart was zwaar
als lood
en zijn ziel was geronnen
tot een uitroepteken
zoiets van pijn
tussen zijn ogen
hij had bevende handen
en ogen
die de nacht verrieden
in zijn denken
maar om zijn lippen
lag iets van kristal
een beetje breekbare
zuivere liefde
wat eigenlijk vreemd was
aan zo’n man
zijn lange passen
maakten dat het Pasen werd
daarom heette hij ook
de Eieren Man
daarom ook lag er
een glimlach in het kristal
om zijn lippen
en achter zijn nachtogen
blonk dan iets
waar ik erg veel van hield
Uit: Ton van Reen, Blijvend vers, Verzamelde gedichten (1965-2007). Uitgeverij De Contrabas, 2011, ISBN 9789079432462, 144 pagina’s, paperback
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Reen, Ton van
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