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Niet te bevatten
Duizend jaar worden
alleen al de gedachte
is te lang voor haiku.
Freda Kamphuis haiku
kempis.nl poetry magazine
©2011 fk
More in: Archive K-L, Kamphuis, Freda
James Joyce
(1882-1941)
A Mother
Mr Holohan, assistant secretary of the Eire Abu Society, had been walking up and down Dublin for nearly a month, with his hands and pockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arranging about the series of concerts. He had a game leg and for this his friends called him Hoppy Holohan. He walked up and down constantly, stood by the hour at street corners arguing the point and made notes; but in the end it was Mrs. Kearney who arranged everything.
Miss Devlin had become Mrs. Kearney out of spite. She had been educated in a high-class convent, where she had learned French and music. As she was naturally pale and unbending in manner she made few friends at school. When she came to the age of marriage she was sent out to many houses, where her playing and ivory manners were much admired. She sat amid the chilly circle of her accomplishments, waiting for some suitor to brave it and offer her a brilliant life. But the young men whom she met were ordinary and she gave them no encouragement, trying to console her romantic desires by eating a great deal of Turkish Delight in secret. However, when she drew near the limit and her friends began to loosen their tongues about her, she silenced them by marrying Mr. Kearney, who was a bootmaker on Ormond Quay.
He was much older than she. His conversation, which was serious, took place at intervals in his great brown beard. After the first year of married life, Mrs. Kearney perceived that such a man would wear better than a romantic person, but she never put her own romantic ideas away. He was sober, thrifty and pious; he went to the altar every first Friday, sometimes with her, oftener by himself. But she never weakened in her religion and was a good wife to him. At some party in a strange house when she lifted her eyebrow ever so slightly he stood up to take his leave and, when his cough troubled him, she put the eider-down quilt over his feet and made a strong rum punch. For his part, he was a model father. By paying a small sum every week into a society, he ensured for both his daughters a dowry of one hundred pounds each when they came to the age of twenty-four. He sent the older daughter, Kathleen, to a good convent, where she learned French and music, and afterward paid her fees at the Academy. Every year in the month of July Mrs. Kearney found occasion to say to some friend:
“My good man is packing us off to Skerries for a few weeks.”
If it was not Skerries it was Howth or Greystones.
When the Irish Revival began to be appreciable Mrs. Kearney determined to take advantage of her daughter’s name and brought an Irish teacher to the house. Kathleen and her sister sent Irish picture postcards to their friends and these friends sent back other Irish picture postcards. On special Sundays, when Mr. Kearney went with his family to the pro-cathedral, a little crowd of people would assemble after mass at the corner of Cathedral Street. They were all friends of the Kearneys, musical friends or Nationalist friends; and, when they had played every little counter of gossip, they shook hands with one another all together, laughing at the crossing of so many hands, and said good-bye to one another in Irish. Soon the name of Miss Kathleen Kearney began to be heard often on people’s lips. People said that she was very clever at music and a very nice girl and, moreover, that she was a believer in the language movement. Mrs. Kearney was well content at this. Therefore she was not surprised when one day Mr. Holohan came to her and proposed that her daughter should be the accompanist at a series of four grand concerts which his Society was going to give in the Antient Concert Rooms. She brought him into the drawing-room, made him sit down and brought out the decanter and the silver biscuit-barrel. She entered heart and soul into the details of the enterprise, advised and dissuaded: and finally a contract was drawn up by which Kathleen was to receive eight guineas for her services as accompanist at the four grand concerts.
As Mr. Holohan was a novice in such delicate matters as the wording of bills and the disposing of items for a programme, Mrs. Kearney helped him. She had tact. She knew what artistes should go into capitals and what artistes should go into small type. She knew that the first tenor would not like to come on after Mr. Meade’s comic turn. To keep the audience continually diverted she slipped the doubtful items in between the old favourites. Mr. Holohan called to see her every day to have her advice on some point. She was invariably friendly and advising, homely, in fact. She pushed the decanter towards him, saying:
“Now, help yourself, Mr. Holohan!”
And while he was helping himself she said:
“Don’t be afraid! Don t be afraid of it! “
Everything went on smoothly. Mrs. Kearney bought some lovely blush-pink charmeuse in Brown Thomas’s to let into the front of Kathleen’s dress. It cost a pretty penny; but there are occasions when a little expense is justifiable. She took a dozen of two-shilling tickets for the final concert and sent them to those friends who could not be trusted to come otherwise. She forgot nothing, and, thanks to her, everything that was to be done was done.
The concerts were to be on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. When Mrs. Kearney arrived with her daughter at the Antient Concert Rooms on Wednesday night she did not like the look of things. A few young men, wearing bright blue badges in their coats, stood idle in the vestibule; none of them wore evening dress. She passed by with her daughter and a quick glance through the open door of the hall showed her the cause of the stewards’ idleness. At first she wondered had she mistaken the hour. No, it was twenty minutes to eight.
In the dressing-room behind the stage she was introduced to the secretary of the Society, Mr. Fitzpatrick. She smiled and shook his hand. He was a little man, with a white, vacant face. She noticed that he wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the side of his head and that his accent was flat. He held a programme in his hand, and, while he was talking to her, he chewed one end of it into a moist pulp. He seemed to bear disappointments lightly. Mr. Holohan came into the dressingroom every few minutes with reports from the box-office. The artistes talked among themselves nervously, glanced from time to time at the mirror and rolled and unrolled their music. When it was nearly half-past eight, the few people in the hall began to express their desire to be entertained. Mr. Fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly at the room, and said:
“Well now, ladies and gentlemen. I suppose we’d better open the ball.”
Mrs. Kearney rewarded his very flat final syllable with a quick stare of contempt, and then said to her daughter encouragingly:
“Are you ready, dear?”
When she had an opportunity, she called Mr. Holohan aside and asked him to tell her what it meant. Mr. Holohan did not know what it meant. He said that the committee had made a mistake in arranging for four concerts: four was too many.
“And the artistes!” said Mrs. Kearney. “Of course they are doing their best, but really they are not good.”
Mr. Holohan admitted that the artistes were no good but the committee, he said, had decided to let the first three concerts go as they pleased and reserve all the talent for Saturday night. Mrs. Kearney said nothing, but, as the mediocre items followed one another on the platform and the few people in the hall grew fewer and fewer, she began to regret that she had put herself to any expense for such a concert. There was something she didn’t like in the look of things and Mr. Fitzpatrick’s vacant smile irritated her very much. However, she said nothing and waited to see how it would end. The concert expired shortly before ten, and everyone went home quickly.
The concert on Thursday night was better attended, but Mrs. Kearney saw at once that the house was filled with paper. The audience behaved indecorously, as if the concert were an informal dress rehearsal. Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself; he was quite unconscious that Mrs. Kearney was taking angry note of his conduct. He stood at the edge of the screen, from time to time jutting out his head and exchanging a laugh with two friends in the corner of the balcony. In the course of the evening, Mrs. Kearney learned that the Friday concert was to be abandoned and that the committee was going to move heaven and earth to secure a bumper house on Saturday night. When she heard this, she sought out Mr. Holohan. She buttonholed him as he was limping out quickly with a glass of lemonade for a young lady and asked him was it true. Yes. it was true.
“But, of course, that doesn’t alter the contract,” she said. “The contract was for four concerts.”
Mr. Holohan seemed to be in a hurry; he advised her to speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick. Mrs. Kearney was now beginning to be alarmed. She called Mr. Fitzpatrick away from his screen and told him that her daughter had signed for four concerts and that, of course, according to the terms of the contract, she should receive the sum originally stipulated for, whether the society gave the four concerts or not. Mr. Fitzpatrick, who did not catch the point at issue very quickly, seemed unable to resolve the difficulty and said that he would bring the matter before the committee. Mrs. Kearney’s anger began to flutter in her cheek and she had all she could do to keep from asking:
“And who is the Cometty pray?”
But she knew that it would not be ladylike to do that: so she was silent.
Little boys were sent out into the principal streets of Dublin early on Friday morning with bundles of handbills. Special puffs appeared in all the evening papers, reminding the music loving public of the treat which was in store for it on the following evening. Mrs. Kearney was somewhat reassured, but be thought well to tell her husband part of her suspicions. He listened carefully and said that perhaps it would be better if he went with her on Saturday night. She agreed. She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed; and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male. She was glad that he had suggested coming with her. She thought her plans over.
The night of the grand concert came. Mrs. Kearney, with her husband and daughter, arrived at the Ancient Concert Rooms three-quarters of an hour before the time at which the concert was to begin. By ill luck it was a rainy evening. Mrs. Kearney placed her daughter’s clothes and music in charge of her husband and went all over the building looking for Mr. Holohan or Mr. Fitzpatrick. She could find neither. She asked the stewards was any member of the committee in the hall and, after a great deal of trouble, a steward brought out a little woman named Miss Beirne to whom Mrs. Kearney explained that she wanted to see one of the secretaries. Miss Beirne expected them any minute and asked could she do anything. Mrs. Kearney looked searchingly at the oldish face which was screwed into an expression of trustfulness and enthusiasm and answered:
“No, thank you!”
The little woman hoped they would have a good house. She looked out at the rain until the melancholy of the wet street effaced all the trustfulness and enthusiasm from her twisted features. Then she gave a little sigh and said:
“Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows.”
Mrs. Kearney had to go back to the dressing-room.
The artistes were arriving. The bass and the second tenor had already come. The bass, Mr. Duggan, was a slender young man with a scattered black moustache. He was the son of a hall porter in an office in the city and, as a boy, he had sung prolonged bass notes in the resounding hall. From this humble state he had raised himself until he had become a first-rate artiste. He had appeared in grand opera. One night, when an operatic artiste had fallen ill, he had undertaken the part of the king in the opera of Maritana at the Queen’s Theatre. He sang his music with great feeling and volume and was warmly welcomed by the gallery; but, unfortunately, he marred the good impression by wiping his nose in his gloved hand once or twice out of thoughtlessness. He was unassuming and spoke little. He said yous so softly that it passed unnoticed and he never drank anything stronger than milk for his voice’s sake. Mr. Bell, the second tenor, was a fair-haired little man who competed every year for prizes at the Feis Ceoil. On his fourth trial he had been awarded a bronze medal. He was extremely nervous and extremely jealous of other tenors and he covered his nervous jealousy with an ebullient friendliness. It was his humour to have people know what an ordeal a concert was to him. Therefore when he saw Mr. Duggan he went over to him and asked:
“Are you in it too? “
“Yes,” said Mr. Duggan.
Mr. Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held out his hand and said:
“Shake!”
Mrs. Kearney passed by these two young men and went to the edge of the screen to view the house. The seats were being filled up rapidly and a pleasant noise circulated in the auditorium. She came back and spoke to her husband privately. Their conversation was evidently about Kathleen for they both glanced at her often as she stood chatting to one of her Nationalist friends, Miss Healy, the contralto. An unknown solitary woman with a pale face walked through the room. The women followed with keen eyes the faded blue dress which was stretched upon a meagre body. Someone said that she was Madam Glynn, the soprano.
“I wonder where did they dig her up,” said Kathleen to Miss Healy. “I’m sure I never heard of her.”
Miss Healy had to smile. Mr. Holohan limped into the dressing-room at that moment and the two young ladies asked him who was the unknown woman. Mr. Holohan said that she was Madam Glynn from London. Madam Glynn took her stand in a corner of the room, holding a roll of music stiffly before her and from time to time changing the direction of her startled gaze. The shadow took her faded dress into shelter but fell revengefully into the little cup behind her collar-bone. The noise of the hall became more audible. The first tenor and the baritone arrived together. They were both well dressed, stout and complacent and they brought a breath of opulence among the company.
Mrs. Kearney brought her daughter over to them, and talked to them amiably. She wanted to be on good terms with them but, while she strove to be polite, her eyes followed Mr. Holohan in his limping and devious courses. As soon as she could she excused herself and went out after him.
“Mr. Holohan, I want to speak to you for a moment,” she said.
They went down to a discreet part of the corridor. Mrs Kearney asked him when was her daughter going to be paid. Mr. Holohan said that Mr. Fitzpatrick had charge of that. Mrs. Kearney said that she didn’t know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick. Her daughter had signed a contract for eight guineas and she would have to be paid. Mr. Holohan said that it wasn’t his business.
“Why isn’t it your business?” asked Mrs. Kearney. “Didn’t you yourself bring her the contract? Anyway, if it’s not your business it’s my business and I mean to see to it.”
“You’d better speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick,” said Mr. Holohan distantly.
“I don’t know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick,” repeated Mrs. Kearney. “I have my contract, and I intend to see that it is carried out.”
When she came back to the dressing-room her cheeks were slightly suffused. The room was lively. Two men in outdoor dress had taken possession of the fireplace and were chatting familiarly with Miss Healy and the baritone. They were the Freeman man and Mr. O’Madden Burke. The Freeman man had come in to say that he could not wait for the concert as he had to report the lecture which an American priest was giving in the Mansion House. He said they were to leave the report for him at the Freeman office and he would see that it went in. He was a grey-haired man, with a plausible voice and careful manners. He held an extinguished cigar in his hand and the aroma of cigar smoke floated near him. He had not intended to stay a moment because concerts and artistes bored him considerably but he remained leaning against the mantelpiece. Miss Healy stood in front of him, talking and laughing. He was old enough to suspect one reason for her politeness but young enough in spirit to turn the moment to account. The warmth, fragrance and colour of her body appealed to his senses. He was pleasantly conscious that the bosom which he saw rise and fall slowly beneath him rose and fell at that moment for him, that the laughter and fragrance and wilful glances were his tribute. When he could stay no longer he took leave of her regretfully.
“O’Madden Burke will write the notice,” he explained to Mr. Holohan, “and I’ll see it in.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Hendrick,” said Mr. Holohan, “you’ll see it in, I know. Now, won’t you have a little something before you go?”
“I don’t mind,” said Mr. Hendrick.
The two men went along some tortuous passages and up a dark staircase and came to a secluded room where one of the stewards was uncorking bottles for a few gentlemen. One of these gentlemen was Mr. O’Madden Burke, who had found out the room by instinct. He was a suave, elderly man who balanced his imposing body, when at rest, upon a large silk umbrella. His magniloquent western name was the moral umbrella upon which he balanced the fine problem of his finances. He was widely respected.
While Mr. Holohan was entertaining the Freeman man Mrs. Kearney was speaking so animatedly to her husband that he had to ask her to lower her voice. The conversation of the others in the dressing-room had become strained. Mr. Bell, the first item, stood ready with his music but the accompanist made no sign. Evidently something was wrong. Mr. Kearney looked straight before him, stroking his beard, while Mrs. Kearney spoke into Kathleen’s ear with subdued emphasis. From the hall came sounds of encouragement, clapping and stamping of feet. The first tenor and the baritone and Miss Healy stood together, waiting tranquilly, but Mr. Bell’s nerves were greatly agitated because he was afraid the audience would think that he had come late.
Mr. Holohan and Mr. O’Madden Burke came into the room In a moment Mr. Holohan perceived the hush. He went over to Mrs. Kearney and spoke with her earnestly. While they were speaking the noise in the hall grew louder. Mr. Holohan became very red and excited. He spoke volubly, but Mrs. Kearney said curtly at intervals:
“She won’t go on. She must get her eight guineas.”
Mr. Holohan pointed desperately towards the hall where the audience was clapping and stamping. He appealed to Mr Kearney and to Kathleen. But Mr. Kearney continued to stroke his beard and Kathleen looked down, moving the point of her new shoe: it was not her fault. Mrs. Kearney repeated:
“She won’t go on without her money.”
After a swift struggle of tongues Mr. Holohan hobbled out in haste. The room was silent. When the strain of the silence had become somewhat painful Miss Healy said to the baritone:
“Have you seen Mrs. Pat Campbell this week?”
The baritone had not seen her but he had been told that she was very fine. The conversation went no further. The first tenor bent his head and began to count the links of the gold chain which was extended across his waist, smiling and humming random notes to observe the effect on the frontal sinus. From time to time everyone glanced at Mrs. Kearney.
The noise in the auditorium had risen to a clamour when Mr. Fitzpatrick burst into the room, followed by Mr. Holohan who was panting. The clapping and stamping in the hall were punctuated by whistling. Mr. Fitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand. He counted out four into Mrs. Kearney’s hand and said she would get the other half at the interval. Mrs. Kearney said:
“This is four shillings short.”
But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said: “Now. Mr. Bell,” to the first item, who was shaking like an aspen. The singer and the accompanist went out together. The noise in hall died away. There was a pause of a few seconds: and then the piano was heard.
The first part of the concert was very successful except for Madam Glynn’s item. The poor lady sang Killarney in a bodiless gasping voice, with all the old-fashioned mannerisms of intonation and pronunciation which she believed lent elegance to her singing. She looked as if she had been resurrected from an old stage-wardrobe and the cheaper parts of the hall made fun of her high wailing notes. The first tenor and the contralto, however, brought down the house. Kathleen played a selection of Irish airs which was generously applauded. The first part closed with a stirring patriotic recitation delivered by a young lady who arranged amateur theatricals. It was deservedly applauded; and, when it was ended, the men went out for the interval, content.
All this time the dressing-room was a hive of excitement. In one corner were Mr. Holohan, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Miss Beirne, two of the stewards, the baritone, the bass, and Mr. O’Madden Burke. Mr. O’Madden Burke said it was the most scandalous exhibition he had ever witnessed. Miss Kathleen Kearney’s musical career was ended in Dublin after that, he said. The baritone was asked what did he think of Mrs. Kearney’s conduct. He did not like to say anything. He had been paid his money and wished to be at peace with men. However, he said that Mrs. Kearney might have taken the artistes into consideration. The stewards and the secretaries debated hotly as to what should be done when the interval came.
“I agree with Miss Beirne,” said Mr. O’Madden Burke. “Pay her nothing.”
In another corner of the room were Mrs. Kearney and he: husband, Mr. Bell, Miss Healy and the young lady who had to recite the patriotic piece. Mrs. Kearney said that the Committee had treated her scandalously. She had spared neither trouble nor expense and this was how she was repaid.
They thought they had only a girl to deal with and that therefore, they could ride roughshod over her. But she would show them their mistake. They wouldn’t have dared to have treated her like that if she had been a man. But she would see that her daughter got her rights: she wouldn’t be fooled. If they didn’t pay her to the last farthing she would make Dublin ring. Of course she was sorry for the sake of the artistes. But what else could she do? She appealed to the second tenor who said he thought she had not been well treated. Then she appealed to Miss Healy. Miss Healy wanted to join the other group but she did not like to do so because she was a great friend of Kathleen’s and the Kearneys had often invited her to their house.
As soon as the first part was ended Mr. Fitzpatrick and Mr. Holohan went over to Mrs. Kearney and told her that the other four guineas would be paid after the committee meeting on the following Tuesday and that, in case her daughter did not play for the second part, the committee would consider the contract broken and would pay nothing.
“I haven’t seen any committee,” said Mrs. Kearney angrily. “My daughter has her contract. She will get four pounds eight into her hand or a foot she won’t put on that platform.”
“I’m surprised at you, Mrs. Kearney,” said Mr. Holohan. “I never thought you would treat us this way.”
“And what way did you treat me?” asked Mrs. Kearney.
Her face was inundated with an angry colour and she looked as if she would attack someone with her hands.
“I’m asking for my rights.” she said.
You might have some sense of decency,” said Mr. Holohan.
“Might I, indeed? . . . And when I ask when my daughter is going to be paid I can’t get a civil answer.”
She tossed her head and assumed a haughty voice:
“You must speak to the secretary. It’s not my business. I’m a great fellow fol-the-diddle-I-do.”
“I thought you were a lady,” said Mr. Holohan, walking away from her abruptly.
After that Mrs. Kearney’s conduct was condemned on all hands: everyone approved of what the committee had done. She stood at the door, haggard with rage, arguing with her husband and daughter, gesticulating with them. She waited until it was time for the second part to begin in the hope that the secretaries would approach her. But Miss Healy had kindly consented to play one or two accompaniments. Mrs. Kearney had to stand aside to allow the baritone and his accompanist to pass up to the platform. She stood still for an instant like an angry stone image and, when the first notes of the song struck her ear, she caught up her daughter’s cloak and said to her husband:
“Get a cab!”
He went out at once. Mrs. Kearney wrapped the cloak round her daughter and followed him. As she passed through the doorway she stopped and glared into Mr. Holohan’s face.
“I’m not done with you yet,” she said.
“But I’m done with you,” said Mr. Holohan.
Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr. Holohan began to pace up and down the room, in order to cool himself for he his skin on fire.
“That’s a nice lady!” he said. “O, she’s a nice lady!”
“You did the proper thing, Holohan,” said Mr. O’Madden Burke, poised upon his umbrella in approval.
James Joyce: A Mother
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive I-J, Joyce, James, Joyce, James
Theater Kwezel speelt:
OVERLOOP, een verhuizing
Een locatieproject in de Staalmanpleinbuurt, Amsterdam. Een theatervoorstelling over die belangrijke stap in je leven. Van Esther Porcelijn, Marius Bruijn en Maaike Haneveld. Overloop wordt een komische voorstelling met tekstscenes, poppenspel (voor volwassenen) en muziek voor iedereen vanaf 12 jaar.
Theater
OVERLOOP is gemaakt op locatie op het Abraham Staalmanplein in Amsterdam Slotervaart. In deze buurt, de Staalmanpleinbuurt, zijn grootschalige veranderingen gaande. Oude flats worden afgebroken, nieuwe worden gebouwd. Overal zijn mensen aan het verhuizen. Dit is het decor van de komische en absurdistische theatervoorstelling. Ons personage, Leen, woont te midden van deze straten. En ze is vastbesloten te vertrekken.
Thema
Overloop gaat over een overgangsfase, een stap in het onbekende. Het onbekende ziet er wellicht duister, bedreigend en verwarrend uit, er lijken weinig wegen te bewandelen en weinig perspectief op verbetering. En toch wil hoofdpersoon Leen die stap zetten. Om er in de nieuwe situatie beter en zelfverzekerder uit te komen. En misschien is die nieuwe situatie wel gewoon in het oude huis!
De Makers
Bewerking en spel: Marius Bruijn & Esther Porcelijn
Regie: Peter de Jong
Tekst: Maaike Haneveld
Bekijk de Teaser op YouTube
Voorstellingen
OP LOCATIE op het Abraham Staalmanplein 12, Amsterdam Slotervaart, Borrel na afloop
– try out – vrijdag 13 jan. 19:00
– première – vrijdag 13 jan. 21:00
– zaterdag 14 jan. 16:00 en 20:00
– zondag 15 jan. 14:00 en 17:00
– zaterdag 21 jan. 16:00 en 20:00
– zondag 22 jan. 14:00 en 17:00
Extra voorstellingen in de
Vondelbunker: Vondelpark 6, Amsterdam
www.vondelbunker.nl
– vrijdag 20 januari 2012, Toegang 10 euro,
reserveren aanbevolen via: marius@kwezel.nl
Meer info op www.kwezel.nl
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Porcelijn, Esther, Porcelijn, Esther, THEATRE
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
110
Alas ’tis true, I have gone here and there,
And made my self a motley to the view,
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new.
Most true it is, that I have looked on truth
Askance and strangely: but by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays proved thee my best of love.
Now all is done, have what shall have no end,
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confined.
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets
photo jef van kempen 2011, Cimetière Montparnasse, Paris
Bert Bevers
Cimetière de Montparnasse
Daar zijn ze weer, de galmen van de andere kant. Van
eerder. Aan deze Boulevard Edgard Quinet rusten
ergens op een zolder stijve foto’s in donkere albums.
Behouden mag de stille verte. Vroeger was er zonder
luister genoeg gefluister binnenskamers. Nu blijft ijdel
de bijbel dicht, al klinken er plots wel eventjes violen
samen, honderden. Onder spreektaal worden hier loze
riolen gedicht zodat het geheim van de verbazing blijft.
Voorvaderen kuchen, zien dat er nog steeds naar gulle
genade gesmacht wordt in lofprijzen. Zij hopen dat we
niet zullen vluchten in leeggeroofde zuchten maar gaan
verhalen van wat gebeuren mag. Van doorgift, in tempus
praesens. We horen: “En, was het weerzien blij?” En we
verstaan: “Ik zal een brief zijn uit mijn tijd, een andere.”
(uit Bert Bevers: Arrondissementen, Uitgeverij Kleinood & Grootzeer, Bergen op Zoom, 2011)
Bert Bevers gedicht: Cimetière de Montparnasse
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Nick J. Swarth
Mijn onsterfelijke lever
(een winterverhaal)
1. Het is geen broodje aap, boef.
Het is een straat die op de kaart staat, gewoon,
die je nooit neemt
(omdat je het niet waard bent
genomen te worden > BLING = KING
& YOU’RE A QUEEN!
Kom, til gerust de deken op, ik heb niets op mijn
onsterfelijke lever. De lucht is bruin, het denken
dief. Schrompel, Schram & Schrot.
Krostovič, heb je hier telefoon?
Nee, maar d’r is een cel om de hoek.
Ik ga even bellen. Als ie grappen uithaalt, schieten.
O.K. Nick.
You must be 18+ to read this poem.
If you are not 18+ please close your eyes.
2. Koppen freest de kou,
een heer van sneeuw, sneeuwsoldaatjes, verstoken
van buit.
Schrompel, Schram & Schrot, Ave, Ade (van
de opmerkelijkste mummies zijn er enkele bij toeval
toeval geconserveerd
Niemand bewaakte de maag
Niemand hield de darmen vast
Niemand hield een oogje op de longen
Niemand woog het hart, de onsterfelijke lever
Geen barst, geen biet, geen zier
snars noch sikkepit, moer noch fluit.
Verse maden
haalt de visser
uit de muur 24/7 om de hoek bij de dierenspeciaalzaak
O GEKKIE
JE BEKKIE
EEN STEKKIE VAN STEEN!
3. Zum Korken, overgeleverd aan koffie & brein. Helen
clandestien. Op het scherm een gier, geluidloos een buik
vlies doordringend.
O, die, ja, die. Die, die lag een dag voor pampus,
kop in de kattenbak, benen wijd
(op z’n Mexicaans, meneer, uit de hand, meneer
knalden de knapen een kapitaal aan pijlen de lucht in &
bestookten elkaar met rotjes, daarna), ‘s anderendaags
het beesten
een kreng
dat nekloos ploegde door de vorstkorst
& in de Obstquelle
kleumend foerageerde
tussen voor het doordraaien
behoed fruit DRIE mango’s voor EEN enkele euro!
Productinformatie uit den boze
in het buisverlichte kot. Alle appels heten er ‘appel’
alle peren ‘peer’
alle aardappelen ‘aardappel’
en als ze pijn zouden verkopen heette het simpelweg
‘pijn’, alle pijn, ook de lekkere. Met een beetje geluk
heb je er een koopje aan, in het andere geval keil je
de zak in de container
& ga je morgen weer. Schrompel, Schram & Schrot.
Nick J. Swarth poetry & prose
fleursdumal.nl poetry magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive S-T, Nick J. Swarth, Swarth, Nick J.
Gratis kunst voor poëzielezers
Het idee: Een potentieel beeldend
kunstwerk wordt zowel concreet als
qua sfeer zo volledig omschreven
dat het maken totaal overbodig wordt.
Zodat bijvoorbeeld een pindakaasvloer,
waarbij het niet eens nodig is deze
voor u te gaan beschrijven, beperkt
blijft tot uw geest en u deze weer weg
kan gaan schrapen naar believen, of uw
geestelijke vogeltjes ermee kunt voeren.
Hier volgt er één die het volle daglicht
niet zal halen, maar wel uw geest,
met name leuk als u ook fan bent
van Ben Saunders (zacht fluisterend
gesproken: ‘om doelgroep op subtiele
wijze eveneens wat uit te breiden ssst’).
Een koffiekopje gemaakt van elastiek
met een formaat van 30 x 30 meter,
wordt op een reuzensokkel op het
strand van Scheveningen geplaatst,
waarbij het van belang is om er met
de neus bovenop te staan omdat er
door Ben Saunders himself gratis, free,
subtiele, kleine, beeldige tattoeages in zijn
aangebracht met afwisselend de teksten
‘koffiearty’, ‘brown in brown’ en ‘kopkunst’.
Het weer zal die dag op uw geestelijke
commando mooi zijn, met een leuk rollende
zee op de achtergrond en om extra van de
impact te genieten drinkt u er een lekker
bakkie bruin bij, gratis door het kopje verstrekt.
©2011 fk
Freda Kamphuis gedichten en proza
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive K-L, Kamphuis, Freda
James Joyce
(1882-1941)
An Encounter
It was Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a little library made up of old numbers of The Union Jack , Pluck and The Halfpenny Marvel . Every evening after school we met in his back garden and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young brother Leo, the idler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to carry it by storm; or we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, however well we fought, we never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended with Joe Dillon’s war dance of victory. His parents went to eight-o’clock mass every morning in Gardiner Street and the peaceful odour of Mrs. Dillon was prevalent in the hall of the house. But he played too fiercely for us who were younger and more timid. He looked like some kind of an Indian when he capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy on his head, beating a tin with his fist and yelling:
“Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!”
Everyone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a vocation for the priesthood. Nevertheless it was true.
A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under its influence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. We banded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost in fear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant Indians who were afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I was one. The adventures related in the literature of the Wild West were remote from my nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape. I liked better some American detective stories which were traversed from time to time by unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. Though there was nothing wrong in these stories and though their intention was sometimes literary they were circulated secretly at school. One day when Father Butler was hearing the four pages of Roman History clumsy Leo Dillon was discovered with a copy of The Halfpenny Marvel.
“This page or this page? This page Now, Dillon, up! ‘Hardly had the day’ . . . Go on! What day? ‘Hardly had the day dawned’ . . . Have you studied it? What have you there in your pocket?”
Everyone’s heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper and everyone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the pages, frowning.
“What is this rubbish?” he said. “The Apache Chief! Is this what you read instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find any more of this wretched stuff in this college. The man who wrote it, I suppose, was some wretched fellow who writes these things for a drink. I’m surprised at boys like you, educated, reading such stuff. I could understand it if you were . . . National School boys. Now, Dillon, I advise you strongly, get at your work or . . . ”
This rebuke during the sober hours of school paled much of the glory of the Wild West for me and the confused puffy face of Leo Dillon awakened one of my consciences. But when the restraining influence of the school was at a distance I began to hunger again for wild sensations, for the escape which those chronicles of disorder alone seemed to offer me. The mimic warfare of the evening became at last as wearisome to me as the routine of school in the morning because I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.
The summer holidays were near at hand when I made up my mind to break out of the weariness of schoollife for one day at least. With Leo Dillon and a boy named Mahony I planned a day’s miching. Each of us saved up sixpence. We were to meet at ten in the morning on the Canal Bridge. Mahony’s big sister was to write an excuse for him and Leo Dillon was to tell his brother to say he was sick. We arranged to go along the Wharf Road until we came to the ships, then to cross in the ferryboat and walk out to see the Pigeon House. Leo Dillon was afraid we might meet Father Butler or someone out of the college; but Mahony asked, very sensibly, what would Father Butler be doing out at the Pigeon House. We were reassured: and I brought the first stage of the plot to an end by collecting sixpence from the other two, at the same time showing them my own sixpence. When we were making the last arrangements on the eve we were all vaguely excited. We shook hands, laughing, and Mahony said:
“Till tomorrow, mates!”
That night I slept badly. In the morning I was firstcomer to the bridge as I lived nearest. I hid my books in the long grass near the ashpit at the end of the garden where nobody ever came and hurried along the canal bank. It was a mild sunny morning in the first week of June. I sat up on the coping of the bridge admiring my frail canvas shoes which I had diligently pipeclayed overnight and watching the docile horses pulling a tramload of business people up the hill. All the branches of the tall trees which lined the mall were gay with little light green leaves and the sunlight slanted through them on to the water. The granite stone of the bridge was beginning to be warm and I began to pat it with my hands in time to an air in my head. I was very happy.
When I had been sitting there for five or ten minutes I saw Mahony’s grey suit approaching. He came up the hill, smiling, and clambered up beside me on the bridge. While we were waiting he brought out the catapult which bulged from his inner pocket and explained some improvements which he had made in it. I asked him why he had brought it and he told me he had brought it to have some gas with the birds. Mahony used slang freely, and spoke of Father Butler as Old Bunser. We waited on for a quarter of an hour more but still there was no sign of Leo Dillon. Mahony, at last, jumped down and said:
“Come along. I knew Fatty’d funk it.”
“And his sixpence . . . ?” I said.
“That’s forfeit,” said Mahony. “And so much the better for us, a bob and a tanner instead of a bob.”
We walked along the North Strand Road till we came to the Vitriol Works and then turned to the right along the Wharf Road. Mahony began to play the Indian as soon as we were out of public sight. He chased a crowd of ragged girls, brandishing his unloaded catapult and, when two ragged boys began, out of chivalry, to fling stones at us, he proposed that we should charge them. I objected that the boys were too small and so we walked on, the ragged troop screaming after us: “Swaddlers! Swaddlers!” thinking that we were Protestants because Mahony, who was dark-complexioned, wore the silver badge of a cricket club in his cap. When we came to the Smoothing Iron we arranged a siege; but it was a failure because you must have at least three. We revenged ourselves on Leo Dillon by saying what a funk he was and guessing how many he would get at three o’clock from Mr. Ryan.
We came then near the river. We spent a long time walking about the noisy streets flanked by high stone walls, watching the working of cranes and engines and often being shouted at for our immobility by the drivers of groaning carts. It was noon when we reached the quays and as all the labourers seemed to be eating their lunches, we bought two big currant buns and sat down to eat them on some metal piping beside the river. We pleased ourselves with the spectacle of Dublin’s commerce, the barges signalled from far away by their curls of woolly smoke, the brown fishing fleet beyond Ringsend, the big white sailing-vessel which was being discharged on the opposite quay. Mahony said it would be right skit to run away to sea on one of those big ships and even I, looking at the high masts, saw, or imagined, the geography which had been scantily dosed to me at school gradually taking substance under my eyes. School and home seemed to recede from us and their influences upon us seemed to wane.
We crossed the Liffey in the ferryboat, paying our toll to be transported in the company of two labourers and a little Jew with a bag. We were serious to the point of solemnity, but once during the short voyage our eyes met and we laughed. When we landed we watched the discharging of the graceful three-master which we had observed from the other quay. Some bystander said that she was a Norwegian vessel. I went to the stern and tried to decipher the legend upon it but, failing to do so, I came back and examined the foreign sailors to see had any of them green eyes for I had some confused notion. . . . The sailors’ eyes were blue and grey and even black. The only sailor whose eyes could have been called green was a tall man who amused the crowd on the quay by calling out cheerfully every time the planks fell:
“All right! All right!”
When we were tired of this sight we wandered slowly into Ringsend. The day had grown sultry, and in the windows of the grocers’ shops musty biscuits lay bleaching. We bought some biscuits and chocolate which we ate sedulously as we wandered through the squalid streets where the families of the fishermen live. We could find no dairy and so we went into a huckster’s shop and bought a bottle of raspberry lemonade each. Refreshed by this, Mahony chased a cat down a lane, but the cat escaped into a wide field. We both felt rather tired and when we reached the field we made at once for a sloping bank over the ridge of which we could see the Dodder.
It was too late and we were too tired to carry out our project of visiting the Pigeon House. We had to be home before four o’clock lest our adventure should be discovered. Mahony looked regretfully at his catapult and I had to suggest going home by train before he regained any cheerfulness. The sun went in behind some clouds and left us to our jaded thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions.
There was nobody but ourselves in the field. When we had lain on the bank for some time without speaking I saw a man approaching from the far end of the field. I watched him lazily as I chewed one of those green stems on which girls tell fortunes. He came along by the bank slowly. He walked with one hand upon his hip and in the other hand he held a stick with which he tapped the turf lightly. He was shabbily dressed in a suit of greenish-black and wore what we used to call a jerry hat with a high crown. He seemed to be fairly old for his moustache was ashen-grey. When he passed at our feet he glanced up at us quickly and then continued his way. We followed him with our eyes and saw that when he had gone on for perhaps fifty paces he turned about and began to retrace his steps. He walked towards us very slowly, always tapping the ground with his stick, so slowly that I thought he was looking for something in the grass.
He stopped when he came level with us and bade us goodday. We answered him and he sat down beside us on the slope slowly and with great care. He began to talk of the weather, saying that it would be a very hot summer and adding that the seasons had changed gready since he was a boy, a long time ago. He said that the happiest time of one’s life was undoubtedly one’s schoolboy days and that he would give anything to be young again. While he expressed these sentiments which bored us a little we kept silent. Then he began to talk of school and of books. He asked us whether we had read the poetry of Thomas Moore or the works of Sir Walter Scott and Lord Lytton. I pretended that I had read every book he mentioned so that in the end he said:
“Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself. Now,” he added, pointing to Mahony who was regarding us with open eyes, “he is different; he goes in for games.”
He said he had all Sir Walter Scott’s works and all Lord Lytton’s works at home and never tired of reading them. “Of course,” he said, “there were some of Lord Lytton’s works which boys couldn’t read.” Mahony asked why couldn’t boys read them, a question which agitated and pained me because I was afraid the man would think I was as stupid as Mahony. The man, however, only smiled. I saw that he had great gaps in his mouth between his yellow teeth. Then he asked us which of us had the most sweethearts. Mahony mentioned lightly that he had three totties. The man asked me how many I had. I answered that I had none. He did not believe me and said he was sure I must have one. I was silent.
“Tell us,” said Mahony pertly to the man, “how many have you yourself?”
The man smiled as before and said that when he was our age he had lots of sweethearts.
“Every boy,” he said, “has a little sweetheart.”
His attitude on this point struck me as strangely liberal in a man of his age. In my heart I thought that what he said about boys and sweethearts was reasonable. But I disliked the words in his mouth and I wondered why he shivered once or twice as if he feared something or felt a sudden chill. As he proceeded I noticed that his accent was good. He began to speak to us about girls, saying what nice soft hair they had and how soft their hands were and how all girls were not so good as they seemed to be if one only knew. There was nothing he liked, he said, so much as looking at a nice young girl, at her nice white hands and her beautiful soft hair. He gave me the impression that he was repeating something which he had learned by heart or that, magnetised by some words of his own speech, his mind was slowly circling round and round in the same orbit. At times he spoke as if he were simply alluding to some fact that everybody knew, and at times he lowered his voice and spoke mysteriously as if he were telling us something secret which he did not wish others to overhear. He repeated his phrases over and over again, varying them and surrounding them with his monotonous voice. I continued to gaze towards the foot of the slope, listening to him.
After a long while his monologue paused. He stood up slowly, saying that he had to leave us for a minute or so, a few minutes, and, without changing the direction of my gaze, I saw him walking slowly away from us towards the near end of the field. We remained silent when he had gone. After a silence of a few minutes I heard Mahony exclaim:
“I say! Look what he’s doing!”
As I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony exclaimed again:
“I say . . . He’s a queer old josser!”
“In case he asks us for our names,” I said “let you be Murphy and I’ll be Smith.”
We said nothing further to each other. I was still considering whether I would go away or not when the man came back and sat down beside us again. Hardly had he sat down when Mahony, catching sight of the cat which had escaped him, sprang up and pursued her across the field. The man and I watched the chase. The cat escaped once more and Mahony began to throw stones at the wall she had escaladed. Desisting from this, he began to wander about the far end of the field, aimlessly.
After an interval the man spoke to me. He said that my friend was a very rough boy and asked did he get whipped often at school. I was going to reply indignantly that we were not National School boys to be whipped, as he called it; but I remained silent. He began to speak on the subject of chastising boys. His mind, as if magnetised again by his speech, seemed to circle slowly round and round its new centre. He said that when boys were that kind they ought to be whipped and well whipped. When a boy was rough and unruly there was nothing would do him any good but a good sound whipping. A slap on the hand or a box on the ear was no good: what he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping. I was surprised at this sentiment and involuntarily glanced up at his face. As I did so I met the gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering at me from under a twitching forehead. I turned my eyes away again.
The man continued his monologue. He seemed to have forgotten his recent liberalism. He said that if ever he found a boy talking to girls or having a girl for a sweetheart he would whip him and whip him; and that would teach him not to be talking to girls. And if a boy had a girl for a sweetheart and told lies about it then he would give him such a whipping as no boy ever got in this world. He said that there was nothing in this world he would like so well as that. He described to me how he would whip such a boy as if he were unfolding some elaborate mystery. He would love that, he said, better than anything in this world; and his voice, as he led me monotonously through the mystery, grew almost affectionate and seemed to plead with me that I should understand him.
I waited till his monologue paused again. Then I stood up abruptly. Lest I should betray my agitation I delayed a few moments pretending to fix my shoe properly and then, saying that I was obliged to go, I bade him good-day. I went up the slope calmly but my heart was beating quickly with fear that he would seize me by the ankles. When I reached the top of the slope I turned round and, without looking at him, called loudly across the field:
“Murphy!”
My voice had an accent of forced bravery in it and I was ashamed of my paltry stratagem. I had to call the name again before Mahony saw me and hallooed in answer. How my heart beat as he came running across the field to me! He ran as if to bring me aid. And I was penitent; for in my heart I had always despised him a little.
James Joyce: An Encounter
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive I-J, Joyce, James, Joyce, James
photo KEMP=MAG
Esther Porcelijn
Bomensoep
Een modern sprookje
Er was eens een jongen die de wereld wilde redden.
De jongen hield niet van dingen die verkeerd gaan, en zeker niet van dingen die vergaan.
De jongen werd altijd treurig in de herfst, als de bladeren van de bomen vallen.
Niemand anders leek het erg te vinden, niemand keek er van op of om. “Ja de bladeren vallen van de bomen, nou en?” zeiden ze dan tegen hem.
Hij vond de bomen dan zo naakt en vond het zielig voor ze dat niemand ze een jasje om deed.
De mensen lachten hem dan uit als hij dat zei. “Het wordt toch lente!” zeiden ze dan.
“ja, maar wat nu als de lente niet komt! Wat als de bomen eeuwig zo kaal blijven?”
“dat is onzin, doe niet zo raar!” zeiden de mensen dan.
In de herfst bleef de jongen uren en uren naar een boom kijken, hoe elk blaadje viel en hoe de boom bij elk verloren blaadje even leek te schudden in de wind.
Als hij het te koud kreeg, ging hij naar huis, naar zijn moeder. Hij moest altijd op tijd thuis zijn om soep te maken. Zijn moeder lag vaak op bed, waarom precies wist hij niet, “ik heb weer last van mijn ziekte” zei ze dan. En als zijn moeder last had van haar ziekte moest hij soep maken. Het gebeurde steeds vaker.
Thuis begroette hij zijn moeder, tilde haar op, maakte het bed op, legde haar er weer in, stofte de kamer, gaf de planten water en maakte soep.
Hij ging bij haar op bed zitten met twee kommen soep. Hij vertelde haar over de bomen en hoe ze bladeren verloren en hoe ze het koud hadden. “De mensen vinden mij raar” zei hij. Zijn moeder zei dat hij een lieve maar inderdaad ook een rare jongen was. “Bomen hebben het niet koud”, zei ze, “En het wordt vanzelf weer lente, dat komt allemaal goed.”
“Ja, dat zeiden de mensen ook al,” zei de jongen, “Nou, zie je wel!” zei zijn moeder en ze draaide zich op haar zij en ging weer liggen “je moet nog huiswerk maken!”.
Hij besloot er maar niet meer over te beginnen. Het was al avond en hij was moe, te moe om nog huiswerk te maken.
Een paar maanden later werd het lente. Zo ging het elk jaar. Het stelde de jongen niet gerust. “Wat nu als de lente niet komt?”, dacht hij, “Moet ik elk jaar er opnieuw vanuit gaan dat de lente weer komt?” “De bomen moeten zo hard werken om weer nieuwe blaadjes te maken, zo houden ze toch te weinig tijd over?” “En waar hebben bomen tijd voor nodig dan?”, vroegen de mensen, “Om aan bomendingen te denken en bomendingen te doen.” , zei de jongen.
Een paar jaar verstreken en de jongen stond elk jaar naar de bomen te staren.
En elke lente keek hij argwanend naar de mensen om hem heen.
Tegen zijn moeder zei hij er maar niets meer over. Die was al ziek genoeg.
Op een dag, ergens in de herfst, besloot de jongen dat het genoeg was geweest met het vergaan van de bladeren.
Hij besloot om elk gevallen blaadje weer aan de boom te plakken. Hij ging elke dag met een trap en touw en lijm van huis, zette de trap tegen een boom, raapte een blaadje op van de grond en bond deze met een touwtje aan de tak en lijmde deze vast.
“Hij is gek geworden!” , zeiden de mensen op de grond, en vonden het zó raar dat ze hun schouders ophaalden en doorliepen.
Als het lukte dan ving de jongen de blaadjes op, zodat ze niet op de grond vielen. Dat was het beste, dan kon hij precies het blaadje bij de juiste tak vinden.
Elke dag ging hij na dat werk terug naar zijn moeder om soep te maken. Zij was erg ziek geworden en had veel hulp nodig. Hij tilde haar weer op, maakte het bed op, legde haar er weer in, stofte de kamer, gaf de planten water en maakte soep. “Hoe is ‘t buiten?”, vroeg zij dan. “Buiten is het goed,” zei hij dan. Veel meer kon ze niet zeggen, daarvoor was ze te moe, en over huiswerk werd al heel lang niet meer gesproken.
Iedere dag ging hij van huis met de trap, ‘t touw en de lijm om de bomen te repareren, totdat hij alle blaadjes weer aan alle bomen had gedaan. Tevreden keek hij rond en dacht: “zo, jullie vergaan tenminste niet.”
Een paar maanden later was het lente, of tenminste, dat had het moeten zijn. Er kwamen geen nieuwe blaadjes aan de bomen. De mensen op straat keken omhoog en vonden het zo raar dat ze hun schouders ophaalden en doorliepen.
De jongen was niet verbaasd maar maakte zich wel zorgen om de blaadjes die nu bruin waren. Er was niets groens te vinden.
Hij was thuis soep aan het maken voor zijn moeder toen zij vroeg: “hoe is ‘t buiten?”
Hij wist niet wat hij moest zeggen en besloot haar mee naar buiten te nemen.
Eenmaal buiten wist de moeder niet wat ze zag. Overal bruine blaadjes, nergens iets groens, en mensen op straat die zich er niets van aantrokken. “het is toch ondertussen lente?”, vroeg ze, “ja”, zei hij, “heb jij dit gedaan?”, vroeg ze, “ja”, zei hij.
De moeder begon heel erg te huilen en ze sprak voorbijgangers aan.” Zien jullie niet wat jullie hebben gedaan door niets te doen? Deze jongen wilde de bomen redden, en nu is de lente verdwenen en jullie doen alsof er niets aan de hand is, kan het jullie dan niets schelen?”
De mensen op straat schrokken enorm. Ze wilden liever inderdaad ook groene blaadjes. En het kon ze toch wel wat schelen. “H.H.H…Heb je misschien wat hulp nodig?” vroeg iemand. “Ja” zei de jongen. En samen met iedereen gingen ze de bomen weer snoeien en klaarmaken voor het volgende jaar. Alle oude blaadjes eraf en ruimte maken voor de nieuwe. Alle oude takken en blaadjes in een grote emmer. Iedereen hielp mee.
De jongen keek naar de grote emmer vol blaadjes en takken. “Bomensoep” zei hij tegen zijn moeder. “Ja, bomensoep” zei zij. En de mensen op straat boden de jongen aan om hem ook thuis te helpen. De mensen vonden hem niet meer raar. Niemand haalde nog zijn schouders op en niemand liep nog door.
Bomensoep.
Esther Porcelijn verhalen en gedichten
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Porcelijn, Esther, Porcelijn, Esther
Meisje in de trein
de trein mijn brein
in dolle vaart
kerken schuiven
schapen schieten
kabels golven
palen flitsen
voorbij voorbij
de zon staat laag
de hemel in brand
tegenover mij zit
in vuur en vlam
een lijvig boek
in haar handen
een jongensdroom
mijn blik daalt
schokt en stokt
in haar schoot
daar ontwaar ik
de sluiting geopend
een glimp van zwart
satijn en de trein
dendert door
ik kijk omhoog
en zie de nood
rem handgreep
mijn verbeelding
danst ontspoort
ze kijkt, klapt
het boek dicht
knarsend en piepend
komt de trein
tot stilstand
dan ze staat op
de zetel zucht
wat zal ik zeggen
maar haar lucht
strijkt snel en koel
langs mijn huid
en haar glimlach
schuift even later
langs het raam
Bennie Spekken
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Spekken, Bennie
William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
THE SONNETS
109
O never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed my flame to qualify,
As easy might I from my self depart,
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love, if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that my self bring water for my stain,
Never believe though in my nature reigned,
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou my rose, in it thou art my all.
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: -Shakespeare Sonnets
Renée Crevel
(1900-1935)
Regard
Ton regard couleur de fleuve
Est l’eau docile et qui change
Avec le jour qu’elle abreuve.
Petit matin, Robe d’ange
Un pan du manteau céleste
Sous tes cils, entre les rives
S’est pris. Coule, coule eau vive.
La nuit part, mais l’amour reste
Et ma main sent battre un cœur.
L’aube a voulu parer nos corps de sa candeur.
Fête-Dieu.
Le désir matinal a repris nos corps nus
Pour sculpter une chair que nous avions cru lasse.
Sur les fleuves au loin déjà les bateaux passent.
Nos peaux après l’amour ont l’odeur du pain chaud.
Si l’eau des fleuves est pour nos membres,
Tes yeux laveront mon âme ;
Mais ton regard liquide au midi que je crains
Deviendra-t-il de plomb ?
J’ai peur du jour, du jour trop long
Du jour qu’abreuve ton regard couleur de fleuve
Or dans un soir pavé pour de jumeaux triomphes
Si la victoire crie la volupté des anges,
Que se révèle en lui la Majesté d’un Gange.
Renée Crevel poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive C-D, Crevel, Renée
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