Fleurs du Mal Magazine
Astrid Lampe, dichter, acteur en regisseur, heeft de P.C. Hooftprijs 2024 voor poëzie toegekend gekregen. De uitreiking zal eind mei plaatsvinden.
De P.C. Hooft-prijs 2024 voor het oeuvre van Astrid Lampe is toegekend op voordracht van een jury bestaande uit Tsead Bruinja, Kiki Coumans, Maarten van der Graaff, Alfred Schaffer en Kila van der Starre (voorzitter).
‘Astrid Lampe dicht met een diabolische intensiteit over het moderne leven, in zinnelijke en ontembare taal die vraagt om herlezing en herbeluistering. Ze laat lyriek en gevonden taal in elkaar overlopen, waarbij ze geen enkel register onbenut laat. Het resultaat is een open tekst, taal die zich bewust is van zichzelf en van haar grenzen. Lampe’s oog – en vooral ook oor – voor de invloed van digitale technologie op economie, klimaat en genderverhoudingen vallen op in haar oeuvre (…). Ze heeft de poëzie beïnvloed van veel jongere dichters in het Nederlands taalgebied.’
De jury vindt dat Lampe al sinds haar debuutbundel Rib (1997) in haar gedichten prangende vragen stelt over klimaat, lichamelijkheid en digitalisering. Ze noemen haar een van de meest eigenzinnige en genereuze dichters van onze tijd.
Het oeuvre van Astrid Lampe is opvallend onconventioneel en meerstemmig en omvat dertien poëziebundels – inclusief een woord-en-beeld-samenwerking met Roland Sohier, een alternatief Poëzieweekgeschenk met poetry stills en een citybook over Utrecht. Ze put uit literaire bronnen en ontleent taal aan de wereld van marketing, internet, de kunsten en de politiek. Zelf omschrijft Lampe haar werk als radicaal lyrisch. Activistisch, dwars, energiek.
Astrid Lampe (Tilburg, 1955) woont en werkt in Utrecht.
Dichtbundels:
1997 – Rib
2000 – De sok weer aan
2002 – De memen van Lara
2005 – Spuit je ralkleur
2007 – Park Slope: K’NEX studies
2010 – Lil (zucht)
2013 – Rouw met diertjes
2015 – De taiga zwijntjes
2018 – Zusterstad 2.0
2021 – Tulpenwodka
Over de prijs:
De P.C. Hooft-prijs voor Letterkunde is de belangrijkste Nederlandse literatuurprijs voor een oeuvre. Deze staatsprijs wordt jaarlijks toegekend, afwisselend voor verhalend proza, beschouwend proza en poëzie. Het Literatuurmuseum verzorgt de toekenning en de uitreiking van deze prijs. De P.C. Hooft-prijs bedraagt 60.000 euro. Bij de geldprijs hoort een oorkonde en een bronzen beeldje van P.C. Hooft (1581–1647), een replica van een buste gemaakt door Frits Sieger, die in de Amsterdamse Jan Luijkenstraat staat. Recente laureaten in het genre poëzie zijn Alfred Schaffer (2021), H.C. ten Berge (2006), Judith Herzberg (1997) en J. Bernlef (1994).
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Hochmut reitet zu Pferde
Hochmut reitet zu Pferde aus
und kehrt zu Fuß heim.
Ulrich von Hutten
Ritter und Dichter
(* 21.04.1488, † 29.08.1523)
Hochmut reitet zu Pferde
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Chiquita
BEAUTIFUL! Sir, you may say so. Thar isn’t her match in the county;
Is thar, old gal,—Chiquita, my darling, my beauty?
Feel of that neck, sir,—thar ‘s velvet! Whoa! Steady,—ah, will you, you vixen!
Whoa! I say. Jack, trot her out; let the gentleman look at her paces.
Morgan!—She ain’t nothin’ else, and I ‘ve got the papers to prove it.
Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won’t buy her.
Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne?
Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in ‘Frisco?
Hedn’t no savey, hed Briggs. Thar, Jack! that ‘ll do, quit that foolin’!
Nothin’ to what she kin do, when she ‘s got her work cut out before her.
Hosses is hosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is jockeys;
And ‘t ain’t ev’ry man as can ride as knows what a hoss has got in him.
Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan’s leaders?
Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low water!
Well, it ain’t six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his nevey
Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water all around us;
Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just a bilin’,
Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river.
I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, Chiquita;
And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from top of the cañon.
Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita
Buckled right down to her work, and, afore I could yell to her rider,
Took water jest at the ford; and there was the Jedge and me standing,
And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and a-driftin’ to thunder!
Would ye b’lieve it? That night, that hoss, that ar’ filly, Chiquita,
Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping:
Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness,
Just as she swam the Fork,—that hoss, that ar’ filly, Chiquita.
That ‘s what I call a hoss! and—What did you say?—Oh! the nevey?
Drownded, I reckon,—leastways, he never kem back to deny it.
Ye see, the derned fool had no seat, ye could n’t have made him a rider;
And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses—well, hosses is hosses!
1872
Bret Harte
(1836-1902)
Chiquita
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For Deliverance From A Fever
When sorrows had begirt me round,
And pains within and out,
When in my flesh no part was found,
Then didst Thou rid me out.
My burning flesh in sweat did boil,
My aching head did break,
From side to side for ease I toil,
So faint I could not speak.
Beclouded was my soul with fear
Of Thy displeasure sore,
Nor could I read my evidence
Which oft I read before.
“Hide not Thy face from me!” I cried,
“From burnings keep my soul.
Thou know’st my heart, and hast me tried;
I on Thy mercies roll.”
“O heal my soul,” Thou know’st I said,
“Though flesh consume to nought,
What though in dust it shall be laid,
To glory t’ shall be brought.”
Thou heard’st, Thy rod Thou didst remove
And spared my body frail
Thou show’st to me Thy tender love,
My heart no more might quail.
O, praises to my mighty God,
Praise to my Lord, I say,
Who hath redeemed my soul from pit,
Praises to Him for aye.
Anne Bradstreet
(1612 – 1672)
For Deliverance From A Fever
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Desert Flowers
Living in a wide landscape are the flowers –
Rosenberg I only repeat what you were saying –
the shell and the hawk every hour
are slaying men and jerboas, slaying
the mind: but the body can fill
the hungry flowers and the dogs who cry words
at nights, the most hostile things of all.
But that is not new. Each time the night discards
draperies on the eyes and leaves the mind awake
I look each side of the door of sleep
for the little coin it will take
to buy the secret I shall not keep.
I see men as trees suffering
or confound the detail and the horizon.
Lay the coin on my tongue and I will sing
of what the others never set eyes on.
Keith Douglas
(1920 – 1944)
Desert Flowers
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« C’était il y a tout juste un an. Une famille a disparu, là où personne ne disparaissait jamais. On m’a chargée de l’enquête, et ce que j’ai découvert au fil des semaines a ébranlé toutes mes certitudes. Il ne s’agissait pas d’un simple fait-divers, mais d’un drame attendu, d’un mal qui irradiait tout un quartier, toute une ville, tout un pays, l’expression soudaine d’une violence qu’on croyait endormie. »
Hélène, ex-commissaire de police, reprend du service pour retrouver un couple et leur petit garçon, Milo. Elle rencontre les dernières personnes à avoir été en contact avec eux. Depuis que la France a basculé dans l’ère de la Transparence, ces hommes et ces femmes vivent dans un monde harmonieux, libéré du mal, où chacun évolue sous le regard protecteur de ses voisins. Mais au cours de son enquête, Hélène va dévoiler une vérité aussi surprenante que terrifiante.
À travers cette contre-utopie, c’est le monde d’aujourd’hui que l’auteur interroge. Ce roman haletant montre des êtres en proie à leurs pulsions et à leurs fêlures derrière leur apparente perfection.
Lilia Hassaine, Journaliste et romancière française (1991).
Panorama: Renaudot – Prix des Lycéens – 2023
Lilia Hassaine
Panorama
240 pages
140 x 205 mm
Gallimard (17/08/2023)
Genre: Romans
Époque: XXIe siècle
ISBN: 9782073035059
Gencode: 9782073035059 –
Code distributeur: G08016
€ 20,00
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The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
The Eagle
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Break, Break, Break
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman’s boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Break, Break, Break
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freda kamphuis
kanteling
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A dynamic, moving hybrid work that celebrates Black youth, often too fleeting, and examines Black lives lost to police violence.
In this astonishing volume of poems and lyric prose, Whiting Award–winner A. Van Jordan draws comparisons to Black characters in Shakespearean plays―Caliban and Sycorax from?The Tempest, Aaron the Moor from?Titus Andronicus, and the eponymous antihero of? Othello―to mourn the deaths of Black people, particularly Black children, at the hands of police officers. What do these characters, and the ways they are defined by the white figures who surround them, have in common with Tamir Rice, Trayvon Martin, and other Black people killed in the twenty-first century?
Balancing anger and grief with celebration, Jordan employs an elastic variety of poetic forms, including ekphrastic sestinas inspired by the photography of Malick Sidibé, fictional dialogues, and his signature definition poems that break down the insidious power of words like “fair,” “suspect,” and “juvenile.” He invents a new form of window poems, based on a characterization exercise, to see Shakespeare’s Black characters in three dimensions, and finds contemporary parallels in the way these characters are othered, rendered at once undesirable and hypersexualized, a threat and a joke.
At once a stunning inquiry into the roots of racist violence and a moving recognition of the joy of Black youth before the world takes hold, When I Waked, I Cried to Dream Again expresses the preciousness and precarity of life.
A. Van Jordan is the author of four collections: Rise, which won the PEN/Oakland Josephine Miles Award (Tia Chucha Press, 2001); M-A-C-N-O-L-I-A, (2005), which was listed as one the Best Books of 2005 by The London Times; Quantum Lyrics, (2007); and The Cineaste, (2013), W.W. Norton & Co. Jordan has been awarded a Whiting Writers Award, an Anisfield-Wolf Book Award, and a Pushcart Prize. He is also a recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship (2007), a United States Artists Fellowship (2009), and a Lannan Literary Award in Poetry (2015).
When I Waked, I Cried To Dream Again:
Poems by A. Van Jordan
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company (June 6, 2023)
Language: English
Hardcover
144 pages
ISBN-10 : 1324050934
ISBN-13 : 978-1324050933
Price $26.95
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Aftermath
When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807–1882)
Aftermath
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Paris double galère
Depuis le Point-du-Jour jusqu’aux cèdres bibliques
Double galère assise au long du grand bazar,
Et du grand ministère, et du morne alcazar,
Parmi les deuils privés et les vertus publiques ;
Sous les quatre-vingts rois et les trois Républiques,
Et sous Napoléon, Alexandre et César,
Nos pères ont tenté le centuple hasard,
Fidèlement courbés sur tes rames obliques.
Et nous prenant leur place au même banc de chêne,
Nous ramerons des reins, de la nuque, de l’âme,
Pliés, cassés, meurtris, saignants sous notre chaîne ;
Et nous tiendrons le coup, rivés sur notre rame,
Forçats fils de forçats aux deux rives de Seine,
Galériens couchés aux pieds de Notre Dame.
Charles Péguy
(1873 – 1914)
Paris double galère
1913
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