William Shakespeare: Sonnet 113

William Shakespeare

(1564-1616)

THE SONNETS

113

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,

And that which governs me to go about,

Doth part his function, and is partly blind,

Seems seeing, but effectually is out:

For it no form delivers to the heart

Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch,

Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,

Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:

For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight,

The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature,

The mountain, or the sea, the day, or night:

The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.

Incapable of more, replete with you,

My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.

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Richard Steegmans gedicht: Blues met bekentenis

Blues met bekentenis

Eens beroept de geliefde zich op een ommekeer van gevoelens,

loopt ze op een onzichtbare morgen voorgoed zonder koffers zijn idioom uit.

Hij neemt voor kort de kleur aan

van een overgewaaid bevattelijk lied,

zeult het knaagdier als in de voering

van winterjassen mee in bluesmuziek.

Verlamde neger, doordrenkte schoenenen een grof pak, vlooit zijn stem na

in ritmes waarop zijn mannelijkheid is

vertrapt. Een man van herhaalde malen.

Blues is uitgelicht een botsing

van klank op dichtgeslagen deuren.

Blues is achteropgeraakte

liefde, een uitgeleefde die overgaat in schoongewreven instrumenten, waarmee

voor nieuwe liefde weer geen mond kan gesnoerd.

Straten, met de lome lengte nu van veel nog te vergeten dagen,

waren hun zij aan zij zo gewend van

blues is geen onderdak bekend.

Richard Steegmans

(Uit: Richard Steegmans: Ringelorend zelfportret op haar leeuwenhuid, uitgeverij Holland, Haarlem, 2005)

Richard Steegmans gedichten

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J.A. Woolf: Making memories (06)

Re-entering the OK, visitors are greeted by Eduardo Coimbra with a sky panorama of neon tubes. Before the passage into the former cloister building, the smoke machine by Pipilotti Rist generates beautiful, short-lived air bubbles. “Mira, el mejor lugar , una prima mía me ha hecho padrino de su hijo; acaba de nacerle un pequeñuelo de piel blanca con manchas pardas, y quiere que yo lo lleve a la pila bautismal E perché‚ non litigassero fra di loro, li condusse davanti al castello, soffiando fece volare in aria tre piume e disse: -Dovete seguire il loro volo-. Il Grullo ringraziò e se ne tornò a casa. These include departure from the conventions of the museum, its formats and acquired lexicon, as well as disregard for the boundaries between its divisions: exhibition, collection, iterpretation, production, storage, ducation, etc. “Right, a cow’s eye, that’s exactly what I was thinking about. Maybe it’s possible to create a clear view to be seen from one side, and from another side—another view, as if seen through the binoculars. Or like when the observer and the observed switch positions constantly.

J.A. Woolf: Making Memories (06)

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Our base

All our base are belong to us.
(Henk & Ingrid)

http://www.henkeningrid.org/

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Ivo van Leeuwen: Portret van Esther Porcelijn

Ivo van Leeuwen, 2011

Portret van Esther Porcelijn, actrice en stadsdichter van Tilburg

©ivovanleeuwen

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Gedichtendag 26 januari 2012: Gedicht ‘Weggeblazen’ van Kinderstadsdichter Pleun Andriessen

Weggeblazen

Opgesloten in je ogen

Helemaal alleen

Weggeblazen, opgetild

Bliksemschicht door mij heen

Pleun Andriessen

Pleun Andriessen (11) is de nieuwe Kinderstadsdichter van Tilburg. Pleun schreef speciaal voor Gedichtendag, 26 januari 2012, een nieuw gedicht. Het past mooi binnen het thema van deze dag, ‘Stroom’: ‘Stroom is ritme, flow, een vloeiende en ongrijpbare beweging van A naar B, dankzij een teveel aan de ene of een tekort aan de andere kant. Stromen kunnen uit woorden bestaan, uit lading, gedachten, uit informatie, stoffen of dingen. Stromen verbinden plekken op deze wereld en brengen mensen bij elkaar. Of juist niet. ‘Stroom’ is er altijd en overal.’

Meer informatie:

≡Website Kinderstadsdichter Tilburg

≡Website Gedichtendag

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Hans Hermans foto’s – Gedicht Heinrich Heine

Heinrich Heine

(1797-1856)

Seekrankheit

Die grauen Nachmittagswolken

Senken sich tiefer hinab auf das Meer,

Das ihnen dunkel entgegensteigt,

Und zwischendurch jagt das Schiff.

Seekrank sitz ich noch immer am Mastbaum,

Und mache Betrachtungen über mich selber,

Uralte, aschgraue Betrachtungen,

Die schon der Vater Loth gemacht,

Als er des Guten zuviel genossen

Und sich nachher so übel befand.

Mitunter denk ich auch alter Geschichtchen:

Wie kreuzbezeichnete Pilger der Vorzeit,

Auf stürmischer Meerfahrt, das trostreiche Bildnis

Der heiligen Jungfrau gläubig küßten;

Wie kranke Ritter, in solcher Seenot,

Den lieben Handschuh ihrer Dame

An die Lippen preßten, gleich getröstet -

Ich aber sitze und kaue verdrießlich

Einen alten Hering, den salzigen Tröster

In Katzenjammer und Hundetrübsal!

Vergebens späht mein Auge und sucht

Die deutsche Küste. Doch ach! nur Wasser,

Und abermals Wasser, bewegtes Wasser!

Wie der Winterwandrer des Abends sich sehnt

Nach einer warmen, innigen Tasse Tee,

So sehnt sich jetzt mein Herz nach dir,

Mein deutsches Vaterland!

Mag immerhin dein süßer Boden bedeckt sein

Mit Wahnsinn, Husaren, schlechten Versen

Und laulich dünnen Traktätchen;

Mögen immerhin deine Zebras

Mit Rosen sich mästen statt Disteln;

Mögen immerhin deine noblen Affen

In müßigem Putz sich vornehm spreizen

Und sich besser dünken als all das andre

Banausisch dahinwandelnde Hornvieh;

Mag immerhin deine Schneckenversammlung

Sich für unsterblich halten,

Weil sie so langsam dahinkriecht,

Und mag sie täglich Stimmen sammeln,

Ob den Maden des Käses der Käse gehört?

Und noch lange Zeit in Beratung ziehen,

Wie man die ägyptischen Schafe veredle,

Damit ihre Wolle sich beßre

Und der Hirt sie scheren könne wie andre,

Ohn Unterschied -

Immerhin, mag Torheit und Unrecht

Dich ganz bedecken, o Deutschland!

Ich sehne mich dennoch nach dir:

Denn wenigstens bist du noch festes Land.

Hans Hermans photos – Natuurdagboek 11-11

Gedicht Heinrich Heine

Website Hans Hermans

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Lawrence Weiner: Statements

Lawrence Weiner

Statements

I do not mind objects, but I do not care to make them.

The object – by virtue of being a unique commodity – becomes something that might make it impossible for people to see the art for the forest.

People, buying my stuff, can take it wherever they go and can rebuild it if they choose. If they keep it in their heads, that’s fine too. They don’t have to buy it to have it – they can have it just by knowing it. Anyone making a reproduction of my art is making art just as valid as art as if I had made it.

Industrial and socioeconomic machinery pollutes the environment and the day the artist feels obligated to muck it up further art should cease being made. If you can’t make art without making a permanent imprint on the physical aspects of the world, then maybe art is not worth making. In this sense, any permanent damage to ecological factors in nature not necessary for the furtherance of human existence, but only necessary for the illustration of an art concept, is a crime against humanity. For art being made by artists for other human beings should never be utilized against human beings, unless the artist is willing to renounce his position as an artist and take on the position of a god. Being an artist means doing a minimum of harm to other human beings.

Big egocentric expensive works become very imposing. You can’t put twenty-four tons of steel in the closet.

If art has a general aspect to it and if someone receives a work in 1968 and chooses to have it built, then either tires of looking at it or needs the space for a new television set, he can erase it. If – in 1975 – he chooses to have it built again – he has a piece of 1975 art. As materials change, the person who may think about the art, as well as the person who has it built, approach the material itself in a contemporary sense and help to negate the preciousness of 1968materials . . . I personally am more interested in the idea of the material than in the material itself.

Art that imposes conditions – human or otherwise – on the receiver for its appreciation in my eyes constitutes aesthetic fascism.

My own art never gives directions, only states the work as an accomplished fact:

The artist may construct the piece;

the piece may be fabricated;

the piece need not be built.

Each being equal and consistent

with the intent of the artist

the decision as to condition

rests with the receiver upon the

occasion of receivership

(October 12, 1969)

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Hermann Hesse: Steppenwolf

Hermann Hesse

(1877-1962)

Steppenwolf

Ich Steppenwolf trabe und trabe,

Die Welt liegt voll Schnee,

Vom Birkenbaum flügelt der Rabe,

Aber nirgends ein Hase, nirgends ein Reh!

In die Rehe bin ich so verliebt,

Wenn ich doch eins fände!

Ich nähm’s in die Zähne, in die Hände,

Das ist das Schönste, was es gibt.

Ich wäre der Holden so von Herzen gut,

Fräße mich tief in ihre zärtlichen Keulen,

Tränke mich voll an ihrem hellroten Blut,

Um nachher die ganze Nacht einsam zu heulen.

Sogar mit einem Hasen wär ich zufrieden,

Süß schmeckt sein warmes Fleisch in der Nacht –

Ist denn alles und alles von mir geschieden,

Was das Leben ein wenig heiterer macht?

An meinem Schwanz ist das Haar schon grau,

Auch kann ich gar nimmer deutlich sehen,

Schon vor Jahren starb meine geliebte Frau.

Und nun trab ich und träume von Rehen,

Trabe und träume von Hasen,

Höre den Wind in der Winternacht blasen,

Tränke mit Schnee meine brennende Kehle,

Trage dem Teufel zu meine arme Seele.

Hermann Hesse Gedichte

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James Joyce: After The Race

James Joyce

(1882-1941)

After The Race

The cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like pellets in the groove of the Naas Road. At the crest of the hill at Inchicore sightseers had gathered in clumps to watch the cars careering homeward and through this channel of poverty and inaction the Continent sped its wealth and industry. Now and again the clumps of people raised the cheer of the gratefully oppressed. Their sympathy, however, was for the blue cars, the cars of their friends, the French.

The French, moreover, were virtual victors. Their team had finished solidly; they had been placed second and third and the driver of the winning German car was reported a Belgian. Each blue car, therefore, received a double measure of welcome as it topped the crest of the hill and each cheer of welcome was acknowledged with smiles and nods by those in the car. In one of these trimly built cars was a party of four young men whose spirits seemed to be at present well above the level of successful Gallicism: in fact, these four young men were almost hilarious. They were Charles Segouin, the owner of the car; Andre Riviere, a young electrician of Canadian birth; a huge Hungarian named Villona and a neatly groomed young man named Doyle. Segouin was in good humour because he had unexpectedly received some orders in advance (he was about to start a motor establishment in Paris) and Riviere was in good humour because he was to be appointed manager of the establishment; these two young men (who were cousins) were also in good humour because of the success of the French cars. Villona was in good humour because he had had a very satisfactory luncheon; and besides he was an optimist by nature. The fourth member of the party, however, was too excited to be genuinely happy.

He was about twenty-six years of age, with a soft, light brown moustache and rather innocent-looking grey eyes. His father, who had begun life as an advanced Nationalist, had modified his views early. He had made his money as a butcher in Kingstown and by opening shops in Dublin and in the suburbs he had made his money many times over. He had also been fortunate enough to secure some of the police contracts and in the end he had become rich enough to be alluded to in the Dublin newspapers as a merchant prince. He had sent his son to England to be educated in a big Catholic college and had afterwards sent him to Dublin University to study law. Jimmy did not study very earnestly and took to bad courses for a while. He had money and he was popular; and he divided his time curiously between musical and motoring circles. Then he had been sent for a term to Cambridge to see a little life. His father, remonstrative, but covertly proud of the excess, had paid his bills and brought him home. It was at Cambridge that he had met Segouin. They were not much more than acquaintances as yet but Jimmy found great pleasure in the society of one who had seen so much of the world and was reputed to own some of the biggest hotels in France. Such a person (as his father agreed) was well worth knowing, even if he had not been the charming companion he was. Villona was entertaining also, a brilliant pianist, but, unfortunately, very poor.

The car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilarious youth. The two cousins sat on the front seat; Jimmy and his Hungarian friend sat behind. Decidedly Villona was in excellent spirits; he kept up a deep bass hum of melody for miles of the road The Frenchmen flung their laughter and light words over their shoulders and often Jimmy had to strain forward to catch the quick phrase. This was not altogether pleasant for him, as he had nearly always to make a deft guess at the meaning and shout back a suitable answer in the face of a high wind. Besides Villona’s humming would confuse anybody; the noise of the car, too.

Rapid motion through space elates one; so does notoriety; so does the possession of money. These were three good reasons for Jimmy’s excitement. He had been seen by many of his friends that day in the company of these Continentals. At the control Segouin had presented him to one of the French competitors and, in answer to his confused murmur of compliment, the swarthy face of the driver had disclosed a line of shining white teeth. It was pleasant after that honour to return to the profane world of spectators amid nudges and significant looks. Then as to money, he really had a great sum under his control. Segouin, perhaps, would not think it a great sum but Jimmy who, in spite of temporary errors, was at heart the inheritor of solid instincts knew well with what difficulty it had been got together. This knowledge had previously kept his bills within the limits of reasonable recklessness, and if he had been so conscious of the labour latent in money when there had been question merely of some freak of the higher intelligence, how much more so now when he was about to stake the greater part of his substance! It was a serious thing for him.

Of course, the investment was a good one and Segouin had managed to give the impression that it was by a favour of friendship the mite of Irish money was to be included in the capital of the concern. Jimmy had a respect for his father’s shrewdness in business matters and in this case it had been his father who had first suggested the investment; money to be made in the motor business, pots of money. Moreover Segouin had the unmistakable air of wealth. Jimmy set out to translate into days’ work that lordly car in which he sat. How smoothly it ran. In what style they had come careering along the country roads! The journey laid a magical finger on the genuine pulse of life and gallantly the machinery of human nerves strove to answer the bounding courses of the swift blue animal.

They drove down Dame Street. The street was busy with unusual traffic, loud with the horns of motorists and the gongs of impatient tram-drivers. Near the Bank Segouin drew up and Jimmy and his friend alighted. A little knot of people collected on the footpath to pay homage to the snorting motor. The party was to dine together that evening in Segouin’s hotel and, meanwhile, Jimmy and his friend, who was staying with him, were to go home to dress. The car steered out slowly for Grafton Street while the two young men pushed their way through the knot of gazers. They walked northward with a curious feeling of disappointment in the exercise, while the city hung its pale globes of light above them in a haze of summer evening.

In Jimmy’s house this dinner had been pronounced an occasion. A certain pride mingled with his parents’ trepidation, a certain eagerness, also, to play fast and loose for the names of great foreign cities have at least this virtue. Jimmy, too, looked very well when he was dressed and, as he stood in the hall giving a last equation to the bows of his dress tie, his father may have felt even commercially satisfied at having secured for his son qualities often unpurchaseable. His father, therefore, was unusually friendly with Villona and his manner expressed a real respect for foreign accomplishments; but this subtlety of his host was probably lost upon the Hungarian, who was beginning to have a sharp desire for his dinner.

The dinner was excellent, exquisite. Segouin, Jimmy decided, had a very refined taste. The party was increased by a young Englishman named Routh whom Jimmy had seen with Segouin at Cambridge. The young men supped in a snug room lit by electric candle lamps. They talked volubly and with little reserve. Jimmy, whose imagination was kindling, conceived the lively youth of the Frenchmen twined elegantly upon the firm framework of the Englishman’s manner. A graceful image of his, he thought, and a just one. He admired the dexterity with which their host directed the conversation. The five young men had various tastes and their tongues had been loosened. Villona, with immense respect, began to discover to the mildly surprised Englishman the beauties of the English madrigal, deploring the loss of old instruments. Riviere, not wholly ingenuously, undertook to explain to Jimmy the triumph of the French mechanicians. The resonant voice of the Hungarian was about to prevail in ridicule of the spurious lutes of the romantic painters when Segouin shepherded his party into politics. Here was congenial ground for all. Jimmy, under generous influences, felt the buried zeal of his father wake to life within him: he aroused the torpid Routh at last. The room grew doubly hot and Segouin’s task grew harder each moment: there was even danger of personal spite. The alert host at an opportunity lifted his glass to Humanity and, when the toast had been drunk, he threw open a window significantly.

That night the city wore the mask of a capital. The five young men strolled along Stephen’s Green in a faint cloud of aromatic smoke. They talked loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangled from their shoulders. The people made way for them. At the corner of Grafton Street a short fat man was putting two handsome ladies on a car in charge of another fat man. The car drove off and the short fat man caught sight of the party.

“Andre.”

“It’s Farley!”

A torrent of talk followed. Farley was an American. No one knew very well what the talk was about. Villona and Riviere were the noisiest, but all the men were excited. They got up on a car, squeezing themselves together amid much laughter. They drove by the crowd, blended now into soft colours, to a music of merry bells. They took the train at Westland Row and in a few seconds, as it seemed to Jimmy, they were walking out of Kingstown Station. The ticket-collector saluted Jimmy; he was an old man:

“Fine night, sir!”

It was a serene summer night; the harbour lay like a darkened mirror at their feet. They proceeded towards it with linked arms, singing Cadet Roussel in chorus, stamping their feet at every:

“Ho! Ho! Hohe, vraiment!”

They got into a rowboat at the slip and made out for the American’s yacht. There was to be supper, music, cards. Villona said with conviction:

“It is delightful!”

There was a yacht piano in the cabin. Villona played a waltz for Farley and Riviere, Farley acting as cavalier and Riviere as lady. Then an impromptu square dance, the men devising original figures. What merriment! Jimmy took his part with a will; this was seeing life, at least. Then Farley got out of breath and cried “Stop!” A man brought in a light supper, and the young men sat down to it for form’s sake. They drank, however: it was Bohemian. They drank Ireland, England, France, Hungary, the United States of America. Jimmy made a speech, a long speech, Villona saying: “Hear! hear!” whenever there was a pause. There was a great clapping of hands when he sat down. It must have been a good speech. Farley clapped him on the back and laughed loudly. What jovial fellows! What good company they were!

Cards! cards! The table was cleared. Villona returned quietly to his piano and played voluntaries for them. The other men played game after game, flinging themselves boldly into the adventure. They drank the health of the Queen of Hearts and of the Queen of Diamonds. Jimmy felt obscurely the lack of an audience: the wit was flashing. Play ran very high and paper began to pass. Jimmy did not know exactly who was winning but he knew that he was losing. But it was his own fault for he frequently mistook his cards and the other men had to calculate his I.O.U.’s for him. They were devils of fellows but he wished they would stop: it was getting late. Someone gave the toast of the yacht The Belle of Newport and then someone proposed one great game for a finish.

The piano had stopped; Villona must have gone up on deck. It was a terrible game. They stopped just before the end of it to drink for luck. Jimmy understood that the game lay between Routh and Segouin. What excitement! Jimmy was excited too; he would lose, of course. How much had he written away? The men rose to their feet to play the last tricks. talking and gesticulating. Routh won. The cabin shook with the young men’s cheering and the cards were bundled together. They began then to gather in what they had won. Farley and Jimmy were the heaviest losers.

He knew that he would regret in the morning but at present he was glad of the rest, glad of the dark stupor that would cover up his folly. He leaned his elbows on the table and rested his head between his hands, counting the beats of his temples. The cabin door opened and he saw the Hungarian standing in a shaft of grey light:

“Daybreak, gentlemen!”