Ingrid Jonker: Film Black Butterflies op 31 maart in de bioscoop

Ingrid Jonker (1933-1965)

Film Black Butterflies op 31 maart in de bioscoop

Black Butterflies gaat over het leven van de jonge Zuid-Afrikaanse kunstenares Ingrid Jonker, een gevoelige en rebelse geest die haar vrije ideeën over kunst, liefde en politiek met een kleine groep gelijkgestemde schrijvers en kunstenaars in Zuid-Afrika deelde, de Sestigers. Tegen de achtergrond van verzet tegen de censuur van de Nasionale Party, leeft Ingrid Jonker haar jonge leven tot het uiterste en wordt haar werk steeds bekender en meer gewaardeerd. De grote liefde in het leven van Ingrid Jonker, de schrijver Jack Cope, kan haar niet het geluk en de gemoedsrust geven waar ze naar op zoek is. Met haar vader Abraham Jonker, een rechtse minister voor de Nasionale Party tijdens het Apartheidsregime, heeft ze een moeizame relatie. Politieke onenigheid drijft vader en dochter steeds verder uiteen. Het belang van het werk van Ingrid Jonker voor de Zuid-Afrikaanse cultuur wordt pas erkend nadat Nelson Mandela haar gedicht ‘Die Kind’ voordraagt bij zijn eerste rede voor het Zuid-Afrikaanse Parlement in 1994.

Regisseur: Paula van der Oest

Carice van Houten (Ingrid Jonker)

Liam Cunningham (Jack Cope)

Rutger Hauer (Abraham Jonker)

Nicholas Pauling (Eugene Maritz)

Graham Clarke (Uys Krige)

Die kind wat doodgeskiet is deur soldate by Nyanga

Die kind is nie dood nie
die kind lig sy vuiste teen sy moeder
wat Afrika skreeu skreeu die geur
van vryheid en heide
in die lokasies van die omsingelde hart

Die kind lig sy vuiste teen sy vader
in die optog van die generasies
wat Afrika skreeu skreeu die geur
van geregtigheid en bloed
in die strate van sy gewapende trots

Die kind is nie dood nie
nòg by Langa nòg by Nyanga
nòg by Orlando nòg by Sharpeville
nòg by die polisiestasie in Philippi
waar hy lê met ‘n koeël deur sy kop

Die kind is die skaduwee van die soldate
op wag met gewere sarasene en knuppels
die kind is teenwoordig by alle vergaderings en wetgewings
die kind loer deur die vensters van huise en in die harte van moeders
die kind wat net wou speel in die son by Nyanga als orals
die kind wat ‘n man geword het trek deur die ganse Afrika
die kind wat ‘n reus geword het reis deur die hele wêreld

Sonder ‘n pas

Puberteit

Die kind in my het stil gesterf
verwaarloos, blind en onbederf

in een klein poel stadig weggesink
en iewers in die duisternis verdrink

toe jy onwetend soos ‘n dier
nog laggend jou fiesta vier.

Jy het nie met die ru gebaar
die dood voorspel of die gevaar

maar in my slaap sien ek klein hande
en snags die wit vuur van jou tande:

Wonder ek sidderend oor en oor
Het jy die kind in my vermoor…?

Korreltjie sand

Korreltjie korreltjie sand
klippie gerol in my hand
klippie gesteek in my sak
word korreltjie klein en plat

Sonnetjie groot in die blou
ek maak net ‘n ogie van jou
blink in my korreltjie klippie
dit is genoeg vir die rukkie
Kindjie wat skreeu uit die skoot
niks in die wêreld is groot
stilletjies lag nou en praat
stilte in Doodloopstraat

Wêreldjie rond en aardblou
korreltjie maak ek van jou
huisie met deur en twee skrefies
tuintjie met blou madeliefies

Pyltjie geveer in verskiet
liefde verklein in die niet
Timmerman bou aan ‘n kis
Ek maak my gereed vir die Niks

Korreltjie klein is my woord
korreltjie niks is my dood

► Website BLACK BUTTERFLIES
Ingrid Jonker poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Archive I-J, Art & Poetry News 2011, Jonker, Ingrid

Bert Bevers: Jardin Naturel

Bert Bevers

Jardin Naturel

Een geduldige gids ben ik, met potloden volop. Hier
ruikt het naar noten uit een oudere herfst. Een man
met een grote lederen handschoen lijkt te zwaaien,
maar dan ratelt het langs murw lover en landt zeeg

een havik op zijn schouder. Onweer is op komst. In
het lichterlaaie van de bliksem buigen berken met de
storm deemoedig mee, in de vorm van zichzelf, in van
leven golfslag. Rond hun voeten krioelen vlijtig haast

ontelbaar allengs zwarter mieren, en in hun stammen
klopt het oude woeste sap van drang naar omvang, naar
een diepe, complexe bedwelming. We weten het. Pas in

het avonduur begint de kleine graai naar later. Hoe zal
het straks toch aflopen met van gebladerte het beheer?
Basten houden zich stil met de lijdzaamheid van zand.

Jardin Naturel zal worden opgenomen in de binnenkort te verschijnen bundel: Arrondissementen (Uitgeverij Kleinood & Grootzeer, Bergen op Zoom) © Bert Bevers gedichten

kempis.nl poetry magazine

Gronama gedicht: De val van het huis van

De val van het huis van

Met pootjes omhoog ligt woning

te wriemelen, poogt zich te draaien

wat niet lukt, veel te zwaar, zo naar

mensen komen het stulpje aaien, eens

wat anders dan hun eeuwige kat, die zich

prompt verveelt, alle planten omverklauwt en

zich spugend verheft, de pootjes gestrekt, het

woest trappelende huis kijkt hem na, jaloers, dat

hem dat niet lukt, Kafka’s kever heeft hem besmet

zo belandt ook zijn huis naast Gregor Samsa in bed.

Gronama

kempis.nl poetry magazine

Masaoka Shiki: Autumn

Masaoka Shiki
(1867-1902)

Autumn

Locusts fly low
over the levee
in the fading sunshine

Autumn wind -
met, returning alive
you and me

Matsuyama castle
the keep is higher than
the autumn sky

clouds’re running past
running after clouds
the Storm Day

autumn is leaving
tugging each others’ branches
two pine trees

on a stormy night
while reading a letter
wavering mind

almost black
deepening purple
ripe grapes

with advancing autumn
I am without gods
without Buddha

I am going
you’re staying
two autumns for us

my fate,
a fortune tells
- autumn wind

peeling a pear
sweet drops dripping
along the knife edge

hometown -
festivals are over
flavorful persimmons

lights
far way, through
leaves of dense autumnal tints

the buight moon
something in my breast
I am alone

the bright moon
I wonder where the clouds
are flying off to

following
clouds torn apart
autumn wind

morning coolness
purple clouds are
vanishing

the setting sun
remains on the mountain
castle flowering rice

crimson sunset
even through clouds
vernal equinox

looking through
three thousand haiku eating
two persimmons

sounds of a temple bell
reverberate in a circle
a long night

a dog howling
sound of footsteps
longer nights

Masaoka Shiki poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine

J.C. Bloem gedicht: De Dapperstraat

J.C. Bloem
(1887 – 1966)

De Dapperstraat

Natuur is voor tevredenen of legen.
En dan: wat is natuur nog in dit land?
Een stukje bos, ter grootte van een krant.
Een heuvel met wat villaatjes ertegen.

Geef mij de grauwe, stedelijke wegen,
De in kaden vastgeklonken waterkant,
De wolken, nooit zo schoon dan als ze, omrand
Door zolderramen, langs de lucht bewegen.

Alles is veel voor wie niet veel verwacht.
Het leven houdt zijn wonderen verborgen
Tot het ze, opeens, toont in hun hoge staat.

Dit heb ik bij mijzelve overdacht,
Verregend, op een miezerige morgen,
Domweg gelukkig, in de Dapperstraat.

J.C. Bloem poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine

Gabriele D’Annunzio: Lungo l’affrico

Gabriele D’Annunzio

(1863-1938)

Lungo l’affrico

Grazia del ciel, come soavemente
ti miri ne la terra abbeverata,
anima fatta bella dal suo pianto!
O in mille e mille specchi sorridente
grazia, che da nuvola sei nata
come la voluttà nasce dal pianto,
musica nel mio canto
ota t’effondi, che non è fugace,
per me trasfigurata in alta pace
a chi l’ascolti.

Nascente Luna, in cielo esigua come
il sopracciglio de la giovinetta
e la midolla de la nova canna,
sì che il più lieve ramo ti nasconde
e l’occhio mio, se ti smarrisce, a pena
ti ritrova, pel sogno che l’appanna,
Luna, il rio che s’avvalla
senza parola erboso anche ti vide;
e per ogni fil d’erba ti sorride,
solo a te sola.

O nere e bianche rondini, tra notte
e alba, tra vespro e notte, o bianche e nere
ospiti lungo l’Affrico notturno!
Volan elle sì basso che la molle
erba sfioran coi petti, e dal piacere
il loro volo sembra fatto azzurro.
Sopra non ha sussurro
l’arbore grande, se ben trema sempre.
Non tesse il volo intorno a le mie tempie
fresche ghirlande?

E non promette ogni lor breve grido
un ben che forse il cuore ignora e forse
indovina se udendo ne trasale?
S’attardan quasi immemori del nido,
e sul margine dove son trascorse
par si prolunghi il fremito dell’ale.
Tutta la terra pare
argilla offerta all’opera d’amore,
un nunzio il grido, e il vespero che muore
un’alba certa.

Gabriele D’Annunzio poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva: Before A Little Coffin

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

(1892 – 1941)

Before A Little Coffin

Mother has painted the coffin brightly.
The tiny one sleeps in Sunday attire.
Onto the forehead no longer is falling
The light-brown hair;

A round comb no longer is pressing,
Having seen so little, of the child’s head;
Only of joy knew
The heart of the kid.

For five years so happily lived she
Much played the deft arms!
Fantasies, fantasies mid lilies,
Nobody disturbed them.

The flowers seek a place nearer to her,
(She seems tight in her new bed).
The flowers know: Little Katya
A golden heart had.

Marina Ivanova Tsvetaeva poetry

Poem of the week, March 27, 2011

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Archive 2011, Archive S-T, Tsvetaeva, Marina

Alfred de Musset, Chanson : J’ai dit à mon cœur…

Alfred de Musset
(1810-1857)

Chanson : J’ai dit à mon cœur…

J’ai dit à mon coeur, à mon faible coeur :
N’est-ce point assez d’aimer sa maîtresse ?
Et ne vois-tu pas que changer sans cesse,
C’est perdre en désirs le temps du bonheur ?

Il m’a répondu : Ce n’est point assez,
Ce n’est point assez d’aimer sa maîtresse ;
Et ne vois-tu pas que changer sans cesse
Nous rend doux et chers les plaisirs passés ?

J’ai dit à mon coeur, à mon faible coeur :
N’est-ce point assez de tant de tristesse ?
Et ne vois-tu pas que changer sans cesse,
C’est à chaque pas trouver la douleur ?

Il m’a répondu : Ce n’est point assez
Ce n’est point assez de tant de tristesse ;
Et ne vois-tu pas que changer sans cesse
Nous rend doux et chers les chagrins passés ?

Alfred de Musset poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine

Ernst Jandl: beschreibung eines gedichtes

Ernst Jandl
(1925-2000)

beschreibung eines gedichtes

bei geschlossenen lippen
ohne bewegung in mund und kehle
jedes einatmen und ausatmen
mit dem satz begleiten
langsam und ohne stimme gedacht
ich liebe dich
so daß jedes einziehen der luft durch die nase
sich deckt mit diesem satz
jedes ausstoßen der luft durch die nase
und das ruhige sich heben
und senken der brust

Ernst Jandl poetry
From: der gelbe hund
Source: Lyrikline.org
kempis.nl poetry magazine

Ton van Reen gedicht: Roes

ROES

De kroeg is beschilderd met bloed
de muren barsten van geketende woede
getekende speren schilferen van de muren
messen schreeuwen, nog rood van het moorden

Mannen vertellen verhalen over een verlopen oorlog
overwinningen, lang geleden, op andere dorpen
het veroveren van vrouwen en het stelen van vee

In de verhalen groeit het verlangen
naar nieuwe strijd, de komende oorlog, buit

Ton van Reen

Ton van Reen: De naam van het mes. Afrikaanse gedichten. In 2007 verschenen onder de titel: De straat is van de mannen bij BnM Uitgevers in De Contrabas reeks. ISBN 9789077907993 – 56 pagina’s – paperback

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More in: -De naam van het mes, Ton van Reen

Renée Vivien: Ondine, Locusta

Renée Vivien
(1877-1909)

Ondine

Ton rire est clair, ta caresse est profonde,
Tes froids baisers aiment le mal qu’ils font ;
Tes yeux sont bleus comme un lotus sur l’onde,
Et les lys d’eau sont moins purs que ton front.

Ta forme fuit, ta démarche est fluide,
Et tes cheveux sont de légers réseaux ;
Ta voix ruisselle ainsi qu’un flot perfide ;
Tes souples bras sont pareils aux roseaux,

Aux longs roseaux des fleuves, dont l’étreinte
Enlace, étouffe, étrangle savamment,
Au fond des flots, une agonie éteinte
Dans un nocturne évanouissement.

Locusta

Nul n’a mêlé ses pleurs au souffle de ma bouche,
Nul sanglot n’a troublé l’ivresse de ma couche,
J’épargne à mes amants les rancoeurs de l’amour.

J’écarte de leur front la brûlure du jour,
J’éloigne le matin de leurs paupières closes,
Ils ne contemplent pas l’accablement des roses.

Seule je sais donner des nuits sans lendemains.

Je sais les strophes d’or sur le mode saphique,
J’enivre de regards pervers et de musique
La langueur qui sommeille à l’ombre de mes mains.

Je distille les chants, l’énervante caresse
Et les mots d’impudeur murmurés dans la nuit.
J’estompe les rayons, les senteurs et le bruit.

Je suis la tendre et la pitoyable Maîtresse.

Car je possède l’art des merveilleux poisons,
Insinuants et doux comme les trahisons
Et plus voluptueux que l’éloquent mensonge.

Lorsque, au fond de la nuit, un râle se prolonge
Et se mêle à la fuite heureuse d’un accord,
J’effeuille une couronne et souris à la Mort.

Je l’ai domptée ainsi qu’une amoureuse esclave.
Elle me suit, passive, impénétrable et grave,
Et je sais la mêler aux effluves des fleurs

Et la verser dans l’or des coupes des Bacchantes.

J’éteins le souvenir importun du soleil
Dans les yeux alourdis qui craignent le réveil
Sous le regard perfide et cruel des amantes.

J’apporte le sommeil dans le creux de mes mains.
Seule je sais donner des nuits sans lendemains.

Renée Vivien poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine

Märchen der Brüder Grimm: Old Hildebrand

Märchen der Brüder Grimm

Jacob Grimm (1785-1863) & Wilhelm Grimm (1786-1859)

Old Hildebrand

Once upon a time lived a peasant and his wife, and the parson of the village had a fancy for the wife, and had wished for a long while to spend a whole day happily with her. The peasant woman, too, was quite willing. One day, therefore, he said to the woman, "Listen, my dear friend, I have now thought of a way by which we can for once spend a whole day happily together. I’ll tell you what; on Wednesday, you must take to your bed, and tell your husband you are ill, and if you only complain and act being ill properly, and go on doing so until Sunday when I have to preach, I will then say in my sermon that whosoever has at home a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father, a sick mother, a sick brother or whosoever else it may be, and makes a pilgrimage to the Göckerli hill in Italy, where you can get a peck of laurel-leaves for a kreuzer, the sick child, the sick husband, the sick wife, the sick father, or sick mother, the sick sister, or whosoever else it may be, will be restored to health immediately."
"I will manage it," said the woman promptly. Now therefore on the Wednesday, the peasant woman took to her bed, and complained and lamented as agreed on, and her husband did everything for her that he could think of, but nothing did her any good, and when Sunday came the woman said, "I feel as ill as if I were going to die at once, but there is one thing I should like to do before my end I should like to hear the parson’s sermon that he is going to preach to-day." On that the peasant said, "Ah, my child, do not do it — thou mightest make thyself worse if thou wert to get up. Look, I will go to the sermon, and will attend to it very carefully, and will tell thee everything the parson says."

"Well," said the woman, "go, then, and pay great attention, and repeat to me all that thou hearest." So the peasant went to the sermon, and the parson began to preach and said, if any one had at home a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father a sick mother, a sick sister, brother or any one else, and would make a pilgimage to the Göckerli hill in Italy, where a peck of laurel-leaves costs a kreuzer, the sick child, sick husband, sick wife, sick father, sick mother, sick sister, brother, or whosoever else it might be, would be restored to health instantly, and whosoever wished to undertake the journey was to go to him after the service was over, and he would give him the sack for the laurel-leaves and the kreuzer.

Then no one was more rejoiced than the peasant, and after the service was over, he went at once to the parson, who gave him the bag for the laurel-leaves and the kreuzer. After that he went home, and even at the house door he cried, "Hurrah! dear wife, it is now almost the same thing as if thou wert well! The parson has preached to-day that whosoever had at home a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father, a sick mother, a sick sister, brother or whoever it might be, and would make a pilgrimage to the Göckerli hill in Italy, where a peck of laurel-leaves costs a kreuzer, the sick child, sick husband, sick wife, sick father, sick mother, sick sister, brother, or whosoever else it was, would be cured immediately, and now I have already got the bag and the kreuzer from the parson, and will at once begin my journey so that thou mayst get well the faster," and thereupon he went away. He was, however, hardly gone before the woman got up, and the parson was there directly.

But now we will leave these two for a while, and follow the peasant, who walked on quickly without stopping, in order to get the sooner to the Göckerli hill, and on his way he met his gossip. His gossip was an egg-merchant, and was just coming from the market, where he had sold his eggs. "May you be blessed," said the gossip, "where are you off to so fast?"

"To all eternity, my friend," said the peasant, "my wife is ill, and I have been to-day to hear the parson’s sermon, and he preached that if any one had in his house a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father, a sick mother, a sick sister, brother or any one else, and made a pilgrimage to the Göckerli hill in Italy, where a peck of laurel-leaves costs a kreuzer, the sick child, the sick husband, the sick wife, the sick father, the sick mother, the sick sister, brother or whosoever else it was, would be cured immediately, and so I have got the bag for the laurel-leaves and the kreuzer from the parson, and now I am beginning my pilgrimage." "But listen, gossip," said the egg-merchant to the peasant, "are you, then, stupid enough to believe such a thing as that? Don’t you know what it means? The parson wants to spend a whole day alone with your wife in peace, so he has given you this job to do to get you out of the way."

"My word!" said the peasant. "How I’d like to know if that’s true!"

"Come, then," said the gossip, "I’ll tell you what to do. Get into my egg-basket and I will carry you home, and then you will see for yourself." So that was settled, and the gossip put the peasant into his egg-basket and carried him home.

When they got to the house, hurrah! but all was going merry there! The woman had already had nearly everything killed that was in the farmyard, and had made pancakes, and the parson was there, and had brought his fiddle with him. The gossip knocked at the door, and woman asked who was there. "It is I, gossip," said the egg-merchant, "give me shelter this night; I have not sold my eggs at the market, so now I have to carry them home again, and they are so heavy that I shall never be able to do it, for it is dark already."

"Indeed, my friend," said the woman, "thou comest at a very inconvenient time for me, but as thou art here it can’t be helped, come in, and take a seat there on the bench by the stove." Then she placed the gossip and the basket which he carried on his back on the bench by the stove. The parso, however, and the woman, were as merry as possible. At length the parson said, "Listen, my dear friend, thou canst sing beautifully; sing something to me." "Oh," said the woman, "I cannot sing now, in my young days indeed I could sing well enough, but that’s all over now."

"Come," said the parson once more, "do sing some little song."

On that the woman began and sang,

"I’ve sent my husband away from me
To the Göckerli hill in Italy."
Thereupon the parson sang,
"I wish ’twas a year before he came back,
I’d never ask him for the laurel-leaf sack."
Hallelujah.
Then the gossip who was in the background began to sing (but I ought to tell you the peasant was called Hildebrand), so the gossip sang,
"What art thou doing, my Hildebrand dear,
There on the bench by the stove so near?"

Hallelujah.
And then the peasant sang from his basket,
"All singing I ever shall hate from this day,
And here in this basket no longer I’ll stay."
Hallelujah.
And he got out of the basket, and cudgelled the parson out of the house.

END

Die Märchen der Brüder Grimm
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More in: Grimm, Andersen e.o.: Fables, Fairy Tales & Stories, Grimm, Jacob & Wilhelm

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