woensdag 17 september 2014
maandag 15 september 2014
Twadde essaybondel ferskynt yn novimber by útjouwerij De Contrabas yn Utert
Om 15 novimber hinne ferskynt by útjouwerij De Contrabas yn Utert myn twadde, sa'n 240 siden tsjûke essaybondel Erfskip & krisis. Essays oer Fryslân en Fryske literatuer 2.
Abe de Vries (1965) is, neist dichter en sjoernalist, ien fan de belangrykste essayïsten yn de Fryske literatuer. Yn 2008 ferskynde syn essaybondel Identiteit & kowesturten, wêryn’t er pleite foar mear refleksje op de Fryske literatuerhistoarje. Op it snijflak fan literatuer, skiednis en autobiografy bringt dizze twadde bondel in seleksje fan essays, koartere skôgjende stikken, ynterviews, taspraken en ferkenningen dy’t er skreau fan 2008 ôf. Abe de Vries krige yn 2005 de Gysbert Japicxpriis foar syn twadde dichtbondel In waarm wek altyd (2004). Identiteit & kowesturten waard yn 2012 nominearre foar de Fedde Schurerpriis.
Abe de Vries (1965) is, neist dichter en sjoernalist, ien fan de belangrykste essayïsten yn de Fryske literatuer. Yn 2008 ferskynde syn essaybondel Identiteit & kowesturten, wêryn’t er pleite foar mear refleksje op de Fryske literatuerhistoarje. Op it snijflak fan literatuer, skiednis en autobiografy bringt dizze twadde bondel in seleksje fan essays, koartere skôgjende stikken, ynterviews, taspraken en ferkenningen dy’t er skreau fan 2008 ôf. Abe de Vries krige yn 2005 de Gysbert Japicxpriis foar syn twadde dichtbondel In waarm wek altyd (2004). Identiteit & kowesturten waard yn 2012 nominearre foar de Fedde Schurerpriis.
zaterdag 13 september 2014
Richard Hugo - Degrees Of Gray In Philipsburg
You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss
you had was years ago. You walk these streets
laid out by the insane, past hotels
that didn’t last, bars that did, the tortured try
of local drivers to accelerate their lives.
Only churches are kept up. The jail
turned 70 this year. The only prisoner
is always in, not knowing what he’s done.
The principal supporting business now
is rage. Hatred of the various grays
the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,
The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls
who leave each year for Butte. One good
restaurant and bars can’t wipe the boredom out.
The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,
a dance floor built on springs—
all memory resolves itself in gaze,
in panoramic green you know the cattle eat
or two stacks high above the town,
two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse
for fifty years that won’t fall finally down.
Isn’t this your life? That ancient kiss
still burning out your eyes? Isn’t this defeat
so accurate, the church bell simply seems
a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?
Don’t empty houses ring? Are magnesium
and scorn sufficient to support a town,
not just Philipsburg, but towns
of towering blondes, good jazz and booze
the world will never let you have
until the town you came from dies inside?
Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty
when the jail was built, still laughs
although his lips collapse. Someday soon,
he says, I’ll go to sleep and not wake up.
You tell him no. You’re talking to yourself.
The car that brought you here still runs.
The money you buy lunch with,
no matter where it’s mined, is silver
and the girl who serves your food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.
.
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss
you had was years ago. You walk these streets
laid out by the insane, past hotels
that didn’t last, bars that did, the tortured try
of local drivers to accelerate their lives.
Only churches are kept up. The jail
turned 70 this year. The only prisoner
is always in, not knowing what he’s done.
The principal supporting business now
is rage. Hatred of the various grays
the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,
The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls
who leave each year for Butte. One good
restaurant and bars can’t wipe the boredom out.
The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,
a dance floor built on springs—
all memory resolves itself in gaze,
in panoramic green you know the cattle eat
or two stacks high above the town,
two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse
for fifty years that won’t fall finally down.
Isn’t this your life? That ancient kiss
still burning out your eyes? Isn’t this defeat
so accurate, the church bell simply seems
a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?
Don’t empty houses ring? Are magnesium
and scorn sufficient to support a town,
not just Philipsburg, but towns
of towering blondes, good jazz and booze
the world will never let you have
until the town you came from dies inside?
Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty
when the jail was built, still laughs
although his lips collapse. Someday soon,
he says, I’ll go to sleep and not wake up.
You tell him no. You’re talking to yourself.
The car that brought you here still runs.
The money you buy lunch with,
no matter where it’s mined, is silver
and the girl who serves your food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.
.
Abonneren op:
Posts (Atom)