Dezer dagen is Poetry International in Rotterdam. Ik bezoek het festival elk jaar. Geen idee hoeveel mooie gedichten ik al wel niet gehoord heb. Sommige dichters mogen van mij trouwens elk jaar worden geboekt. Zoals Charles Simic.
Het is 1944, de Duitsers marcheren langs zijn huis:
The earth trembling, death going by . . . A little white dog ran into the street
And got entangled with the soldiers’ feet. A kick made him fly as if he had wings. That’s what I keep seeing!
Night coming down. A dog with wings.
Sommige dichters heb ik helaas nooit gehoord, zoals Grace Paley:
People in My Family
In my family
people who were eighty-two were very different
from people who were ninety-two
The eighty-two-year-old people grew up
it was 1914
this is what they knew
That's why when they speak to the child
poor little one . . .
The ninety-two-year-old people remember
it was the year 1905
they went to prison
they went into exile
When they speak to the grandchild
yesthere will be revolution
then there will be revolutionthen
once morethen the earth itself
will turn and turn and cry outoh I
have been made sick
then youmy little bud
must flower and save it