dinsdag 4 november 2014

d(b)n 4 XI 2014

© T.Bunimovich
waiting for godot - the reunion

4 november 1918
War-poet Wilfred Edward Salter Owen sneuvelde op 4 november 1918 tijdens een actie bij het Sambre-Oise kanaal.
Daags na zijn dood werd zijn bevordering tot luitenant bekrachtigd. Zijn moeder ontving het bericht van zijn dood op 11 november 1918, terwijl de kerkklokken luidden om het einde van de oorlog te vieren.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.
waarschijnlijk geschreven tussen 8 oktober 1917 en maart 1918. 

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
      — Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
      Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; 
      Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
      And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
      Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
      The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

vader werd in zijn jeugd
meerdere malen getroffen
door het geloof

door het betoverende polderlandschap
waarin hij opgroeide

door kiezelstenen wanneer hij langs
de katholieke school fietste

door kinderverlamming

al heb ik polio toch altijd
een mooier woord gevonden

omdat dat een stuk
exotischer klonk

wadend door rijstvelden

viel het ook minder op


Geen opmerkingen: