Bach Bridges Festival

Bach Bridges Festival slaat bruggen van Bach naar wereldmuziek. Van oude naar nieuwe Nederlanders. Van klassieke muziek naar de wereld om ons heen. Van de Randstad naar de provincie.

Initiator en drijvende kracht achter het festival is altviolist Michael Gieler.

Bach Bridges is een uniek intercultureel muziekfestival voor jong en oud. Zeven dagen lang kun je op meerdere bijzondere locaties genieten van kamermuziek, theater, dans, musical, film, beeldende kunst en lekker eten. Het festival opent op 28 april in Zutphen. Tijdens het grote slotconcert op 4 mei kun je in het Concertgebouw in Amsterdam luisteren naar een wereldberoemde dirigent, schitterende solisten en één van ‘s werelds beste Bach-orkesten. Maestro Iván Fischer heeft speciaal voor dit concert een nieuwe passie samengesteld. De mooiste aria’s en koralen uit Bachs Matthäus-Passion worden afgewisseld met passiemuziek uit andere culturen. Een muzikale reis langs Westerse, Joodse, Arabische en Jezidi muziek. Voor een gemeenschappelijke viering van eendracht en verbondenheid.

Het programma op de tussenliggende festivaldagen is eveneens veelzijdig en boeiend. Zo is er op zondagmiddag 29 april in de IJsselsalon te Zutphen een lunchconcert van twee jonge musici uit het Koninklijk Concertgebouworkest. Zij vertolken opwindende solowerken. De Sonates en partita’s van Bach behoren tot de mooiste werken die ooit zijn geschreven voor viool. Hier tegenover staan een door Bach geïnspireerd werk van de Joodse componist Ernest Bloch en een wereldpremière van de jonge Iraanse componiste Atefeh Einali.

Joris van den Berg op cello (Foto door Hans van der Woerd)
Jae-Won Lee op viool. Foto door Hans van der Woerd.,

Tijdens die middag heb ik de eer een gedicht voor te mogen dragen, geïnspireerd op Joodse verbanden.

BESTEL HIER TICKETS VOOR ZONDAG 29 APRIL 2018.

De hele programmering en meer informatie is te vinden op de website van Bach Bridges Festival.

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Turing Gedichtenwedstrijd

In de negende editie van de Turing Gedichtenwedstrijd werden er maar liefst 8306 gedichten ingezonden. Mijn gedicht ‘er moest iemand vallen’ hoorde bij de 1000 beste gedichten en haalde de tweede ronde. Het gedicht ‘controlepost’ van mijn hand belandde op de longlist, de lijst met de honderd beste gedichten.

Een (voor)jury van deskundigen uit de kringen van poëzietijdschriften Awater en Poëziekrant beoordeelde de gedichten op basis van anonimiteit. De eindjury stond dit jaar onder leiding van dichter Tsead Bruinja. De prijsuitreiking van de Turing Gedichtenwedstrijd vormde de afsluiting van de Poëzieweek 2018 en werd ook dit jaar weer georganiseerd door de Turing Foundation en de Poëzieclub.

Mijn gedicht ‘controlepost’ verscheen in de bundel Goudlicht en avondschijn. De bundel bevat de 100 beste gedichten van de Nederlandse en Vlaamse inzenders voor de negende editie van de Turing Gedichtenwedstrijd.

 

Publicatiejaar: 2018
Pagina’s: 128
ISBN 978 90 5655 317 3
Prijs: 7,50

 

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Forgetfulness

Julian Grey maakte deze bijzondere animatie op het gedicht ‘Forgetfulness’ van Billy Collins.

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Billy Collins

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stil

nu er niet meer wordt gesproken
rek ik ons uit
leg mijn stenen hoofd
vol doorgestreepte woorden
in jouw ingebeelde schoot

Wendy van Wijk wekte mijn stille gedicht zo prachtig tot leven. Met haar handen raakt en maakt ze ruimte waar woorden niet kunnen komen.
www.wendyvanwijk.com

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The man with the beautiful eyes

Een korte film van Jonathan Hodgson naar Charles Bukowski’s gedicht ‘The man with the beautiful eyes’.

The Man With The Beautiful Eyes

When we were kids
there was a strange house
all the shades were
always
drawn
and we never heard voices
in there
and the yard was full of
bamboo
and we liked to play in
the bamboo
pretend we were
Tarzan
(although there was no
Jane)
and there was a
fish pond
a large one
full of the
fattest goldfish
you ever saw
and they were
tame.
They came to the
surface of the water
and took pieces of
bread
from our hands.

Our parents had
told us:
” never go near that
house”
so, of course,
we went.

We wondered if anybody
lived there.
Weeks went by and we
never saw
anybody.

Then one day
we heard
a voice
from the house
” YOU GOD DAMNED
WHORE!”

It was a man’s
voice.
Then the screen
door
of the house was
flung open
and the man
walked out.

He was holding a
fifth of whiskey
in his right
hand.
He was about
30.
He had a cigar
in his
mouth,
needed a
shave.
His hair was
wild and
uncombed
and he was
barefoot.
In undershirt
and pants
but his eyes
were
bright
they BLAZED
with brightness
and he said,
“hey, little
gentleman,
having a good
time, I
hope?”

Then he gave a
little laugh
and walked
back into the
house.

We left,
went back to my
parents’ yard
and thought
about it.

Our parents,
we decided
had wanted us
to stay away
from there
because they
never wanted us
to see a man
like
that,
a strong natural
man
with
beautiful
eyes.

Our parents
were ashamed
that they were
not
like that
man,
thats why they
wanted us to stay
away.

But
we went back
to that house
and the bamboo
and the tame
goldfish.
We went back
many times
for many
weeks
but we never
saw
or heard
the man
again.

The shades were
down
as always
and it was
quiet.

Then one day
as we came back from
school
we saw the
house.

It had burned
down,
there was nothing
left,
just a smoldering
twisted black
foundation
and we went to
the fish pond
and there was
no water
in it
and the fat
orange goldfish
were dead
there,
drying out.

We went back to
my parents’ yard
and talked about
it
and decided that
our parents had
burned their
house down,
had killed
them
had killed the
goldfish
because it was
all too
beautiful,
even the bamboo
forest had
burned.

They had been
afraid of
the man with the
beautiful
eyes.

And
we were afraid
then
that
all throughout our lives
things like that
would happen,
that nobody
wanted
anybody
to be
strong and
beautiful
like that,
that
others would never
allow it,
and that
many people
would have to
die.

Charles Bukowski

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Just as, after a point, Job cried out

Het post-apocalyptische gedicht ‘Just as, after a point, Job cried out’ van K.A. Hays werd door Emma Burghardt voorzien van een prachtige animatie.

JUST AS, AFTER A POINT, JOB CRIED OUT

The soil froze, cursing the weather. It turned a stoic face
to winter’s switchblade and brass knuckles

so that when the warm rain came, the soil said, Go on,
there’s no room for you now. Let the backyards

pool up, and the river pitch to the bridges, dragging
the bridges down. Now the billboards will become great

silent rafts so anyone can climb on them and look out,
saying, I would have done the same.

When the water covered the tree trunks and crept up,
the ground shrugged. See, it said. Now,

weather, do you understand? Soon,
there will be no resting place.

K.A. Hays

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Render, Render

Het gedicht ‘Render, Render’ van Thomas Lux werd door Jeff Saunders in een korte film gevat.

RENDER, RENDER

Boil it down: feet, skin, gristle,
bones, vertebrae, heart muscle, boil
it down, skim, and boil
again, dreams, history, add them and boil
again, boil and skim
in closed cauldrons, boil your horse, his hooves,
the runned-over dog you loved, the girl
by the pencil sharpener
who looked at you, looked away,
boil that for hours, render it
down, take more from the top as more settles to the bottom,
the heavier, the denser, throw in ache
and sperm, and a bead
of sweat that slid from your armpit to your waist
as you sat stiff-backed before a test, turn up
the fire, boil and skim, boil
some more, add a fever
and the virus that blinded an eye, now’s the time
to add guilt and fear, throw
logs on the fire, coal, gasoline, throw
two goldfish in the pot (their swim bladders
used for “clearing”), boil and boil, render
it down and distill,
concentrate
that for which there is no
other use at all
, boil it down, down,
then stir it with rosewater, that
which is now one dense, fatty, scented red essence
which you smear on your lips
and go forth
to plant as many kisses upon the world
as the world can bear!

Thomas Lux

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