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FLEURSDUMAL POETRY LIBRARY – classic, modern, experimental & visual & sound poetry, poetry in translation, city poets, poetry archive, pre-raphaelites, editor’s choice, etc.

· NOVALIS: Der Teufel · Gertrude STEIN: A Long Dress · William WORDSWORTH: London 1802 · The DEATHS of the Poets by Michael Symmons Roberts & Paul Farley · Sibylla SCHWARZ: Ohne die Liebste ist keine Freude · Christoph Buchwald & Ulrike Almut Sandig: Jahrbuch der LYRIK 2017 · Robert BRIDGES: For beauty being the best of all we know · Monique & Hans HAGEN nieuwe kinderboekenambassadeurs · Oscar WILDE: The Teacher of Wisdom · Tristan CORBIÈRE: Feminin singulier · Anne FINCH: To A Husband · Samuel Taylor COLERIDGE: Xanadu – Kubla Khan

»» there is more...

NOVALIS: Der Teufel

Novalis
Der Teufel

Ein loser Schalk, in dessen Beutel
Es just nicht allzu richtig stand,
Und der den Spruch, daß leider alles eitel
Auf unserm Runde ist, nur zu bestätigt fand,
Zog einst voll Spekulationen
In eine Stadt en migniatur,
Und schlug an jedes Tor und an die Rathaustür
Ein Avertissement mit vielen Worten schier,
Er werde heut in den Drei Kronen
Um fünf Uhr nachmittags den Teufel jedermann
Vom Ratsherrn bis zum Bettelmann
Für zwanzig Kreuzer präsentieren
Und ohne ihn bevor erst herzukommandieren.
Was Beine hatte, lief zum großen Wundermann,
Und überall war eine Weihnachtsfreude;
Der Bürgermeister schrieb mit Kreide
Den Tag an seiner Türe an,
Und jeder Ratsherr kam mit einem Galakleide
Und einer knotigen Perücke angetan,
Und will das Wunder sehn; auch mancher Handwerksmann
Kam hübsch bedächtlich angeschlichen
Und gab die Kreuzer hin, die er den Tag gewann.
Ein Schneider nur ging nicht zum Wundersmann
Und sprach: »Ich seh umsonst den Teufel alle Tage
In meiner jungen Frau zu meiner größten Plage,
Und der ist toller fürwahr als der beim Wundersmann.«
Als endlich männiglichen
Der Held sich mit dem leeren Beutel zeigt
Und erst mit wichtger Miene schweigt
Und dann geheimnisvoll nur wenig Worte saget
Und seine Auditoren fraget,
Ob auch kein Atheist in der Versammlung sei,
Erstieg die Trunkenheit der blöden Phantasei
Den Gipfel, und der Schalk beginnt die Gaukelei.
Nach manchem hocus-pocus ziehet
Der Schalk den Beutel auf und jeglicher bemühet
Sich sehr den Leidigen zu sehn, doch jeder siehet
Nichts auf der Welt –; ein junger Taugenichts,
Der näher stand, ein bel esprit, voll Zweifel
Wie mancher Kandidat, beginnt: »Ich seh ja nichts.«
»Das eben«, rief der Schalk, »das eben ist der Teufel.«

Novalis (1772 – 1801)
Gedicht: Der Teufel
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive M-N, Novalis, Novalis


Gertrude STEIN: A Long Dress

Gertrude Stein

(1874-1946)

 

A Long Dress

That is the current that makes machinery,

that makes it crackle,

what is the current that presents a long line and a necessary waist.

What is this current.

What is the wind, what is it.

Where is the serene length,

it is there and a dark place is not a dark place,

only a white and red are black, only a yellow and green are blue,

a pink is scarlet, a bow is every color. A line distinguishes it.

A line just distinguishes it.

 

Gertrude Stein poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Stein, Gertrude


William WORDSWORTH: London 1802

William Wordsworth
London 1802

Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

William Wordsworth (1770 – 1850)
Poem: London 1802
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Milton, John, Wordsworth, Wordsworth, William


The DEATHS of the Poets by Michael Symmons Roberts & Paul Farley

What is the price of poetry? An examination of how the deaths of great poets have shaped our culture’s distorted sense of poetry.

From Chatterton’s Pre-Raphaelite demise to Keats’ death warrant in a smudge of arterial blood; from Dylan Thomas’s eighteen straight whiskies to Sylvia Plath’s desperate suicide in the gas oven of her Primrose Hill kitchen or John Berryman’s leap from a bridge onto the frozen Mississippi, the deaths of poets have often cast a backward shadow on their work.

The post-Romantic myth of the dissolute drunken poet – exemplified by Thomas and made iconic by his death in New York – has fatally skewed the image of poets in our culture. Novelists can be stable, savvy, politically adept and in control, but poets should be melancholic, doomed and self-destructive. Is this just a myth, or is there some essential truth behind it: that great poems only come when a poet’s life is pushed right to an emotional knife-edge of acceptability, safety, security? What is the price of poetry? In this book, two contemporary poets undertake a series of journeys – across Britain, America and Europe – to the death places of poets of the past, in part as pilgrims, honouring inspirational writers, but also as investigators, interrogating the myth. The result is a book that is, in turn, enlightening and provocative, eye-wateringly funny and powerfully moving.

Michael Symmons Roberts‘s sixth collection of poetry, Drysalter, was the winner of both the Forward Prize and the Costa Poetry Prize in 2013. He has published two novels, and is Professor of Poetry at Manchester Metropolitan University.
Paul Farley is the author of four collections of poetry and has won the Forward Prize for Best First Collection, the Whitbread Poetry Award and the E. M. Forster Award.
Edgelands, co-written with Michael Symmons Roberts, received the Royal Society of Literature’s Jerwood Award and the 2011 Foyles Best Book of Ideas Award and was serialised as Radio 4 Book of the Week.

The Deaths of the Poets
Michael Symmons Roberts & Paul Farley
ISBN : 9780224097543
Hardback, 400 pages
February 2017
Publisher: Random House Children’s Publishers UK

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, - Book News, Art & Literature News, DEAD POETS CORNER, Galerie des Morts, POETRY ARCHIVE


Sibylla SCHWARZ: Ohne die Liebste ist keine Freude

Sibylla Schwarz
Ohne die Liebste ist keine Freude

Kan die Welt auch wohl bestehen
ohn der Sonnen klahres Liecht?
kan man in der Nacht auch sehen,
wenn da Stern und Mond gebricht?
kan ein Schiffman auch wohl lachen
wenn sein Schiff begündt zu krachen?

Eben wenig kan ich leben,
wenn mir meine Dorile,
nicht ihr klares Liecht wil geben;
Eben wenig ich besteh,
wenn sie nicht mein Schiff regieret,
und durch ihre Freundschafft führet.

Springt ein Rehbock bey der Mutter,
mehr nicht, als er sonsten tuht?
hat ein Pferd bey vollem Futter,
auch nicht einen frischen Muht?
Also kan ich besser leben,
wenn ihr Liecht mir wird gegeben.

Zweyen Herzen, die sich lieben,
ist die allerhöchste Pein,
und das grösseste Betrüben,
wenn sie nicht zusammen sein,
weil sie sonsten nichts gedencken,
alß nur Arm in Arm zu schrenken.

Wie die Ulmen üm den Reben
gleichsam als verliebt sich drehn:
Also wündsch ich auch, mein Leben,
bey dir umgefast zu stehn,
und dir etwas vor zusagen
von den süssen Liebes=Plagen.

Darüm wil ich mich bemühen
auff mein Fretow hinzuziehn,
und mein Leben selbst nicht fliehen,
weil ich sonst erstorben bin,
alß denn wird sie mich erfreuen,
und mir meinen Geist verneuen.

Darüm wil ich gerne lassen
der Tollense Liebligkeit,
wil mein Leben selbst nicht hassen,
weil es nuhr erlaubt die Zeit;
weg mit disen schlechten Auen,
ich wil bald mein Fretow schauen.

Sibylla Schwarz (1621 – 1638)
Gedicht: Ohne die Liebste ist keine Freude
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, SIbylla Schwarz


Christoph Buchwald & Ulrike Almut Sandig: Jahrbuch der LYRIK 2017

Seit 1979 gibt das »Jahrbuch der Lyrik« Einblick in neueste Entwicklungen der Poesie in Deutschland, Österreich und der Schweiz; ab diesem Jahr erscheint es jährlich bei Schöffling & Co. Für die 31. Ausgabe konnte Christoph Buchwald die vielfach ausgezeichnete Lyrikerin Ulrike Almut Sandig als Mitherausgeberin gewinnen. Gemeinsam haben sie die besten zeitgenössischen Gedichte ausgesucht und in thematischen Kapiteln zusammengestellt.

In welchem Maße ist die Gegenwartslyrik Echo und Spiegel unserer Zeit? Wie tief sitzt das Misstrauen gegen politische Ideologien und Rezepte? Offensichtlich ist: Die Sicht auf Geschichte und Gesellschaft ist nur mit subjektiver Herangehensweise glaubwürdig zu artikulieren, der persönliche Blick verweist auf das große Ganze.
Erstmals wurden auch Bildgedichte in die Auswahl aufgenommen; zusammen mit dem Kapitel »Dichter übersetzen Dichter« gehen diese über Sprach- und Genregrenzen hinaus.

Christoph Buchwald, 1951 in Tübingen geboren, ist seit 1979 ständiger Herausgeber des Jahrbuchs der Lyrik. Nach seinem Studium der Kunstgeschichte, Literaturwissenschaft und experimentellen Komposition hat er als Lektor und Verleger zahlreiche Lyriker begleitet. Seit 2002 leitet er gemeinsam mit seiner Frau den literarischen Verlag Cossee in Amsterdam und übersetzt Gedichte aus dem Niederländischen.

Ulrike Almut Sandig, 1979 in Großenhain geboren, wuchs in einem Pfarrhaushalt in Sachsen auf. Ihre Gedichte wurden vielfach verfilmt und ausgezeichnet, u. a mit dem Leonce-und-Lena-Preis 2009. Für ihre Sprechkonzerte und Hörstücke arbeitet sie eng mit Musikerinnen und Komponisten zusammen. Neben vier Gedichtbänden erschienen bisher zwei Hörbücher, die Erzählungen Flamingos (2010) und Buch gegen das Verschwinden (2015) sowie zahlreiche Hörspiele. Sie lebt mit ihrer Familie in Berlin.

was weiß ich vom
Schuldzucker der Gefühle von
den Kissen der Stille jeder
folgt einem anderen Befehl der
Käfer seinem Drahtgestell
der Himmel spielt mit dem
roten Pelz die Erde mit
den schwarzen Pfoten

Herta Müller, in: Jahrbuch der Lyrik 2017, hg. von Christoph Buchwald und Ulrike Almut Sandig, Schöffling & Co. 2017, S. 77.

Jahrbuch der Lyrik 2017
Gedichte
Herausgegeben von Christoph Buchwald und Ulrike Almut Sandig
232 Seiten. Gebunden. Lesebändchen.
ISBN: 978-3-89561-680-8
Schöffling & Co. 2017

Erscheint am 8. Mai 2017

  # more on website Lyrik-Kabinett München

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, Art & Literature News, MODERN POETRY, POETRY ARCHIVE


Robert BRIDGES: For beauty being the best of all we know

Robert Bridges
For beauty being the best of all we know

For beauty being the best of all we know
Sums up the unsearchable and secret aims
Of nature, and on joys whose earthly names
Were never told can form and sense bestow;
And man has sped his instinct to outgo
The step of science; and against her shames
Imagination stakes out heavenly claims,
Building a tower above the head of woe.
Nor is there fairer work for beauty found
Than that she win in nature her release
From all the woes that in the world abound;
Nay with his sorrow may his love increase,
If from man’s greater need beauty redound,
And claim his tears for homage of his peace.

Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 – 1930)
For beauty being the best of all we know
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Bridges, Robert


Monique & Hans HAGEN nieuwe kinderboekenambassadeurs

Monique & Hans Hagen zijn de nieuwe kinderboekenambassadeurs van Nederland. Zij volgen Jan Paul Schutten op, die het ambassadeurschap de afgelopen twee jaar vervulde. De kinderboekenambassadeur geeft een herkenbaar gezicht aan de promotie van kinder- en jeugdboeken.

Het schrijversechtpaar is tijdens Lezen Centraal, het jaarlijkse congres van Stichting Lezen, officieel benoemd tot Kinderboekenambassadeur.

Het is voor het eerst dat het ambassadeurschap door twee personen wordt ingevuld, een echtpaar dat samen boeken schrijft.

Zelf zijn ze duidelijk over hun positie:

Het is voor ons geen duobaan, we houden niet van half werk; integendeel, we geven de promotie niet een maar twee gezichten, we zijn de Nederlandse Kinderboekenambassadeurs.’

Van boeken word je gelukkig, ze helpen je om verder te komen in het leven – dat is de boodschap die Monique & Hans Hagen willen uitdragen. Als dichters vragen ze extra aandacht voor poëzie.

   Lees poëzie-tief  –

   elke dag een gedicht

      Monique & Hans Hagen      

willen als ambassadeur veel kinderen bereiken. Om hun boodschap te verspreiden willen zij zoveel mogelijk ouders, leerkrachten, pabo-studenten en professionals in het boekenvak betrekken bij hun werk. Monique & Hans Hagen gaan lezingen en workshops verzorgen, de media opzoeken om hun boodschap kracht bij te zetten, nieuwkomers in Nederland in AZC’s bezoeken, en nieuws delen via de Kinderboekenambassadeur-Facebookpagina en -website.

De functie van Kinderboekenambassadeur is geïnspireerd op het Britse Childrens’s Laureate, en bestaat in meer dan tien landen.

De Nederlandse Kinderboekenambassadeurs worden telkens voor twee jaar aangesteld door Stichting Lezen en het Nederlands Letterenfonds in samenwerking met Stichting Schrijvers School Samenleving en Stichting CPNB.

Nederlandse Kinderboekenambassadeurs

2017-2019
Monique & Hans Hagen
Lees poëzie-tief, elke dag een gedicht, kort maar krachtig.

2015-2017
Jan Paul Schutten
Er is voor iedereen een passend boek te vinden.

2013-2015
Jacques Vriens
Blijf voorlezen, ook al hebben kinderen zelf al leren lezen.

   # meer info website kinderboekenambassadeur   

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive G-H, Children's Poetry, Kinderboekenweek


Oscar WILDE: The Teacher of Wisdom

fdm_oscarwilde3Oscar Wilde
(1854 – 1900)

The Teacher of Wisdom

From his childhood he had been as one filled with the perfect knowledge of God, and even while he was yet but a lad many of the saints, as well as certain holy women who dwelt in the free city of his birth, had been stirred to much wonder by the grave wisdom of his answers.

And when his parents had given him the robe and the ring of manhood he kissed them, and left them and went out into the world, that he might speak to the world about God. For there were at that time many in the world who either knew not God at all, or had but an incomplete knowledge of Him, or worshipped the false gods who dwell in groves and have no care of their worshippers.

And he set his face to the sun and journeyed, walking without sandals, as he had seen the saints walk, and carrying at his girdle a leathern wallet and a little water-bottle of burnt clay.

And as he walked along the highway he was full of the joy that comes from the perfect knowledge of God, and he sang praises unto God without ceasing; and after a time he reached a strange land in which there were many cities.

And he passed through eleven cities. And some of these cities were in valleys, and others were by the banks of great rivers, and others were set on hills. And in each city he found a disciple who loved him and followed him, and a great multitude also of people followed him from each city, and the knowledge of God spread in the whole land, and many of the rulers were converted, and the priests of the temples in which there were idols found that half of their gain was gone, and when they beat upon their drums at noon none, or but a few, came with peacocks and with offerings of flesh as had been the custom of the land before his coming.

Yet the more the people followed him, and the greater the number of his disciples, the greater became his sorrow. And he knew not why his sorrow was so great. For he spake ever about God, and out of the fulness of that perfect knowledge of God which God had Himself given to him.

And one evening he passed out of the eleventh city, which was a city of Armenia, and his disciples and a great crowd of people followed after him; and he went up on to a mountain and sat down on a rock that was on the mountain, and his disciples stood round him, and the multitude knelt in the valley.

And he bowed his head on his hands and wept, and said to his Soul, ‘Why is it that I am full of sorrow and fear, and that each of my disciples is as an enemy that walks in the noonday?’

And his Soul answered him and said, ‘God filled thee with the perfect knowledge of Himself, and thou hast given this knowledge away to others. The pearl of great price thou hast divided, and the vesture without seam thou hast parted asunder. He who giveth away wisdom robbeth himself. He is as one who giveth his treasure to a robber. Is not God wiser than thou art? Who art thou to give away the secret that God hath told thee? I was rich once, and thou hast made me poor. Once I saw God, and now thou hast hidden Him from me.’

And he wept again, for he knew that his Soul spake truth to him, and that he had given to others the perfect knowledge of God, and that he was as one clinging to the skirts of God, and that his faith was leaving him by reason of the number of those who believed in him.

And he said to himself, ‘I will talk no more about God. He who giveth away wisdom robbeth himself’

And after the space of some hours his disciples came near him and bowed themselves to the ground and said, ‘Master, talk to us about God, for thou hast the perfect knowledge of God, and no man save thee hath this knowledge.’

And he answered them and said, ‘I will talk to you about all other things that are in heaven and on earth, but about God I will not talk to you. Neither now, nor at any time, will I talk to you about God.’

And they were wroth with him and said to him, ‘Thou hast led us into the desert that we might hearken to thee. Wilt thou send us away hungry, and the great multitude that thou hast made to follow thee?’

And he answered them and said, ‘I will not talk to you about God.’

And the multitude murmured against him and said to him ‘Thou hast led us into the desert, and hast given us no food to eat. Talk to us about God and it will suffice us.’

But he answered them not a word. For he knew that if he spake to them about God he would give away his treasure.

And his disciples went away sadly, and the multitude of people returned to their own homes. And many died on the way.

And when he was alone he rose up and set his face to the moon, and journeyed for seven moons, speaking to no man nor making any answer. And when the seventh moon had waned he reached that desert which is the desert of the Great River. And having found a cavern in which a Centaur had once dwelt, he took it for his place of dwelling, and made himself a mat of reeds on which to lie, and became a hermit. And every hour the Hermit praised God that He had suffered him to keep some knowledge of Him and of His wonderful greatness.

Now, one evening, as the Hermit was seated before the cavern in which he had made his place of dwelling, he beheld a young man of evil and beautiful face who passed by in mean apparel and with empty hands. Every evening with empty hands the young man passed by, and every morning he returned with his hands full of purple and pearls. For he was a Robber and robbed the caravans of the merchants.

And the Hermit looked at him and pitied him. But he spake not a word. For he knew that he who speaks a word loses his faith.

And one morning, as the young man returned with his hands full of purple and pearls, he stopped and frowned and stamped his foot upon the sand, and said to the Hermit: ‘Why do you look at me ever in this manner as I pass by? What is it that I see in your eyes? For no man has looked at me before in this manner. And the thing is a thorn and a trouble to me.’

And the Hermit answered him and said, ‘What you see in my eyes is pity. Pity is what looks out at you from my eyes.’

And the young man laughed with scorn, and cried to the Hermit in a bitter voice, and said to him, ‘I have purple and pearls in my hands, and you have but a mat of reeds on which to lie. What pity should you have for me? And for what reason have you this pity?’

‘I have pity for you,’ said the Hermit, ‘because you have no knowledge of God.’

‘Is this knowledge of God a precious thing?’ asked the young man, and he came close to the mouth of the cavern.

‘It is more precious than all the purple and the pearls of the world,’ answered the Hermit.

‘And have you got it?’ said the young Robber, and he came closer still.

‘Once, indeed,’ answered the Hermit, ‘I possessed the perfect knowledge of God. But in my foolishness I parted with it, and divided it amongst others. Yet even now is such knowledge as remains to me more precious than purple or pearls.’

And when the young Robber heard this he threw away the purple and the pearls that he was bearing in his hands, and drawing a sharp sword of curved steel he said to the Hermit, ‘Give me, forthwith, this knowledge of God that you possess, or I will surely slay you. Wherefore should I not slay him who has a treasure greater than my treasure?’

And the Hermit spread out his arms and said, ‘Were it not better for me to go unto the uttermost courts of God and praise Him, than to live in the world and have no knowledge of Him? Slay me if that be your desire. But I will not give away my knowledge of God.’

And the young Robber knelt down and besought him, but the Hermit would not talk to him about God, nor give him his Treasure, and the young Robber rose up and said to the Hermit, ‘Be it as you will. As for myself, I will go to the City of the Seven Sins, that is but three days’ journey from this place, and for my purple they will give me pleasure, and for my pearls they will sell me joy.’ And he took up the purple and the pearls and went swiftly away.

And the Hermit cried out and followed him and besought him. For the space of three days he followed the young Robber on the road and entreated him to return, nor to enter into the City of the Seven Sins.

And ever and anon the young Robber looked back at the Hermit and called to him, and said, ‘Will you give me this knowledge of God which is more precious than purple and pearls? If you will give me that, I will not enter the city.’

And ever did the Hermit answer, ‘All things that I have I will give thee, save that one thing only. For that thing it is not lawful for me to give away.

And in the twilight of the third day they came nigh to the great scarlet gates of the City of the Seven Sins. And from the city there came the sound of much laughter.

And the young Robber laughed in answer, and sought to knock at the gate. And as he did so the Hermit ran forward and caught him by the skirts of his raiment, and said to him: ‘Stretch forth your hands, and set your arms around my neck, and put your ear close to my lips, and I will give you what remains to me of the knowledge of God.’ And the young Robber stopped.

And when the Hermit had given away his knowledge of God, he fell upon the ground and wept, and a great darkness hid him from the city and the young Robber, so that he saw them no more.

And as he lay there weeping he was ware of One who was standing beside him; and He who was standing beside him had feet of brass and hair like fine wool. And He raised the Hermit up, and said to him: ‘Before this time thou hadst the perfect knowledge of God. Now thou shalt have the perfect love of God. Wherefore art thou weeping?’ And He kissed him.

Oscar Wilde, 1894
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Wilde, Oscar, Wilde, Oscar


Tristan CORBIÈRE: Feminin singulier

Tristan Corbière
Feminin singulier

Éternel Féminin de l’éternel Jocrisse!
Fais-nous sauter, pantins nous payons les décors!
Nous éclairons la rampe…. Et toi, dans la coulisse,
Tu peux faire au pompier le pur don de ton corps.

Fais claquer sur nos dos le fouet de ton caprice,
Couronne tes genoux!… et nos têtes dix-cors;
Ris! montre tes dents! mais … nous avons la police,
Et quelque chose en nous d’eunuque et de recors.

… Ah tu ne comprends pas?…–Moi non plus–Fais la belle
Tourne: nous sommes soûls! Et plats: Fais la cruelle!
Cravache ton pacha, ton humble serviteur!…

Après, sache tomber!–mais tomber avec grâce–
Sur notre sable fin ne laisse pas de trace!…
–C’est le métier de femme et de gladiateur.–

Tristan Corbière (1845 – 1875)
Feminin singulier
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: *Archive Les Poètes Maudits, Archive C-D, Corbière, Tristan


Anne FINCH: To A Husband

 

Anne Finch
To A Husband

This is to the crown and blessing of my life,
The much loved husband of a happy wife;
To him whose constant passion found the art
To win a stubborn and ungrateful heart,
And to the world by tenderest proof discovers
They err, who say that husbands can’t be lovers.
With such return of passion, as is due,
Daphnis I love, Daphinis my thoughts pursue;
Daphnis, my hopes and joys are bounded all in you.
Even I, for Daphnis’ and my promise’ sake,
What I in woman censure, undertake.
But this from love, not vanity proceeds;
You know who writes, and I who ’tis that reads.
Judge not my passion by my want of skill:
Many love well, though they express it ill;
And I your censure could with pleasure bear,
Would you but soon return, and speak it here.

Anne Finch (1661 – 1720)
To A Husband
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive E-F, CLASSIC POETRY


Samuel Taylor COLERIDGE: Xanadu – Kubla Khan

Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Xanadu – Kubla Khan

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And ‘mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ‘twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 – 1834)
Xanadu – Kubla Khan
fleursdumal.nl magazine

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