In this category:

Or see the index

All categories

  1. CINEMA, RADIO & TV
  2. DANCE
  3. DICTIONARY OF IDEAS
  4. EXHIBITION – art, art history, photos, paintings, drawings, sculpture, ready-mades, video, performing arts, collages, gallery, etc.
  5. FICTION & NON-FICTION – books, booklovers, lit. history, biography, essays, translations, short stories, columns, literature: celtic, beat, travesty, war, dada & de stijl, drugs, dead poets
  6. FLEURSDUMAL POETRY LIBRARY – classic, modern, experimental & visual & sound poetry, poetry in translation, city poets, poetry archive, pre-raphaelites, editor's choice, etc.
  7. LITERARY NEWS & EVENTS – art & literature news, in memoriam, festivals, city-poets, writers in Residence
  8. MONTAIGNE
  9. MUSEUM OF LOST CONCEPTS – invisible poetry, conceptual writing, spurensicherung
  10. MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY – department of ravens & crows, birds of prey, riding a zebra
  11. MUSEUM OF PUBLIC PROTEST- photos, texts, videos, street poetry
  12. MUSIC
  13. PRESS & PUBLISHING
  14. REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS
  15. STORY ARCHIVE – olv van de veestraat, reading room, tales for fellow citizens
  16. STREET POETRY
  17. THEATRE
  18. TOMBEAU DE LA JEUNESSE – early death: writers, poets & artists who died young
  19. ULTIMATE LIBRARY – danse macabre, ex libris, grimm and others, fairy tales, the art of reading, tales of mystery & imagination, sherlock holmes theatre, erotic poetry, the ideal woman
  20. ·




  1. Subscribe to new material:
    RSS     ATOM

Archive A-B

· Pierre-Jean de Béranger: Le petit homme gris · Aleksandr BLOK: Wat is het zwaar · Robert BURNS: Address to Edinburgh · Lord BYRON: Italy versus England · Aleksandr BLOK: Pieter slaapt · William BLAKE: The Sick Rose · Vincent BERQUEZ: Satie in Paris · Innokenti ANNENSKI: Het afscheid · Bert BEVERS: Niet meer voor zichzelf · Lord BYRON: Darkness · Innokenti ANNENSKI: Mijn ideaal · William BLAKE: The Lamb

»» there is more...

Pierre-Jean de Béranger: Le petit homme gris


Pierre-Jean de Béranger
Le petit homme gris

Il est un petit homme,
Tout habillé de gris,
Dans Paris ;
Joufflu comme une pomme,
Qui, sans un sou comptant,
Vit content,
Et dit : Moi, je m’en…
Et dit : Moi, je m’en…
Ma foi, moi, je m’en ris !
Oh ! qu’il est gai (bis),
Le petit homme gris !

A courir les fillettes,
A boire sans compter,
A chanter,
Il s’est couvert de dettes ;
Mais quant aux créanciers,
Aux huissiers,
Il dit : Moi, je m’en…
Il dit : Moi, je m’en…
Ma foi, moi, je m’en ris !
Oh ! qu’il est gai [bis),
Le petit homme gris !

Qu’il pleuve dans sa chambre,
Qu’il s’y couche le soir
Sans y voir ;
Qu’il lui faille en décembre
Souffler, faute de bois,
Dans ses doigts ;
Il dit : Moi, je m’en…
Il dit : Moi, je m’en…
Ma foi, moi, je m’en ris !
Oh ! qu’il est gai (bis),
Le petit homme gris !

Sa femme, assez gentille,
Fait payer ses atours
Aux amours :
Aussi plus elle brille,
Plus on le montre du doigt.
Il le voit,
Et dit : Moi, je m’en…
Et dit : Moi, je m’en…
Ma foi, moi, je m’en ris !
Oh ! qu’il est gai (bis),
Le petit homme gris !

Quand la goutte l’accable
Sur un lit délabré,
Le curé,
De la mort et du diable
Parle à ce moribond,
Qui répond :
Ma foi, moi, je m’en…
Ma foi, moi, je m’en…
Ma foi, moi, je m’en ris !
Oh ! qu’il est gai (bis),
Le petit homme gris !

Pierre-Jean de Béranger (1780-1857)
Le petit homme gris
Toutes les chansons de Béranger (1843)

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Béranger, Pierre-Jean de


Aleksandr BLOK: Wat is het zwaar

Aleksandr Blok
(1880–1921)

Wat is het zwaar

Ginds is een mens verbrand. (Fet)

Wat is het zwaar om hier op aard te zijn,
te doen alsof je niet al omgekomen bent,
steeds dit tragisch spel van angst en pijn
te zien voor wie het leven nog niet kent,

en steeds in boze dromen, nacht na nacht,
te vragen naar wat vragen niet verdraagt,
opdat hun in der schone kunsten pracht
de weerschijn van een vurig leven daagt!

 

Aleksandr Blok, Как тяжело ходить среди людей, 1910
Vertaling Paul Bezembinder 2016

Paul Bezembinder: zijn gedichten en vertalingen verschenen in verschillende (online) literaire tijdschriften. Zie meer op zijn website: www.paulbezembinder.nl

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blok, Blok, Aleksandr


Robert BURNS: Address to Edinburgh

Robert Burns

Address to Edinburgh

1.
Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,
Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet,
Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs :
From marking wildly-scatt’red flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honor’d shade.

2.
Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labours plies ;
There Architecture’s noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise :
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod ;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.

3.
Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail ;
Their views enlarg’d, their lib’ral mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale ;
Attentive still to Sorrow’s wail,
Or modest Merit’s silent claim :
And never may their sources fail!
And never Envy blot their name!

4.
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye,
Heav’n’s beauties on my fancy shine :
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own His work indeed divine!

5.
There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar ;
Like some bold vet’ran, grey in arms,
And mark’d with many a seamy scar :
The pond’rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.

6.
With awe-stuck thought and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia’s kings of other years,
Fam’d heroes! had their royal home :
Alas, how chang’d the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their haplesss race wild-wand’ring roam!
Tho’ rigid Law cries out: ‘’Twas just!’

7.
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro’hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps
Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore:
Ev’n I, who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed,
And fac’d grim Danger’s loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!

8.
Edine! Scotia’s darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow’rs ;
Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet,
Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs :
From marking wildly-scatt’red flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

Robert Burns (1759 – 1796)
Address to Edinburgh
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Burns, Robert


Lord BYRON: Italy versus England

Lord Byron
Italy versus England

With all its sinful doings, I must say,
That Italy’s a pleasant place to me,
Who love to see the sun shine every day,
And vines (not nailed to walls) from tree to tree
Festooned, much like the back scene of a play,
Or melodrame, which people flock to see,
When the first act is ended by a dance
In vineyards copied from the South of France.

I like on autumn evenings to ride out,
Without being forced to bid my groom be sure
My cloak is round his middle strapped about,
Because the skies are not the most secure ;
I know too that, if stopped upon my route,
Where the green alleys windingly allure,
Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way.—
In England ’twould be dung, dust, or a dray.

I also like to dine on becaficas,
To see the sun set, sure he’ll rise to-morrow,
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as
A drunken man’s dead eye in maudlin sorrow,
But with all Heaven to himself ; the day will break as
Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers
Where reeking London’s smoky cauldron simmers.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,
With syllables which breathe of the sweet South,
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,
That not a single accent seems uncouth,
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural,
Which we’re obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

I like the women too (forgive my folly!),
From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley
Of rays that say a thousand things at once,
To the high Dama’s brow, more melancholy,
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance,
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise !
Italian Beauty ! didst thou not inspire
Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies
With all we know of Heaven, or can desire,
In what he had bequeathed us ?—in what guise,
Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre,
Would words described thy past and present glow,
While yet Canova can create below ?

‘England ! with all thy faults I love thee still’,
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ;
I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ;
I like the government (but that is not it) ;
I like the freedom of the press and quill ;
I like the Habeas Corpus (when we’ve got it) ;
I like a Parliamentary debate,
Particularly when ’tis not too late ;

I like the taxes, when they’re not too many ;
I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear ;
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any ;
Have no objection to a pot of beer ;
I like the weather,—when it is not rainy,
That is, I like two months of every year.
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King !
Which means that I like all and every thing.

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,
Poor’s rate, Reform, my own, the nation’s debt,
Our little riots just to show we’re free men,
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,
All these I can forgive, and those forget,
And greatly venerate our recent glories,
And wish they were not owing to the Tories.

Lord Byron (1788-1824)
Italy versus England
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Byron, Lord


Aleksandr BLOK: Pieter slaapt

Aleksandr Blok
(1880–1921)

Pieter slaapt

Pieter slaapt, in mist verzonken,
Lamplicht glinstert op de straat,
De Nevá weerspiegelt vonken
Van een verre dageraad.

In die verre gloed van morgen,
In de schijnsels van de nacht,
Houdt zich sluimerend verborgen
Hoeveel treurigheid mij wacht.

 

Aleksandr Blok, Город спит…, 1899
Vertaling Paul Bezembinder 2017

Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij in vooral klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Zijn gedichten (Nederlands) en vertalingen (Russisch-Nederlands) verschenen in verschillende (online) literaire tijdschriften. Voor­beelden van zijn werk zijn te vinden op zijn website, www.paulbezembinder.nl

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blok, Blok, Aleksandr


William BLAKE: The Sick Rose

William Blake
The Sick Rose

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm.
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

William Blake (1757 – 1827)
Poem: The Sick Rose
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


Vincent BERQUEZ: Satie in Paris

Satie in Paris

Fleeting smoke mesmeric in sound-time,
jumping drone-tones from unsettling man
playing in a lonely shadowed singularity.

Fibrous flickering feet clicking-bawdy songs,
bulking up the waltz, stop-start stutter-noises,
speeding up the early morning cold hands
gravely, moving-pictures pass hysterically by.

The music begins mysteries in living forms,
belting down the hearts of crowds,
walking through the buzzing boulevards,
the actual grudge-work in mortified factories,
a wet-grey urban poverty engulfing the absurd.

He viewed from after and before the effect
of a cheapened life in warfare, in commerce,
before the new migration, the great conflagration,
in revolutions of our hearts, in the light of night,
from the torpedo tobacco begging for fire in bad air.

The wormlike moveable-mass sought salvation
and received craters full of broken sons instead.
Ironic cabaret music played out the times and died.
Underground chambers of rebel artists and composers
seethed sexual ballets, arm-twisted around perversities
in eccentric poses, the dance twisting towards the next.

26.04.09

Vincent Berquez

 

Vincent Berquez is a London–based artist and poet.

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Berquez, Vincent, Erik Satie, Satie, Erik, Vincent Berquez


Innokenti ANNENSKI: Het afscheid

Innokenti Annenski
(1855–1909)

Het afscheid

Ze hebben opgeruimd. Met zadeldoek
zijn spiegelbeeld en vleugel afgedaan;
de Dood heeft gister na het huisbezoek
de voordeur op een kiertje laten staan.
De scheurkalender kan naar het papier,
het polshorloge loopt nog mooi op tijd;
het zuurstofmasker was op zijn manier,
blauw aanlopend, getuige van de strijd.
Het is vol afschuw dat ik hiernaar kijk…
dit… dit is mijn ik, mijn lichaam niet…
‘t is of het Zijn de woning van mijn lijk
al door een vreemdeling betrekken liet.

Innokenti Annenski, У гроба, 1904
Vertaling Paul Bezembinder 2017

Paul Bezembinder: zijn gedichten en vertalingen verschenen in verschillende (online) literaire tijdschriften. Zie meer op zijn website: www.paulbezembinder.nl

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Annenski, Annenski, Innokenti, Archive A-B


Bert BEVERS: Niet meer voor zichzelf

Niet meer voor zichzelf

Het kan hier zo langzaam als vroeger
als je dat wilt. Maar verleden kan
wel niet meer voor zichzelf zorgen.

Het blijft hangen in bedonderde
takken, halve waarheden mitsgaders
winderige gestalten in zuinig bruin.

Wie wolken wil vergeet best de wind niet.

Bert Bevers

Uit de Enghuizer Dialogen VIII,
Het Web, Doetinchem, 2017
Bert Bevers gedichten

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert


Lord BYRON: Darkness

Lord Byron
Darkness

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came, and went and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires – and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings, the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain’d;
Forest were set on fire but hour by hour
They fell and faded and the crackling trunks
Extinguish’d with a crash and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremolous; and vipers crawl’d
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless, they were slain for food:
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again; a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corpse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answered not with a caress, he died.
The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies; They met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they raked up,
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Wich was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and
Each other’s aspects. saw, and shriek’d, and died, beheld
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless,
A lump of death, a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp’d
They slept on the abyss without a surge
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expired before;
The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them. She was the universe.

Lord George Gordon Noel Byron (1788 – 1824)
Poem: Darkness
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Byron, Lord


Innokenti ANNENSKI: Mijn ideaal

Innokenti Annenski
(1855–1909)

Mijn ideaal

Het ruisen van ontstoken gaslicht
Boven het grauw en grijs bezoek,
De stille weemoed in het aanzicht
Van een terloops vergeten boek,

En dat ik daar dan, onbewogen,
Als ging het immer wonderwel,
Over vergeeld papier gebogen,
Die irritante zijnsvraag stel.

 

Innokenti Annenski, Идеал, 1904
Vertaling Paul Bezembinder, 2016

 

Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij in vooral klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Zijn gedichten (Nederlands) en vertalingen (Russisch-Nederlands) verschenen in verschillende (online) literaire tijdschriften. Voor­beelden van zijn werk zijn te vinden op zijn website, www.paulbezembinder.nl

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Annenski, Annenski, Innokenti, Archive A-B


William BLAKE: The Lamb

William Blake
The Lamb

Little Lamb, who made thee
Does thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing woolly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice.
Making all the vales rejoice:
Little Lamb who made thee
Does thou know who made thee

Little Lamb I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb I’ll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by His name,
Little Lamb God bless thee,
Little Lamb God bless thee.

William Blake (1757 – 1827)
Poem: The Lamb
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


Older Entries »

Thank you for reading FLEURSDUMAL.NL - magazine for art & literature