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Archive A-B

«« Previous page · William Blake: The Angel poetry · Guillaume Apollinaire: Hôtels · Charles Bukowski: The Mathematics of the Breath and the Way. On Writers and Writing · Vincent Berquez: Sibelius · Robert Bridges: To the President of Magdalen College, Oxford · Anna Laetitia Barbauld: Life · Hugo Ball: Die Sonne · Joanna Baillie: The Outlaw’s Song · Bert Bevers gedicht: De laatste s · Charles Bukowski: The Bell Tolls for No One · Smoke by John Berger (Author) and‎ Selcuk Demirel (Illustrator) · Bert Bevers gedicht: Domburg

»» there is more...

William Blake: The Angel poetry


The Angel poetry

I Dreamt a Dream! what can it mean?
And that I was a maiden Queen:
Guarded by an Angel mild;
Witless woe, was neer beguil’d!

And I wept both night and day
And he wip’d my tears away
And I wept both day and night
And hid from him my hearts delight

So he took his wings and fled:
Then the morn blush’d rosy red:
I dried my tears & armd my fears,
With ten thousand shields and spears.

Soon my Angel came again;
I was arm’d, he came in vain:
For the time of youth was fled
And grey hairs were on my head

William Blake (1757 – 1827)
Poem: The Angel poem magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William

Guillaume Apollinaire: Hôtels



La chambre est veuve
Chacun pour soi
Présence neuve
On paye au mois

Le patron doute
Je tourne en route
Comme un toton

Le bruit des fiacres
Mon voisin laid
Qui fume un âcre
Tabac anglais

Ô La Vallière
Qui boite et rit
De mes prières
Table de nuit

Et tous ensemble
Dans cet hôtel
Savons la langue
Comme à Babel

Fermons nos portes
À double tour
Chacun apporte
Son seul amour

Guillaume Apollinaire
(1880 – 1918)

Alcools – poèmes 1898-1913
Paris : Éditions de la Nouvelle Revue française,
troisième édition, 1920 magazine

More in: *Concrete + Visual Poetry A-E, Apollinaire, Guillaume, Archive A-B, Guillaume Apollinaire

Charles Bukowski: The Mathematics of the Breath and the Way. On Writers and Writing

In The Mathematics of the Breath and the Way, Charles Bukowski considers the art of writing, and the art of living as writer.

Bringing together a variety of previously uncollected stories, columns, reviews, introductions, and interviews, Mathematics finds him approaching the dynamics of his chosen profession with cynical aplomb, deflating pretentions and tearing down idols armed with only a typewriter and a bottle of beer.

Beginning with the title piece—a serious manifesto disguised as off-handed remarks en route to the racetrack—Mathematics runs through numerous tales following the author’s adventures at poetry readings, parties, film sets, and bars, and also features an unprecedented gathering of Bukowski’s singular literary criticism.

From classic authors like Hemingway to underground legends like d.a. levy to his own stable of obscure favorites, Bukowski uses each occasion to expound on the larger issues around literary production.

The book closes with a handful of interviews in which he discusses his writing practices and his influences, making Mathematics a perfect guide to the man behind the myth and the disciplined artist behind the boozing brawler.

The method behind the madness, revealing the critical acumen of everyone’s favorite Dirty Old Man.

“Genius could be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way, or even to say a simple thing in a simpler way.”—Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski was born in Andernach, Germany on August 16, 1920, the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.

Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (Black Sparrow, 1994), Screams from the Balcony: Selected Letters 1960-1970 (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992), and the following books with City Lights Publishers: Notes of a Dirty Old Man (1981), The Most Beautiful Woman in Town & Other Stories (1983), Tales of Ordinary Madness (1984), Portions from a Wine-Stained Notebook: Uncollected Stories and Essays, 1944-1990 (2008), Absence of the Hero: Uncollected Stories and Essays, Vol. 2: 1946-1992 (2010), More Notes of a Dirty Old Man: The Uncollected Columns (2011), and The Bell Tolls for No One (2015). He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.

Title: The Mathematics of the Breath and the Way
Subtitle: On Writers and Writing
Author: Charles Bukowski
Introduction by David Stephen Calonne
Edited by David Stephen Calonne
Publisher: City Lights Publishers
Format Paperback
ISBN-10 0872867595
ISBN-13 9780872867598
250 Pages
List Price $16.95
Publication Date 15 May 2018

new books magazine

More in: - Book News, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Bukowski, Charles, Opium-Eaters

Vincent Berquez: Sibelius



Sibelius symphony number eight

On his lips he sounded natures
cry, natures sinewy sigh
and gripped in encapsulation
its voices in dots and dashes.

His work swept the oceans
searching for ringing melodies,
the cosmos dancing in rhythm
through its internal magnetism.
Sounds from the milky way
readily formed within him,
carbon from the core twinkling,
vibrating, the many strings flying
in rich tones, in its resurrection
when death looked imminent
awoke when barely conscious.

He took the new and ancient
and slanted the nucleus
of his vivid expression
into the pool of swirling
And when the structure
was created,
when the monument was built,
the music gasping for
the air of existence,
for the universe to burst

he burnt the lot
and fell inward, into silence,
where his voice lived only
for his wife and children.

He sat down quietly
and never again lifted
his psyche to varnish sound
with brilliant shimmers.


Vincent Berquez

Poem: Sibelius
Vincent Berquez is a London–based artist and poet magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Berquez, Vincent, MUSIC, Vincent Berquez

Robert Bridges: To the President of Magdalen College, Oxford


To the President of Magdalen College, Oxford

Since now from woodland mist and flooded clay
I am fled beside the steep Devonian shore,
Nor stand for welcome at your gothic door,
‘Neath the fair tower of Magdalen and May,
Such tribute, Warren, as fond poets pay
For generous esteem, I write, not more
Enhearten’d than my need is, reckoning o’er
My life-long wanderings on the heavenly way:

But well-befriended we become good friends,
Well-honour’d honourable; and all attain
Somewhat by fathering what fortune sends.
I bid your presidency a long reign,
True friend; and may your praise to greater ends
Aid better men than I, nor me in vain.

Robert Bridges
To the President of Magdalen College, Oxford magazine

More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive A-B, Bridges, Robert, WAR & PEACE

Anna Laetitia Barbauld: Life



Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me ‘s a secret yet.
But this I know, when thou art fled,
Where’er they lay these limbs, this head,
No clod so valueless shall be
As all that then remains of me.

O whither, whither dost thou fly?
Where bend unseen thy trackless course?
And in this strange divorce,
Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?
To the vast ocean of empyreal flame
From whence thy essence came
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed
From matter’s base encumbering weed?
Or dost thou, hid from sight,
Wait, like some spell-bound knight,
Through blank oblivious years th’ appointed hour
To break thy trance and reassume thy power?
Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be?
O say, what art thou, when no more thou’rt thee?

Life! we have been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
‘Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;–
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good-morning!

Anna Laetitia Barbauld
Life magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY

Hugo Ball: Die Sonne


Die Sonne

Zwischen meinen Augenlidern fährt ein Kinderwagen.
Zwischen meinen Augenlidern geht ein Mann mit einem Pudel.
Eine Baumgruppe wird zum Schlangenbündel und zischt in den Himmel.
Ein Stein hält eine Rede. Bäume in Grünbrand. Fliehende Inseln.
Schwanken und Muschelgeklingel und Fischkopf wie auf dem Meeresboden.

Meine Beine strecken sich aus bis zum Horizont. Eine Hofkutsche knackt
Drüber weg. Meine Stiefel ragen am Horizont empor wie die Türme einer
Versinkenden Stadt. Ich bin der Riese Goliath. Ich verdaue Ziegenkäse.
Ich bin ein Mammuthkälbchen. Grüne Grasigel schnüffeln an mir.
Gras spannt grüne Säbel und Brücken und Regenbögen über meinen Bauch.

Meine Ohren sind rosa Riesenmuscheln, ganz offen. Mein Körper schwillt an
Von Geräuschen, die sich gefangen haben darin.
Ich höre das Meckern
Des großen Pan. Ich höre die zinnoberrote Musik der Sonne. Sie steht
Links oben. Zinnoberrot sprühen die Fetzen hinaus in die Weltnacht.
Wenn sie herunterfällt, zerquetscht sie die Stadt und die Kirchtürme
Und alle Vorgärten voll Krokus und Hyazinthen, und wird einen Schall geben
Wie Blech von Kindertrompeten.

Aber es ist in der Luft ein Gegeneinanderwehen von Purpur und Eigelb
Und Flaschengrün: Schaukeln, die eine orangene Faust festhält an langen Fäden,
Und ist ein Singen von Vogelhälsen, die über die Zweige hüpfen.
Ein sehr zartes Gestänge von Kinderfahnen.

Morgen wird man die Sonne auf einen großrädrigen Wagen laden
Und in die Kunsthandlung Caspari fahren. Ein viehköpfiger Neger
Mit wulstigein Nacken, Blähnase und breitem Schritt wird fünfzig weiß-
Juckende Esel halten, die vor den Wagen gespannt sind beim Pyramidenbau.

Eine Menge blutbunten Volks wird sich stauen:
Kindsbetterinnen und Ammen,
Kranke im Fahrstuhl, ein stelzender Kranich, zwei Veitstänzerinnen.
Ein Herr mit einer Ripsschleifenkrawatte und ein rotduftender Schutzmann.

Ich kann mich nicht halten: Ich bin voller Seligkeit. Die Fensterkreuze
Zerplatzen. Ein Kinderfräulein hängt bis zum Nabel aus einem Fenster heraus.
Ich kann mir nicht helfen: Die Dome zerplatzen mit Orgelfugen. Ich will
Eine neue Sonne schaffen. Ich will zwei gegeneinanderschlagen
Wie Zymbeln, und meiner Dame die Hand hinreichen. Wir werden entschweben
In einer violetten Sänfte über die Dächer euerer
Hellgelben Stadt wie Lampenschirme aus Seidenpapier im Zugwind.

Hugo Ball
(1886 – 1927)

Erstdruck in:
Die Aktion (Berlin),
4. Jg., Nr. 22, Mai 1914 magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Ball, Hugo, Dada, DADA, Dadaïsme

Joanna Baillie: The Outlaw’s Song


The Outlaw’s Song

The chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,
The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.
The wild-fire dances on the fen,
The red star sheds its ray;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
It is our op’ning day.

Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
And closed is every flower,
And winking tapers faintly peep
High from my lady’s bower;
Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d ken
Shrink on their murky way;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
It is our op’ning day.

Nor board nor garner own we now,
Nor roof nor latched door,
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow
To bless a good man’s store;
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
And night is grown our day;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
And use it as ye may.

Joanna Baillie
The Outlaw’s Song magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY

Bert Bevers gedicht: De laatste s


De laatste s

Het hart zij zuiver binnenin, niet meer door
dwaze trots verteerd, het lichaam matig,
afgekeerd van overdaad en rein van zin. Sint

pura cordis íntima, absístat et vecórdia: carnis
terat supérbiam potus cibíque párcitas. Hij houdt
van het doorsissen van de laatste s, van geloven

tegen de draad in. Hij ziet zijn mensen graag.
De hostie kleeft hen in de mond. Ze zijn zo zeker
dat ze niet meer weten van welke parochie ze zijn.


Bert Bevers
Gedicht: De laatste s
Uit Andere taal, Uitgeverij Litera Este, Borgerhout, 2010

Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be) magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert

Charles Bukowski: The Bell Tolls for No One

From the self-illustrated, unpublished work written in 1947 to hardboiled contributions to 1980s adult magazines, The Bells Tolls for No One presents the entire range of Bukowski’s talent as a short story writer, from straight-up genre stories to postmodern blurring of fact and fiction.

An informative introduction by editor David Stephen Calonne provides historical context for these seemingly scandalous and chaotic tales, revealing the hidden hand of the master at the top of his form.

Born in Andernach, Germany, and raised in Los Angeles, Charles Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he would eventually publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose. He died of leukemia in San Pedro, California on March 9, 1994.

David Stephen Calonne is the author of several books and has edited three previous collections of the uncollected work of Charles Bukowski for City Lights: Absence of the Hero, Portions from a Wine-Stained Notebook, and More Notes of a Dirty Old Man.

The Paris Review:
“Bukowski’s The Bell Tolls for No One, recently released in a comic-book-like paperback, follows the hardboiled genre bent that reached its surreal apotheosis in his final novel, Pulp. The obvious influence is to Hemingway—see: the title—but perhaps more interestingly, the editor David Stephen Calonne notes Bukowski’s debt to the crime writer James M. Cain, who had also, unbeknownst to me, shaped the style of Camus’s The Stranger. The book includes some of Bukowski’s roughly drawn illustrations, which fall somewhere close to pornographic Ziggy or adult-themed New Yorker cartoons. One features an asthmatic customer at an adult bookstore asking the cashier to inflate his blow-up doll for him; another shows an expressionistically drawn party girl surrounded by gawking men with the caption “God, a woman could get bored.” The subject matter is a more amplified version of the usual Bukowski fare—stalwart, sleazebag protagonists; spectral, deathly women with emphatically described upper legs. As always, the most one can hope for in Bukowski’s universe is “a grim yet comfortable isolation.”—Casey Henry in The Paris Review

“He had a good wife. I remember one time they cleaned
up my face with cotton and some kind of sterilizer when
it was all smashed-in from a bad night out. They seemed
very tender and concerned and serious about my smashed-
in face, and it was a very odd feeling to me, that care.
Anyhow, the drinking got to Mick, and it gets to each
of us differently. With him, the body swelled up, doubled,
tripled in size in various places. He couldn’t zip his pants
and had to cut slits in the pant legs. His story was that they
didn’t have a bed for him in the vet’s hospital. My feeling
was that he didn’t want to go there. Anyhow, one day he
made a foolish move and tried the General Hospital.
After a couple of days he phoned me. “Jesus Christ,
they’re killing me! I’ve never seen a place like this. No doc-
tors anywhere and nurses don’t give a damn and just these
fruit orderlies running around like snobs and happy that
everybody’s sick and dying. What the fuck is this place?
They’re carrying the dead out by the dozens!”
-Charles Bukowski

Title: The Bell Tolls for No One
Author: Charles Bukowski
Edited by David Stephen Calonne
Publisher City Lights Publishers
Format Paperback
ISBN-10 0872866823
ISBN-13 9780872866829
Publication Date 14 July 2015
308 pages
Price $14.95

short story writer books magazine

More in: - Book News, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Bukowski, Charles

Smoke by John Berger (Author) and‎ Selcuk Demirel (Illustrator)

“Once upon a time, men, women and (secretly) children smoked.”

Following the success of Cataract, John Berger, one of the great soothsayers of seeing, joins forces again with Turkish illustrator Selcuk Demirel. This charming pictorial essay reflects on the cultural implications of smoking. A subtle and beautifully illustrated prose poem, Smoke lingers in the mind.

This charming illustrated work reflects on the cultural implications of smoking, and suggests, through a series of brilliantly inventive illustrations, that society’s attitude to smoke is both paradoxical and intolerant. It portrays a world in which smokers, banished from public places, must encounter one another as outlaws. Meanwhile, car exhausts and factory chimneys continue to pollute the atmosphere. Smoke is a beautifully illustrated prose poem that lingers in the mind.

“A cigarette is a breathing space. It makes a parenthesis. The time of a cigarette is a parenthesis, and if it is shared you are both in that parenthesis. It’s like a proscenium arch for a dialogue.” – John Berger (in interview)

In contemporary English letters John Berger seems to me peerless. Not since D. H. Lawrence has there been a writer who offers such attentiveness to the sensual world with responsiveness to the imperatives of conscience.
—Susan Sontag

In his ceaselessly inventive work, Selçuk often uses parts of the body in ways that are characteristically Turkish…as if the comedy of the human condition were there in the human body, in the melancholy of anatomy.
—John Berger, on Selçuk Demirel

by John Berger (Author)
and‎ Selcuk Demirel (Illustrator)
Hardcover, $18.95
Available in Hardcover on May 8, 2018
ISBN10 1910749478
ISBN13 9781910749470
From Notting Hill Editions
70 pages

new books magazine

More in: - Book News, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Archive C-D, Art & Literature News, Illustrators, Illustration, John Berger, Susan Sontag

Bert Bevers gedicht: Domburg



Villa Carmen Sylva: een lang geleden koningin
heeft in haar woning nog haar naam bewaard.
Met haar verzen is zij door de mazen van het net
des tijds reeds verdwenen. Dit dorp heeft zich
sedertdien schrap gezet in langzaam blijven.
Vloeden laten zich gedwee door palen breken,
dwars zitten duinen tussen bosch & zee.

Wij kuieren hier, in al ons wonen Scheldetrouw,
de drempel tussen jeugd en ouderdom omver.
Staren op die westenwind een meeuw na,
of vergeten van dit gezicht ons was verboden.
Weten in de kermis van de kennis in ons hoofd
zat oude tijden: met schip en vruchtenmand
als storm gilt uit alle hoeken fluistert Nehalennia.


Bert Bevers
Gedicht: Domburg
Eerder verschenen in De Vrije Domburger, 2001

Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be) magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert

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