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Archive C-D

«« Previous page · Thomas Carew: Mediocrity in Love Rejected · Leonard Cohen: The Flame. Poems, Notebooks, Lyrics, Drawings · Ada Cambridge: Faith · Arthur Hugh Clough: That out of sight is out of mind · William Cartwright: No Platonic Love · Sophie Collins: Who Is Mary Sue? · G. K. Chesterton: The Strange Music · Thomas Campion: From The Fourth Booke of Ayres · Lydia Maria Child: The New England Boy’s Song About Thanksgiving Day · Robert Desnos: Faire part · Ysabelle Lacamp: Ombre parmi les ombres (Roman) · John Clare: Written in Northampton County Asylum

»» there is more...

Thomas Carew: Mediocrity in Love Rejected

 

Mediocrity in Love Rejected

Give me more love, or more disdain;
The torrid or the frozen zone
Bring equal ease unto my pain;
The temperate affords me none;
Either extreme, of love or hate,
Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love,
Like Danae in that golden shower,
I swim in pleasure; if it prove
Disdain, that torrent will devour
My vulture hopes; and he’s possessed
Of heaven that’s but from hell released.
Then crown my joys, or cure my pain;
Give me more love, or more disdain.

Thomas Carew
(1594? – 1640)
Mediocrity in Love Rejected

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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, CLASSIC POETRY


Leonard Cohen: The Flame. Poems, Notebooks, Lyrics, Drawings

The final collection of the seminal musician and poet, which he was determined to complete before his death

Just weeks before his death in late 2016, Leonard Cohen told The New Yorker that he was ready for the end to come. He just wanted enough time to put his last book in order. Fortunately, that time was granted. The Flame is Cohen’s eloquent farewell, a valedictory collection of lyrics, poems, notebook sketches, and self-portraits that maps his singular creative journey. As noted in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’s citation, “For six decades, Leonard Cohen revealed his soul to the world through poetry and song―his deep and timeless humanity touching our very core.”

In addition to new poems about war, desire, regrets, lamb chops, and hummingbirds, and lyrics from his last three albums, including the chart-topping “You Want It Darker,” The Flame includes carefully selected excerpts from Cohen’s voluminous notebooks, which he kept faithfully over the years. Readers will find in these pages the subjects that have always preoccupied Cohen: the dimensions of love, the secret code of existence, and the hope for transcendence in a broken world.

In the words of Cohen’s longtime manager and friend, Robert Kory, The Flame “reveals to all the intensity of his inner fire” to the end.

Leonard Cohen was a hugely influential Canadian poet, songwriter, and cultural icon who died on the eve of the 2016 presidential election. His “Hallelujah” is widely considered the redemptive song of the resistance. Cohen’s many canonical songs (“Suzanne,” “So Long, Marianne,” “Famous Blue Raincoat,” “Dance Me to the End of Love,” and others) have earned him a place in the small pantheon that includes Bob Dylan and Patti Smith. Cohen’s many honors include a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award, a Prince of Asturias Award for Literature, and election to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Leonard Cohen (Author)
The Flame: Poems and Notebooks
Publish. date: October 2, 2018!
Hardcover – $28.00
304 pages
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0374156069
ISBN-13: 978-0374156060

new books
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book Lovers, - Book Stories, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Art & Literature News, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Patti Smith


Ada Cambridge: Faith

 

 Faith

And is the great cause lost beyond recall?
Have all the hopes of ages come to naught?
Is life no more with noble meaning fraught?
Is life but death, and love its funeral pall?
Maybe. And still on bended knees I fall,
Filled with a faith no preacher ever taught.
O God — MY God — by no false prophet wrought —
I believe still, in despite of it all!

Let go the myths and creeds of groping men.
This clay knows naught — the Potter understands.
I own that Power divine beyond my ken,
And still can leave me in His shaping hands.
But, O my God, that madest me to feel,
Forgive the anguish of the turning wheel!

Ada Cambridge (Cross)
(1844 – 1926)
Faith

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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, CLASSIC POETRY


Arthur Hugh Clough: That out of sight is out of mind

  

That out of sight is
out of mind

That out of sight is out of mind
Is true of most we leave behind;
It is not, sure, nor can be true,
My own and dearest love, of you.

They were my friends, ’twas sad to part;
Almost a tear began to start;
But yet as things run on they find
That out of sight is out of mind.

For men that will not idlers be
Must lend their hearts to things they see;
And friends who leave them far behind,
Being out of sight are out of mind.

I do not blame; I think that when
The cold and silent see again,
Kind hearts will yet as erst be kind,
‘Twas out of sight was out of mind.

I knew it, when we parted, well,
I knew it, but was loth to tell;
I knew before, what now I find,
That out of sight was out of mind.

That friends, however friends they were,
Still deal with things as things occur,
And that, excepting for the blind,
What’s out of sight is out of mind.

But love is, as they tell us, blind;
So out of sight and out of mind
Need not, nor will, I think, be true,
My own and dearest love, of you.

Arthur Hugh Clough
(1819-1861)
That out of sight is out of mind

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, CLASSIC POETRY


William Cartwright: No Platonic Love

 

No Platonic Love

Tell me no more of minds embracing minds,
And hearts exchang’d for hearts;
That spirits spirits meet, as winds do winds,
And mix their subt’lest parts;
That two unbodied essences may kiss,
And then like Angels, twist and feel one Bliss.

I was that silly thing that once was wrought
To practise this thin love;
I climb’d from sex to soul, from soul to thought;
But thinking there to move,
Headlong I rolled from thought to soul, and then
From soul I lighted at the sex again.

As some strict down-looked men pretend to fast,
Who yet in closets eat;
So lovers who profess they spririts taste,
Feed yet on grosser meat;
I know they boast they souls to souls convey,
Howe’r they meet, the body is the way.

Come, I will undeceive thee, they that tread
Those vain aerial ways
Are like young heirs and alchemists misled
To waste their wealth and days,
For searching thus to be for ever rich,
They only find a med’cine for the itch.

William Cartwright
(1611-1643)
No Platonic Love

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, CLASSIC POETRY


Sophie Collins: Who Is Mary Sue?

In the language of fan fiction, a ‘Mary Sue’ is an idealised and implausibly flawless character: a female archetype that can infuriate audiences for its perceived narcissism.

Such is the setting for this brilliant and important debut by Sophie Collins. In a series of verse and prose collages, Who Is Mary Sue? exposes the presumptive politics behind writing and readership: the idea that men invent while women reflect; that a man writes of the world outside while a woman will turn to the interior.

Part poetry and part reportage, at once playful and sincere, these fictive-factive miniatures deploy original writing and extant quotation in a mode of pure invention. In so doing, they lift up and lay down a revealing sequence of masks and mirrors that disturb the reflection of authority.A work of captivation and correction, this is a book that will resonate with anyone concerned with identity, shame, gender, trauma, composition and culture: everyone, in other words, who wishes to live openly and think fearlessly in the modern world.

Who Is Mary Sue? is a work for our times and a question for our age: it is a handbook for all those willing to reimagine prescriptive notions of identity and selfhood.

Sophie Collins is cofounder of tender, an online quarterly promoting work by female-identified writers and artists. She is carrying out research on poetry and translation at Queen’s University Belfast. Collins grew up in Bergen, North Holland, and now lives in Edinburgh. She is co-editor of tender, an online arts quarterly, and editor of Currently & Emotion (Test Centre, 2016), an anthology of contemporary poetry translations. small white monkeys, a text on self-expression, self-help and shame, was published by Book Works in 2017 as part of a commissioned residency at Glasgow Women’s Library.

Sophie Collins
Who Is Mary Sue?
8 February 2018
Published by Faber & Faber
Paperback
£10.99
112 pages
ISBN: 9780571346615
Poetry and prose

new books
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More in: - Book News, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Art & Literature News, EDITOR'S CHOICE, LITERARY MAGAZINES


G. K. Chesterton: The Strange Music

 

The Strange Music

Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may loose and slack,
But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon his back,
Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger and I fret,
Still, my hope is all before me : for I cannot play it yet.

In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath e’er let fall,
In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not known at all;
Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as your frame,
Fiercer than the pain that folds you, softer than your sorrow’s name.

Not as mine, my soul’s annointed, not as mine the rude and light
Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song and fight;
Something stranger, something sweeter, something waiting you afar,
Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows are.

But on this, God’s harp supernal, stretched but to be stricken once,
Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a dunce.
But I will not fear to match them—no, by God, I will not fear,
I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand still to hear.

G. K. Chesterton
(1874-1936)
The Strange Music

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Music Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Chesterton, Gilbert Keith


Thomas Campion: From The Fourth Booke of Ayres

  

From The Fourth Booke of Ayres  -VII-

There is a Garden in her face,
Where Roses and white Lillies grow;
A heav’nly paradice is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.
There Cherries grow, which none may buy
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.

Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose
Of Orient Pearle a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter showes,
They look like Rose-buds fill’d with snow.
Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.

Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;
Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,
Threatning with piercing frownes to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred Cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.

Thomas Campion
(1567-1620)
From The Fourth Booke of Ayres
VII

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More in: # Music Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, CLASSIC POETRY


Lydia Maria Child: The New England Boy’s Song About Thanksgiving Day

  

The New England Boy’s Song
About Thanksgiving Day

Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house we go;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow .

Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house away !
We would not stop
For doll or top,
For ‘t is Thaksgiving day .

Over the river, and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow !
It stings the toes,
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go .

Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by .

Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play—
Hear the bells ring
Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving day !

Over the river, and through the wood—
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow .

Over the river, and through the wood,
To see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all,
And play snow-ball
And stay as long as we can .

Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey !
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound,
For ‘t is Thanksgiving day !

Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait .

Over the river, and through the wood—
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells .

Over the river, and through the wood—
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one .

Over the river, and through the wood—
Now grandmother’s cap I spy !
Hurra for the fun !
Is the pudding done ?
Hurra for the pumpkin pie !

Lydia Maria Child
(1802-1880)
The New England Boy’s Song About Thanksgiving Day

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, CLASSIC POETRY


Robert Desnos: Faire part

 

Faire part

Sur le pont du navire la couturière fait le point
couturière taille-moi un grand paon de mercure
je fais ce soir ma dernière communion
La dernière hirondelle fait l’automne
D’entre les becs de gaz blêmes
Se lève une figure sans signification.
Statues de verre flacon simulacre de l’amour
Vient la fameuse dame
Facteur de soustraction
avec une lettre pour moi
Mon cher Desnos Mon cher Desnos
Je vous donne rendez-vous
dans quelques jours
On vous préviendra
Vous mettrez votre habit d’outre monde
Et tout le monde sera bien content.

Robert Desnos
(1900 – 1945)
Faire part

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Desnos, Robert, Holocaust, REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS, SURREALISM


Ysabelle Lacamp: Ombre parmi les ombres (Roman)

L’histoire : Mai 45, libération du camp de Terezin. Un air de jazz siffloté par un petit tchèque aux oreilles en choux-fleurs bouleverse l’un des rescapés des camps qui vient d’échouer ici, au terme d’une longue marche de la mort.

L’enfant s’appelle Leo Radek. Il est le dernier enfant survivant de Terezin, antichambre de la mort pour des milliers de juifs, où les nazis parquèrent des artistes pour servir de vitrine en une sordide mascarade. Lui aussi est bouleversé par la rencontre qu’il vient de faire : cet homme décharné, fiévreux, au regard bienveillant et si transparent, parle ce français qu’il aime, et c’est un poète.

Il s’appelle Robert Desnos. Comme un grand frère protecteur, le poète qui se meurt, trouve encore une fois les mots. Une rencontre inoubliable où la poésie triomphe sur la barbarie, et où l’humour est plus fort que la mort.

Quand Ysabelle Lacamp écrit, c’est une vibration tellurique qui la parcourt, la transcende et la brûle. Lorsque cette fièvre s’empare d’elle, elle fait la fête au verbe, rêve puissamment ses personnages, et nous emporte avec eux. Voilà pourquoi sa rencontre avec Robert Desnos, le poète volcanique qui fit danser les mots et les morts jusqu’à son dernier souffle, est une évidence de la vie. Dans ce camp de Terezin où elle nous entraîne, l’émotion est toujours à fleur de rire. Elle est l’auteure de nombreux romans, dont L’Homme sans fusil (Seuil, 2002), Le Jongleur de nuages (Flammarion, 2008) et, plus récemment, Marie Durand, Non à l’intolérance religieuse (Actes Sud junior, 2012). Son roman Ombre parmi les ombres est paru aux Éditions Bruno Doucey en 2018.

Ysabelle Lacamp:
Ombre parmi les ombres
(Roman)
Pages: 192
Prix: €16
ISBN : 978-2-36229-165-4
Format : Broché
Dimensions : 14cm X 18cm
Date de parution : 04/01/2018
ISBN : 978-2-36229-165-4
EAN : 9782362291654
Doucey éditions

new books
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive C-D, Archive K-L, Art & Literature News, Desnos, Robert, WAR & PEACE


John Clare: Written in Northampton County Asylum

 

 Written in Northampton County Asylum

I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes;
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
And yet I am–I live–though I am toss’d

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem
And all that ‘s dear. Even those I loved the best
Are strange–nay, they are stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod–
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept–
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,–
The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.

John Clare
(1793-1864)
Written in Northampton County Asylum

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Clare, John, Psychiatric hospitals


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