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Archive K-L

· Willem Kloos: O God, waarom schynt de zon nog! (Biografie & Verzen) · D.H. Lawrence: Tortoise Shout · John LEONARD poetry: Concreted, Unli/oving · Onias LANDVELD wordt nieuwe stadsdichter Tilburg 2017-2019 · Nieuwe uitgave gedichten Gerrit KOUWENAAR · John LEONARD: In a dream · John LEONARD poetry: The Enlightenment · Edward LEAR: The Quangle Wangles Hat · D.H. LAWRENCE: Bei Hennef · Gedicht ‘Theater’ van Jef van KEMPEN vertaald door Bernard ODENDAAL · D.H. LAWRENCE: Excursion · Edward LEAR: How pleasant to know Mr. Lear

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Willem Kloos: O God, waarom schynt de zon nog! (Biografie & Verzen)

Willem Kloos was een briljant dichter, een scherp criticus en de onbetwiste leidsman van de Tachtigers. Tot in de jaren dertig werd hij aanbeden én verguisd – nu leeft hij voort in een aantal klassieke gedichten.

Kloos bracht het tijdschrift De Nieuwe Gids naar grote hoogtes en diepe dalen, verkeerde in een permanente staat van armoede en drankzucht, en dreef zijn kring van vrienden tot wanhoop. Later werd hij verzorgd door zijn vrouw en schoonzuster, met als enig houvast het tijdschrift, dat na zijn dood in de handen van fascisten roemloos ten onder ging.

In Willem Kloos (1859-1938). O God, waarom schynt de zon nog! beschrijven Peter Janzen en Frans Oerlemans het turbulente en vaak tragische leven aan de hand van talloze nieuwe feiten en vele, dikwijls niet eerder gepubliceerde foto’s. Ze rekenen af met de hardnekkige mythe dat Kloos de ontwerper was van zijn eigen grootheid en werpen een nieuw licht op zijn obsessieve verlatingsangst. Ook schenken ze uitgebreid aandacht aan zijn aftakeling in de jaren negentig en zijn opname in een psychiatrische kliniek, waar hij werd onderworpen aan elektrotherapie.

Historicus Peter Janzen en neerlandicus Frans Oerlemans publiceerden veelvuldig over de Beweging van Tachtig, onder andere in De Parelduiker. Zij promoveerden beiden op leven en werk van Willem Kloos.

Willem Kloos (1859-1938)
O God, waarom schynt de zon nog!
Auteur(s): Peter Janzen & Frans Oerlemans
Vormgever: Brigitte Slangen
ISBN 9789460043222,
gebonden, 16 x 24 cm,
rijk geïllustreerd, deels in kleur,
408 pagina’s, 2017
Uitgeverij Vantilt
€ 29,50

Samen met de biografie verschijnt een heruitgave van Kloos’ iconische Verzen uit 1894.

Deze zachtsgezegd opmerkelijke bundel begint met een lofzang op de liefde en eindigt met de beruchte scheldsonnetten, waarin Kloos zijn vrienden van het eerste uur tot op het bot fileert.
Verzen werd op slag voor een hele generatie een bijna heilig boek. Deze heruitgave van de eerste druk biedt de mogelijkheid om kennis te nemen van klassieke sonnetten waarvan de eerste regels deel uitmaken van ons collectief bewustzijn: ‘Ik ben een God in ’t diepst van mijn gedachten’, ‘De Zee, de Zee klotst voort in eindelooze deining’, ‘De boomen dorren in het laat seizoen’ en natuurlijk ‘Ik ween om bloemen in den knop gebroken’.

Willem Kloos
Verzen
Vormgever: Marc Vleugels
168 pagina’s
paperback – 2017
ISBN 978 94 6004 323 9
Uitgeverij Vantilt
€ 19.95

‘Het is de verfrissende afwezigheid van ironie, relativering en gelatenheid die ze nu nog authentiek maakt. Mooi uitgegeven, ook.’ Aleid Truijens, de Volkskrant

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive K-L, Art & Literature News, BIOGRAPHY, DEAD POETS CORNER, Kloos, Willem, LITERARY MAGAZINES


D.H. Lawrence: Tortoise Shout

D.H. Lawrence
Tortoise Shout

I thought he was dumb,
I said he was dumb,
Yet I’ve heard him cry.

First faint scream,
Out of life’s unfathomable dawn,
Far off, so far, like a madness, under the horizon’s dawning rim,
Far, far off, far scream.

Tortoise in extremis.

Why were we crucified into sex?
Why were we not left rounded off, and finished in ourselves,
As we began,
As he certainly began, so perfectly alone?

A far, was-it-audible scream,
Or did it sound on the plasm direct?

Worse than the cry of the new-born,
A scream,
A yell,
A shout,
A pæan,
A death-agony,
A birth-cry,
A submission,
All tiny, tiny, far away, reptile under the first dawn.

War-cry, triumph, acute-delight, death-scream reptilian,
Why was the veil torn?
The silken shriek of the soul’s torn membrane?
The male soul’s membrane
Torn with a shriek half music, half horror.

Crucifixion.
Male tortoise, cleaving behind the hovel-wall of that dense female,
Mounted and tense, spread-eagle, out-reaching out of the shell
In tortoise-nakedness,
Long neck, and long vulnerable limbs extruded, spread-eagle over her house-roof,
And the deep, secret, all-penetrating tail curved beneath her walls,
Reaching and gripping tense, more reaching anguish in uttermost tension
Till suddenly, in the spasm of coition, tupping like a jerking leap, and oh!
Opening its clenched face from his outstretched neck
And giving that fragile yell, that scream,
Super-audible,
From his pink, cleft, old-man’s mouth,
Giving up the ghost,
Or screaming in Pentecost, receiving the ghost.

His scream, and his moment’s subsidence,
The moment of eternal silence,
Yet unreleased, and after the moment, the sudden, startling jerk of coition, and at once
The inexpressible faint yell
And so on, till the last plasm of my body was melted back
To the primeval rudiments of life, and the secret.

So he tups, and screams
Time after time that frail, torn scream
After each jerk, the longish interval,
The tortoise eternity,
Agelong, reptilian persistence,
Heart-throb, slow heart-throb, persistent for the next spasm.

I remember, when I was a boy,
I heard the scream of a frog, which was caught with his foot in the mouth of an up-starting snake;
I remember when I first heard bull-frogs break into sound in the spring;
I remember hearing a wild goose out of the throat of night
Cry loudly, beyond the lake of waters;
I remember the first time, out of a bush in the darkness, a nightingale’s piercing cries and gurgles startled the depths of my soul;
I remember the scream of a rabbit as I went through a wood at midnight;
I remember the heifer in her heat, blorting and blorting through the hours, persistent and irrepressible;
I remember my first terror hearing the howl of weird, amorous cats;
I remember the scream of a terrified, injured horse, the sheet-lightning
And running away from the sound of a woman in labor, something like an owl whooing,
And listening inwardly to the first bleat of a lamb,
The first wail of an infant,
And my mother singing to herself,
And the first tenor singing of the passionate throat of a young collier, who has long since drunk himself to death,
The first elements of foreign speech
On wild dark lips.

And more than all these,
And less than all these,
This last,
Strange, faint coition yell
Of the male tortoise at extremity,
Tiny from under the very edge of the farthest far-off horizon of life.

The cross,
The wheel on which our silence first is broken,
Sex, which breaks up our integrity, our single inviolability, our deep silence
Tearing a cry from us.

Sex, which breaks us into voice, sets us calling across the deeps, calling, calling for the complement,
Singing, and calling, and singing again, being answered, having found.

Torn, to become whole again, after long seeking for what is lost,
The same cry from the tortoise as from Christ, the Osiris-cry of abandonment,
That which is whole, torn asunder,
That which is in part, finding its whole again throughout the universe.

D.H.Lawrence (1883 – 1930)
Tortoise Shout
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive K-L, D.H. Lawrence, Lawrence, D.H.


John LEONARD poetry: Concreted, Unli/oving

Concreted, Unli/oving

They lack in their memories, their being:

Thesmellofasummereveningwalking
downtotheriverwherefishareleaping
&theairisfullofmayfliesandfluff
fromtallreedsalongtheditches
withthesundazzlingingoldenslant;

Thefeeloficywindblastingacross
floodedlevelsbeforedawnwhenstars
aredimmingandtheeastbeginstobrighten
crunchingthroughfrozenpuddlesfeet
sinkingintothesoftnessofthemudbelow;

Thecoloursofbrowningleavesonbranches
alongtheridgeinhighchalkcountry
thevalleyspreadingoutinfront
withitslinesofhedgeautumncopses
&hereandtherehomesteadsincrystallight;

And because of this lack their every action
Brings a world concreted, unli/oving, one
Ending and not to be grasped in loss.

John Leonard

John Leonard lives in Canberra, Australia.
More poetry on website: www.jleonard.net

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive K-L, Leonard, John


Onias LANDVELD wordt nieuwe stadsdichter Tilburg 2017-2019

Onias Landveld
wordt op 27 augustus, tijdens ‘Boeken rond het Paleis’, geïnstalleerd als stadsdichter van Tilburg. De huidige stadsdichter Martin Beversluis neemt dan afscheid.

De nieuwe stadsdichter wordt gepresenteerd door Wilbert van Herwijnen, voorzitter van de Stadsdichterscommissie, en Marcelle Hendrickx, wethouder Cultuur in de gemeente Tilburg.

Onias Landveld is dichter en Spoken Word Artist, winnaar van de 2015 Van Dale Spoken Award voor storytelling en jurylid Tilburgs Junior Stadsdichter. Hij geeft cursussen in Public Speaking en Corporate Storytelling en schrijft business concepten en kinderverhalen.

Tilburg heeft sinds 2003 een stadsdichter. Iedere 2 jaar benoemt het college een nieuwe. De Stadsdichterscommissie draagt een dichter voor die zij selecteert uit een lijst van dichters, o.a. aangedragen door de stad. Eerdere stadsdichters waren JACE van de Ven, Nick J. Swarth, Frank van Pamelen, Cees van Raak en Esther Porcelijn. De stadsdichter schrijft gedichten over Tilburg en geeft voordrachten en performances. Hij of zij heeft daarbij de vrijheid om de onderwerpen te bepalen. Het gaat om minimaal 6 gedichten per jaar, verspreid over het jaar.

Onias Landveld nieuwe stadsdichter Tilburg 2017-2019

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive K-L, Art & Literature News, Beversluis, Martin, City Poets / Stadsdichters, Landveld, Onias


Nieuwe uitgave gedichten Gerrit KOUWENAAR

Het was vriendschap op het eerste gezicht, zo herinnert Anna Enquist zich haar kennismaking met Gerrit Kouwenaar. Ze bleven bijna een kwarteeuw goede vrienden, tot zijn dood in 2014.

Om de aandacht voor zijn poëzie levend te houden selecteerde Anna Enquist de mooiste gedichten van Gerrit Kouwenaar. ‘Geen literair-kritisch verantwoorde bloemlezing waarin alle aspecten van het werk aan de orde komen maar een persoonlijke selectie, gedreven door de vraag hoe Gerrit eigenlijk was en wat hij met zijn werk wilde,’ schrijft ze in haar inleiding.

Het resultaat, van woorden gemaakt, biedt een blik op zijn oeuvre – door haar ogen.

Gerrit Kouwenaar
Van woorden gemaakt
Geselecteerd en ingeleid door Anna Enquist

Poezie
Uitgeverij: Querido
Paperback 168 pp.
ISBN: 9789021402314
Prijs: € 15,00
Publicatiedatum: 13-06-2017

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, Archive K-L, Art & Literature News, Kouwenaar, Gerrit


John LEONARD: In a dream

In a dream

In a dream I walked through a forest,
In a great gale, and the wind did not touch
My body, so much as ruffle my hair.
I saw branches, fern fronds hurled past;
I saw a forest giant crash down, its trunk
Shattering, with splinters flying about.
I walked in swirl of dust and yet
My eyes were clear and open.

The wind blew and I did not feel it,
I felt sun and warmth and smelled
A sweet wattle scent. At last I came
To the edge of the scarp, looking down,
And there the wind knocked me, tossing
Me down to be dashed on the rocks
Hundreds of feet below… but for waking
From my dream that was not a dream.

John Leonard

John Leonard lives in Canberra, Australia.
More poetry on website: www.jleonard.net

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive K-L, Leonard, John


John LEONARD poetry: The Enlightenment

 

The Enlightenment

‘It happened on July 10, towards dusk,
Right up on that ridge there;
He told me about it himself.
What? Well in Year 1 of course.
To begin with it wasn’t anything
Like you hear now, it was,
He told me, just a confirmation
Of everything he already knew
And trusted. He told me that it felt
As though he had plunged into the current
Of the world and found those familiar things
There.
                       It was much, much later
That they got the marketing right—
So it isn’t anything like that now,
But it began like that, trust me.’

John Leonard

 

John Leonard lives in Canberra, Australia.
More poetry on website: www.jleonard.net

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive K-L, Leonard, John


Edward LEAR: The Quangle Wangles Hat

Edward Lear
The Quangle Wangles Hat

On the top of the Crumpetty Tree
The Quangle Wangle sat,
But his face you could not see,
On account of his Beaver Hat.
For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide,
With ribbons and bibbons on every side
And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace,
So that nobody ever could see the face
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

The Quangle Wangle said
To himself on the Crumpetty Tree,
Jam; and jelly; and bread;
Are the best food for me!
But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree
The plainer than ever it seems to me
That very few people come this way
And that life on the whole is far from gay!’
Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.

But there came to the Crumpetty Tree,
Mr. and Mrs. Canary;
And they said, Did you ever see
Any spot so charmingly airy?
May we build a nest on your lovely Hat?
Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!
O please let us come and build a nest
Of whatever material suits you best,
Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!’

And besides, to the Crumetty Tree
Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl;
The Snail, and the Bumble-Bee,
The Frog, and the Fimble Fowl;
The Fimble Fowl, with a Corkscrew leg;
And all of them said, We humbly beg,
We may build our homes on your lovely Hat,
Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!
Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!

And the Golden Grouse came there,
And the Pobble who has no toes,
And the small Olympian bear,
And the Dong with a luminous nose.
And the Blue Babboon, who played the flute,
And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute,
And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat,
All came and built on the lovely Hat
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

And the Quangle Wangle said
To himself on the Crumpetty Tree,
When all these creatures move
What a wonderful noise there’ll be!’
And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon
They danced to the flute of the Blue Babboon,
On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree,
And all were as happy as happy could be,
With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

Edward Lear (1812 – 1888)
The Quangle Wangles Hat
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive K-L, Edward Lear, LIGHT VERSE


D.H. LAWRENCE: Bei Hennef

D.H.Lawrence
Bei Hennef

The little river twittering in the twilight,
The wan, wondering look of the pale sky,
This is almost bliss.

And everything shut up and gone to sleep,
All the troubles and anxieties and pain
Gone under the twilight.

Only the twilight now, and the soft “Sh!” of the river
That will last for ever.

And at last I know my love for you is here;
I can see it all, it is whole like the twilight,
It is large, so large, I could not see it before,
Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions,
Troubles, anxieties and pains.

You are the call and I am the answer,
You are the wish, and I the fulfilment,
You are the night, and I the day.
What else – it is perfect enough.
It is perfectly complete,
You and I,
What more-?

Strange, how we suffer in spite of this.

D.H.Lawrence (1883 – 1930)
Bei Hennef
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive K-L, D.H. Lawrence, Lawrence, D.H.


Gedicht ‘Theater’ van Jef van KEMPEN vertaald door Bernard ODENDAAL

Vertaling van het gedicht Theater van Jef van Kempen in het Zuid-Afrikaans door Bernard Odendaal.
Eerder gepubliceerd door Carina van der Walt in: Versindaba – ‘n Kollektiewe weblog vir die Afrikaanse digkuns –
http://versindaba.co.za/2016/03/31/carina-van-der-walt-jeroen-bosch-se-skilderye/

 

Theater

Stel je voor: een toneel van dolende nachtvogels
boven een doorweekte woestijn, in een duister

hospitaal voor koortsige landlopers.
Stel je voor: een opera van rondborstige gedrochten,

verwekt in een glazen stolp, amechtig lispelend,
op kromme stelten strompelend, in een vuile

sneeuwjacht van de diepe winter.
Eind goed al goed vonden de trage doden hun draai

en bestegen, tegen de keer, het paard van Troje
en maakten hun dromen waar.

Jef van Kempen
(Uit de bundel ‘Laatste Bedrijf’ 2012)

 

Teater

Stel jou voor: ’n toneel van dolende nagvoëls
bokant ’n deurweekte woestyn, in ’n donker

hospitaal vir koorsige boemelaars.
Stel jou voor: ’n opera van rondborstige gedrogte

verwek onder ’n glasstolp, uitasem lispelend,
op krom stelte strompelend, morsig aan die

jag in die diepwintersneeuw.
Einde goed alles goed kry die trae dooies hul draai

en bestyg, dwarstrekkerig, die perd van Troje
en maak hulle drome waar.

Vertaling Bernard Odendaal (2016)

 

FOTO: v.l.n.r. Martin Beversluis, Desmond Painter, Bernard Odendaal, Carina van der Walt, Annelie David, Bert Bevers en Jef van Kempen (foto Nel van Kempen 2015)

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive K-L, Archive O-P, Bernard Odendaal, Bevers, Bert, Beversluis, Martin, Carina van der Walt, Jef van Kempen, Kempen, Jef van, Literaire Salon in 't Wevershuisje, TRANSLATION ARCHIVE


D.H. LAWRENCE: Excursion

D.H. Lawrence
Excursion

I wonder, can the night go by;
Can this shot arrow of travel fly
Shaft-golden with light, sheer into the sky
Of a dawned to-morrow,
Without ever sleep delivering us
From each other, or loosing the dolorous
Unfruitful sorrow!

What is it then that you can see
That at the window endlessly
You watch the red sparks whirl and flee
And the night look through?
Your presence peering lonelily there
Oppresses me so, I can hardly bear
To share the train with you.

You hurt my heart-beats’ privacy;
I wish I could put you away from me;
I suffocate in this intimacy,
For all that I love you;
How I have longed for this night in the train,
Yet now every fibre of me cries in pain
To God to remove you.

But surely my soul’s best dream is still
That one night pouring down shall swill
Us away in an utter sleep, until
We are one, smooth-rounded.
Yet closely bitten in to me
Is this armour of stiff reluctancy
That keeps me impounded.

So, dear love, when another night
Pours on us, lift your fingers white
And strip me naked, touch me light,
Light, light all over.
For I ache most earnestly for your touch,
Yet I cannot move, however much
I would be your lover.

Night after night with a blemish of day
Unblown and unblossomed has withered away;
Come another night, come a new night, say
Will you pluck me apart?
Will you open the amorous, aching bud
Of my body, and loose the burning flood
That would leap to you from my heart?

D.H.Lawrence (1883 – 1930)
Excursion
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive K-L, D.H. Lawrence, Lawrence, D.H.


Edward LEAR: How pleasant to know Mr. Lear

Edward Lear
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear,
Who has written such volumes of stuff.
Some think him ill-tempered and queer,
But a few find him pleasant enough.

His mind is concrete and fastidious,
His nose is remarkably big;
His visage is more or less hideous,
His beard it resembles a wig.

He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers,
(Leastways if you reckon two thumbs);
He used to be one of the singers,
But now he is one of the dumbs.

He sits in a beautiful parlour,
With hundreds of books on the wall;
He drinks a great deal of marsala,
But never gets tipsy at all.

He has many friends, laymen and clerical,
Old Foss is the name of his cat;
His body is perfectly spherical,
He weareth a runcible hat.

When he walks in waterproof white,
The children run after him so!
Calling out, “He’s gone out in his night-
Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!”

He weeps by the side of the ocean,
He weeps on the top of the hill;
He purchases pancakes and lotion,
And chocolate shrimps from the mill.

He reads, but he does not speak, Spanish,
He cannot abide ginger beer;
Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish,
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!
 
Edward Lear (1812 – 1888)
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive K-L, Edward Lear, LIGHT VERSE


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