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Archive Q-R

«« Previous page · ISAAC ROSENBERG: BREAK OF DAY IN THE TRENCHES · MARIEKE RIJNEVELD WINT C. BUDDINGH’ – PRIJS 2016 · PAUL VERLAINE IN PRISON IN MONS · JOHN REINHART: INSPECTION · JOHN REINHART: INFINITE · RAYMOND RADIGUET: BERGERIE · LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE: OH, GRAY AND TENDER IS THE RAIN · ARTHUR RIMBAUD: FÊTES DE LA FAIM · MARY ROBINSON: ALL ALONE · RAINER MARIA RILKE: WIR HABEN EINE ERSCHEINUNG · ARTHUR RIMBAUD: SCÈNES · RAYMOND RADIGUET: MONTAGNES RUSSES OU VOYAGE DE NOCES

»» there is more...

ISAAC ROSENBERG: BREAK OF DAY IN THE TRENCHES

rosenberg-isaac

Isaac Rosenberg
(1890 – 1918)

Break of Day in the Trenches

The darkness crumbles away.
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet’s poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver—what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe—
Just a little white with the dust.

Isaac Rosenberg poetry of The Geat War
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive Q-R, Rosenberg, Isaac, WAR & PEACE


MARIEKE RIJNEVELD WINT C. BUDDINGH’ – PRIJS 2016

rijneveld-kalfsvliesMarieke Rijneveld wint C. Buddingh’ – Prijs 2016 met ‘kalfsvlies’
vrijdag 10 juni 2016
De C. Buddingh’-Prijs voor het beste Nederlandstalige poëziedebuut van het afgelopen jaar gaat naar de bundel ‘Kalfsvlies’ van dichteres Marieke Rijneveld, uitgegeven bij Atlas Contact. Rijneveld nam de prijs die sinds 1988 jaarlijks wordt uitgereikt op het Poetry International Festival vanavond aan het eind van het spannende uitreikingsprogramma in Rotterdam in ontvangst. ‘Rijneveld overdondert met haar talent dat zo natuurlijk stroomt dat het op momenten welhaast overkookt,’ zo oordeelde de jury, Joke van Leeuwen, Arjan Peters en Nachoem Wijnberg. Ook Sebastiene Postma, Mathijs Gomperts en Jonathan Griffioen maakten met hun bijzondere debuutbundels ‘Trappen’, ‘Zes’ en ‘Wijk’ kans op de C. Buddingh’-Prijs 2016.

Een tomeloze dichteres presenteert zich in ‘Kalfsvlies’ van Marieke Rijneveld. Een jonge vrouw stelt vast dat er weinig zekerheden zijn, nadat zich in de familie een aantal drama’s heeft voorgedaan. Ze laat veel zien, er bevindt zich geen scheidingswand tussen binnen- en buitenwereld; door het scherm van woorden kunnen we als door een vlies naar binnen kijken. En dan zien we een stroom van vergelijkingen die over ons komt als een vloedgolf, ogen die in kassen drijven ‘als gemarineerde mozzarellabolletjes in hun vocht’. En weemoed is als een luizenmoeder: ‘het moment van het kriebelen/ van vreemde vingers door je haar die zoveel bedachtzamer hun weg/ zochten dan die van je eigen moeder, alsof ze zocht naar een reden om het/ gemis eruit te kammen’. De volle pagina’s geven bijna geen rust, en dat zorgt ervoor dat de lezer wordt gedwongen zich ademloos op de cadans van de dichterlijke woorden te laten meevoeren. Rijneveld overdonderde de jury met haar talent dat zo natuurlijk stroomt dat het op momenten welhaast overkookt.

21 Debuutbundels dongen mee naar de C. Buddingh’-Prijs 2016. Een groot deel van de nieuwe lichting dichteressen en dichters houdt het wat hun poëzie betreft volgens de juryleden Joke van Leeuwen, Arjan Peters en Nachoem Wijnberg dicht bij huis. ‘Persoonlijke herinneringen of emoties worden tot gedicht opgewerkt, waarbij zaken als experiment in vorm of de kracht van muzikaliteit in een tekst veelal ontbreken. Dit ietwat sombere beeld is zeker niet van toepassing op de vier genomineerde debutanten, die zich juist door onderwerpkeuzes, vorm of een combinatie van die twee, aan de poëtische bedeesdheid van de nieuwste dichtgeneratie onttrekt.’

De C. Buddingh’-Prijs werd vanavond voor de 27e keer uitgereikt. In het verleden kende de prijs winnaars als Anna Enquist, Michaël Zeeman, Tonnus Oosterhoff, Joke van Leeuwen en Mark Boog, die na hun debuut allen uitgroeiden tot dichters van naam. Recent ging de prijs naar dichters als Ellen Deckwitz, Maarten van der Graaff en Saskia Stehouwer.

Marieke Rijneveld
Kalfsvlies
Paperback ISBN 9789025444105
2015, Uitgeverij Atlas Contact

Marieke Rijneveld (1991) is schrijver, muzikant en dichter. Ze won diverse schrijfwedstrijden, treedt veel op (soms met, soms zonder gitaar) en schrijft voor onder andere Das Magazin, De Revisor, hard/hoofd, VPRO Gids, Het Liegend Konijn en Hollands Maandblad. Dit is haar debuut. Ze werkt aan haar eerste roman.

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive Q-R, Art & Literature News, Poetry International, Rijneveld, Marieke


PAUL VERLAINE IN PRISON IN MONS

Verlaine_Mons11Verlaine. Cellule 252
Turbulences poétiques
History of Paul Verlaine and Belgium

Verlaine’s time in prison in Mons marks a turning point in the artist’s work as well as in his moral life. In July 1873, at a hotel in Brussels, Verlaine shot Rimbaud twice with a revolver. After spending some time in prison in Brussels, he spent most of his sentence in Mons, where he wrote some of his most wonderful masterpieces.

 On 25 October 1873, Verlaine arrived in Mons in his prison wagon. The poet was torn between his family and his passionate love for the young Rimbaud, and he had crossed the line. He shot his lover with a revolver, and spent the rest of his sentence in prison in Mons. In cell 252, Verlaine mulled things over. He thought about his life of debauchery and reflected. How had he arrived at this point? Why could he not draw a line under this destructive passion? In Mons, Verlaine did some soul-searching and turned to religion to heal his wounds. He fell in love with Jesus as he had become infatuated with Rimbaud just a few months earlier. He wanted to re-establish a healthier lifestyle and win back his wife’s trust. To transform intoxication into wisdom. Verlaine’s time in prison in Mons marked a turning point in the artist’s work as well as in his moral life.

Verlaine_Mons12 In his cell, the writer got bored. He spent a lot of time writing. He was granted access to books, and he was not forced to work. In Mons, he wrote some of his most stirring work. He would go on to think of bringing his texts together into a collection called “Cellulairement” (literally, cellularly), but he gave up the idea and these poems were mainly divided between three anthologies: “Sagesse” (wisdom), “Jadis et naguère” (yesteryear and yesterday) and “Parallèlement” (in parallel). The experts are unanimous. From both a human and a literary point of view, his time in prison in Mons transformed Verlaine. He left Hainaut’s capital on 16 January 1875 after being granted an early release, and did not return until twenty years later to give a series of talks. His demons had resurfaced and he was a mere shadow of his former self.

Une coproduction de la Fondation Mons 2015, du Pôle muséal de la Ville de Mons et de la Bibliothèque royale de Belgique.
Until 24/01/2016
BAM – Rue Neuve, 8 – 7000 Mons – Belgium
# Website BAM Mons

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: *Archive Les Poètes Maudits, Archive Q-R, Archive U-V, Rimbaud, Arthur, Verlaine, Paul


JOHN REINHART: INSPECTION

 inspection2

 

 

 Reinhart2John Reinhart: An arsonist by trade, eccentric by avocation, John Reinhart lives in Colorado with his wife and children, and beasts aplenty, including a dog, cat, duck, goats, chickens, and probably mice. His poetry has recently been published in Interfictions, Star*Line, Moon Pigeon Press, and Charles Christian’s Grievous Angel. More of his work is available at http://home.hampshire.edu/~jcr00/reinhart.html

John Reinhart: inspection
johnreinhart@hotmail.com
Arsonist, Versifier

digital magazine fleursdumal.nl

More in: Archive Q-R, John Reinhart, Reinhart, John


JOHN REINHART: INFINITE

 

inFinite3

 

Reinhart2John Reinhart: An arsonist by trade, eccentric by avocation, John Reinhart lives in Colorado with his wife and children, and beasts aplenty, including a dog, cat, duck, goats, chickens, and probably mice. His poetry has recently been published in Interfictions, Star*Line, Moon Pigeon Press, and Charles Christian’s Grievous Angel. More of his work is available at http://home.hampshire.edu/~jcr00/reinhart.html

John Reinhart: inFinite
johnreinhart@hotmail.com
Arsonist, Versifier

digital magazine fleursdumal.nl

More in: Archive Q-R, Concrete + Visual Poetry P-T, John Reinhart, Reinhart, John


RAYMOND RADIGUET: BERGERIE

 radiguetraymond22

Raymond Radiguet
(1903-1923)

Bergerie
À Georges Auric

Marronniers, ainsi que l’yeuse
Quels arbres, ombrelles rieuses,
Ne se déploieraient pour fêter
Le retour du prodigue été !

L’un nous ogre un feu d’artifice
De plumes et de fleurs : orgie
Digne de Noël, tes bougies
Roses, d’autres fêtes complices,

L’encombrant cadeau, marronnier,
Pour ne point des neuves bergères
Troubler la candeur bocagère
Tu le voudrais plutôt nier.

Mais minuit allume la fête
D’où seront exclus les parents.
Un rideau de cheveux, fillette,
Fait mon désir moins apparent.

Dissimule-toi, feu des joues,
Sous la coiffure que dénoue
D’un pâtre la timide main
Feuille encor tremblante demain

Dans tes veines, bergère, un sang
Coule, mauve, avec nonchalance,
Celle des ruisseaux innocents
Chez qui le désir ne s’élance
Que lorsqu’on le leur a permis.

Tandis qu’à ton front se pâmaient
Plusieurs roses, une parmi
Ses soeurs, proche de ton oreille,
Murmure : C’est le mois de Mai,
Qui par sa bouche te conseille :

” Comme l’eau se prête à la rive
Donne ta douce peau craintive
Que quelque rayon indiscret
De lune, affirme tes ébats “

Parce que corne d’abondance
Aujourd’hui semble son croissant
La lune à qui ne suffit pas
De souligner baisers et danses,
Nous verse les plus beaux présents :

Sous des joyaux, sous des dentelles
Ensevelissant la pelouse
Qui frissonne, esclave jalouse.

Aurore ! l’herbe défrisée
Muette atteste que la belle
Usa de tout pour apaiser
La nuit dont la pâle défaite
Est soeur des lendemains de fête.

Raymond Radiguet poésie
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive Q-R, Radiguet, Raymond


LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE: OH, GRAY AND TENDER IS THE RAIN

 Woodworth_Reese_lizette11

Lizette Woodworth Reese
(1856–1935)

Oh, Gray And Tender Is The Rain

Oh, gray and tender is the rain,
That drips, drips on the pane!
A hundred things come in the door,
The scent of herbs, the thought of yore.

I see the pool out in the grass,
A bit of broken glass;
The red flags running wet and straight,
Down to the little flapping gate.

Lombardy poplars tall and three,
Across the road I see;
There is no loveliness so plain
As a tall poplar in the rain.

But oh, the hundred things and more,
That come in at the door!—
The smack of mint, old joy, old pain,
Caught in the gray and tender rain.

Lizette Woodworth Reese poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive Q-R, CLASSIC POETRY


ARTHUR RIMBAUD: FÊTES DE LA FAIM

 Rimbaud_a12

Arthur Rimbaud
(1854-1891)

Fêtes de la faim

Ma faim, Anne, Anne,
Fuis sur ton âne.

Si j’ai du goût, ce n’est guères
Que pour la terre et les pierres
Dinn ! dinn ! dinn ! dinn ! je pais l’air,
Le roc, les Terres, le fer.

Tournez, les faims ! paissez, faims,
Le pré des sons !
Puis l’humble et vibrant venin
Des liserons ;

Les cailloux qu’un pauvre brise,
Les vieilles pierres d’églises,
Les galets, fils des déluges,
Pains couchés aux vallées grises !

Mes faims, c’est les bouts d’air noir ;
L’azur sonneur ;
— C’est l’estomac qui me tire.
C’est le malheur.

Sur terre ont paru les feuilles :
Je vais aux chairs de fruit blettes.
Au sein du sillon, je cueille
La doucette et la violette.

Ma faim, Anne, Anne !
Fuis sur ton âne.

Arthur Rimbaud poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: *Archive Les Poètes Maudits, Archive Q-R, Rimbaud, Arthur, Rimbaud, Arthur


MARY ROBINSON: ALL ALONE

 Robinson_mary11

Mary Robinson
(1757?-1800)

All Alone

I
Ah! wherefore by the Church-yard side,
Poor little LORN ONE, dost thou stray?
Thy wavy locks but thinly hide
The tears that dim thy blue-eye’s ray;
And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan,
And weep, that thou art left alone?

II
Thou art not left alone, poor boy,
The Trav’ller stops to hear thy tale;
No heart, so hard, would thee annoy!
For tho’ thy mother’s cheek is pale
And withers under yon grave stone,
Thou art not, Urchin, left alone.

III
I know thee well ! thy yellow hair
In silky waves I oft have seen;
Thy dimpled face, so fresh and fair,
Thy roguish smile, thy playful mien
Were all to me, poor Orphan, known,
Ere Fate had left thee–all alone!

IV
Thy russet coat is scant, and torn,
Thy cheek is now grown deathly pale!
Thy eyes are dim, thy looks forlorn,
And bare thy bosom meets the gale;
And oft I hear thee deeply groan,
That thou, poor boy, art left alone.

V
Thy naked feet are wounded sore
With thorns, that cross thy daily road;
The winter winds around thee roar,
The church-yard is thy bleak abode;
Thy pillow now, a cold grave stone–
And there thou lov’st to grieve–alone!

VI
The rain has drench’d thee, all night long;
The nipping frost thy bosom froze;
And still, the yewtree-shades among,
I heard thee sigh thy artless woes;
I heard thee, till the day-star shone
In darkness weep–and weep alone!

VII
Oft have I seen thee, little boy,
Upon thy lovely mother’s knee;
For when she liv’d–thou wert her joy,
Though now a mourner thou must be!
For she lies low, where yon grave-stone
Proclaims, that thou art left alone.

VIII
Weep, weep no more; on yonder hill
The village bells are ringing, gay;
The merry reed, and brawling rill
Call thee to rustic sports away.
Then wherefore weep, and sigh, and moan,
A truant from the throng–alone?

IX
“I cannot the green hill ascend,
“I cannot pace the upland mead;
“I cannot in the vale attend,
“To hear the merry-sounding reed:
“For all is still, beneath yon stone,
“Where my poor mother’s left alone!

X
“I cannot gather gaudy flowers
“To dress the scene of revels loud–
“I cannot pass the ev’ning hours
“Among the noisy village croud–
“For, all in darkness, and alone
“My mother sleeps, beneath yon stone.

XI
“See how the stars begin to gleam
“The sheep-dog barks, ’tis time to go;–
“The night-fly hums, the moonlight beam
“Peeps through the yew-tree’s shadowy row–
“It falls upon the white grave-stone,
“Where my dear mother sleeps alone.–

XII
“O stay me not, for I must go
“The upland path in haste to tread;
“For there the pale primroses grow
“They grow to dress my mother’s bed.–
“They must, ere peep of day, be strown,
“Where she lies mould’ring all alone.

XIII
“My father o’er the stormy sea
“To distant lands was borne away,
“And still my mother stay’d with me
“And wept by night and toil’d by day.
“And shall I ever quit the stone
“Where she is, left, to sleep alone.

XIV
“My father died; and still I found
“My mother fond and kind to me;
“I felt her breast with rapture bound
“When first I prattled on her knee–
“And then she blest my infant tone
“And little thought of yon grave-stone.

XV
“No more her gentle voice I hear,
“No more her smile of fondness see;
“Then wonder not I shed the tear
“She would have DIED, to follow me!
“And yet she sleeps beneath yon stone
“And I STILL LIVE–to weep alone.

XVI
“The playful kid, she lov’d so well
“From yon high clift was seen to fall;
“I heard, afar, his tink’ling bell–
“Which seem’d in vain for aid to call–
“I heard the harmless suff’rer moan,
“And grieved that he was left alone.

XVII
“Our faithful dog grew mad, and died,
“The lightning smote our cottage low–
“We had no resting-place beside
“And knew not whither we should go,–
“For we were poor,–and hearts of stone
“Will never throb at mis’ry’s groan.

XVIII
“My mother still surviv’d for me,
“She led me to the mountain’s brow,
“She watch’d me, while at yonder tree
“I sat, and wove the ozier bough;
“And oft she cried, “fear not, MINE OWN!
“Thou shalt not, BOY, be left ALONE.”

IXX
“The blast blew strong, the torrent rose
“And bore our shatter’d cot away;
“And, where the clear brook swiftly flows–
“Upon the turf at dawn of day,
“When bright the sun’s full lustre shone,
“I wander’d, FRIENDLESS — and ALONE!”

XX
Thou art not, boy, for I have seen
Thy tiny footsteps print the dew,
And while the morning sky serene
Spread o’er the hill a yellow hue,
I heard thy sad and plaintive moan,
Beside the cold sepulchral stone.

XXI
And when the summer noontide hours
With scorching rays the landscape spread,
I mark’d thee, weaving fragrant flow’rs
To deck thy mother’s silent bed!
Nor, at the church-yard’s simple stone,
Wert, thou, poor Urchin, left alone.

XXII
I follow’d thee, along the dale
And up the woodland’s shad’wy way:
I heard thee tell thy mournful tale
As slowly sunk the star of day:
Nor, when its twinkling light had flown,
Wert thou a wand’rer, all alone.

XXIII
“O! yes, I was! and still shall be
“A wand’rer, mourning and forlorn;
“For what is all the world to me–
“What are the dews and buds of morn?
“Since she, who left me sad, alone
“In darkness sleeps, beneath yon stone!

XXIV
“No brother’s tear shall fall for me,
“For I no brother ever knew;
“No friend shall weep my destiny
“For friends are scarce, and tears are few;
“None do I see, save on this stone
“Where I will stay, and weep alone!

XXV
“My Father never will return,
“He rests beneath the sea-green wave;
“I have no kindred left, to mourn
“When I am hid in yonder grave!
“Not one ! to dress with flow’rs the stone;–
“Then–surely , I AM LEFT ALONE!”

Mary Darby Robinson poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive Q-R, CLASSIC POETRY


RAINER MARIA RILKE: WIR HABEN EINE ERSCHEINUNG

Rilke_RM12

Rainer Maria Rilke
(1875-1926)

Wir haben eine Erscheinung

Wir haben eine Erscheinung. Sie steht in den Zimmern, und auf den leeren Plätzen steht sie um Mitternacht, und wenn es Morgen wird, so wird sie deutlicher mit dem Tag, und wir sehen die Häuser durch ihre durchscheinende Gestalt. Ein Revenant ist davon abhängig, wie viele ihn wahrnehmen. Diesen gewahren alle: er ist aus allen Gräbern gestiegen. Alle gewahren ihn. Aber wer erkennt ihn?
Nein. Ihr sollt nicht bekannt tun mit ihm. Ihr sollt ihm nicht das Zubehör und die Zunamen früherer Kriege anhängen, denn ob es gleich ein Krieg ist, so kennt ihr ihn doch nicht. Da man euch Bilder von Greco zeigte, so gabt ihr zu, daß da ein Erleben sei, das ihr nicht kanntet. Und wenn dieser Krieg ein Gesicht hat, so sollt ihr es ansehn wie das Gesicht Amenophis des Vierten, das vorher nicht da war. Ihr sollt davor stehen, wie neulich vor der Tatsache, daß in ein paar Pferden, bisher unangerufen, eine Gegenwart des bestimmtesten Geistes wohnt; ihr sollt als die, die ihr jetzt seid, den leidenschaftlichen Umgang des Todes hinnehmen und seine Vertraulichkeit erwidern; denn was wißt ihr von seiner Liebe zu euch?
Wir haben eine Erscheinung, – und es hat sie mancher angerufen; sie aber weicht nicht und schreitet durch unsere Wände und steht nicht Rede. Weil ihr tut, als kenntet ihr sie. Erhebt eure Augen und kennt sie nicht; schafft ein Hohles um sie mit der Frage eurer Blicke; hungert sie aus mit Nichtkennen! Und plötzlich, in der Angst nicht zu sein, wird euch das Ungeheuere seinen Namen schrein und wegsinken.

Rainer Maria Rilke poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive Q-R, Rilke, Rainer Maria


ARTHUR RIMBAUD: SCÈNES

Rimbaud_a11

Arthur Rimbaud
(1854-1891)

Scènes

L’ancienne Comédie poursuit ses accords et divise ses Idylles :

Des boulevards de tréteaux.

Un long pier en bois d’un bout à l’autre d’un champ rocailleux où la foule barbare évolue sous les arbres dépouillés.

Dans des corridors de gaze noire suivant le pas des promeneurs aux lanternes et aux feuilles.

Des oiseaux des mystères s’abattent sur un ponton de maçonnerie mû par l’archipel couvert des embarcations des spectateurs.

Des scènes lyriques accompagnées de flûte et de tambour s’inclinent dans des réduits ménagés sous les plafonds, autour des salons de clubs modernes ou des salles de l’Orient ancien.

La féerie manœuvre au sommet d’un amphithéâtre couronné par les taillis, — Ou s’agite et module pour les Béotiens, dans l’ombre des futaies mouvantes sur l’arête des cultures.

L’opéra-comique se divise sur une scène à l’arête d’intersection de dix cloisons dressées de la galerie aux feux.

Arthur Rimbaud poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive Q-R, Rimbaud, Arthur


RAYMOND RADIGUET: MONTAGNES RUSSES OU VOYAGE DE NOCES

radiguetraymond22

Raymond Radiguet
(1903-1923)

Montagnes russes ou voyage de noces

À ma place
Le lecteur et sa gracieuse compagne
Aux abeilles feraient la chasse

Mon amour Le pot de miel est à moitié vide

Un ciel à peine aussi tranquille
Que le ciel de notre lit

Jeune mariée Violette
Qui souriez sous la voilette
Sans retard réclamez la terre ferme

Raymond Radiguet poésie
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive Q-R, Radiguet, Raymond


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