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Archive W-X


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OSCAR WILDE: The Doer of Good

fdm_oscarwilde3Oscar Wilde
(1854 – 1900)

The Doer of Good


It was night-time and He was alone.

And He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went towards the city.

And when He came near He heard within the city the tread of the feet of joy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness and the loud noise of many lutes. And He knocked at the gate and certain of the gatekeepers opened to Him.

And He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair pillars of marble before it. The pillars were hung with garlands, and within and without there were torches of cedar. And He entered the house.

And when He had passed through the hall of chalcedony and the hall of jasper, and reached the long hall of feasting, He saw lying on a couch of sea-purple one whose hair was crowned with red roses and whose lips were red with wine.

And He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder and said to him, ‘Why do you live like this?’

And the young man turned round and recognised Him, and made answer and said, ‘But I was a leper once, and you healed me. How else should I live?’

And He passed out of the house and went again into the street.

And after a little while He saw one whose face and raiment were painted and whose feet were shod with pearls. And behind her came, slowly as a hunter, a young man who wore a cloak of two colours. Now the face of the woman was as the fair face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were bright with lust.

And He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young man and said to him, ‘Why do you look at this woman and in such wise?’

And the young man turned round and recognised Him and said, ‘But I was blind once, and you gave me sight. At what else should I look?’

And He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of the woman and said to her, ‘Is there no other way in which to walk save the way of sin?’

And the woman turned round and recognised Him, and laughed and said, ‘But you forgave me my sins, and the way is a pleasant way.

And He passed out of the city.

And when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by the roadside a young man who was weeping.

And He went towards him and touched the long locks of his hair and said to him, ‘Why are you weeping?’

And the young man looked up and recognised Him and made answer, ‘But I was dead once and you raised me from the dead. What else should I do but weep?’


Oscar Wilde, 1894 magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Wilde, Oscar, Wilde, Oscar



Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)

“So Long!”

To conclude–I announce what comes after me;
I announce mightier offspring, orators, days, and then depart,

I remember I said, before my leaves sprang at all,
I would raise my voice jocund and strong, with reference to consummations.

When America does what was promised,
When there are plentiful athletic bards, inland and sea-board,
When through these States walk a hundred millions of superb persons,
When the rest part away for superb persons, and contribute to them,
When breeds of the most perfect mothers denote America,
Then to me my due fruition.

I have pressed through in my own right,
I have offered my style to every one–I have journeyed with confident step.
While my pleasure is yet at the full, I whisper, ” So long!”
And take the young woman’s hand, and the young man’s hand for the last

I announce natural persons to arise,
I announce justice triumphant,
I announce uncompromising liberty and equality,
I announce the justification of candour, and the justification of pride.

I announce that the identity of these States is a single identity only,
I announce the Union, out of all its struggles and wars, more and more
I announce splendours and majesties to make all the previous politics of
the earth insignificant.

I announce a man or woman coming–perhaps you are the one (“So long!”)
I announce the great individual, fluid as Nature, chaste, affectionate,
compassionate, fully armed.
I announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold,
And I announce an old age that shall lightly and joyfully meet its

O thicker and faster!  (“So long!”)
O crowding too close upon me;
I foresee too much–it means more than I thought,
It appears to me I am dying.

Hasten throat, and sound your last!
Salute me–salute the days once more. Peal the old cry once more.

Screaming electric, the atmosphere using,
At random glancing, each as I notice absorbing,
Swiftly on, but a little while alighting,
Curious enveloped messages delivering,
Sparkles hot, seed ethereal, down in the dirt dropping,
Myself unknowing, my commission obeying, to question it never daring,
To ages, and ages yet, the growth of the seed leaving,
To troops out of me rising–they the tasks I have set promulging,
To women certain whispers of myself bequeathing–their affection me more
clearly explaining,
To young men my problems offering–no dallier I–I the muscle of their
brains trying,
So I pass–a little time vocal, visible, contrary,
Afterward, a melodious echo, passionately bent for–death making me really
The best of me then when no longer visible–for toward that I have been
incessantly preparing.

What is there more, that I lag and pause, and crouch extended with unshut
Is there a single final farewell?

My songs cease–I abandon them,
From behind the screen where I hid, I advance personally, solely to you.

Camerado! This is no book;
Who touches this touches a man.
(Is it night? Are we here alone?)
It is I you hold, and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms–decease calls me forth.

O how your fingers drowse me!
Your breath falls around me like dew–your pulse lulls the tympans of my
I feel immerged from head to foot,

Enough, O deed impromptu and secret!
Enough, O gliding present! Enough, O summed-up past!

Dear friend, whoever you are, here, take this kiss,
I give it especially to you–Do not forget me,

I feel like one who has done his work–I progress on,–(long enough have I
dallied with Life,)
The unknown sphere, more real than I dreamed, more direct, awakening rays
about me–“So long!”
Remember my words–I love you–I depart from materials,
I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.

Walt Whitman poetry magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt



Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)

Poets to come!

Poets to come!
Not to-day is to justify me, and Democracy, and what we are for;
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before
You must justify me.

I but write one or two indicative words for the future,
I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.

I am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a casual
look upon you, and then averts his face,
Leaving it to you to prove and define it,
Expecting the main things from you.

Walt Whitman poetry magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt



Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)


Aloof, dissatisfied, plotting revolt,
Comrade of criminals, brother of slaves,
Crafty, despised, a drudge, ignorant,
With sudra face and worn brow–black, but in the depths of my heart proud
as any;
Lifted, now and always, against whoever, scorning, assumes to rule me;
Morose, full of guile, full of reminiscences, brooding, with many wiles,
Though it was thought I was baffled and dispelled, and my wiles done–but
that will never be;
Defiant I SATAN still live–still utter words–in new lands duly appearing,
and old ones also;
Permanent here, from my side, warlike, equal with any, real as any,
Nor time, nor change, shall ever change me or my words.

Walt Whitman poetry magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt



Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)

Pulse of my life

Not heaving from my ribbed breast only;
Not in sighs at night, in rage, dissatisfied with myself;
Not in those long-drawn, ill-suppressed sighs;
Not in many an oath and promise broken;
Not in my wilful and savage soul’s volition;
Not in the subtle nourishment of the air;
Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and wrists;
Not in the curious systole and diastole within, which will one day cease;
Not in many a hungry wish, told to the skies only;
Not in cries, laughter, defiances, thrown from me when alone, far in the
Not in husky pantings through clenched teeth;
Not in sounded and resounded words–chattering words, echoes, dead words;
Not in the murmurs of my dreams while I sleep,
Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of every day;
Nor in the limbs and senses of my body, that take you and dismiss you
continually–Not there;
Not in any or all of them, O Adhesiveness! O pulse of my life!
Need I that you exist and show yourself, any more than in these songs.

Walt Whitman poetry magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt


Hendrik Nicolaas Werkman



Gestadige beweging


printa printo

cito typo





sano corpo

bene torbo


bras de more

ras te vore


vaste code

baste mode


tanto tempo

desto presto


ante poco

sito foco


ador amo

para diso


sin peccato

nil dacapo


bene vista

male jacta


poke d’ore

pido lore


paso retro

volte metro


Hendrik Nicolaas Werkman poetry magazine

More in: Archive W-X, De Ploeg, Werkman, Hendrik Nicolaas


Hendrik Nicolaas Werkman


Sabbath der eenvoudigen


Zij dansen de bestemmingen van de mens

dat hij niet in het leven is geroepen

om te jachten en te jagen

dat het goed is van ophouden te weten

en te rusten en te lachen

die oeroude, maar vandaag op grote schaal

vergeten wijsheid dansen zij


H.N. Werkman magazine

More in: Archive W-X, De Ploeg, Werkman, Hendrik Nicolaas


Amalgaam15AMALGAAM een nieuwe Afrikaans/Nederlandse Dichtbundel
AMALGAAM is een duobundel met gedichten geschreven in het Nederlands (door Willy Martin) en in het Afrikaans (door Carina van der Walt).
AMALGAAM verschijnt in oktober bij Uitgeverij IJzer in Utrecht.
AMALGAAM bevat Afrikaans- en Nederlandstalige gedichten die niet per taal gescheiden, maar alfabetisch op titel gerangschikt staan.

Net zoals in ANNA (2011, Groot Woordenboek Afrikaans en Nederlands) zijn de gedichten uit de twee talen ‘geamalgameerd’, samen behandeld, als waren zij van één en dezelfde taal. Amalgamatie heeft voor de auteurs het voordeel dat zowel taalkundig als letterkundig grenzen kunnen worden afgetast en overschreden. De talen krijgen hun natuurlijke plaats in een vlechtwerk van verschuivende betekenissen. De nevenschikking van de talen zorgt ervoor dat latente krachten in beide talen helder in zicht komen. Niet alleen de verklarende kracht van woorden, maar ook de poëtische glans kan erdoor uitgelicht worden.

De Afrikaanstalige gedichten zijn van de hand van de Zuid-Afrikaanse dichteres en essayist Carina van der Walt, de Nederlandstalige van de Vlaming Willy Martin, emeritus hoogleraar aan de Vrije Universiteit te Amsterdam en hoofdredacteur van ANNA.

De officiële bundelpresentatie is op zondag 13 september 2015 om 11:00 uur Abdij Roosendael te Sint-Katelijne-Waver (bij Mechelen)
Gedichten en muzikale omlijsting zullen in het mooie kader van het abdijdomein aan het geheel een feestelijk karakter geven. Katelijne Boon (Vlaamse Radio en Televisieomroep, bekend van “De Ambassadeurs” op Klara) zal de auteurs interviewen en het programma coördineren.

Willy Martin & Carina van der Walt
Prijs € 15,-
95 pag.
ISBN 978 90 8684 117 2
Verschijnt oktober 2015
Uitgeverij Ijzer, Utrecht
website: magazine

More in: Archive M-N, Archive W-X, Art & Literature News, Carina van der Walt, TRANSLATION ARCHIVE, Walt, Carina van der, Willy Martin



Carina van der Walt

de wetenschap van afvalscheiding

we gaan elke dag zorgzamer om met
chemisch afval dat dampt
bedorven organisch afval
brillen glazen flessen
kranten kartonnen dozen
kleef- & bubbeltjesplastic
& het systeemprobleem restafval

maar we weten niet wat we moeten doen
met de mensen die van ver af aanspoelen
gebarsten als blauw porselein op het strand
een systeemfout: mensen zonder papier
die van ver af aanwaaien & als lege plastic-
zakjes blijven hangen aan het prikkeldraad
de rest moet bij zichzelf te rade gaan

op het zwerfvuil
met het etiket mens
plakken we graag een mengverbod
want uit gevaarlijk afval
kunnen gassen lekken
die imploderen of exploderen
maar composteren is toch kerngezond

Carina van der Walt poetry magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Carina van der Walt, Walt, Carina van der



Carina van der Walt

bootramp by Lampedusa

die see offer 300 swart anemone
op die strande van Lampedusa
ontmenslik is hulle ledemate spons
wat in die vlak branders roer & roep
vryheid gelykheid broederskap suster Europa

aangespoel damp hulle lywe soutlug
droog hulle sagte oë gryswit & styf
verdamp verlangens verstil uitroepe
Europa kroon Lampedusa op sy strande
met segekranse van verwelkte anemone

Carina van der Walt poetry magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Carina van der Walt, Walt, Carina van der


wiegrogiNa een lang ziekbed is op woensdag 15 juli 2015, in zijn woonplaats Amsterdam, de dichter, schrijver, beeldend kunstenaar en muzikant Rogi Wieg overleden.
Rogi Wieg (1962) debuteerde als dichter in 1981. Zijn ouders waren Hongaarse vluchtelingen die zich in 1957 in Nederland hebben gevestigd.
Wieg werd, vanwege ernstige depressies,  regelmatig opgenomen in psychiatrische ziekenhuizen en deed enkele pogingen tot zelfmoord. Zijn aanvraag voor euthanasie vanwege psychisch lijden werd onlangs gehonoreerd.

Zo zal ik niet sterven, maar ga ik
alleen een beetje dood.

(Rogi Wieg, 15 mei 2015) magazine

More in: Archive W-X, In Memoriam



Edith Wharton


Nay, lift me to thy lips, Life, and once more
Pour the wild music through me—

I quivered in the reed-bed with my kind,
Rooted in Lethe-bank, when at the dawn
There came a groping shape of mystery
Moving among us, that with random stroke
Severed, and rapt me from my silent tribe,
Pierced, fashioned, lipped me, sounding for a voice,
Laughing on Lethe-bank—and in my throat
I felt the wing-beat of the fledgeling notes,
The bubble of godlike laughter in my throat.

Such little songs she sang,
Pursing her lips to fit the tiny pipe,
They trickled from me like a slender spring
That strings frail wood-growths on its crystal thread,
Nor dreams of glassing cities, bearing ships.
She sang, and bore me through the April world
Matching the birds, doubling the insect-hum
In the meadows, under the low-moving airs,
And breathings of the scarce-articulate air
When it makes mouths of grasses—but when the sky
Burst into storm, and took great trees for pipes,
She thrust me in her breast, and warm beneath
Her cloudy vesture, on her terrible heart,
I shook, and heard the battle.

But more oft,
Those early days, we moved in charmed woods,
Where once, at dusk, she piped against a faun,
And one warm dawn a tree became a nymph
Listening; and trembled; and Life laughed and passed.
And once we came to a great stream that bore
The stars upon its bosom like a sea,
And ships like stars; so to the sea we came.
And there she raised me to her lips, and sent
One swift pang through me; then refrained her hand,
And whispered: “Hear—” and into my frail flanks,
Into my bursting veins, the whole sea poured
Its spaces and its thunder; and I feared.

We came to cities, and Life piped on me
Low calls to dreaming girls,
In counting-house windows, through the chink of gold,
Flung cries that fired the captive brain of youth,
And made the heavy merchant at his desk
Curse us for a cracked hurdy-gurdy; Life
Mimicked the hurdy-gurdy, and we passed.

We climbed the slopes of solitude, and there
Life met a god, who challenged her and said:
“Thy pipe against my lyre!” But “Wait!” she laughed,
And in my live flank dug a finger-hole,
And wrung new music from it. Ah, the pain!

We climbed and climbed, and left the god behind.
We saw the earth spread vaster than the sea,
With infinite surge of mountains surfed with snow,
And a silence that was louder than the deep;
But on the utmost pinnacle Life again
Hid me, and I heard the terror in her hair.

Safe in new vales, I ached for the old pang,
And clamoured “Play me against a god again!”
“Poor Marsyas-mortal—he shall bleed thee yet,”
She breathed and kissed me, stilling the dim need.
But evermore it woke, and stabbed my flank
With yearnings for new music and new pain.
“Another note against another god!”
I clamoured; and she answered: “Bide my time.
Of every heart-wound I will make a stop,
And drink thy life in music, pang by pang,
But first thou must yield the notes I stored in thee
At dawn beside the river. Take my lips.”

She kissed me like a lover, but I wept,
Remembering that high song against the god,
And the old songs slept in me, and I was dumb.

We came to cavernous foul places, blind
With harpy-wings, and sulphurous with the glare
Of sinful furnaces—where hunger toiled,
And pleasure gathered in a starveling prey,
And death fed delicately on young bones.

“Now sing!” cried Life, and set her lips to me.
“Here are gods also. Wilt thou pipe for Dis?”
My cry was drowned beneath the furnace roar,
Choked by the sulphur-fumes; and beast-lipped gods
Laughed down on me, and mouthed the flutes of hell.

“Now sing!” said Life, reissuing to the stars;
And wrung a new note from my wounded side.

So came we to clear spaces, and the sea.
And now I felt its volume in my heart,
And my heart waxed with it, and Life played on me
The song of the Infinite. “Now the stars,” she said.

Then from the utmost pinnacle again
She poured me on the wild sidereal stream,
And I grew with her great breathings, till we swept
The interstellar spaces like new worlds
Loosed from the fiery ruin of a star.

Cold, cold we rested on black peaks again,
Under black skies, under a groping wind;
And Life, grown old, hugged me to a numb breast,
Pressing numb lips against me. Suddenly
A blade of silver severed the black peaks
From the black sky, and earth was born again,
Breathing and various, under a god’s feet.
A god! A god! I felt the heart of Life
Leap under me, and my cold flanks shook again.
He bore no lyre, he rang no challenge out,
But Life warmed to him, warming me with her,
And as he neared I felt beneath her hands
The stab of a new wound that sucked my soul
Forth in a new song from my throbbing throat.

“His name—his name?” I whispered, but she shed
The music faster, and I grew with it,
Became a part of it, while Life and I
Clung lip to lip, and I from her wrung song
As she from me, one song, one ecstasy,
In indistinguishable union blent,
Till she became the flute and I the player.
And lo! the song I played on her was more
Than any she had drawn from me; it held
The stars, the peaks, the cities, and the sea,
The faun’s catch, the nymph’s tremor, and the heart
Of dreaming girls, of toilers at the desk,
Apollo’s challenge on the sunrise slope,
And the hiss of the night-gods mouthing flutes of hell—
All, to the dawn-wind’s whisper in the reeds,
When Life first came, a shape of mystery,
Moving among us, and with random stroke
Severed, and rapt me from my silent tribe.
All this I wrung from her in that deep hour,
While Love stood murmuring: “Play the god, poor grass!”

Now, by that hour, I am a mate to thee
Forever, Life, however spent and clogged,
And tossed back useless to my native mud!
Yea, groping for new reeds to fashion thee
New instruments of anguish and delight,
Thy hand shall leap to me, thy broken reed,
Thine ear remember me, thy bosom thrill
With the old subjection, then when Love and I
Held thee, and fashioned thee, and made thee dance
Like a slave-girl to her pipers—yea, thou yet
Shalt hear my call, and dropping all thy toys
Thou’lt lift me to thy lips, Life, and once more
Pour the wild music through me—

Edith Wharton poetry magazine

More in: Archive W-X, CLASSIC POETRY

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