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POETRY ARCHIVE

«« Previous page · NOVALIS: Armenmitleid · Emile VERHAEREN: Mourir · Oscar WILDE: Amor Intellectualis · Robert BRIDGES: The Evening Darkens Over · William SHAKESPEARE: But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks? · William BLAKE: A Poison Tree · Samuel Taylor COLERIDGE: The Presence of Love · Bert BEVERS: Vastenavend · Oscar WILDE: The House of Judgement · Sibylla SCHWARZ: Wie kan der Liebe Joch doch süß und lieblich seyn · Guillaume APOLLINAIRE: La fumée de la cantine · Hart CRANE: Passage

»» there is more...

NOVALIS: Armenmitleid

Novalis
Armenmitleid

Sag an, mein Mund, warum gab dir zum Sange
Gott Dichtergeist und süßen Wohlklang zu,
Ja wahrlich auch, daß du im hohen Drange
Den Reichen riefst aus träger, stumpfer Ruh.

Denn kann nicht Sang vom Herzen himmlisch rühren,
Hat er nicht oft vom Lasterschlaf erweckt;
Kann er die Herzen nicht am Leitband führen,
Wenn er sie aus der Dumpfheit aufgeschreckt.

Wohlauf; hört mich ihr schwelgerischen Reichen,
Hört mich doch mehr noch euren innren Ruf,
Schaut um euch her, seht Arme hülflos schleichen,
Und fühlt, daß euch ein Vater nur erschuf.

Novalis (1772 – 1801)
Gedicht: Armenmitleid
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive M-N, Novalis, Novalis


Emile VERHAEREN: Mourir

verhaeren-emile-fdm11

Emile Verhaeren
Mourir

Un soir plein de pourpres et de fleuves vermeils
Pourrit, par au-delà des plaines diminuées,
Et fortement, avec les poings de ses nuées,
Sur l’horizon verdâtre, écrase des soleils.
Saison massive! Et comme Octobre, avec paresse
Et nonchaloir, se gonfle et meurt dans ce décor
Pommes ! caillots de feu ; raisins ! chapelets d’or,
Que le doigté tremblant des lumières caresse,
Une dernière fois, avant l’hiver. Le vol
Des grands corbeaux ? il vient. Mais aujourd’hui, c’est l’heure
Encor des feuillaisons de laque – et la meilleure.

Les pousses des fraisiers ensanglantent le sol,
Le bois tend vers le ciel ses mains de feuilles rousses
Et du bronze et du fer sonnent, là-bas, au loin.
Une odeur d’eau se mêle à des senteurs de coing
Et des parfums d’iris à des parfums de mousses.
Et l’étang plane et clair reflète énormément
Entre de fins bouleaux, dont le branchage bouge,
La lune, qui se lève épaisse, immense et rouge,
Et semble un beau fruit mûr, éclos placidement.

Mourir ainsi, mon corps, mourir, serait le rêve!
Sous un suprême afflux de couleurs et de chants,
Avec, dans les regards, des ors et des couchants,
Avec, dans le cerveau, des rivières de sève.
Mourir! comme des fleurs trop énormes, mourir!
Trop massives et trop géantes pour la vie!
La grande mort serait superbement servie
Et notre immense orgueil n’aurait rien à souffrir!
Mourir, mon corps, ainsi que l’automne, mourir!

Emile Verhaeren (1855-1916) poésie
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive U-V, Verhaeren, Emile


Oscar WILDE: Amor Intellectualis

Oscar Wilde
Amor Intellectualis

Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly
And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown
From antique reeds to common folk unknown:
And often launched our bark upon that sea
Which the nine Muses hold in empery,
And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,
Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home
Till we had freighted well our argosy.

Of which despoilèd treasures these remain,
Sordello’s passion, and the honied line
Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine
Driving his pampered jades, and more than these,
The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,
And grave-browed Milton’s solemn harmonies.

Oscar Wilde (1854 – 1900)
Amor Intellectualis
fleursdumal.nl magazine

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


Robert BRIDGES: The Evening Darkens Over

Robert Bridges
The Evening Darkens Over

The evening darkens over
After a day so bright,
The windcapt waves discover
That wild will be the night.
There’s sound of distant thunder.

The latest sea-birds hover
Along the cliff’s sheer height;
As in the memory wander
Last flutterings of delight,
White wings lost on the white.

There’s not a ship in sight;
And as the sun goes under,
Thick clouds conspire to cover
The moon that should rise yonder.
Thou art alone, fond lover

Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 – 1930)
The Evening Darkens Over
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Bridges, Robert


William SHAKESPEARE: But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

SHAKESPEPARWILLIAM400

William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

“But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!”

William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
Shakespeare 401 (1616 – 2017)

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Shakespeare, William


William BLAKE: A Poison Tree

William Blake
A Poison Tree
 

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

 
William Blake (1757 – 1827)
Poem: A Poison Tree
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Blake, William


Samuel Taylor COLERIDGE: The Presence of Love

Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Presence of Love

And in Life’s noisiest hour,
There whispers still the ceaseless Love of Thee,
The heart’s Self-solace and soliloquy.

You mould my Hopes, you fashion me within;
And to the leading Love-throb in the Heart
Thro’ all my Being, thro’ my pulse’s beat;
You lie in all my many Thoughts, like Light,
Like the fair light of Dawn, or summer Eve
On rippling Stream, or cloud-reflecting Lake.

And looking to the Heaven, that bends above you,
How oft! I bless the Lot that made me love you.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 – 1834)
Poem: The Presence of Love
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Coleridge, Coleridge, Samuel Taylor


Bert BEVERS: Vastenavend

Vastenavend

Wij verjagen het boze en begroeten het licht
met deinende joelfeesten. Hardvochtige preken
laten we achterwege vandaag en verdriet evenzo.
Laat ons de nakende lente besprenkelen, vrienden:
Neem ruim, eerbiedige drinkers, neem ruim!

Voor huizen met grijnzende vensters bonkende
trommen. Pas op de plaats. Op dansen alle kans.

Bert Bevers

Bert Bevers gedichten
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert


Oscar WILDE: The House of Judgement

fdm_oscarwilde3Oscar Wilde
(1854 – 1900)

The House of Judgement

And there was silence in the House of Judgment, and the Man came naked before God.

And God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.

And God said to the Man, ‘Thy life hath been evil, and thou hast shown cruelty to those who were in need of succour, and to those who lacked help thou hast been bitter and hard of heart. The poor called to thee and thou didst not hearken, and thine ears were closed to the cry of My afflicted. The inheritance of the fatherless thou didst take unto thyself and thou didst send the foxes into the vineyard of thy neighbour’s field. Thou didst take the bread of the children and give it to the dogs to eat, and My lepers who lived in the marshes, and were at peace and praised Me, thou didst drive forth on to the highways, and on Mine earth out of which I made thee thou didst spill innocent blood.’

And the Man made answer and said, ‘Even so did I.’

And again God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.

And God said to the Man, ‘Thy life hath been evil, and the Beauty I have shown thou hast sought for, and the Good I have hidden thou didst pass by. The walls of thy chamber were painted with images, and from the bed of thine abominations thou didst rise up to the sound of flutes. Thou didst build seven altars to the sins I have suffered, and didst eat of the thing that may not be eaten, and the purple of thy raiment was broidered with the three signs of shame. Thine idols were neither of gold nor of silver that endure, but of flesh that dieth. Thou didst stain their hair with perfumes and put pomegranates in their hands. Thou didst stain their feet with saffron and spread carpets before them. With antimony thou didst stain their eyelids and their bodies thou didst smear with myrrh. Thou didst bow thyself to the ground before them, and the thrones of thine idols were set in the sun. Thou didst show to the sun thy shame and to the moon thy madness.’

And the Man made answer and said, ‘Even so did I.’

And a third time God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.

And God said to the Man, ‘Evil hath been thy life, and with evil didst thou requite good, and with wrongdoing kindness. The hands that fed thee thou didst wound, and the breasts that gave thee suck thou didst despise. He who came to thee with water went away thirsting, and the outlawed men who hid thee in their tents at night thou didst betray before dawn. Thine enemy who spared thee thou didst snare in an ambush and the friend who walked with thee thou didst sell for a price, and to those who brought thee Love thou didst ever give Lust in thy turn.’

And the Man made answer and said, ‘Even so did I.’

And God closed the Book of the Life of the Man, and said, ‘Surely I will send thee into Hell. Even into Hell will I send thee.’

And the Man cried out, ‘Thou canst not.’

And God said to the Man, ‘Wherefore can I not send thee to Hell, and for what reason?’

‘Because in Hell have I always lived,’ answered the Man.

And there was silence in the House of Judgment.

And after a space God spake, and said to the Man, ‘Seeing that I may not send thee into Hell, surely I will send thee unto Heaven. Even unto Heaven will I send thee.’

And the Man cried out, ‘Thou canst not.’

And God said to the Man, ‘Wherefore can I not send thee unto Heaven, and for what reason?’

‘Because never, and in no place, have I been able to imagine it,’ answered the Man.

And there was silence in the House of Judgment.

Oscar Wilde 1894
fleursdumal.nl magazine

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


Sibylla SCHWARZ: Wie kan der Liebe Joch doch süß und lieblich seyn

Sibylla Schwarz
Wie kan der Liebe Joch doch süß und lieblich seyn

Wie kan der Liebe Joch doch süß und lieblich seyn,
weil manches Herze pflegt vohn ihren Schmertzen sagen,
und über ihre Last, und tieffe Wunden klagen?
wie ist dan süße das, das allen bringet Pein,
das wie ein starckes Gifft die Hertzen nimmet ein,
das manchen Helden würgt, ihr vihl auch heist verzagen?
wie kan uns das alsdan doch Frewd und Lust erjagen?
Nein, nein, der Liebe Tranck ist bitter Wermuhtwein.
Doch gleichwohl ist sie süß, weil vielen wird gegeben,
durch ihre Süßigkeit, ein angenehmes Leben.
Drüm / schließ ich, ist die Lieb ein angenehmes Leid;
(wiewohl eß selten kompt, daß wiedrig’ Eigenschafften
an einem Dinge nuhr zu gleiche können hafften)
die Liebe heisst und ist die süße Bitterkeit.

Sibylla Schwarz (1621 – 1638)
Gedicht: Wie kan der Liebe Joch doch süß und lieblich seyn
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, SIbylla Schwarz


Guillaume APOLLINAIRE: La fumée de la cantine

  apolinnaire102

Guillaume Apollinaire
(1880 – 1918)

La fumée de la cantine

La fumée de la cantine est comme la nuit qui vient
Voix hautes ou graves le vin saigne partout
Je tire ma pipe libre et fier parmi mes camarades
Ils partirons avec moi pour les champs de bataille
Ils dormirons la nuit sous la pluie ou les étoiles
Ils galoperont avec moi portant en croupe des victoires
Ils obéiront avec moi aux mêmes commandements
Ils écouteront attentifs les sublimes fanfares
Ils mourront près de moi et moi peut-être près d’eux
Ils souffriront du froid et du soleil avec moi
Ils sont des hommes ceux-ci qui boivent avec moi
Ils obéissent avec moi aux lois de l’homme
Ils regardent sur les routes les femmes qui passent
Ils les désirent mais moi j’ai des plus hautes amours
Qui règnent sur mon coeur mes sens et mon cerveau
Et qui sont ma patrie ma famille et mon espérance
À moi soldat amoureux soldat de la douce France

Guillaume Apollinaire Poèmes à Lou
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: *War Poetry Archive, Apollinaire, Guillaume, Archive A-B, Archive Concrete + Visual Poetry - Ready-mades


Hart CRANE: Passage

hartcrane012

Hart Crane
(1889 – 1932)

Passage

Where the cedar leaf divides the sky
I heard the sea.
In sapphire arenas of the hills
I was promised an improved infancy.

Sulking, sanctioning the sun,
My memory I left in a ravine,-
Casual louse that tissues the buck-wheat,
Aprons rocks, congregates pears
In moonlit bushels
And wakens alleys with a hidden cough.

Dangerously the summer burned
(I had joined the entrainments of the wind).
The shadows of boulders lengthened my back:
In the bronze gongs of my cheeks
The rain dried without odour.

“It is not long, it is not long;
See where the red and black
Vine-stanchioned valleys-“: but the wind
Died speaking through the ages that you know
And bug, chimney-sooted heart of man!
So was I turned about and back, much as your smoke
Compiles a too well-known biography.

The evening was a spear in the ravine
That throve through very oak. And had I walked
The dozen particular decimals of time?
Touching an opening laurel, I found
A thief beneath, my stolen book in hand.

“‘Why are you back here-smiling an iron coffin?
” “To argue with the laurel,” I replied:
“Am justified in transience, fleeing
Under the constant wonder of your eyes-.”

He closed the book. And from the Ptolemies
Sand troughed us in a glittering,, abyss.
A serpent swam a vertex to the sun
-On unpaced beaches leaned its tongue and
drummed.
What fountains did I hear? What icy speeches?
Memory, committed to the page, had broke.

Hart Crane poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Crane, Hart


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