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WAR POETRY

«« Previous page · Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele: Der Dichter · Charles Péguy: Le Mystère des Saints-Innocents · Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele: Schwermütig kam die Nacht . . · Kunstenfestival Watou 2023 nog tot en met 3 september · Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele: Von des Daseins körperlicher Schwere . . . · Georg Trakl: Grodek (Gedicht) · The Selected Poems of Clive Branson · Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter: The Dead Soldier · Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter: The Prisoner · Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter: Sick I am and sorrowful · Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter: Loud Shout The Flaming Tongues of war · Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter: Sixteen Dead Men

»» there is more...

Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele: Der Dichter

 

Der Dichter

Es neigte sich die Schar der jungen Knechte
Dem wirren Haar und dem zerschlißnen Rock.
Die Straße weiter taperte die Rechte,
Die Linke hielt sich krampfig fest am Stock.

Scham schlug ihm rot empor: er war betrunken
Und rang mit seinem Weg; und jäh erblaßt
War er im Rinnstein stolpernd hingesunken
Und raffte sich empor in wirrer Hast.

Da kam’s, daß er den Blick nach innen schlug,
Wo er, buntwechselnd wie Geleucht der Meere,
Wuchernder Blumen Fülle in sich trug.
Und atemraubend gab der süße, schwere

Duft seinem Sinn, der wie ein großer Falter
In ihre tiefen Rätselkelche sank,
Seltsamen Traum und schuf ihn zum Gestalter,
Der Lust und Qual in seine Lieder zwang.

So ging er, in sein Fühlen tief versunken,
Betäubt von Fiebern, Künder schwüler Nächte.
Man wich ihm schonend aus: er war betrunken.
Es neigte sich die Schar der jungen Knechte.

Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele
(1889 – 1915)
Der Dichter
Aus: Versensporn

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More in: #Experimental Poetry Archive, *War Poetry Archive, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Expressionism, Expressionisme, Modernisme


Charles Péguy: Le Mystère des Saints-Innocents

 

Le Mystère des Saints-Innocents

Paradis est plus fleuri que printemps.
Paradis est plus moissonneux qu’été.
Paradis est plus vendangeux qu’automne.
Paradis est si éternel qu’hiver.
Paradis est plus soleilleux que jour.
Paradis est plus étoilé que nuit.
Paradis est plus ferme que le ferme décembre.
Paradis est plus doux que le doux mois de mai.
Paradis est plus secret que jardin fermé.
Paradis est plus ouvert que champ de bataille.
Paradis est plus vieux que saint Jérôme.
Paradis est le céleste pourpris.
Paradis est plus capital que Rome.
Paradis est plus peuplé que Paris.
Paradis est désert plus que plaine en décembre.
Paradis est public et qui veut vient y boire.
Paradis est plus frais que l’aube fraîche.
Paradis est plus ardent que midi.
Paradis est plus calme que le soir.
Paradis est si éternel que Dieu.
Paradis est sanglant plus que champ de bataille.
Paradis est sanglant du sang de Jésus-Christ.
Paradis est royaume des royaumes.
Paradis est le dernier reposoir.
Paradis est le siège de Justice.
Paradis est le royaume de Gloire.
Paradis est plus beau qu’un jardin de pommiers.
Paradis est plus floconneux qu’hiver.
Paradis est plus sévère que mars.
Paradis est plus boutonneux qu’avril.
Paradis est plus bourgeonneux qu’avril.
Paradis est plus cotonneux qu’avril.
Paradis est plus embaumé que mai.
Paradis est plus accueillant qu’auberge.
Paradis est plus fermé que prison.
Paradis est demeure de la Vierge.
Paradis est la dernière maison.
Paradis est le Trône de Justice.
Veuille seulement Dieu que route y aboutisse.
Route que cheminons depuis dix-huit cents ans.
Paradis est auberge à la très belle enseigne.
Car c’est l’enseigne-ci : à la Croix de Jésus.
Cette enseigne éternelle est pendue à la porte.

Charles Péguy

(1873 - 1914)
Le Mystère des Saints-Innocents
(1912)
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Peguy, Charles, WAR & PEACE


Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele: Schwermütig kam die Nacht . .

 

Schwermütig kam die Nacht …

Schwermütig kam die Nacht. Ich bin allein.
Rings wuchern Bücher, Möbel und Tapeten
Im gelben Licht der Lampe fremd und kalt.

Wie weh tun Sehnsucht, Nacht und Einsamsein!
Still möcht ich in dein junges Leben treten
Wie eine Wanderschaft durch einen grünen Wald.

Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele
(1889 – 1915)
Schwermütig kam die Nacht …

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: #Experimental Poetry Archive, *War Poetry Archive, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Expressionism


Kunstenfestival Watou 2023 nog tot en met 3 september

 

Kunstenfestival Watou vindt plaats van 1 juli tot en met 3 september 2023 en krijgt de slagzin /kom.po’zi.ci.o:/ mee. Dertig kunstenaars en twintig dichters ‘componeren’ nieuw in situ werk.

Het kunstenfestival pakt dit jaar ook uit met enkele nieuwe locaties, een podcast met Jelle Van Riet en een poëziefietsroute met oorlogsgedichten.

Het startschot van het kunstenfestival werd gegeven met de lancering van een open call in de lente van 2022. 170 kunstenaars uit binnen- en buitenland stelden zich vorig jaar kandidaat voor Patchwwwork.

Een interdisciplinaire en internationale jury selecteerde dertig kunstenaars die in de zomer van 2022 in het dorp kampeerden. Ze gingen in dialoog met de inwoners, voelden het landschap en dompelden zich onder in het festival dat die zomer plaatsvond. Op basis van hun ervaringen, werkten ze projectvoorstellen uit voor nieuwe installaties. Uit deze voorstellen selecteerde de jury 19 projecten die te zien zijn op Kunstenfestival Watou 2023.

 

Deelnemende kunstenaars
Beatrijs Albers en Reggy Timmermans (BE) – Niels Albers (NL) – Funda Zeynep Ayguler (DE) – Iwert Bernakiewicz (BE) – Sven Boel (BE) – Cloé Decroix (FR) – Alexandra Dementieva (BE) – Niel de Vries (NL) – Griet Dobbels (BE) – Philippe Druez (BE) – Juls Gabs (UK) – Benoît Géhanne (FR) – Marilyne Grimmer (FR) – Marc Hamandjian (FR) – Nathalie Hunter (BE) – Maarten Inghels (BE) – Pierre Mertens (BE) – Charlotte Mumm (DE) – Öznur Özturk (BE) – Alain Platel en Berlinde De Bruyckere (BE) – Jiajia Qi (NL) – Henk Schut (NL) – Robert Ssempijja (UG) – Joris Vermassen (BE) – Koen Vanmechelen (BE) – Louisiana Van Onna (NL) – Wouter Vanderstede en Peter Simon (BE) – Various Artists – Esther Venrooij (NL) – ZONDERWERK (BE)

& Dichters
Alara Adilow (NL) – Anna Broeksma (NL) – Joost Decorte (BE) – Lotte Dodion (BE) – Radna Fabias (NL) – Marie Ginet (FR) – Max Greyson (BE) – Luuk Gruwez (BE) – Maarten Inghels (BE) – Ilya Kaminsky (US/UKR) – Mustafa Kör (BE) – Caroline Lamarche (BE) – Marije Langelaar (NL) – Delphine Lecompte (BE) – Lisette Lombé (BE) – Gerry Loose (UK) – Nisrine Mbarki (NL) – Tijl Nuyts (BE) – Johanna Pas (BE) – Siel Verhanneman (BE)

Kunstenfestival Watou 2023

More on website:
https://www.kunstenfestivalwatou.be/
& https://www.poperinge.be/

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More in: # Music Archive, #Modern Poetry Archive, *War Poetry Archive, AUDIO, CINEMA, RADIO & TV, DANCE & PERFORMANCE, Exhibition Archive, Land Art, THEATRE, Watou Kunstenfestival


Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele: Von des Daseins körperlicher Schwere . . .

 

Von des Daseins körperlicher Schwere …

Von des Daseins körperlicher Schwere
Überfallen, bedrückt und tief gehemmt,
Dürstet mein Gemüt nach einer Leere.
Draußen haben blasse Abendmeere
Straßen trüb und traurig überschwemmt.
Und die Stadt sinkt wie verwest und grau
In den Schoß der mütterlichen Nacht.

Tief in meiner Seele weint und wacht
Die Erinnerung an eine Frau,
An ein Lied, ein Buch, an Sonne, Blau,
An viel Not, an manche Lust und Pracht.
Schwach durchzittert vom Geläut der Qual
Treibt mein Tag in eine ernste Stille.

Dunklen Himmels glanzlose Pupille
Starrt durchs Fenster hoffnungsblind und fahl.

Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele
(1889 – 1915)
Von des Daseins körperlicher Schwere …

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More in: #Experimental Poetry Archive, *War Poetry Archive, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Expressionism, Modernisme


Georg Trakl: Grodek (Gedicht)

Grodek

Am Abend tönen die herbstlichen Wälder
von tödlichen Waffen, die goldnen Ebenen
und blauen Seen, darüber die Sonne
düstrer hinrollt; umfängt die Nacht
sterbende Krieger, die wilde Klage
ihrer zerbrochenen Münder.
Doch stille sammelt im Weidengrund
rotes Gewölk, darin ein zürnender Gott wohnt
das vergoßne Blut sich, mondne Kühle;
alle Straßen münden in schwarze Verwesung.
Unter goldenem Gezweig der Nacht und Sternen
es schwankt der Schwester Schatten durch den schweigenden Hain,
zu grüßen die Geister der Helden, die blutenden Häupter;
und leise tönen im Rohr die dunkeln Flöten des Herbstes.
O stolzere Trauer! ihr ehernen Altäre
die heiße Flamme des Geistes nährt heute ein gewaltiger Schmerz,
die ungebornen Enkel.

Georg Trakl
(1887 – 1914)
Grodek

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Trakl, Georg, Trakl, Georg


The Selected Poems of Clive Branson

Clive Branson (1907–1944) was born in Ahmednagar, India, the son of a major in the Indian army.

He studied at the Slade School of Art and exhibited at the Royal Academy when he was just 23. Five of his paintings are today in the Tate. His daughter is the painter Rosa Branson.

In 1932 Branson joined the Communist Party. He taught for the National Council of Labour Colleges, spoke at weekly open-air meetings on Clapham Common and with his wife Noreen managed a Party bookshop. He took a leading role in driving Mosley’s British Union of Fascists out of Battersea, was responsible for the formation of a local Aid Spain Committee and fought with the International Brigades in Spain.

Taken prisoner at Calaceite, he spent eight months in Franco’s prison camps. After he was repatriated, Branson toured Britain raising money and support for the Spanish Republic. During the Blitz he painted Battersea street-scenes for the Artists International Association. Conscripted in 1941, he served as a tank commander in the Royal Armoured Corps. He was killed in action in Burma, aged just 36.

The Selected Poems of Clive Branson brings together, for the first time, the best of his surviving poetry. Passionate and committed, it’s a first-hand account of the most violent years of the twentieth-century – Britain in the Slump, Spain during the civil-war, Fascist prisons, the London Blitz, the cultural shock of India and its poverty, the war against Japan – recorded with a painterly eye and a communist faith in the power of the people.

Richard Knott (Editor) is a writer and poet. He has written extensively on aspects of modern history, including the experience of war artists (The Sketchbook War); war correspondents (The Trio); and most recently the surveillance of writers and artists by the Security Services over three decades: (The Secret War Against the Arts). He has also published two collections of poetry.

 

On Being Questioned After Capture: Alcaniz

I stood before my questioner who asked
‘Why leave home?
Why have you come?
Why?’ He must have guessed
‘Because he is a Communist.’

I thought of all the answers I could give
whether death is correct or whether to save
life for a rainy day
and told a lie to cheat his bullet with a word
to use a bullet afterward

On him the bigger lie – a conscript
‘volunteer’ to rape Spain where she slept
to save his own skin
he had come when he sought ‘The Leader’ on his hands and
knees
To crush a thousand years in half an hour
To make Guernica
a wilderness.

I could wait and so could lie
for adjournment to another court
meanwhile to live on my bended knee
to make occasion for another start.
I could imitate the victor, cringe
till I and the world beyond
take our revenge.

1939
Clive Branson
(1907–1944)

 

Selected Poems of Clive Branson
Edited by Richard Knott
Paperback
Release date: 01 May, 2023
Publisher: ‎Smokestack Books
Language: ‎English
122 pages
ISBN-10:1739173007
ISBN-13:978-1739173005
Price: £8.99

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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, *War Poetry Archive, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive A-B


Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter: The Dead Soldier

 

The Dead Soldier
(In memory of Thomas Ashe)

Where the sword has opened the way the man will follow

“Look! they came, the triumphant army!
Over yon hill see their weapons peeping!”
Still I spoke not but my wheel sent turning,
I closed my eyes for my heart was weeping,
My heart was weeping for a dead soldier.

Who is he who looks towards me ?
“’Tis no man but a gay flag flying,”
Red was his mouth and his white brow thoughtful,
Blue his eyes — how my soul is crying,
My soul is crying for a dead soldier.

“Kneel ye down, lest your eyes should dare them,
Kneel ye down and your beads be saying.”
“Lord, on their heads Thy wrath deliver,”
This is the prayer that my lips are praying,
My heart is praying for a dead soldier.

“Best cheer the path of the men victorious,
For he is dead and his blade lies broken,
His march is far where no aid can follow,
And for his people he left no token,
He left no token, the dead soldier.”

The way of the sword a man can follow,
See the young child with his gold hair gleaming.
When falls the oak must the acorn perish?
He lifts the blade and his eyes are dreaming,
He dreams the dream of the dead soldier.

THE END

Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter
(1866 – 1918)
The Dead Soldier
(In memory of Thomas Ashe)

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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Sigerson Shorter, Dora Maria, WAR & PEACE


Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter: The Prisoner

The Prisoner

All day I lie beneath the great pine tree,
Whose perfumed branches wave and shadow me.
I hear the groaning of its straining heart
As in the breeze its thin leaves meet and part
Like frantic fingers loosened and entwined;
I hear it whisper to the sighing wind,
“What of the mountain peaks, where I was born?”
As sharp tears drop I feel its falling thorn.

I see in the far clouds the wild geese fly,
Homeward once more, free, in the storm-swept sky.
Back to the land they loved, all, all, have gone,
How swift the flight by joy and hope led on.
“What of the mountain land where I was born?”
I cry, they pass, glad in the dawning morn,
Home to the moon-pale lake, the heath-clad hill,
And give no thought for one imprisoned still

All day I lie beneath the sad pine tree,
Whose groaning branches wave and shadow me,
Chained to the earth, the dark clay of the grave,
In helpless fashion feel its wild heart rave.
“Free, set free,” I hear its moaning breath,
Where liberty means naught, alas, but death
Ah, freedom is but death.

Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter
(1866 – 1918)
The Prisoner

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Sigerson Shorter, Dora Maria, WAR & PEACE


Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter: Sick I am and sorrowful

 

Sick I am and sorrowful

Sick I am and sorrowful, how can I be well again
Here, where fog and darkness are, and big guns boom all day,
Practising for evil sport? If you speak humanity,
Hatred comes into each face, and so you cease to pray.

How I dread the sound of guns, hate the bark of musketry,
Since the friends I loved are dead, all stricken by the sword.
Full of anger is my heart, full of rage and misery;
How can I grow well again, or be my peace restored?

If I were in Glenmalure, or in Enniskerry now,
Hearing of the coming spring in the pinetree’s song;

If I woke on Arran Strand, dreamt me on the cliffs of Moher,
Could I not grow gay again, should I not be strong?

If I stood with eager heart on the heights of Carrantuohill,
Beaten by the four great winds into hope and joy again,
Far above the cannons’ roar or the scream of musketry,
If I heard the four great seas, what were weariness or pain?

Were I in a little town, Ballybunion, Ballybrack,
Laughing with the children there, I would sing and dance once more,
Heard again the storm clouds roll hanging over Lugnaquilla,
Built dream castles from the sands of Killiney’s golden shore.

If I saw the wild geese fly over the dark lakes of Kerry
Or could hear the secret winds, I could kneel and pray.

But ’tis sick I am and grieving, how can I be well again
Here, where fear and sorrow are—my heart so far away?

Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter
(1866 – 1918)
Sick I am and sorrowful

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Sigerson Shorter, Dora Maria, WAR & PEACE


Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter: Loud Shout The Flaming Tongues of war

 

Loud Shout
The Flaming Tongues of war

Ta’n Sionac Ar Sraidib Ag Faire Go Caocrac
Air—“The West’s Asleep.”

Loud shout the flaming tongues of war.
The cannon’s thunder rolls afar
While Empires tremble for their fall.
Thou art alone amongst them all.
Where is the friend who for thy sake
Will on his sword thy freedom take?
The son who holds thy right alone
Above an Empire or a throne?

Ah, Grannia Wael, thy stricken head
Is bowed in sorrow o’er thy dead,
Thy dead who died for love of thee,
Not for some foreign liberty.
Shall we betray when hope is near,
Our Motherland whom we hold dear,

To go to fight on foreign strand,
For foreign rights and foreign land?

The Lion’s fangs have sought to kill
A Nation’s soul, a Nation’s will;
From tooth and claw thy wounded breast
Has held them safe, has held them blest.
About thy head great eagles are,
They fly with scream and storm of war,
Their shadows fall, we do not know
If they be friend,—if they be foe.

For Lion’s roar we have no fears,
We fought him down the restless years.
We watch the Eagles in the sky,
Lest they should land—or pass us by.
But, yet beware! the Lion goes
To strike our friends—to charm our foes.
By hamlet small, by hill and dale
The creeping foe is on our trail;

His face is kind, his voice is bland,
He prates of faith and fatherland;
Shall we go forth to die and die
For Belgium’s tear, and Serbia’s sigh?
Oh, Volunteers, through field and town

He seeks his prey, he tracks thee down
His voice is soft, his words are fair,
It is the creeping foe, Beware!

Ah, Grannia Wael, in blood and tears
We fought thy battles through the years,
That thou shouldst live we’re glad to die
In prison cell or gallows high.
Oh, cursed be he ! who to our shame
Drives forth thy manhood in thy name,
O, WHILE THE LION LAPS YOUR BLOOD
SHALL WE UNITE IN SERVITUDE.

Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter
(1866 – 1918)
Loud Shout The Flaming Tongues of war

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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Sigerson Shorter, Dora Maria, WAR & PEACE


Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter: Sixteen Dead Men

 

Sixteen Dead Men

Hark! in the still night. Who goes there?
⁠“Fifteen dead men” Why do they wait?
“Hasten, comrade, death is so fair.”
⁠Now comes their Captain through the dim gate.

Sixteen dead men! What on their sword?
⁠“A nation’s honour proud do they bear.”
What on their bent heads? “God’s holy word;
⁠All of their nation’s heart blended in prayer.”

Sixteen dead men! What makes their shroud?
⁠“All of their nation’s love wraps them around.”
Where do their bodies lie, brave and so proud?
⁠“Under the gallows-tree in prison ground.”

Sixteen dead men! Where do they go?
⁠“To join their regiment, where Sarsfield leads;
Wolfe Tone and Emmet, too, well do they know.
⁠There shall they bivouac, telling great deeds.”

Sixteen dead men! Shall they return?
⁠“Yea, they shall come again, breath of our breath.
They on our nation’s hearth made old fires burn.
⁠Guard her unconquered soul, strong in their death.”

Dora Maria Sigerson Shorter
(1866 – 1918)
Sixteen Dead Men
From The Tricolour: Poems of the Irish Revolution (1922)

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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Sigerson Shorter, Dora Maria, WAR & PEACE


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