Fleurs du Mal Magazine
luister
ik ben de profeet
van de herfst
het blad dat niet wil vallen
de twijfelende sneeuw
ik neem toe
toe tot in het duister
Messias van de winter
en loop over water
verlies in godsnaam je heldenmoed
Bert Bevers
luister
(Uit: De stilte voor de winter, Uitgeverij WEL, Bergen op Zoom, 1973)
Bert Bevers is dichter en schrijver. Hij woont en werkt in Antwerpen (Be)
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Autumn, 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
We Wear the Mask
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
Paul Laurence Dunbar
(1872—1906)
We Wear the Mask
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *Archive African American Literature, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Dunbar, Paul Laurence, Dunbar, Paul Laurence, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Paul Laurence Dunbar
With a Book
Words shouting, singing, smiling, frowning—
Sense lacking.
Ah, nothing, more obscure than Browning,
Save blacking.
Ambrose Bierce
(1842—1914)
With a Book
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book Lovers, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bierce, Ambrose, Bierce, Ambrose
“Once there came a man”
Once there came a man
Who said:
“Range me all men of the world in rows.”
And instantly
There was a terrific clamor among the people
Against being ranged in rows.
There was a loud quarrel, world-wide.
It endured for ages;
And blood was shed
By those who would not stand in rows,
And by those who pined to stand in rows.
Eventually, the man went to death, weeping.
And those who stayed in the bloody scuffle
Knew not the great simplicity.
Stephen Crane
(1871—1900)
“Once there came a man”
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Stephen Crane
Niagara
Seen on a Night in November
How frail
Above the bulk
Of crashing water hangs,
Autumnal, evanescent, wan,
The moon.
Adelaide Crapsey
(1878—1914)
Niagara
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Crapsey, Adelaide
Tij noch tijd
Een dikke muur van zand met gras erover.
Meer stelt een dijk niet voor als er geen
wispelturig water valt te weren. Dat weten ze
hier best, maar ook dat je moet willen
leren heersen over wat je in de hand niet
hebt zoals daar storm en vloed en springtij
zijn. Want schijn heeft deze streken ooit te
hard bedrogen. Van verleden valt geen
mededogen te verwachten. Het staat vast.
Maar de rivier blijft in beweging. Ziet, daar
vliedt zij. Vastberaden in haar element alsof
ze op een missie is. Tij noch tijd staat stil.
Bert Bevers
Tij noch tijd
(Onthuld op woonzorgcentrum De Nieuwe Vliedberg in Rilland NL, november 2024)
Bert Bevers is dichter en schrijver
Hij woont en werkt in Antwerpen (Be)
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert, STREET POETRY
Le Jardin des Tuileries
This winter air is keen and cold,
And keen and cold this winter sun,
But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kiosk
The mimic soldiers strut and stride,
Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse cons
Her book, they steal across the square,
And launch their paper navies where
Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee,
And now they rush, a boisterous band—
And, tiny hand on tiny hand,
Climb up the black and leafless tree.
Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,
And children climbed me, for their sake
Though it be winter I would break
Into spring blossoms white and blue!
Oscar Wilde
(1854- 1900)
Le Jardin des Tuileries
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive W-X, Archive W-X, FDM in Paris, Wilde, Oscar, Wilde, Oscar
Stanzas
Oh, come to me in dreams, my love!
I will not ask a dearer bliss;
Come with the starry beams, my love,
And press mine eyelids with thy kiss.
’Twas thus, as ancient fables tell,
Love visited a Grecian maid,
Till she disturbed the sacred spell,
And woke to find her hopes betrayed.
But gentle sleep shall veil my sight,
And Psyche’s lamp shall darkling be,
When, in the visions of the night,
Thou dost renew thy vows to me.
Then come to me in dreams, my love,
I will not ask a dearer bliss;
Come with the starry beams, my love,
And press mine eyelids with thy kiss.
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
(1797—1851)
Stanzas
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Mary Shelley, Percy Byssche Shelley, Shelley, Mary, Shelley, Percy Byssche, Tales of Mystery & Imagination
Vachel Lindsay
(1879 – 1931)
My Lady Is Compared to a Young Tree
When I see a young tree
In its white beginning,
With white leaves
And white buds
Barely tipped with green,
In the April weather,
In the weeping sunshine—
Then I see my lady,
My democratic queen,
Standing free and equal
With the youngest woodland sapling
Swaying, singing in the wind,
Delicate and white:
Soul so near to blossom,
Fragile, strong as death;
A kiss from far-off Eden,
A flash of Judgment’s trumpet—
April’s breath.
Vachel Lindsay poetry
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Lindsay, Vachel
I heard a Fly buzz
– when I died –
I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves of Storm –
The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset – when the King
Be witnessed – in the Room –
I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable – and then it was
There interposed a Fly –
With Blue – uncertain – stumbling Buzz –
Between the light – and me –
And then the Windows failed – and then
I could not see to see –
Emily Dickinson
(1830—1886)
I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Dickinson, Emily, Insects
Zu Abend mein Herz
Am Abend hört man den Schrei der Fledermäuse,
Zwei Rappen springen auf der Wiese,
Der rote Ahorn rauscht.
Dem Wanderer erscheint die kleine Schenke am Weg.
Herrlich schmecken junger Wein und Nüsse,
Herrlich: betrunken zu taumeln in dämmernden Wald.
Durch schwarzes Geäst tönen schmerzliche Glocken,
Auf das Gesicht tropft Tau.
Georg Trakl
(1887 – 1914)
Zu Abend mein Herz
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *War Poetry Archive, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Trakl, Georg, Trakl, Georg
The Lover and the Moon
A lover whom duty called over the wave,
With himself communed: “Will my love be true
If left to herself? Had I better not sue
Some friend to watch over her, good and grave?
But my friend might fail in my need,” he said,
“And I return to find love dead.
Since friendships fade like the flow’rs of June,
I will leave her in charge of the stable moon.”
Then he said to the moon: “O dear old moon,
Who for years and years from thy throne above
Hast nurtured and guarded young lovers and love,
My heart has but come to its waiting June,
And the promise time of the budding vine;
Oh, guard thee well this love of mine.”
And he harked him then while all was still,
And the pale moon answered and said, ‘I will.’
And he sailed in his ship o’er many seas,
And he wandered wide o’er strange far strands:
in isles of the south and in Orient lands,
Where pestilence lurks in the breath of the breeze.
But his star was high, so he braved the main,
And sailed him blithely home again;
And with joy he bended his footsteps soon
To learn of his love from the matron moon.
She sat as of yore, in her olden place,
Serene as death, in her silver chair.
A white rose gleamed in her whiter hair,
And the tint of a blush was on her face.
At sight of the youth she sadly bowed
And hid her face ’neath a gracious cloud.
She faltered faint on the night’s dim marge,
But “How,” spoke the youth, “have you kept your charge?”
The moon was sad at a trust ill-kept;
The blush went out in her blanching cheek,
And her voice was timid and low and weak,
As she made her plea and sighed and wept.
“Oh, another prayed and another plead,
And I couldn’t resist,” she answering said;
“But love still grows in the hearts of men:
Go forth, dear youth, and love again.”
But he turned him away from her proffered grace.
“Thou art false, O moon, as the hearts of men,
I will not, will not love again.”
And he turned sheer ’round with a soul-sick face
To the sea, and cried: “Sea, curse the moon,
Who makes her vows and forgets so soon.”
And the awful sea with anger stirred,
And his breast heaved hard as he lay and heard.
And ever the moon wept down in rain,
And ever her sighs rose high in wind;
But the earth and sea were deaf and blind,
And she wept and sighed her griefs in vain.
And ever at night, when the storm is fierce,
The cries of a wraith through the thunders pierce;
And the waves strain their awful hands on high
To tear the false moon from the sky.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
(1872 – 1906)
The Lover and the Moon
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *Archive African American Literature, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Dunbar, Paul Laurence, Dunbar, Paul Laurence, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Paul Laurence Dunbar
Thank you for reading Fleurs du Mal - magazine for art & literature