Fleurs du Mal Magazine
In der Frühe
Die Silhouette deines Leibs steht in der Frühe dunkel vor dem trüben Licht
Der zugehangnen Jalousien. Ich fühl, im Bette liegend, hostiengleich mir
zugewendet dein Gesicht.
Da du aus meinen Armen dich gelöst, hat dein geflüstert
»Ich muß fort« nur an die fernsten Tore meines Traums gereicht –
Nun seh ich, wie durch Schleier, deine Hand, wie sie mit leichtem Griff
das weiße Hemd die Brüste niederstreicht . .
Die Strümpfe . . nun den Rock . . das Haar gerafft . . schon bist du fremd,
für Tag und Welt geschmückt . .
Ich öffne leis die Türe . . küsse dich . . du nickst, schon fern, ein Lebewohl . .
und bist entrückt.
Ich höre, schon im Bette wieder, wie dein sachter Schritt im Treppenhaus
verklingt,
Bin wieder im Geruche deines Körpers eingesperrt, der aus den Kissen
strömend warm in meine Sinne dringt.
Morgen wird heller. Vorhang bläht sich. Junger Wind und erste Sonne will herein.
Lärmen quillt auf . . Musik der Frühe . . sanft in Morgenträume eingesungen
schlaf ich ein.
Ernst Stadler
(1883 – 1914)
In der Frühe
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More in: *War Poetry Archive, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Ernst Stadler, Modernisme, Stadler, Ernst
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)
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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
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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
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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”
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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
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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)
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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
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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
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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
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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 –
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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
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More in: *War Poetry Archive, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Trakl, Georg, Trakl, Georg
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