Fleurs du Mal Magazine
Fable
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel;
And the former called the latter ‘Little Prig.’
Bun replied,
‘You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together,
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I’m not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I’ll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.’
Ralph Waldo Emerson
(1803—1882)
Fable
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More in: Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Emerson, Ralph Waldo, Natural history
Censorship is so 1984
BANNED BOOKS WEEK 2026
Oct. 4-10
Website: bannedbooks,org
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More in: - Book Lovers, - Book News, - Book Stories, Banned Books, PEN Actions, PRESS & PUBLISHING, REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS, The Art of Reading
Dream-Land
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule —
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of Space — out of Time.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters — lone and dead, —
Their still waters — still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead, —
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily, —
By the mountains — near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, —
By the grey woods, — by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp, —
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls, —
By each spot the most unholy —
In each nook most melancholy, —
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past —
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by —
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth — and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region —
For the spirit that walks in shadow
O! it is an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not — dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
Edgar Allan Poe
(1809—1849)
Dream-Land
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More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Edgar Allan Poe, Poe, Edgar Allan, Poe, Edgar Allan, Tales of Mystery & Imagination
More in: - Book Lovers, - Book News, Art & Literature News, Banned Books, PEN Actions, PRESS & PUBLISHING, REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS
Love’s Secret
Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,
Ah! she did depart!
Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveler came by,
Silently, invisibly
He took her with a sigh.
William Blake
(1757—1827)
Love’s Secret
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Blake, William
Epilogue
At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,
When you set your fancies free,
Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned—
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so,
—Pity me?
Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!
What had I on earth to do
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel
—Being—who?
One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
Sleep to wake.
No, at noonday in the bustle of man’s work-time
Greet the unseen with a cheer!
Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,
“Strive and thrive!” cry “Speed,—fight on, fare ever
There as here!”
Robert Browning
(1812-1889)
Epilogue
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Browning, Robert
David Duchovny’s debut book of poetry covers a range of intimate themes, in particular his relationship with his father, who looms large throughout the work. Here, Duchovny’s typically clever wordplay distills to an emotionally impactful portrayal of what the author holds most dear. His approach to poetry is beautifully encapsulated in his introduction:
“Poetry is not useful. And that is exactly why we need it. It reminds us of two important things: our ultimate lack of agency (unpopular to say, I know) and our inability to say anything plain, our inability to capture what it means to be human with the imperfect tool of words; we come face-to-face with our shadow selves, for in the end we will all die and be forgotten, and come away with nothing, nothing in the way of utility anyway, no talking points, no bullet points, no propaganda, no resolutions, no policy, no knowledge. If anything, maybe we remember a few lines . . . something like a pop song from the collective unconscious, something like wisdom . . . You see, I wanted to say it plain, but out comes that torrent of modifiers and adjustments, denials, double negatives, shading, stabs at wit, backpedaling, playing at capturing the lightning. Maybe this time. Maybe that’s what a poem is–that glorious feeling of Maybe this time I’ll get it right. If that’s the case, it seems a worthy enterprise to me.
With About Time–perhaps his most personal work to date–Duchovny (author, actor, singer-songwriter, filmmaker, podcaster) continues his journey as one of our most prolific creators.
David Duchovny is an award-winning actor, director, New York Times best-selling author, and singer-songwriter.
With an acting career spanning more than three decades, Duchovny is a two-time Golden Globe winner and four-time Emmy nominee.
His novels include Truly Like Lightning, Holy Cow, The Reservoir (novella), and Bucky F*cking Dent, which Duchovny adapted into the film Reverse the Curse. The film, directed by Duchovny, premiered at the 2023 Tribeca Film Festival.
As a musician, he has released three studio albums: Hell or Highwater, Every Third Thought, and Gestureland.
He is the host of the podcast Fail Better.
About Time: Poems is his most recent book.
David Duchovny:
About Time
Poems
English
Publ: Akashic Books,U.S.
Publ.date: 1st september 2026
96 pages
Paperback
ISBN-10: 1636143245
ISBN-13: 978-1636143248
€ 23,81
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More in: # Music Archive, #Editors Choice Archiv, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, David Duchovny
Surakarta
Rijstkorrels in een boerenvuist.
Dessa’s samenklonterend van vruchtbaarheid
tot een hofstad van broeiende intriges.
Zo ontkiemde Kartasura in machtig Mataram.
Beraamd door VOC en regenten viel het rijk uit-
een. Beide buursteden verzonken in naijver
om de zuiverste klank, het heldhaftigste spel,
de willigste wending van lenige lendenen.
Ervaren vingers brachten met was de strijd
van hertogen, schoonzonen en demonen,
de cirkelgang van kiem tot oogst tot kiem terug
tot broeiende patronen voor op elke huid.
In deze erfenis van kratongoud, schroeibruine
batiks en vergoten communistisch bloed
gloeit de ziel van Solo tot lang na ons na.
Albert Hagenaars
Surakarta
Uit: Javaanse Suite
Surabaya
Lippenzoete naam, riviermonding krioelend
van gevaar, muterend tot mythe van ontstaan:
de krokodil overwon de witte haai.
Vissers, boeren en horigen vormden de vuist
van Majapahit die de Mongolen plette
en die die ene laatste meidag in ieders ziel sloeg.
Sunan Ampel verjoeg alle volgers van bijgeloof,
zijn drukbezochte graf in de Arabische buurt
zindert na eeuwen onverminderd als een batterij.
En hier ook, na misverstand na misverstand,
verloor brigadier Aubertin Mallaby, brandend
in zijn Cadillac bij de Rode Brug, zijn enige vin.
Prauwen werden containerschepen,
paalhutten wolkenkrabbers; wat blijft is de walm
van vis, het askleurige water van de Mas,
en het besef van niet aflatende strijd om eer.
Albert Hagenaars
Surabaya
Uit: Javaanse Suite
Albert Hagenaars: Javaanse Suite II
De bundel Ramkoers – Gedichten 1979-2026 waar
Javaanse Suite deel van uitmaakt, verschijnt dit najaar.
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More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Albert Hagenaars, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Hagenaars, Albert
Toter Mond
Schwer die eisendunkeln Pappeln rauschen.
Schwül, ein heißdunkler Violenkelch,
Flammt der schwarze Himmel.
Ohne Echo starrt die Nacht.
Ohne Echo pocht mein Herz.
Max Dauthendey
(1867–1918)
Toter Mond
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D
Chanson de la
plus haute tour
Oisive jeunesse
A tout asservie,
Par délicatesse
J’ai perdu ma vie.
Ah ! Que le temps vienne
Où les coeurs s’éprennent.
Je me suis dit : laisse,
Et qu’on ne te voie :
Et sans la promesse
De plus hautes joies.
Que rien ne t’arrête,
Auguste retraite.
J’ai tant fait patience
Qu’à jamais j’oublie ;
Craintes et souffrances
Aux cieux sont parties.
Et la soif malsaine
Obscurcit mes veines.
Ainsi la prairie
A l’oubli livrée,
Grandie, et fleurie
D’encens et d’ivraies
Au bourdon farouche
De cent sales mouches.
Ah ! Mille veuvages
De la si pauvre âme
Qui n’a que l’image
De la Notre-Dame !
Est-ce que l’on prie
La Vierge Marie ?
Oisive jeunesse
A tout asservie,
Par délicatesse
J’ai perdu ma vie.
Ah ! Que le temps vienne
Où les coeurs s’éprennent !
Arthur Rimbaud
(1854 – 1891)
Chanson de la plus haute tour
Derniers vers
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More in: Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Arthur Rimbaud, Rimbaud, Arthur, Rimbaud, Arthur
At fourteen
It is extraordinary
That she made fourteen
And will make fourteen
And does fourteen sixteen
Gradually
It is extraordinary.
Gertrude Stein
(1874 – 1946)
At fourteen
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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, FDM in Paris, Gertrude Stein, Modernisme, Stein, Gertrude
Het licht van het inzicht
De elegante cadans van het geheugen danst
met in geen maten te meten bekoring. Als
stofjes in de zon dwarrelen fragmentjes
jeugd door het licht van het inzicht, door
de lessen in het ontleden van genegenheid.
Voor de minzame reus die vroeger wordt.
Bert Bevers
Het licht van het inzicht
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
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