Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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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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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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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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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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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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
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From Len Pennie, the performance poet sensation, come electric debut collections about loving, learning, surviving, growing and giving – an instant Sunday Times bestseller in two poetry books of modern Scots poetry: ‘Poyums'(2024) & ‘Poyums Annaw'(2025).
‘Poyums’
by Len Pennie
Publisher : Canongate Books
Publication date: April 23, 2024
Edition: Main
Language: English
Print length: 128 pages
ISBN-10: 1805301381
ISBN-13: 978-1805301387
Hardcover
11,99 Euro
A formidable follow up to her award-winning debut poetry collection, Len Pennie‘s poyums annaw is just like her: defiant, angry and trailblazing.
These poems are a call to arms, confronting ideas of patriarchy, gender-based violence and societal injustice with equal parts tenderness, quick-wit and righteous fury. poyums annaw firmly cements Len as a defining voice in contemporary Scots poetry.
‘Poyums Annaw’
by Len Pennie (Author)
Publisher: Canongate Books
Publication date: September 30, 2025
Edition: Main
Language: English
Print length : 144 pages
ISBN-10: 1837263280
ISBN-13: 978-1837263288
Hardcover
21,99 Euro
Len Pennie (1999) is an award winning poet who writes predominantly in the Scots language. Her first book poyums won 2024 Scots book of the year and The British Book Awards Discover Book of the Year. She writes passionately about the promotion of minoritised languages, survivors of domestic abuse and the destigmatisation of mental illness. She has a massive following on social media of nearly 1.3 million engaged followers and her celebrity fans include Nigella Lawson and Michael Sheen.
Instagram & TikTok @misspunnypennie | Twitter @Lenniesaurus
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Depuis qu’il a survécu à une fièvre mortelle, personne n’a vu son visage.
Chaque nuit, l’enfant quitte le presbytère où il a été recueilli et s’enfonce dans les bois. Sous la lune, la forêt devient son territoire. Cette vie clandestine le protège du regard des autres.
Alors qu’il entre dans l’adolescence, une jeune fille apparaît parmi les arbres. Elle ne ressemble en rien aux habitants de ce village perdu, hanté par des haines ancestrales. Mais elle aussi porte un secret et rêve d’échapper à l’avenir qui lui est promis.
Le Visage de la nuit est un roman éblouissant, traversé d’éclairs sur l’adolescence, la violence et le désir.
Née en 1990, Cécile Coulon consacre sa thèse de Lettres Modernes au « Sport et à la littérature ». “Le Roi n’a pas sommeil” a obtenu le Prix Mauvais Genres France Culture / Le Nouvel Observateur 2012, et s’est vendu à près de 20 000 exemplaires. Avec “Le Rire du grand blessé”, en 2013, elle nous a offert une fable d’anticipation sur la place de la littérature dans notre société. Elle est considérée comme l’une des voix les plus prometteuses de sa génération.
Cécile Coulon: « une sacrée raconteuse d’histoire » – Le Figaro littéraire
Cécile Coulon:
Le Visage de la nuit
Grand livre
Éditeur: Iconoclaste
Date de publication: 8 janvier 2026
Langue: Français
ISBN-10: 2378805713
ISBN-13: 978-2378805715
Broché
€ 21,90
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To a Wreath of Snow
O transient voyager of heaven!
O silent sign of winter skies!
What adverse wind thy sail has driven
To dungeons where a prisoner lies?
Methinks the hands that shut the sun
So sternly from this morning’s brow
Might still their rebel task have done
And checked a thing so frail as thou.
They would have done it had they known
The talisman that dwelt in thee,
For all the suns that ever shone
Have never been so kind to me!
For many a week, and many a day
My heart was weighed with sinking gloom
When morning rose in mourning grey
And faintly lit my prison room
But angel like, when I awoke,
Thy silvery form, so soft and fair
Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke
Of cloudy skies and mountains bare;
The dearest to a mountaineer
Who, all life long has loved the snow
That crowned his native summits drear,
Better, than greenest plains below.
And voiceless, soulless, messenger
Thy presence waked a thrilling tone
That comforts me while thou art here
And will sustain when thou art gone
Emily Brontë
(1818—1848)
To a Wreath of Snow
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Snow
Look up…
From bleakening hills
Blows down the light, first breath
Of wintry wind…look up, and scent
The snow!
Adelaide Crapsey
(1878—1914)
Snow
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