Fleurs du Mal Magazine
Jonathan Swift
(1667-1745)
PHYLLIS
ESPONDING Phyllis was endued
With ev’ry talent of a prude:
She trembled when a man drew near;
Salute her, and she turned her ear:
I o’er against her you were placed,
She durst not look above your waist:
She’d rather take you to her bed,
Than let you see her dress her head;
In church you hear her, thro’ the crowd,
Repeat the absolution loud:
In church, secure behind her fan,
She durst behold that monster man:
There practised how to place her head,
And bite her lips to make them red;
Or, on the mat devoutly kneeling,
Would lift her eyes up to the ceiling.
For neighboring beaux to see it bare.
At length a lucky lover came,
And found admittance to the dame.
Suppose all parties now agreed,
The writings drawn, the lawyer feed,
The vicar and the ring bespoke:
Guess, how could such a match be broke?
See then what mortals place their bliss in!
Next morn betimes the bride was missing:
The mother screamed, the father chid;
Where can this idle wench be hid?
No news of Phyl! the bridegroom came,
And thought his bride had skulked for shame;
Because her father used to say,
The girl had such a bashful way!
Now John the butler must be sent
To learn the road that Phyllis went:
The groom was wished to saddle Crop;
For John must neither light nor stop,
But find her, wheresoe’er she fled,
And bring her back alive or dead.
See here again the devil to do!
For truly John was missing too:
The horse and pillion both were gone!
Phyllis, it seems, was fled with John.
Old Madam, who went up to find
What papers Phyl had left behind,
A letter on the toilet sees,
“To my much honoured father–these–“
(‘Tis always done, romances tell us,
When daughters run away with fellows,)
Filled with the choicest common-places,
By others used in the like cases.
“That long ago a fortune-teller
Exactly said what now befell her;
And in a glass had made her see
A serving-man of low degree.
It was her fate, must be forgiven;
For marriages were made in Heaven:
His pardon begged: but, to be plain,
She’d do’t if ’twere to do again:
Thank’d God, ’twas neither shame nor sin;
For John was come of honest kin.
Love never thinks of rich and poor;
She’d beg with John from door to door.
Forgive her, if it be a crime;
She’ll never do’t another time.
She ne’er before in all her life
Once disobey’d him, maid nor wife.”
One argument she summ’d up all in,
“The thing was done and past recalling;
And therefore hoped she should recover
His favour when his passion’s over.
She valued not what others thought her,
And was–his most obedient daughter.”
Fair maidens all, attend the Muse,
Who now the wand’ring pair pursues:
Away they rode in homely sort,
Their journey long, their money short;
The loving couple well bemired;
The horse and both the riders tired:
Their vituals bad, their lodgings worse;
Phyl cried! and John began to curse:
Phyl wished that she had strained a limb,
When first she ventured out with him;
John wish’d that he had broke a leg,
When first for her he quitted Peg.
But what adventures more befell ’em,
The Must hath no time to tell ’em;
How Johnny wheedled, threatened, fawned,
Till Phyllis all her trinkets pawn’d:
How oft she broke her marriage vows,
In kindness to maintain her spouse,
Till swains unwholesome spoiled the trade;
For now the surgeon must be paid,
To whom those perquisites are gone,
In Christian justice due to John.
When food and raiment now grew scarce,
Fate put a period to the farce,
And with exact poetic justice;
For John was landlord, Phyllis hostess;
They keep, at Stains, the Old Blue Boar,
Are cat and dog, and rogue and whore.
“Phyllis” is reprinted from Miscellanies in Prose and Verse. Jonathan Swift. London: Benjamin Motte, 1727.
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William Cartwright
(1611-1643)
ON A VIRTUOUS YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN
THAT DIED SUDDENLY
He who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex,
Whose lowest thought was above all our sex,
Accounted nothing death but t’ be reprieved,
And died as free from sickness as she lived.
Others are dragg’d away, or must be driven,
She only saw her time and stept to Heaven;
Where seraphims view all her glories o’er,
As one return’d that had been there before.
For while she did this lower world adorn,
Her body seem’d rather assumed than born;
So rarified, advanced, so pure and whole,
That body might have been another’s soul;
And equally a miracle it were
That she could die, or that she could live here.
William Cartwright poetry
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The Sorrows of Young Werther
Die Leiden des jungen Werther (01)
by J.W. von Goethe
Translated by R.D. Boylan
PREFACE
I have carefully collected whatever I have been able to learn of the story of poor Werther, and here present it to you, knowing that you will thank me for it. To his spirit and character you cannot refuse your admiration and love: to his fate you will not deny your tears.
And thou, good soul, who sufferest the same distress as he endured once, draw comfort from his sorrows; and let this little book be thy friend, if, owing to fortune or through thine own fault, thou canst not find a dearer companion.
BOOK I
4 May 1771
How happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend, what a thing is the heart of man! To leave you, from whom I have been inseparable, whom I love so dearly, and yet to feel happy! I know you will forgive me. Have not other attachments been specially appointed by fate to torment a head like mine? Poor Leonora! and yet I was not to blame. Was it my fault, that, whilst the peculiar charms of her sister afforded me an agreeable entertainment, a passion for me was engendered in her feeble heart? And yet am I wholly blameless? Did I not encourage her emotions? Did I not feel charmed at those truly genuine expressions of nature, which, though but little mirthful in reality, so often amused us? Did I not–but oh! what is man, that he dares so to accuse himself? My dear friend I promise you I will improve; I will no longer, as has ever been my habit, continue to ruminate on every petty vexation which fortune may dispense; I will enjoy the present, and the past shall be for me the past.
No doubt you are right, my best of friends, there would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men–and God knows why they are so fashioned–did not employ their imaginations so assiduously in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their present lot with equanimity. Be kind enough to inform my mother that I shall attend to her business to the best of my ability, and shall give her the earliest information about it. I have seen my aunt, and find that she is very far from being the disagreeable person our friends allege her to be. She is a lively, cheerful woman, with the best of hearts. I explained to her my mother’s wrongs with regard to that part of her portion which has been withheld from her. She told me the motives and reasons of her own conduct, and the terms on which she is willing to give up the whole, and to do more than we have asked. In short, I cannot write further upon this subject at present; only assure my mother that all will go on well.
And I have again observed, my dear friend, in this trifling affair, that misunderstandings and neglect occasion more mischief in the world than even malice and wickedness. At all events, the two latter are of less frequent occurrence.
In other respects I am very well off here. Solitude in this terrestrial paradise is a genial balm to my mind, and the young spring cheers with its bounteous promises my oftentimes misgiving heart. Every tree, every bush, is full of flowers; and one might wish himself transformed into a butterfly, to float about in this ocean of perfume, and find his whole existence in it.
The town itself is disagreeable; but then, all around, you find an inexpressible beauty of nature. This induced the late Count M to lay out a garden on one of the sloping hills which here intersect each other with the most charming variety, and form the most lovely valleys. The garden is simple; and it is easy to perceive, even upon your first entrance, that the plan was not designed by a scientific gardener, but by a man who wished to give himself up here to the enjoyment of his own sensitive heart. Many a tear have I already shed to the memory of its departed master in a summer-house which is now reduced to ruins, but was his favourite resort, and now is mine. I shall soon be master of the place. The gardener has become attached to me within the last few days, and he will lose nothing thereby.
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
To be continued
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Acht vertalingen van gedichten van T.T. Cloete (1924)
door Carina van der Walt & Geno Spoormans
3.
T.T. Cloete
Eiewysheid
ek groei aarde toe krom ek hel lewendig skuins hoe meer jare ek haal hoe meer raak my kinkels bestendig ek moet my vertikaal handhaaf ek moet sekondegetrou onthou om asem te haal om koppig uit te hou en te beweeg krapskeef en aaphinkende ek moet uitputtend aanhou oefen om deur die nag te leef ek moet vratig bly drink en eet en sweet en hondhyg ek moet vermoeiend bly dink ín teen die groot vergeet
T.T. Cloete
Eigenwijsheid
ik groei krom naar de aarde toe mijn lijf verzinkt
schuin en hoe meer jaren ik haal
hoe meer mijn kabel bestendig kinkt
verticaal
handhaaf ik mij ter nauw
en stipt adem ik elke haal
waarop ik koppig uithou
ik beweeg in kreeftsgang
hinkepink als een aap mijn oefeningen getrouw
en hou de nacht in bedwang
ik moet vretig blijven drinken
en eten en zweten
en hijgen als een hond tot vermoeiends blijven denken
tegen het grote vergeten
T.T. Cloete 8 gedichten: Vertalingen uit het Zuid-Afrikaans door Carina van der Walt & Geno Spoormans 2010
(wordt vervolgd)
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Nieuwe bundel
Leo van der Sterren:
Mythogrammen
Pathetiek die bedriegt. Plechtigheid die misleidt. Frauduleuze verhevenheid. Mythogrammen bestaat uit gedichten die, ingebed in valse romantiek, allemaal kleine, op zichzelf staande mythen vormen. Voer voor de lichtgelovigen. Maar elke mythe in deze verzameling wil slechts een ironisch verzinsel zijn dat niet meer nut heeft dan het genot dat het verschaft. Een ornament. Een bron van amusement. Deze verdichtsels zijn spannend genoeg om te vermaken. En misschien bevat een enkel gedicht zelfs een heuse waarheid als een koe. Tot stand gekomen tussen 1976 en 2002 vond een deel van de gedichten eerder onderdak in gerenommeerde literaire tijdschriften.
Leo van der Sterren: “Geboren in 1959 te Venray waar ik nog altijd woonachtig ben, ving ik op mijn vijftiende aan met schrijven. Sindsdien schrijf ik omdat het moet en wil ik ook weten waar die plicht vandaan komt. Na mijn debuut in 1987 heb ik in talloze Nederlandse en Vlaamse literaire tijdschriften gepubliceerd. In 2008 verscheen mijn verhalenbundel bij uitgeverij Boekscout.nl. Ten slotte ben ik de drijvende kracht achter de weblog “
Gebruiksaanwijzing
Verwijder het beslag en licht de tip.
Beweeg het witte lipje linksom tegen
de schikring in de richting van de stip-
pellijnen en verbreek aldus het zegel.
Ontdoe u van het rode ezelsoor.
Ontsluit het doosje (zie afbeelding veertien)
en neem de fles eruit. Goed schudden voor
gebruik. De dop indrukken om te keren.
Schenk in een droge, voorverwarmde mok
precies negenentwintig komma negen-
entwintig milliliter. Met één slok
en rechtop staand de mok vervolgens legen.
Loop driemaal rond een authentieke bierkaai
en driemaal rond een grafsteen op een draf.
Vertolk nu driemaal drie is negen driemaal
en nog eens en ga dan terug naar af.
Leo van der Sterren : Mythogrammen
ISBN 978-94-022-0464-3
# website uitgeverij Boekenscout
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.jpg)
Kurt Tucholsky
(1890-1935)
Der Graben
Mutter, wozu hast Du Deinen aufgezogen,
Hast Dich zwanzig Jahr’ um ihn gequält?
Wozu ist er Dir in Deinen Arm geflogen,
Und Du hast ihm leise was erzählt?
Bis sie ihn Dir weggenommen haben
Für den Graben, Mutter, für den Graben!
Junge, kannst Du noch an Vater denken?
Vater nahm Dich oft auf seinen Arm,
Und er wollt’ Dir einen Groschen schenken,
Und er spielte mit Dir Räuber und Gendarm
Bis sie ihn Dir weggenommen haben
Für den Graben, Junge, für den Graben!
Werft die Fahnen fort!
Die Militärkapellen spielen auf
Zu Eurem Todestanz!
Seid Ihr hin?
Seid Ihr hin?
Ein Kranz von Immortellen,
Das ist dann der Dank des Vaterlands!
Hört auf Todesröcheln und Gestöhne!
Drüben stehen Väter, Mütter, Söhne,
Schuften schwer, wie ihr, um’s bißchen Leben.
Wollt Ihr denen nicht die Hände geben?
Reicht die Bruderhand als schönste aller Gaben
Über’n Graben, Leute, über’n Graben!
Kurt Tucholsky poetry
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De Titaan: Literair blad uit het zuiden
In januari 2014 verschijnt het eerste nummer van De Titaan, een nieuw literair blad uit het zuiden. De Titaan is opgericht door Tilburgers Andrew Cartwright, Anneroos Goosen, Lukas Meijsen en Martijn Neggers.
De Titaan is een krant van twaalf pagina’s vol literatuur. In het eerste nummer van De Titaan staan o.a. gedichten van Delphine Lecompte en korte verhalen van Özcan Akyol, A.H.J. Dautzenberg en Bart Smout. Op de achterpagina staat een interview met Remco Campert.
De Titaan heeft een aantal vaste medewerkers. In ieder nummer staat bijvoorbeeld een cartoon van Jeroen de Leijer en een ZKV van Joubert Pignon. In iedere Titaan staat natuurlijk ook een puzzelpagina en een weerbericht, want dat hoort zo, in een krant.
Een jaarabonnement op De Titaan (vier nummers) kost € 10,-, losse nummers kosten € 3,-. De Titaan is vanaf 18 januari te koop bij Boekhandel Livius in Tilburg en te lezen in verschillende Tilburgse cafés.
# Informatie over abonnementen enz. op website: www.titaan.nu
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Rupert Brooke
(1887-1915)
TIARE TAHITI
AMUA, when our laughter ends,
And hearts and bodies, brown as white,
Are dust about the doors of friends,
Or scent ablowing down the night,
Then, oh! then, the wise agree,
Comes our immortality.
Mamua, there waits a land
Hard for us to understand.
Out of time, beyond the sun,
All are one in Paradise,
You and Pupure are one,
And Taü, and the ungainly wise.
There the Eternals are, and there
The Good, the Lovely, and the True,
And Types, whose earthly copies were
The foolish broken things we knew;
There is the Face, whose ghosts we are;
The real, the never-setting Star;
And the Flower, of which we love
Faint and fading shadows here;
Never a tear, but only Grief;
Dance, but not the limbs that move;
Songs in Song shall disappear;
Instead of lovers, Love shall be;
For hearts, Immutability;
And there, on the Ideal Reef,
Thunders the Everlasting Sea!
And my laughter, and my pain,
Shall home to the Eternal Brain.
And all lovely things, they say,
Meet in Loveliness again;
Miri’s laugh, Teipo’s feet,
And the hands of Matua,
Stars and sunlight there shall meet
Coral’s hues and rainbows there,
And Teüra’s braided hair;
And with the starred tiare’s white,
And white birds in the dark ravine,
And flamboyants ablaze at night,
And jewels, and evening’s after-green,
And dawns of pearl and gold and red,
Mamua, your lovelier head!
And there’ll no more be one who dreams
Under the ferns, of crumbling stuff,
Eyes of illusion, mouth that seems,
All time-entangled human love.
And you’ll no longer swing and sway
Divinely down the scented shade,
Where feet to Ambulation fade,
And moons are lost in endless Day.
How shall we wind these wreaths of ours,
Where there are neither heads nor flowers?
Oh, Heaven’s Heaven! — but we’ll be missing
The palms, and sunlight, and the south;
And there’s an end, I think, of kissing,
When our mouths are one with Mouth …
Taü here, Mamua,
Crown the hair, and come away!
Hear the calling of the moon,
And the whispering scents that stray
About the idle warm lagoon.
Hasten, hand in human hand,
Down the dark, the flowered way,
Along the whiteness of the sand,
And in the water’s soft caress,
Wash the mind of foolishness,
Mamua, until the day.
Spend the glittering moonlight there
Pursuing down the soundless deep
Limbs that gleam and shadowy hair,
Or floating lazy, half-asleep.
Dive and double and follow after,
Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call,
With lips that fade, and human laughter
And faces individual,
Well this side of Paradise! …
There’s little comfort in the wise.
Source: Rupert Brooke. London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1915
Rupert Brooke poetry
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Bundel bij 50 jaar uitgeverij Opwenteling
Onnaspeurbaar: van Frans Kuipers tot Hans Vlek
“Tijd, Iedereen zegt dat je erg veranderd bent.” dichtte Frans Kuipers in Gottegot & Bubble Up (1977, vers 6). Het was niet de eerste bundel die de Eindhovense uitgeverij Opwenteling van Kuipers uitbracht. ‘Zoals wij’, het debuut van deze dichter, verscheen al in 1965 bij Opwenteling. Niemand kon nog vermoeden dat Gerrit Komrij later negen gedichten van Kuipers zou opnemen in zijn vermaarde bloemlezing.
Het gedicht ‘vers 6’ opent de jubileumbundel ‘Onnaspeurbaar. 50 jaar Opwenteling.’ die Opwenteling op 29 december 2013 presenteerde. De bundel bevat een kleine 50 gedichten. Samen laten ze zien hoeveel talent er in 50 jaar bij Opwenteling is verschenen. De bundel is daarmee overigens geen doorsnede van een periode. Het is eerder een bloemlezing waarmee de huidige Opwentelaars aangeven hoe Opwenteling anno 2013 denkt over poëtische kwaliteit. In die zin markeert de bundel eerder het begin van een nieuwe periode dan de afsluiting van een voorbije.
Opwenteling werd in 1962 geboren. Geestelijk vader was Joop Oversteegen, die het eigen geluid van Brabantse dichters wilde laten horen. Dat hij daarin geslaagd is, daarover bestaat geen twijfel. Opwenteling ontwikkelde zich tot een ideële uitgeverij, gerund door vrijwilligers, die honderden dichters de kans gaf te debuteren. Voor een aantal bleef het bij een debuut. Anderen, onder wie Frans Kuipers, maar ook Maria van der Steen, Frans Babylon, Hans Vlek, Hans van de Waarsenburg groeiden uit tot nationaal bekende poëtische grootheden.
Onnaspeurbaar. 50 Jaar Opwenteling
Uitgever Stichting Opwenteling
ISBN-13 9789063381578 / ISBN-10 9063381573
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Ann Meskens & Dirk van Delft in VPRO BOEKEN
De Vlaamse filosoof Ann Meskens was twee jaar gastschrijfster aan de Gerrit Rietveld Academie in Amsterdam. Ze mocht in en uit lopen wanneer ze maar wou en vrij denken en schrijven over wat ze zag. Het resultaat is een boek in tekst en in beeld: The making of: werkplaats voor mogelijke kunst.
Het natuurkundig laboratorium van Philips is een van de meest gerenommeerde onderzoekscentra ter wereld. Hoe dat tot stand kwam beschrijven Dirk van Delft en Ad Maas in Philips Research, 100 jaar uitvindingen die ertoe doen.
VPRO Boeken is aanstaande zondag (5 januari 2014) te zien op Nederland 1, van 11.20 tot 12.00 uur.
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Charles Wolfe
(1791-1823)
TO MARY
F I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e’er be o’er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,
And think ’twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak–thou dost not say
What thou ne’er left’st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!
If thou wouldst stay, e’en as thou art,
All cold and all serene–
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where they smiles have been.
While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there–I lay thee on thy grave,
And I am now alone!
I do not think, where’er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne’er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!
Charles Wolfe poetry
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Thomas Chatterton
(1752-1770)
AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE
N Virgynë the sweltrie sun gan sheene,
And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie;
The apple rodded from its palie greene,
And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie;
The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie;
‘Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare,
And eke the grounde was dighte in its moste defte aumere.
The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie,
Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue,
When from the sea arist in drear arraie
A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue,
The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe,
Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face,
And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd up apace.
Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side,
Which dide unto Seyncte Godwine’s covent lede,
A hapless pilgrim moneynge did abide.
Pore in his newe, ungentle in his weede,
Longe bretful of the miseries of neede,
Where from the hail-stone coulde the almer flie?
He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie.
Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne;
Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade!
Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne!
Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde.
Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde,
Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves;
Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.
The gatherd storme is rype; the bigge drops falle;
The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine;
The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall,
And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine;
Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe;
The welkin opes; the yellow levynne flies;
And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies.
Liste! now the thunder’s rattling clymmynge sound
Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs,
Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown’d,
Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges;
The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges;
Again the levynne and the thunder poures,
And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers.
Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine,
The Abbote of Seyncte Godwynes convente came;
His chapournette was drented with the reine,
And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame;
He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same;
The storme encreasen, and he drew aside,
With the mist almes craver neere to the holme to bide.
His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne,
With a gold button fasten’d neere his chynne;
His autremete was edged with golden twynne,
And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne;
Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne:
The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte,
For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte.
“An almes, sir prieste!” the droppynge pilgrim saide,
“O! let me waite within your covente dore,
Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade,
And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer;
Helpless and ould am I alas! and poor;
No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche;
All yatte I call my owne is this my silver crouche.”
“Varlet,” replyd the Abbatte, “cease your dinne;
This is no season almes and prayers to give;
Mie porter never lets a faitour in;
None touch mie rynge who not in honour live.”
And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve,
And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie,
The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie.
Once moe the skie was blacke, the thunder rolde;
Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen;
Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde;
His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene;
A Limitoure he was of order seene;
And from the pathwaie side then turned hee,
Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree.
“An almes, sir priest!” the droppynge pilgrim sayde,
“For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake.”
The Limitoure then loosen’d his pouche threade,
And did thereoute a groate of silver take;
The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake.
“Here take this silver, it maie eathe thie care;
We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare.
“But ah! unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me,
Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde.
Here take my semecope, thou arte bare I see;
Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde.”
He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde.
Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure,
Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power.
Thomas Chatterton poetry
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