Fleurs du Mal Magazine
The Press
The Soldier may forget his Sword,
The Sailorman the Sea,
The Mason may forget the Word
And the Priest his Litany:
The Maid may forget both jewel and gem,
And the Bride her wedding-dress–
But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem
Ere we forget the Press!
Who once hath stood through the loaded hour
Ere, roaring like the gale,
The Harrild and the Hoe devour
Their league-long paper-bale,
And has lit his pipe in the morning calm
That follows the midnight stress–
He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art
We call the daily Press.
Who once hath dealt in the widest game
That all of a man can play,
No later love, no larger fame
Will lure him long away.
As the war-horse snuffeth the battle afar,
The entered Soul, no less,
He saith: “Ha! Ha!” where the trumpets are
And the thunders of the Press!
Canst thou number the days that we fulfill,
Or the Times that we bring forth?
Canst thou send the lightnings to do thy will,
And cause them reign on earth?
Hast thou given a peacock goodly wings,
To please his foolishness?
Sit down at the heart of men and things,
Companion of the Press!
The Pope may launch his Interdict,
The Union its decree,
But the bubble is blown and the bubble is pricked
By Us and such as We.
Remember the battle and stand aside
While Thrones and Powers confess
That King over all the children of pride
Is the Press–the Press–the Press!
Rudyard Kipling
(1865 – 1936)
The Press
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More in: Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Kipling, Rudyard, PRESS & PUBLISHING
Verdwenen details
Alle ochtenden dat je niet wist waar te beginnen
aan wat totaal weg is, vergeten. Kwam de bakker
dagelijks aan de deur? Hoe heette dat meisje aan
de overkant ook weer, en dat verhaal waarvan je
toen zo droomde? Wie wist wat hij hoorde te doen
die eerste keer? Waar bleef de volgende scène?
Bert Bevers
Verdwenen details
(Ongepubliceerd)
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
Nähe des Todes
O der Abend, der in die finsteren Dörfer der Kindheit geht.
Der Weiher unter den Weiden
Füllt sich mit den verpesteten Seufzern der Schwermut.
O der Wald, der leise die braunen Augen senkt,
Da aus des Einsamen knöchernen Händen
Der Purpur seiner verzückten Tage hinsinkt.
O die Nähe des Todes. Laß uns beten.
In dieser Nacht lösen auf lauen Kissen
Vergilbt von Weihrauch sich der Liebenden schmächtige Glieder.
Georg Trakl
(1887 – 1914)
Nähe des Todes
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More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Expressionism, Trakl, Georg, Trakl, Georg
Rouge et Noir
Soul, wilt thou toss again?
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost, indeed,
But tens have won an all.
Angels’ breathless ballot
Lingers to record thee;
Imps in eager caucus
Raffle for my soul.
Emily Dickinson
(1830—1886)
Rouge et Noir
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Dickinson, Emily
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley
(1849—1903)
Invictus
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More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Henley, William Ernest
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