Fleurs du Mal Magazine
Abendland
Else Lasker-Schüler in Verehrung
1.
Mond, als träte ein Totes
Aus blauer Höhle,
Und es fallen der Blüten
Viele über den Felsenpfad.
Silbern weint ein Krankes
Am Abendweiher,
Auf schwarzem Kahn
Hinüberstarben Liebende.
Oder es läuten die Schritte
Elis’ durch den Hain
Den hyazinthenen
Wieder verhallend unter Eichen.
O des Knaben Gestalt
Geformt aus kristallenen Tränen,
Nächtigen Schatten.
Zackige Blitze erhellen die Schläfe
Die immerkühle,
Wenn am grünenden Hügel
Frühlingsgewitter ertönt.
2.
So leise sind die grünen Wälder
Unsrer Heimat,
Die kristallne Woge
Hinsterbend an verfallner Mauer
Und wir haben im Schlaf geweint;
Wandern mit zögernden Schritten
An der dornigen Hecke hin
Singende im Abendsommer
In heiliger Ruh
Des fern verstrahlenden Weinbergs;
Schatten nun im kühlen Schoß
Der Nacht, trauernde Adler.
So leise schließt ein mondener Strahl
Die purpurnen Male der Schwermut.
3.
Ihr großen Städte
steinern aufgebaut
in der Ebene!
So sprachlos folgt
der Heimatlose
mit dunkler Stirne dem Wind,
kahlen Bäumen am Hügel.
Ihr weithin dämmernden Ströme!
Gewaltig ängstet
schaurige Abendröte
im Sturmgewölk.
Ihr sterbenden Völker!
Bleiche Woge
zerschellend am Strande der Nacht,
fallende Sterne.
Georg Trakl
(1887 – 1914)
Abendland
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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Expressionism, Expressionisme, Lasker-Schüler, Else, Trakl, Georg, Trakl, Georg
New Cemetery is the highly imaginative and wide-ranging new collection from the Poet Laureate.
The conversion of a local beauty spot into a municipal graveyard is the starting point for New Cemetery.
From regular walks around the boundary near his moorland home in West Yorkshire, Simon Armitage chronicles the extraordinary transformation of landscape both outer and inner.
These luminous and wry poems – composed in short-lined tercets – reflect the changing world: one of unstable weather patterns and unpredictable news events, all observed across a few acres of Pennine upland.
As phases of lockdown come and go and the cemetery fills up with his new ‘neighbours’, Armitage charts personal losses of his own, often retreating to his garden shed to navigate blank paper with pen and ink – and the results are as surprising as they are life-enhancing.
Simon Armitage was born in West Yorkshire and is Professor of Poetry at the University of Leeds. His collections of poetry, which have received numerous prizes and awards, include Seeing Stars (2010), The Unaccompanied (2017), Sandettie Light Vessel Automatic (2019), Magnetic Field (2020) and his acclaimed translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (2007). He writes extensively for television and radio, and is the author of two novels and the non-fiction bestsellers All Points North (1998), Walking Home (2012) and Walking Away (2015). His theatre works include The Last Days of Troy, performed at Shakespeare’s Globe in 2014. From 2015 to 2019, he served as Professor of Poetry at the University of Oxford, and, in 2018, he was awarded the Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry. Simon Armitage is Poet Laureate.
Title: New Cemetery
Author: Simon Armitage
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Publication date: 25 Sept. 2025
Edition: Main
Language: English
Print length: 120 pages
ISBN-10: 0571357334
ISBN-13: 978-0571357338
Hardback
£14.99
‘There is no other poet writing in modern Britain who has his feeling for its words and things: the cashpoints, the power tools, the “mail-order driftwood”; the clichés, the jokes, the unspoken emotions . . . the most popular English poet since Larkin.’
Sunday Times
‘Armitage is that rare beast: a poet whose work is ambitious, accomplished and complex as well as popular.’
Sunday Telegraph
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More in: #Modern Poetry Archive, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Armitage, Simon, Galerie des Morts
Vrijheid is een open boek
In Nederland lijkt het vanzelfsprekend dat je alles kunt lezen. Maar die vrijheid is niet overal zo normaal. De Week van het Verboden Boek is geïnspireerd op de Amerikaanse Banned Books Week en wordt dit jaar voor het eerst in Nederland georganiseerd. Bibliotheken in het hele land doen mee, met lezingen, gesprekken, boekentafels en andere activiteiten.
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More in: - Book Lovers, - Book News, Banned Books, Literary Events, PEN Actions, REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS
Dying
I.
Leave me; oh! leave me,
Lest I find this low earth sweeter than the skies.
Leave me lest I deem Faith’s white bosom bared to the betraying arms of Death.
Hush your fond voice, lest it shut out the angel trumpet-call!
See my o’erwearied feet bleed for rest.
Loose the clinging and the clasping of my clammy fingers.
Your soft hand of Love may press back the dark, awful shadows of Death, but the soul faints in the strife and struggles of nights that have no days.
I am so weary with this climbing up the smooth steep sides of the grave wall.
My dimmed eyes can no longer strain up through the darkness to the temples and palaces that you have built for me upon Life’s summit.
God is folding up the white tent of my youth.
My name is enrolled for the pallid army of the dead.
II
It is too late, too late!
You may not kiss back my breath to the sunshine.
How can these trembling hands of dust reach up to bend the untempered iron of Destiny down to my woman-forehead?
Where is the wedge to split its knotty way between the Past and the Future?
The soaring bird that would sing its life out to the stars, may not leave its own atmosphere;
For, in the long dead reaches of blank space in the Beyond, its free wings fall back to earth baffled.
Once gathering all my sorrows up to one purpose—rebel-like—I dared step out into Light, when, lo! Death tied my unwilling feet, and with hands of ice, bandaged my burning lips, and set up, between my eyes and the Future, the great Infinite of Eternity, full in the blazing sun of my Hope!
From the red round life of Love I have gone down to the naked house of Fear.
Drowned in a storm of tears.
My wild wings of thought drenched from beauty to the color of the ground.
Going out at the hueless gates of day.
Dying, dying.
III.
Oh! is there no strength in sorrow, or in prayers?
Is there no power in the untried wings of the soul, to smite the brazen portals of the sun?
Must the black-sandaled foot of Night tramp out the one star that throbs through the darkness of my waning life?
May not the strong arm of “I will,” bring some beam to lead me into my sweet Hope again?
Alas, too late! too late!
The power of these blood-dripping cerements sweeps back the audacious thought to emptiness.
Hungry Death will not heed the poor bird that has tangled its bright wing through my deep-heart pulses.
Moaning and living.
Dying and loving.
IV.
See the poor wounded snake; how burdened to the ground;
How it lengthens limberly along the dust.
Now palpitates into bright rings only to unwind, and reach its bleeding head up the steep high walls around us.
Now, alas! falling heavily back into itself, quivering with unuttered pain;
Choking with its own blood it dies in the dust.
So we are crippled ever;
Reaching and falling,
Silent and dying.
V.
Gold and gleaming jewel shatter off their glory well in the robes of royalty, but when we strain against the whelming waves, the water gurgling down our drowning throats, we shred them off, and hug the wet, cold rocks lovingly.
Then old death goes moaning back from the steady footing of Life baffled.
Ah! is it too late for me to be wise.
Will my feeble hands fail me in the moveless steppings back to the world?
Oh! if youth were only back!
Oh! if the years would only empty back their ruined days into the lap of the Present!
Oh! if yesterday would only unravel the light it wove into the purple of the Past!
Ah! then might I be vigilant!
Then might the battle be mine!
Nor should my sluggish blood drip down the rocks till the noon-tide sun should draw it up mistily in smoke.
Then should the heaviness of soul have dropped as trees do their weight of rainy leaves.
Nor should the sweet leash of Love have slipped from my hungry life, and left me pining, dying for his strength.
I should have wrapt up my breathing in the naked bosom of Nature, and she would have kissed me back to sweetest comfort, and I would have drawn up from her heart draughts of crusted nectar and promises of eternal joys.
Oh! it is not the glittering garniture of God’s things that come quivering into the senses, that makes our lives look white through the windings of the wilderness.
It is the soul’s outflow of purple light that clashes up a music with the golden blood of strong hearts.
Souls with God’s breath upon them,
Hearts with Love’s light upon them.
VI.
If my weak puny hand could reach up and rend the sun
from his throne to-day, then were the same but a little thing for me to do.
It is the Far Off, the great Unattainable, that feeds the passion we feel for a star.
Looking up so high, worshipping so silently, we tramp out the hearts of flowers that lift their bright heads for us and die alone.
If only the black, steep grave gaped between us, I feel that I could over-sweep all its gulfs.
I believe that Love may unfold its white wings even in the red bosom of Hell.
I know that its truth can measure the distance to Heaven with one thought.
Then be content to let me go, for these pale hands shall reach up from the grave, and still draw the living waters of Love’s well.
That is better, surer than climbing with bruised feet and bleeding hands to plead with the world for what is mine own.
Then straighten out the crumpled length of my hair, and loose all the flowers one by one.
God is not unjust.
VII.
Oh! in the great strength of thy unhooded soul, pray for my weakness.
Let me go! See the pale and solemn army of the night is on the march.
Do not let my shivering soul go wailing up for a human love to the throne of the Eternal.
Have we not watched the large setting sun drive a
column of light through the horizon down into the darkness?
So within the grave’s night, O my beloved! shall my love burn on to eternity.
O Death! Death! loose out thy cold, stiff fingers from my quivering heart!
Let the warm blood rush back to gasp up but one more word!
O Love! thou art stronger, mightier than all!
O Death! thou hast but wedded me to Life!
Life is Love, and Love is Eternity.
Adah Isaacs Menken
(1835 – 1868)
Dying
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More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive M-N, Archive M-N, Menken, Adah, THEATRE
Homerusfeest, 1967
Aan wapenrusting had ik, eersteklasser, niets.
Jongensgedachten liet ik vrijuit glanzen nog
als onbeschermde flanken. Ook deze avond
op dit plein, de eerste echte buitenshuis.
Homerusfeest: bij avondval rezen omwolkt
uit kelders geesten op en ook door de gangen
boven zag je ze traag bij kaarslicht dwalen.
Ouderejaars met lakens om, dat wist ik wel,
maar toch…. Ik voelde me te groot al om te
reiken naar de rectorhand die zo nabij naar
nicotine rook, te klein ook nog om daar al veel
te ver van af te durven wijken. Verwondering
tekende in mijn hoofd steeds groter cirkels.
Ik leek me op die cour als onder een stolp
te bewegen. Daarbuiten het uitspansel,
vast als een gegoten spiegel.
Bert Bevers
Homerusfeest, 1967
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
Almost!
Within my reach!
I could have touched!
I might have chanced that way!
Soft sauntered through the village,
Sauntered as soft away!
So unsuspected violets
Within the fields lie low,
Too late for striving fingers
That passed, an hour ago.
Emily Dickinson
(1830—1886)
Almost!
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Dickinson, Emily
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