Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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À celle qui est Trop Gaie
Ta tête, ton geste, ton air
Sont beaux comme un beau paysage ;
Le rire joue en ton visage
Comme un vent frais dans un ciel clair.
Le passant chagrin que tu frôles
Est ébloui par la santé
Qui jaillit comme une clarté
De tes bras et de tes épaules.
Les retentissantes couleurs
Dont tu parsèmes tes toilettes
Jettent dans l’esprit des poètes
L’image d’un ballet de fleurs.
Ces robes folles sont l’emblème
De ton esprit bariolé ;
Folle dont je suis affolé,
Je te hais autant que je t’aime !
Quelquefois dans un beau jardin
Où je traînais mon atonie,
J’ai senti, comme une ironie,
Le soleil déchirer mon sein ;
Et le printemps et la verdure
Ont tant humilié mon coeur,
Que j’ai puni sur une fleur
L’insolence de la Nature.
Ainsi je voudrais, une nuit,
Quand l’heure des voluptés sonne,
Vers les trésors de ta personne,
Comme un lâche, ramper sans bruit,
Pour châtier ta chair joyeuse,
Pour meurtrir ton sein pardonné,
Et faire à ton flanc étonné
Une blessure large et creuse,
Et, vertigineuse douceur !
A travers ces lèvres nouvelles,
Plus éclatantes et plus belles,
T’infuser mon venin, ma soeur !
Charles Baudelaire
(1821 – 1867)
À celle qui est Trop Gaie
Extrait de: Les fleurs du mal (1857)
(Flowers of Evil)
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Baudelaire, Charles, Les Fleurs du Mal
Vachel Lindsay
Meeting Ourselves
We met ourselves as we came back
As we hiked the trail from the north.
Our foot-prints mixed in the rainy path
Coming back and going forth.
The prints of my comrade’s hob-nailed shoes
And my tramp shoes mixed in the rain.
We had climbed for days and days to the North
And this was the sum of our gain:
We met ourselves as we came back,
And were happy in mist and rain.
Our old souls and our new souls
Met to salute and explain—
That a day shall be as a thousand years,
And a thousand years as a day.
The powers of a thousand dreaming skies
As we shouted along the trail of surprise
Were gathered in our play:
The purple skies of the South and the North,
The crimson skies of the South and the North,
Of tomorrow and yesterday.
Vachel Lindsay
(1879 – 1931)
Meeting Ourselves
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More in: Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Lindsay, Vachel
When We Two Parted
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
George Gordon, Lord Byron
(1788-1824)
When We Two Parted
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord
Der Spruch
In einem alten Buche stieß ich auf ein Wort,
Das traf mich wie ein Schlag und brennt durch meine Tage fort:
Und wenn ich mich an trübe Lust vergebe,
Schein, Lug und Spiel zu mir anstatt des Wesens hebe,
Wenn ich gefällig mich mit raschem Sinn belüge,
Als wäre Dunkles klar, als wenn nicht Leben tausend wild verschlossne Tore trüge,
Und Worte wiederspreche, deren Weite nie ich ausgefühlt,
Und Dinge fasse, deren Sein mich niemals aufgewühlt,
Wenn mich willkommner Traum mit Sammethänden streicht,
Und Tag und Wirklichkeit von mir entweicht,
Der Welt entfremdet, fremd dem tiefsten Ich,
Dann steht das Wort mir auf: Mensch, werde wesentlich!
Ernst Stadler
(1883 – 1914
Der Spruch
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More in: *War Poetry Archive, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive S-T, Ernst Stadler, Leïla Slimani, Modernisme, Stadler, Ernst
Release
With swift
Great sweep of her
Magnificent arm my pain
Clanged back the doors that shut my soul
From life.
Adelaide Crapsey
(1878—1914)
Release
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Crapsey, Adelaide
A Musical
Outside the rain upon the street,
The sky all grim of hue,
Inside, the music–painful sweet,
And yet I heard but you.
As is a thrilling violin,
So is your voice to me,
And still above the other strains,
It sang in ecstasy.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
(1872—1906)
A Musical
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Music Archive, *Archive African American Literature, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Dunbar, Paul Laurence, Dunbar, Paul Laurence, Paul Laurence Dunbar
Song of the Old Love
When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth,
My old sorrow wakes and cries,
For I know there is dawn in the far, far north,
And a scarlet sun doth rise;
Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads,
And the icy founts run free,
And the bergs begin to bow their heads,
And plunge, and sail in the sea.
O my lost love, and my own, own love,
And my love that loved me so!
Is there never a chink in the world above
Where they listen for words from below?
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore,
I remember all that I said,
And now thou wilt hear me no more – no more
Till the sea gives up her dead.
Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail
To the ice-fields and the snow;
Thou wert sad, for thy love did naught avail,
And the end I could not know;
How could I tell I should love thee to-day,
Whom that day I held not dear?
How could I know I should love thee away
When I did not love thee anear?
We shall walk no more through the sodden plain
With the faded bents o’erspread,
We shall stand no more by the seething main
While the dark wrack drives o’erhead;
We shall part no more in the wind and the rain,
Where thy last farewell was said;
But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again
When the sea gives up her dead.
Jean Ingelow
(1820 – 1897)
Song of the Old Love
Published in 1898
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive I-J, Archive I-J
“Once there came a man”
Once there came a man
Who said:
“Range me all men of the world in rows.”
And instantly
There was a terrific clamor among the people
Against being ranged in rows.
There was a loud quarrel, world-wide.
It endured for ages;
And blood was shed
By those who would not stand in rows,
And by those who pined to stand in rows.
Eventually, the man went to death, weeping.
And those who stayed in the bloody scuffle
Knew not the great simplicity.
Stephen Crane
(1871—1900)
“Once there came a man”
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Stephen Crane
Al zo lang mensen elkaar verhalen vertellen, gaan hun verhalen vooral over goed en kwaad. Daarbij is een gelukkige afloop maar al te vaak een kwestie van hopen tegen beter weten in.
En dat niet alleen omdat het kwaad net als in de ware wereld winnaars macht en profijt oplevert, maar ook vanwege de fascinerende werking die er voor de verteller en zijn gehoor van uitgaat. Het kwaad prikkelt de verbeelding en verleidt tot een blik in de afgrond.
In Sympathie voor de duivel laat Jaap Goedegebuure zien hoe Nederlandse schrijvers, van Louis Couperus tot en met Manon Uphoff, de fascinatie voor het kwaad hebben verbeeld. Hun werk confronteert ons met het kwaad dat men bedrijft om er lust aan te beleven, lust zoals die wordt beschreven door Jacob Israël de Haan, bezongen door Slauerhoff, en beleefd door de personages van Simon Vestdijk, A.F.Th. van Heijden en Arnon Grunberg. Er is het kwaad van de oorlogsmisdadigers die Harry Mulisch en Louis Ferron ten tonele voeren, het satanische kwaad dat Renate Dorrestein en Thomas Rosenboom oproepen, en het zoet smakende maar niettemin giftige kwaad in de romans en verhalen van Manon Uphoff.
Wie het kwaad in de literatuur, en dus ook in de werkelijkheid om ons heen en in ons zelf, wil leren kennen kan zich laten leiden door een van de motto’s van dit boek, opgetekend uit de mond van Oek de Jong: ‘Je moet het kwaad in om te kunnen groeien.’
Jaap Goedegebuure (1947) doceerde letterkunde aan de universiteiten van Leiden, West-Berlijn, Tilburg en Nijmegen. Hij publiceerde boeken over onder meer H. Marsman, Jeroen Brouwers, Frans Kellendonk, het fin de siècle, literatuur en religie, en poëzie en mystiek. Sinds 1975 recenseert hij voor tal van kranten en tijdschriften. Bij Uitgeverij In de Knipscheer verscheen van hem in 2022 Door de jaren heen lezen, biografische notities van literaire auteurs: Gerard Reve, Harry Mulisch, Doeschka Meijsing, Boudewijn Büch, Rogi Wieg, F. Springer en vele anderen. Goedegebuure publiceerde ook in de literaire tijdschriften waarbij Uitgeverij In de Knipscheer betrokken is, Extaze en Elders.
Jaap Goedegebuure
Sympathie voor de duivel
Over de verbeelding van het kwaad in het werk van Nederlandse en Vlaamse schrijvers
uitgebreid met een Personenregister
vormgeving omslag Els Kort
gebrocheerd in omslag met flappen,
332 blz.,
€ 29,50
ISBN 978-94-93368-23-1
NUR 321, 620
2025
Uitg.: In de knipscheer
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive G-H, Art & Literature News, Jaap Goedegebuure
logen
Pro
Eenzame nacht waarin zuigelingen huilen
en ezelsveulens balken. De wind bijt in ’t bot.
Een wind als deze is gevuld met stemmen.
’t Is het gehuil van voorouders. Ze ratelen
hun verhalen, al hun stemmen gebundeld
in een grote stem. Maar één stem is anders.
Eén stem is aan het fluisteren. Wijkt af. Is
aan het spioneren vanuit het duister. Beslist.
Mono
‘Dit strand was vroeger van kannibalen.
De sterken schrokten de zwakken op.
Maar de tanden spuugden ze uit.
Zoals u of ik een kersenpit zou uitspuwen.’
Dia
‘Uw versie van de waarheid is het enige wat telt.’
‘De waarheid is enkelvoud.
Versies daarvan zijn onwaarheden.’
Epi
Laat je hart gidsen. Gebeden snakken naar
je ziel. Spijker dat vast in je herinnering.
Je kunt kiezen: je kunt blijven of meegaan.
Kennis is een spiegel. Hij bespringt en
vervloekt je dromen. Je moet doen wat het
ook is dat je niet mag nalaten te doen. Als
je valt zal ik je vangen maar de doden blijven
nooit dood. Ze houden nimmer op met ratelen.
(Bij de ondertitels van de film Cloud Atlas van Tom Tykwer)
Bert Bevers
logen
(Bij de ondertitels van de film Cloud Atlas van Tom Tykwer)
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
Voyages
I
Above the fresh ruffles of the surf
Bright striped urchins flay each other with sand.
They have contrived a conquest for shell shucks,
And their fingers crumble fragments of baked weed
Gaily digging and scattering.
And in answer to their treble interjections
The sun beats lightning on the waves,
The waves fold thunder on the sand;
And could they hear me I would tell them:
O brilliant kids, frisk with your dog,
Fondle your shells and sticks, bleached
By time and the elements; but there is a line
You must not cross nor ever trust beyond it
Spry cordage of your bodies to caresses
Too lichen-faithful from too wide a breast.
The bottom of the sea is cruel.
II
—And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,
Samite sheeted and processioned where
Her undinal vast belly moonward bends,
Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;
Take this Sea, whose diapason knells
On scrolls of silver snowy sentences,
The sceptred terror of whose sessions rends
As her demeanors motion well or ill,
All but the pieties of lovers’ hands.
And onward, as bells off San Salvador
Salute the crocus lustres of the stars,
In these poinsettia meadows of her tides,—
Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal,
Complete the dark confessions her veins spell.
Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours,
And hasten while her penniless rich palms
Pass superscription of bent foam and wave,—
Hasten, while they are true,—sleep, death, desire,
Close round one instant in one floating flower.
Bind us in time, O Seasons clear, and awe.
O minstrel galleons of Carib fire,
Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
The seal’s wide spindrift gaze toward paradise.
III
Infinite consanguinity it bears—
This tendered theme of you that light
Retrieves from sea plains where the sky
Resigns a breast that every wave enthrones;
While ribboned water lanes I wind
Are laved and scattered with no stroke
Wide from your side, whereto this hour
The sea lifts, also, reliquary hands.
And so, admitted through black swollen gates
That must arrest all distance otherwise,—
Past whirling pillars and lithe pediments,
Light wrestling there incessantly with light,
Star kissing star through wave on wave unto
Your body rocking!
and where death, if shed,
Presumes no carnage, but this single change,—
Upon the steep floor flung from dawn to dawn
The silken skilled transmemberment of song;
Permit me voyage, love, into your hands …
IV
Whose counted smile of hours and days, suppose
I know as spectrum of the sea and pledge
Vastly now parting gulf on gulf of wings
Whose circles bridge, I know,
(from palms to the severe
Chilled albatross’s white immutability)
No stream of greater love advancing now
Than, singing, this mortality alone
Through clay aflow immortally to you.
All fragrance irrefragably, and claim
Madly meeting logically in this hour
And region that is ours to wreathe again,
Portending eyes and lips and making told
The chancel port and portion of our June—
Shall they not stem and close in our own steps
Bright staves of flowers and quills today as I
Must first be lost in fatal tides to tell?
In signature of the incarnate word
The harbor shoulders to resign in mingling
Mutual blood, transpiring as foreknown
And widening noon within your breast for gathering
All bright insinuations that my years have caught
For islands where must lead inviolably
Blue latitudes and levels of your eyes,—
In this expectant, still exclaim receive
The secret oar and petals of all love.
V
Meticulous, past midnight in clear rime,
Infrangible and lonely, smooth as though cast
Together in one merciless white blade—
The bay estuaries fleck the hard sky limits.
—As if too brittle or too clear to touch!
The cables of our sleep so swiftly filed,
Already hang, shred ends from remembered stars.
One frozen trackless smile … What words
Can strangle this deaf moonlight? For we
Are overtaken. Now no cry, no sword
Can fasten or deflect this tidal wedge,
Slow tyranny of moonlight, moonlight loved
And changed … “There’s
Nothing like this in the world,” you say,
Knowing I cannot touch your hand and look
Too, into that godless cleft of sky
Where nothing turns but dead sands flashing.
“—And never to quite understand!” No,
In all the argosy of your bright hair I dreamed
Nothing so flagless as this piracy.
But now
Draw in your head, alone and too tall here.
Your eyes already in the slant of drifting foam;
Your breath sealed by the ghosts I do not know:
Draw in your head and sleep the long way home.
VI
Where icy and bright dungeons lift
Of swimmers their lost morning eyes,
And ocean rivers, churning, shift
Green borders under stranger skies,
Steadily as a shell secretes
Its beating leagues of monotone,
Or as many waters trough the sun’s
Red kelson past the cape’s wet stone;
O rivers mingling toward the sky
And harbor of the phoenix’ breast—
My eyes pressed black against the prow,
—Thy derelict and blinded guest
Waiting, afire, what name, unspoke,
I cannot claim: let thy waves rear
More savage than the death of kings,
Some splintered garland for the seer.
Beyond siroccos harvesting
The solstice thunders, crept away,
Like a cliff swinging or a sail
Flung into April’s inmost day—
Creation’s blithe and petalled word
To the lounged goddess when she rose
Conceding dialogue with eyes
That smile unsearchable repose—
Still fervid covenant, Belle Isle,
—Unfolded floating dais before
Which rainbows twine continual hair—
Belle Isle, white echo of the oar!
The imaged Word, it is, that holds
Hushed willows anchored in its glow.
It is the unbetrayable reply
Whose accent no farewell can know.
Hart Crane
(1899—1932)
Voyages
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Crane, Hart, FDM in New York
The Lonely Death
In the cold I will rise, I will bathe
In waters of ice; myself
Will shiver, and shrive myself,
Alone in the dawn, and anoint
Forehead and feet and hands;
I will shutter the windows from light,
I will place in their sockets the four
Tall candles and set them a-flame
In the grey of the dawn; and myself
Will lay myself straight in my bed,
And draw the sheet under my chin.
Adelaide Crapsey
(1878—1914)
The Lonely Death
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Crapsey, Adelaide
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