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Archive A-B

· Diana Anphimiadi: Why I No Longer Write Poems · Antonin Artaud: Poème Révolte contre la poésie · She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron · Antonin Artaud: La rue · Guillaume Apollinaire: Guerre · Arthur Henry Adams: Civilization · The Maids Of Elfin-Mere by William Allingham · Bert Bevers: Sluitertijd zeer kort · Bert Bevers: Sporen · Rachael Allen: Kingdomland (Poetry) · Paul Bezembinder: Winkelstraat in Tilburg · Arthur Henry Adams: And Yet

»» there is more...

Diana Anphimiadi: Why I No Longer Write Poems

Diana Anphimiadi is a poet, publicist, linguist and teacher. She has published four collections of poetry in Georgian: Shokoladi (Chocolate, 2008), Konspecturi Mitologia (Resumé of Mythology, 2009), Alhlokhedvis Traektoria (Trajectory of the Short-Sighted, 2012) and Chrdilis Amoch’ra (Cutting the Shadow, 2015).

Her poetry has received prestigious awards, including first prize in the 2008 Tsero (Crane Award) and the Saba Prize for the best first collection in 2009. Her chapbook, Beginning to Speak, was published in 2018 by the Poetry Translation Centre, and Why I No Longer Write Poems, the first full-length Georgian-English selection of her poetry, is published by Bloodaxe Books with the Poetry Translation Centre in 2022, both titles translated by Natalia Bukia-Peters and Jean Sprackland.
Diana Anphimiadi lives in Tblisi with her son.

The poems in this selection have been collaboratively translated into English by the leading Georgian translator Natalia Bukia-Peters and award-winning British poet Jean Sprackland. A chapbook selection of their translations of Anphimiadi’s work, Beginning to Speak, was published in 2018 and praised by Adham Smart in Modern Poetry in Translation for capturing the ‘electricity of Anphimiadi’s language’ which ‘crackles from one poem to the next in Bukia-Peters and Sprackland’s fine translation’.

#new poetry
Diana Anphimiadi
Why I No Longer Write Poems
Translated by Jean Sprackland & Natalia Bukia-Peters
Publication Date : 24 Feb 2022
Winner English PEN Award
Pages: 160
Size: 216 x 138mm
Bloodaxe Books Ltd
ISBN: 9781780375472

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Antonin Artaud: Poème Révolte contre la poésie


Poème Révolte contre la poésie

Nous n’avons jamais écrit qu’avec la mise en incarnation de l’âme,
mais elle était déjà faite, et pas par nous-mêmes,
quand nous sommes entrés dans la poésie.
Le poète qui écrit s’adresse au Verbe et le Verbe a ses lois.
Il est dans l’inconscient du poète de croire automatiquement à ces lois.
Il se croit libre et il ne l’est pas.

Antonin Artaud
(1896 – 1948)
Poème Révolte contre la poésie

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She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron


She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair’d the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

Lord Byron
(1788 – 1824)
She Walks in Beauty

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Antonin Artaud: La rue


La rue

La rue sexuelle s’anime
le long de faces mal venues,
les cafés pepiant de crimes
deracinent les avenues.

Des mains de sexe brûlent les poches
et les ventres bouent par-dessous;
toutes les pensees s’entrechoquent,
et les tetes moins que les trous.

Antonin Artaud
(1896 – 1948)
La rue

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Guillaume Apollinaire: Guerre



Rameau central de combat
Contact par l’écoute
On tire dans la direction ‘ des bruits entendus ‘
Les jeunes de la classe 1915
Et ces fils de fer électrisés
Ne pleurez donc pas sur les horreurs de la guerre
Avant elle nous n’avions que la surface
De la terre et des mers
Après elle nous aurons les abîmes
Le sous-sol et l’espace aviatique
Maîtres du timon
Après après
Nous prendrons toutes les joies
Des vainqueurs qui se délassent
Femmes Jeux Usines Commerce
Industrie Agriculture Métal
Feu Cristal Vitesse
Voix Regard Tact à part
Et ensemble dans le tact venu de loin
De plus loin encore
De l’Au-delà de cette terre

Guillaume Apollinaire
(1880 – 1918)

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Arthur Henry Adams: Civilization



One moment mankind rides the crested wave,
A moment glorious, beyond recall;
And then the wave, with slow and massive fall,
Obliterates the beauty that it gave.
When discrowned king and manumitted slave
Are free and equal to be slaves of all,
Democracies in their wide freedom brawl,
And go down shouting to a common grave.
So one by one the petals of the rose
Shrivel and fade, and all its splendour goes
Back to the earth; and in her arms embraced
Through wintry centuries the dead seeds sleep
Till spring comes troubling them, and they unleap,
Once more their petals on the world to waste.

Arthur Adams
(from The Sonnet in Australasia)

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The Maids Of Elfin-Mere by William Allingham


The Maids Of Elfin-Mere

When the spinning-room was here
Came Three Damsels, clothed in white,
With their spindles every night;
One and Two and three fair Maidens,
Spinning to a pulsing cadence,
Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;
Till the eleventh hour was toll’d,
Then departed through the wold.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

Three white Lilies, calm and clear,
And they were loved by every one;
Most of all, the Pastor’s Son,
Listening to their gentle singing,
Felt his heart go from him, clinging
Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere.
Sued each night to make them stay,
Sadden’d when they went away.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

Hands that shook with love and fear
Dared put back the village clock,
Flew the spindle, turn’d the rock,
Flow’d the song with subtle rounding,
Till the false ‘eleven’ was sounding;
Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere
Swiftly, softly, left the room,
Like three doves on snowy plume.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

One that night who wander’d near
Heard lamentings by the shore,
Saw at dawn three stains of gore
In the waters fade and dwindle.
Never more with song and spindle
Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere,
The Pastor’s Son did pine and die;
Because true love should never lie.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

William Allingham
(1824 – 1889)
The Maids Of Elfin-Mere
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Bert Bevers: Sluitertijd zeer kort


Sluitertijd zeer kort

Het is met ingehouden adem klaar:
terwijl bij afdrukken aan weerszijden

van de lens zeer kort niets te zien valt
is als de vis van de adelaar de klauwen

ontwaart het water aan beide kanten
nog eventjes glad als een spiegel, eventjes.

Bert Bevers
Sluitertijd zeer kort
uit Bedekte termen, bundel in voorbereiding

Bert Bevers is dichter en schrijver
Hij woont en werkt in Antwerpen (Be)

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Bert Bevers: Sporen



Waarlijk liever schuil ik in ons huis, in deze
stad waarin ik gretige namen geef aan al dat

buiten en al die sporen. Men spreekt alsof
een dag te lang duurt in een eigen zegging

terwijl het kompas wijst naar een onverwachte
bedding. Weerbaar haperen klemtonen.

Bert Bevers
uit Bedekte termen, bundel in voorbereiding

Bert Bevers is dichter en schrijver
Hij woont en werkt in Antwerpen (Be)

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Rachael Allen: Kingdomland (Poetry)

Kingdomland is the debut poetry collection of Rachael Allen – a writer of rare vision and flair.

The world she creates is suffused with surreal images and uncanny incidents. Unexplained violences and strange metamorphoses take shape in the ‘glowering dusk’. And yet, all too clearly, we recognise life here on earth, its everyday griefs, dysfunctions and injustices.

Where distinctions between murder and bloodletting, corruption and consumption are blurred. Where a pet tarantula or mimic octopus might find itself beside glands and processed meats. Landscapes shift and identities dissolve: ‘the red bricks of the day’ exist ‘in a woman’s chest’, a human presence is ’embedded in the walls’. All appears changed, but familiar.

Intercut with oblique verse fragments and a series of linked sequences, Allen blends elements of fiction and ekphrasis to create a haunting and unforgettable debut.

Rachael Allen was born in Cornwall and studied at Goldsmiths College. She is the co-author of Jolene, a book of poems and photographs with Guy Gormley, and Nights of Poor Sleep, a book of poems and paintings with Marie Jacotey. She has received a Northern Writers’ Award and an Eric Gregory Award, and was made a Faber New Poet in 2014. She is poetry editor at Granta and co-founder of the poetry press clinic and online journal tender.


( . . . )
The white ocean spreads itself
like the badly iced top of a cake
seen through the smeared Plexiglas
of a cheap hotel restaurant.
I grate flesh into garlanded toilet water,
rearrangements of a desiccated sky.
( . . . )


# new poetry
by Rachael Allen (Author)
80 pages
Publisher: ‎Faber & Faber
Main edition
17 Jan. 2019
Language ‏ : ‎ English
ISBN-10 ‏: ‎ 057134111X
ISBN-13 ‏: ‎ 978-0571341115
Dimensions: ‎ 12.7 x 0.76 x 19.3 cm
€ 18,99

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Paul Bezembinder: Winkelstraat in Tilburg

 Winkelstraat in Tilburg

Armoei, kindersterfte, dwangarbeid en hei
bestaan niet meer. We zijn van winters wei-
en zomers hooiland helemaal vervreemd, en
wat ooit de verschillen waren tussen beemd
en eeuwsel, niemand weet het meer. De tijd
liet de gemene gronden van het nageslacht
alleen wat weemoed na, een soort respijt,
een voorgevoel. Alsof er wordt gewacht.

Paul Bezembinder
Winkelstraat in Tilburg


Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij vooral in klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Zijn gedichten en vertalingen (Russisch-Nederlands) verschenen in verschillende (online) literaire tijdschriften. Bundels: Kwatrijnen (Fantom E-books, 2018), Gedichten (2020, heruitgave), Parkzicht (2020). Meer voorbeelden van zijn werk vindt u op:

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Arthur Henry Adams: And Yet


 And Yet

They drew him from the darkened room,
Where, swooning in a peace profound,
Beneath a heavy fragrance drowned
Her grey form glimmered in the gloom.
Death smoothed from her each sordid trace
Of Life; at last he read the scroll;
For all the meaning of her soul
Flowered upon her perfect face.
“In other worlds her soul finds scope;
Her spirit lives; she is not dead,”
In his dulled ear they said and said,
Suave-murmuring the ancient Hope.
“You loved her; she was worthy love.
Think you her spheral soul can cease?
Nay, she has ripened to release
From this bare earth, and waits above.”
His brain their clamour heard aloof;
He, too, had said the self-same thing;
But now his heart was quivering
For more than comfort — parched for proof.
He put them from him. “Let me be;
You proffer in my bitter need
The coward comfort of a creed
That tears her soul apart from me.
“She waits in no drear Heaven afar.
Her woman’s soul in all its worth,
Yearning for me, for homely earth,
No gates of beaten gold could bar.
“No, she is near me, ever close;
One with the world, but free again;
One with the breezes and the rain;
One with the mountain and the rose.
“She knows me not; her voice is dumb;
But aching through the twilight peers,
And, unremembering, yet with tears,
She strives to say she cannot come.
“Yes, she is changed, but not destroyed;
The words that were her soul are hushed;
The gem that was her heart is crushed —
Its fragments white stars in the void.
“And I shall see her in disguise;
In the grey vistas of the street
A face that hints of her I meet;
Whispers her soul from alien eyes.
“In Time’s great garden, spring on spring,
The blossoms glow; then at a breath
Their petals flutter down to death —
Ah love, how brief your blossoming!
“Death has but severed part from part.
Borne on an ever-moving air
The fragrance of her life somewhere
Freshens some lonely wistful heart!
“No word of hers can God forget;
Her laughter Time dare not disperse;
It shakes the tense-strung universe,
And with the chord it trembles yet.
“Each mood of hers, each fancy slight,
In deep pulsations, ring on ring,
Dilating, ever-widening,
Ripples across the outer night.
“Her life with deathless charm was fraught,
And God with smiles remembers now
The puzzled pucker of her brow
Ruffled with sudden gusts of thought.
“And in His cosmic memory wise
Still live her subtle features thin,
Her dear iconoclastic chin,
The grave enigma of her eyes.
“And if beyond she might draw breath.
And know that I was not with her,
The wistful eyes of her despair
Would be more desolate than death.
“But not to meet her in the wide
Night-spaces I must wander through;
To kiss the pretty pout I knew,
And nevermore to hear her chide;
“To speak those childish words that were
So foolish-sweet, so passionate-wise;
Her subtle fragrance recognise
And hear the whispers of her hair! . . .
“Her sun has set; but still, sublime,
She is a star, of God a part;
She is a petal at the heart
Of the eternal flower of Time.
“I triumph so beyond regret,
I win her immortality:
Where, Death, your vaunted victory?
Where, Grave, your sting? And yet — and yet——!”

Arthur Adams
And Yet

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