Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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Cinderella
Poor, pretty little thing she was,
The sweetest-faced of girls,
With eyes as blue as larkspurs,
And a mass of tossing curls;
But her step-mother had for her
Only blows and bitter words,
While she thought her own two ugly crows,
The whitest of all birds.
She was the little household drudge,
And wore a cotton gown,
While the sisters, clad in silk and satin,
Flaunted through the town.
When her work was done, her only place
Was the chimney-corner bench.
For which one called her “Cinderella,”
The other, “Cinder-wench.”
But years went on, and Cinderella
Bloomed like a wild-wood rose,
In spite of all her kitchen-work,
And her common, dingy clothes;
While the two step-sisters, year by year,
Grew scrawnier and plainer;
Two peacocks, with their tails outspread,
Were never any vainer.
One day they got a note, a pink,
Sweet-scented, crested one,
Which was an invitation
To a ball, from the king’s son.
Oh, then poor Cinderella
Had to starch, and iron, and plait,
And run of errands, frill and crimp,
And ruffle, early and late.
And when the ball-night came at last,
She helped to paint their faces,
To lace their satin shoes, and deck
Them up with flowers and laces;
Then watched their coach roll grandly
Out of sight; and, after that,
She sat down by the chimney,
In the cinders, with the cat,
And sobbed as if her heart would break.
Hot tears were on her lashes,
Her little hands got black with soot,
Her feet begrimed with ashes,
When right before her, on the hearth,
She knew not how nor why,
A little odd old woman stood,
And said, “Why do you cry?”
“It is so very lonely here,”
Poor Cinderella said,
And sobbed again. The little odd
Old woman bobbed her head,
And laughed a merry kind of laugh,
And whispered, “Is that all?
Wouldn’t my little Cinderella
Like to go to the ball?
“Run to the garden, then, and fetch
A pumpkin, large and nice;
Go to the pantry shelf, and from
The mouse-traps get the mice;
Rats you will find in the rat-trap;
And, from the watering-pot,
Or from under the big, flat garden stone,
Six lizards must be got.”
Nimble as crickets in the grass
She ran, till it was done,
And then God-mother stretched her wand
And touched them every one.
The pumpkin changed into a coach,
Which glittered as it rolled,
And the mice became six horses,
With harnesses of gold.
One rat a herald was, to blow
A trumpet in advance,
And the first blast that he sounded
Made the horses plunge and prance;
And the lizards were made footmen,
Because they were so spry;
And the old rat-coachman on the box
Wore jeweled livery.
And then on Cinderella’s dress
The magic wand was laid,
And straight the dingy gown became
A glistening gold brocade.
The gems that shone upon her fingers
Nothing could surpass;
And on her dainty little feet
Were slippers made of glass.
“Be sure you get back here, my dear,
At twelve o’clock at night,”
Godmother said, and in a twinkling
She was out of sight.
When Cinderella reached the ball,
And entered at the door,
So beautiful a lady
None had ever seen before.
The Prince his admiration showed
In every word and glance;
He led her out to supper,
And he chose her for the dance;
But she kept in mind the warning
That her Godmother had given,
And left the ball, with all its charm.
At just half after eleven.
Next night there was another ball;
She helped her sisters twain
To pinch their waists, and curl their hair,
And paint their cheeks again.
Then came the fairy Godmother,
And, with her wand, once more
Arrayed her out in greater splendor
Even than before.
The coach and six, with gay outriders,
Bore her through the street,
And a crowd was gathered round to look,
The lady was so sweet,–
So light of heart, and face, and mien,
As happy children are;
And when her foot stepped down,
Her slipper twinkled like a star.
Again the Prince chose only her
For waltz or tete-a-tete;
So swift the minutes flew she did not
Dream it could be late,
But all at once, remembering
What her Godmother had said,
And hearing twelve begin to strike
Upon the clock, she fled.
Swift as a swallow on the wing
She darted, but, alas!
Dropped from one flying foot the tiny
Slipper made of glass;
But she got away, and well it was
She did, for in a trice
Her coach changed to a pumpkin,
And her horses became mice;
And back into the cinder dress
Was changed the gold brocade!
The prince secured the slipper,
And this proclamation made:
That the country should be searched,
And any lady, far or wide,
Who could get the slipper on her foot,
Should straightway be his bride.
So every lady tried it,
With her “Mys!” and “Ahs!” and “Ohs!”
And Cinderella’s sisters pared
Their heels, and pared their toes,–
But all in vain! Nobody’s foot
Was small enough for it,
Till Cinderella tried it,
And it was a perfect fit.
Then the royal heralds hardly
Knew what it was best to do,
When from out her tattered pocket
Forth she drew the other shoe,
While the eyelids on the larkspur eyes
Dropped down a snowy vail,
And the sisters turned from pale to red,
And then from red to pale,
And in hateful anger cried, and stormed,
And scolded, and all that,
And a courtier, without thinking,
Tittered out behind his hat.
For here was all the evidence
The Prince had asked, complete,
Two little slippers made of glass,
Fitting two little feet.
So the Prince, with all his retinue,
Came there to claim his wife;
And he promised he would love her
With devotion all his life.
At the marriage there was splendid
Music, dancing, wedding cake;
And he kept the slipper as a treasure
Ever, for her sake.
Clara Doty Bates
(1838 – 1895)
Cinderella
Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Children's Poetry, CLASSIC POETRY, Grimm, Andersen e.o.: Fables, Fairy Tales & Stories, Tales of Mystery & Imagination
Hij ging gebukt onder schulden, stond levenslang onder curatele, zag vele schrijfplannen stranden en kende geen geluk in de liefde.
De verschijning van Les fleurs du mal leverde hem gerechtsvervolging en censuur op. En hij werd geteisterd door syfilis.
Uit zijn meer dan 1500 overgeleverde brieven komt Charles Baudelaire naar voren als een mens vol ambities en plannen, en met een druk sociaal leven en contacten met tal van schrijvers (Flaubert, Gautier, Hugo en Sainte -Beuve) en kunstenaars (Manet, Wagner en Nadar).
De boeiende correspondentie met zijn moeder toont hun complexe verstandhouding, die met zijn stiefvader laat zien dat ze lange tijd een warmere band hadden dan doorgaans gedacht wordt.
Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) leidde een veelbewogen en tragisch leven. Het weerhield hem er niet van met Les fleurs du mal, waarmee hij de grote stad de dichtkunst in schreef, een van de meesterwerken van de Europese literatuur te schrijven.
Auteur: Charles Baudelaire
Mijn hoofd is een zieke vulkaan. Brieven
Vertaler: Kiki Coumans
Uitgeverij: De Arbeiderspers
NUR: 321
Paperback
ISBN: 9789029543774
Publicatiedatum: 30-03-2021
Prijs: € 27,50
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *Archive Les Poètes Maudits, - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Baudelaire, Charles
The Sleeping Princess
The ringing bells and the booming cannon
Proclaimed on a summer morn
That in the good king’s royal palace
A Princess had been born.
The towers flung out their brightest banners,
The ships their streamers gay,
And every one, from lord to peasant,
Made joyful holiday.
Great plans for feasting and merry-making
Were made by the happy king;
And, to bring good fortune, seven fairies
Were bid to the christening.
And for them the king had seven dishes
Made out of the best red gold,
Set thickly round on the sides and covers
With jewels of price untold.
When the day of the christening came, the bugles
Blew forth their shrillest notes;
Drums throbbed, and endless lines of soldiers
Filed past in scarlet coats.
And the fairies were there the king had bidden,
Bearing their gifts of good–
But right in the midst a strange old woman
Surly and scowling stood.
They knew her to be the old, old fairy,
All nose and eyes and ears,
Who had not peeped, till now, from her dungeon
For more than fifty years.
Angry she was to have been forgotten
Where others were guests, and to find
That neither a seat nor a dish at the banquet
To her had been assigned.
Now came the hour for the gift-bestowing;
And the fairy first in place
Touched with her wand the child and gave her
“Beauty of form and face!”
Fairy the second bade, “Be witty!”
The third said, “Never fail!”
The fourth, “Dance well!” and the fifth, “O Princess,
Sing like the nightingale!”
The sixth gave, “Joy in the heart forever!”
But before the seventh could speak,
The crooked, black old Dame came forward,
And, tapping the baby’s cheek,
“You shall prick your finger upon a spindle,
And die of it!” she cried.
All trembling were the lords and ladies,
And the king and queen beside.
But the seventh fairy interrupted,
“Do not tremble nor weep!
That cruel curse I can change and soften,
And instead of death give sleep!
“But the sleep, though I do my best and kindest,
Must last for an hundred years!”
On the king’s stern face was a dreadful pallor,
In the eyes of the queen were tears.
“Yet after the hundred years are vanished,”–
The fairy added beside,–
“A Prince of a noble line shall find her,
And take her for his bride.”
But the king, with a hope to change the future,
Proclaimed this law to be:
That, if in all the land there was kept one spindle,
Sure death was the penalty.
The Princess grew, from her very cradle
Lovely and witty and good;
And at last, in the course of years, had blossomed
Into full sweet maidenhood.
And one day, in her father’s summer palace,
As blithe as the very air,
She climbed to the top of the highest turret,
Over an old worn stair
And there in the dusky cobwebbed garret,
Where dimly the daylight shone,
A little, doleful, hunch-backed woman
Sat spinning all alone.
“O Goody,” she cried, “what are you doing?”
“Why, spinning, you little dunce!”
The Princess laughed: “‘Tis so very funny,
Pray let me try it once!”
With a careless touch, from the hand of Goody
She caught the half-spun thread,
And the fatal spindle pricked her finger!
Down fell she as if dead!
And Goody shrieking, the frightened courtiers
Climbed up the old worn stair
Only to find, in heavy slumber,
The Princess lying there.
They bore her down to a lofty chamber,
They robed her in her best,
And on a couch of gold and purple
They laid her for her rest,
The roses upon her cheek still blooming,
And the red still on her lips,
While the lids of her eyes, like night-shut lilies,
Were closed in white eclipse.
Then the fairy who strove her fate to alter
From the dismal doom of death,
Now that the vital hour impended,
Came hurrying in a breath.
And then about the slumbering palace
The fairy made up-spring
A wood so heavy and dense that never
Could enter a living thing.
And there for a century the Princess
Lay in a trance so deep
That neither the roar of winds nor thunder
Could rouse her from her sleep.
Then at last one day, past the long-enchanted
Old wood, rode a new king’s son,
Who, catching a glimpse of a royal turret
Above the forest dun
Felt in his heart a strange wish for exploring
The thorny and briery place,
And, lo, a path through the deepest thicket
Opened before his face!
On, on he went, till he spied a terrace,
And further a sleeping guard,
And rows of soldiers upon their carbines
Leaning, and snoring hard.
Up the broad steps! The doors swung backward!
The wide halls heard no tread!
But a lofty chamber, opening, showed him
A gold and purple bed.
And there in her beauty, warm and glowing,
The enchanted Princess lay!
While only a word from his lips was needed
To drive her sleep away.
He spoke the word, and the spell was scattered,
The enchantment broken through!
The lady woke. “Dear Prince,” she murmured,
“How long I have waited for you!”
Then at once the whole great slumbering palace
Was wakened and all astir;
Yet the Prince, in joy at the Sleeping Beauty,
Could only look at her.
She was the bride who for years an hundred
Had waited for him to come,
And now that the hour was here to claim her,
Should eyes or tongue be dumb?
The Princess blushed at his royal wooing,
Bowed “yes” with her lovely head,
And the chaplain, yawning, but very lively,
Came in and they were wed!
But about the dress of the happy Princess,
I have my woman’s fears–
It must have grown somewhat old-fashioned
In the course of so many years!
Clara Doty Bates
(1838 – 1895)
The Sleeping Princess
Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Children's Poetry, CLASSIC POETRY, Grimm, Andersen e.o.: Fables, Fairy Tales & Stories, Tales of Mystery & Imagination
Jack And Jill
Little boys, sit still–
Girls, too, if you will–
And let me tell you of Jack and Jill;
For I think another
Such sister and brother
Were never the children of one mother!
For an idle lad,
As he was, Jack had
No traits, after all, that were very bad.
He, was simply Jack,
With the coat on his back
Patched up in all colors from gray to black.
Both feet were bare;
And I do declare
That he never washed his face; and his hair
Was the color of straw–
You never saw
Such a crop–as long as the moral law!
When he went to school,
It was the rule
(Though ’twas hard to say he was really a fool)
To send him at once,
So thick was his sconce,
To the block that was kept for the greatest dunce.
And Jill! no lass
Scarce ever has
Made bigger tracks on the country grass;
For her only fun
Was to romp and run,
Bare-headed, bare-footed, in wind and sun.
Wherever went Jack,
Close on his track,
With hair unbraided and down her back,
Loud-voiced and shrill,
She followed, until
No one said “Jack” without saying “Jill.”
But to succeed
In teaching to read
Such a harum-scarum, was work indeed!
And I’m forced to tell
That her way to spell
Her name was with only a single ‘l.’
Yet they were content.
One day they were sent
To the hill for water, and they went.
They did not drown,
But Jack fell down,
With a pail in his hand, and broke his crown!
And Jill, who must go
And always do
Exactly as Jack did, tumbled too!
Just think, if you will,
How they rolled down hill–
Straw-headed Jack and bare-footed Jill!
But up Jack got,
And home did trot,
Nor cared whether Jill was hurt or not;
While his poor bruised knob
Did burn and throb,
Tear falling on tear, sob following sob!
He could run the faster,
So a paper plaster
Had bound up the sight of his disaster
Before Jill came;
And the thoughtful dame,
For a break in her head, had fixed the same.
But Jill came in,
With a saucy grin
At seeing the plight poor Jack was in;
And when she saw
That bundle of straw
(His hair) bound up with a cloth, and his jaw
Tied up in white,
The comical sight
Made her clap her hands and laugh outright!
The dame, perplexed
And dreadfully vexed,
Got a stick and said, “I’ll whip her next!”
How many blows fell
I will not tell,
But she did it in earnest, she did it well,
Till the naughty back
Was blue and black,
And Jill needed a plaster as much as Jack!
The next time, though,
Jack has to go
To the hill for water, I almost know
That bothering Jill
Will go up the hill,
And if he falls again, why, of course she will!
Clara Doty Bates
(1838 – 1895)
Jack And Jill
Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Children's Poetry, CLASSIC POETRY, Grimm, Andersen e.o.: Fables, Fairy Tales & Stories, Tales of Mystery & Imagination
Attentie
Doorzichtiger is op zondagen het menen, en vaster
de zit. Waarom de winter hapert wenst schijnbaar echt
niemand te begrijpen. Amper hoorbaar nog is daar het
prevelen van delicate arrangementen, zijn daar mensen
op schaal alom. Ze denken allemaal zelf over van alles.
In aanhankelijkheid navigeren ze braaf vederlicht bedrog.
Bert Bevers
gedicht
Attentie
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Perzische kievitsbloem
(Fritillaria persica)
Je blaadjes glanzen amper aarzelend klokvormig,
mauve en zacht als het velletje van een pruim.
Vochtig in de halfschaduw op een zwart grondje
bestond je in oude dromen reeds, elke lente steeds
de lampenkapjesbloemetjes vrolijk in het gelid.
Hommeltjes gebruiken ze blij als schommeltjes.
Bert Bevers
Perzische kievitsbloem
(Fritillaria persica)
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert, Natural history
Le chant du cygne
Cygnes au blanc plumage, au port majestueux,
Est-il vrai, dites-moi, qu’un chant harmonieux,
De vos jours écoulés rompant le long silence,
Lorsque va se briser votre frêle existence,
Comme un cri de bonheur s’élève vers les cieux ?
Quand sous votre aile, un soir, votre long col se ploie
Pour le dernier sommeil… d’où vous vient cette joie ?
De vos jours rien ne rompt l’indolente douceur:
Lorsque tout va finir, cet hymne de bonheur,
Comme à des cœurs brisés, quel penser vous l’envoie ?
Ô cygnes de nos lacs ! votre destin est doux;
De votre sort heureux chacun serait jaloux.
Vous voguez lentement de l’une à l’autre rive,
Vous suivez les détours de l’onde fugitive:
Que ne puis-je en ces flots m’élancer avec vous!
Moi, sous l’ardent soleil, je demeure au rivage…
Pour vous, l’onde s’entr’ouvre et vous livre passage;
Votre col gracieux, dans les eaux se plongeant,
Fait jaillir sur le lac mille perles d’argent
Qui laissent leur rosée à votre blanc plumage;
Et les saules pleureurs, ondoyants, agités,
— Alors que vous passez, par le flot emportés —
D’un rameau caressant, doucement vous effleurent
Sur votre aile qui fuit quelques feuilles demeurent,
Ainsi qu’un souvenir d’amis qu’on a quittés.
Puis le soir, abordant à la rive odorante
Où fleurit à l’écart le muguet ou la menthe,
Sur un lit de gazon vous reposez, bercés
Par la brise des nuits, par les bruits cadencés
Des saules, des roseaux , de l’onde murmurante.
Oh ! pourquoi donc chanter un chant mélodieux
Quand s’arrête le cours de vos jours trop heureux ?
Pleurez plutôt, pleurez vos nuits au doux silence,
Les étoiles, les fleurs, votre fraîche existence;
Pourquoi fêter la mort ?… vous êtes toujours deux !
C’est à nous de chanter quand vient l’heure suprême,
Nous, tristes pèlerins, dont la jeunesse même
Ne sait pas découvrir un verdoyant sentier,
Dont le bonheur s’effeuille ainsi que l’églantier ;
Nous, si tôt oubliés de l’ami qui nous aime !
C’est à nous de garder pour un jour à venir,
Tristes comme un adieu, doux comme un souvenir,
Des trésors d’harmonie inconnus à la terre,
Qui ne s’exhaleront qu’à notre heure dernière.
Pour qui souffre ici-bas, il est doux de mourir!
Ô cygnes ! laissez donc ce cri de délivrance
À nos cœurs oppressés de muette souffrance ;
La vie est un chemin où l’on cache ses pleurs…
Celui qui les comprend est plus loin, est ailleurs.
À nous les chants !… la mort, n’est-ce pas l’espérance?
Sophie d’Arbouville
(1810-1850)
Le chant du cygne
Poésies et nouvelles (1840)
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More in: Arbouville, Sophie d', Archive A-B, Archive A-B
To Tirzah
Whate’er is born of mortal birth
Must be consumed with the earth,
To rise from generation free:
Then what have I to do with thee?
The sexes sprang from shame and pride,
Blown in the morn, in evening died;
But mercy changed death into sleep;
The sexes rose to work and weep.
Thou, mother of my mortal part,
With cruelty didst mould my heart,
And with false self-deceiving tears
Didst bind my nostrils, eyes, and ears,
Didst close my tongue in senseless clay,
And me to mortal life betray.
The death of Jesus set me free:
Then what have I to do with thee?
William Blake
(1757 – 1827)
To Tirzah
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Blake, William, Tales of Mystery & Imagination
Le Vin de l’assassin
Ma femme est morte, je suis libre!
Je puis donc boire tout mon soûl.
Lorsque je rentrais sans un sou,
Ses cris me déchiraient la fibre.
Autant qu’un roi je suis heureux;
L’air est pur, le ciel admirable…
Nous avions un été semblable
Lorsque j’en devins amoureux!
L’horrible soif qui me déchire
Aurait besoin pour s’assouvir
D’autant de vin qu’en peut tenir
Son tombeau; — ce n’est pas peu dire:
Je l’ai jetée au fond d’un puits,
Et j’ai même poussé sur elle
Tous les pavés de la margelle.
— Je l’oublierai si je le puis!
Au nom des serments de tendresse,
Dont rien ne peut nous délier,
Et pour nous réconcilier
Comme au beau temps de notre ivresse,
J’implorai d’elle un rendez-vous,
Le soir, sur une route obscure.
Elle y vint — folle créature!
Nous sommes tous plus ou moins fous!
Elle était encore jolie,
Quoique bien fatiguée! et moi,
Je l’aimais trop! voilà pourquoi
Je lui dis: Sors de cette vie!
Nul ne peut me comprendre. Un seul
Parmi ces ivrognes stupides
Songea-t-il dans ses nuits morbides
À faire du vin un linceul?
Cette crapule invulnérable
Comme les machines de fer
Jamais, ni l’été ni l’hiver,
N’a connu l’amour véritable,
Avec ses noirs enchantements,
Son cortège infernal d’alarmes,
Ses fioles de poison, ses larmes,
Ses bruits de chaîne et d’ossements!
— Me voilà libre et solitaire!
Je serai ce soir ivre mort;
Alors, sans peur et sans remords,
Je me coucherai sur la terre,
Et je dormirai comme un chien!
Le chariot aux lourdes roues
Chargé de pierres et de boues,
Le wagon enragé peut bien
Ecraser ma tête coupable
Ou me couper par le milieu,
Je m’en moque comme de Dieu,
Du Diable ou de la Sainte Table!
Charles Baudelaire
(1821-1867)
Le Vin de l’assassin
(poème)
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Baudelaire, Baudelaire, Charles
Le Revenant
Comme les anges à l’oeil fauve,
Je reviendrai dans ton alcôve
Et vers toi glisserai sans bruit
Avec les ombres de la nuit;
Et je te donnerai, ma brune,
Des baisers froids comme la lune
Et des caresses de serpent
Autour d’une fosse rampant.
Quand viendra le matin livide,
Tu trouveras ma place vide,
Où jusqu’au soir il fera froid.
Comme d’autres par la tendresse,
Sur ta vie et sur ta jeunesse,
Moi, je veux régner par l’effroi.
Charles Baudelaire
(1821-1867)
Le Revenant
(poème)
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Baudelaire, Baudelaire, Charles
De losprijs van de wederkeer
Kruis en anker is het denken, hartsgrondig als
de eenzaamheid van eerstelingen. Nooit vergeten
die dat bouwen op de trouw van tijd maar al
te vaak verglijdt naar lusteloosheid. Passanten
blikken op naar ramen die niet ontsloten worden.
Daarachter mogen van onwil scherpe sporen
worden gewist. Primipara’s snikken er van vreugde
en pijn. In de plooien van hun klanken wankelt het
contrapunt. Nu moet je maar wachten of iemand
in ootmoed herboren de losprijs van de wederkeer
herkent. Nu moet je maar beter gewoon wachten.
Want geluk is meer dan blij zijn met je ademen.
Wreed is hij die nimmer weent.
Bert Bevers
gedicht
De losprijs van de wederkeer
(Eerder verschenen in Eigen terrein – Gedichten 1998-2013,
Uitgeverij WEL, Bergen op Zoom, 2013)
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
In Parkzicht brengt Paul Bezembinder een tragische liefdesgeschiedenis.
Met zijn inmiddels gevestigde combinatie van klassieke poëzie, pastiche en smartlap laveert hij moeiteloos langs de Scylla van de zoetsappigheid en de Charybdis van de chaos. Het resulteert in beelden die beklijven, die klemmen op de borst, gloeien in het hart en branden in de ziel.
Waarheid of verbeelding? Ongemakkelijk blijft het. U zult na het lezen van deze bundel nooit meer dezelfde zijn.
Dichtbundels Paul Bezembinder:
Gedichten, uitg. Pittige Pixels, Amsterdam (2018).
Kwatrijnen, uitg. Art Brut Digital Editions, Tilburg (2018).
Gedichten, uitg. Leeuwenhof, Oostburg (2020).
Parkzicht, uitg. Leeuwenhof, Oostburg (2020).
Meer informatie, vertalingen en gedichten:
# website paul bezembinder
# website fleursdumal.nl magazine
Paul Bezembinder
Parkzicht
Uitgeverij Leeuwenhof, Oostburg
1 december 2020
Nederlands
Druk 1
Paperback
Afmetingen 21 x 14,8 x 0,6 cm
Aantal pagina’s: 60
ISBN 9789082541281
20,- euro
# new poetry
paul bezembinder
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book Lovers, - Book News, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bezembinder, Paul, POETRY IN TRANSLATION: BEZEMBINDER
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