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Verwunschene
In den Armen der Mühle hängen
die bleichen Verwunschenen
Drehen langsam den Stein des Brotes,
Unendlich geduldig.
Rings im Lande jagen die Prasser,
Aber die bleichen Verwunschenen
Mahlen unendlich geduldig das Korn.
Fängt ein Sturm ihre langen Ärmel
Sinken sie stumm in die heilige Erde.
Schicken von neuem bleiche Gesellen
Den Armen der Mühle
Geduldig, unendlich,
Verwunschen.
Bess Brenck-Kalischer
(Betty Levy, 1878-1933)
Verwunschene
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive A-B, Archive A-B
Weerwil
Macht kan harde dingen maar is zo zacht
als spek wanneer het er op aankomt. Ogen
in de rug moeten open blijven want achter
de hoek dralen ongeduldige messendragers.
Grof als de krachtige streken van Permeke
zijn hun bedoelingen. Ze zwijgen instemmend,
zwaar als leugens die nooit ontmaskerd werden.
Bert Bevers
Weerwil
(Uit: Andere taal, Litera Este, Borgerhout, 2010)
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
Maoriland
Maoriland, my mother!
Holds the earth so fair another?
O, my land of the moa and Maori,
Garlanded grand with your forests of kauri,
Lone you stand, only beauty your dowry,
Maoriland, my mother!
Older poets sing their frozen
England in her mists enshrouded;
Newer lands my Muse has chosen,
‘Neath a Southern sky unclouded;
Set, a solitary gem,
In Pacific’s diadem.
Land of rugged white-clad ranges,
Standing proud, impassive, lonely;
Ice and snow, where never change is,
Save the mighty motion only
Where through valleys seared and deep
Slow the serpent glaciers creep.
Land of silent lakes that nestle
Deep as night, girt round with forest;
Water never cut by vessel,
In whose mirror evermore rest
Green-wrapt mountain-side and peak,
Reddened by the sunset’s streak.
Land of forests richly sweeping,
By the rata’s red fire spangled;
Where at noonday night is sleeping,
Where, beneath the creepers tangled,
Come the tui’s liquid calls
And the plash of waterfalls.
Land where fire from Earth’s deep centre
Fights for breath in anguish furied,
Till she from the weight that pent her
Flings her flames out fiercely lurid;
Where the geysers hiss and seethe,
And the rocks groan far beneath.
Land of tussocked plain extending
In the distant blue to mingle,
Where wide rivers sigh unending
Over weary wastes of shingle;
Cold as moonlight is their flow
From the glacier-ice and snow.
Land where torrents pause to dally
‘Neath the toi’s floating feather,
Where the flax-blades in the valley
Whisper stealthily together,
And within the cabbage-trees
Hides the dying evening breeze.
Land where all winds whisper one word,
“Death!” — though skies are fair above her.
Newer nations white press onward:
Her brown warriors’ fight is over —
One by one they yield their place,
Peace-slain chieftains of her race.
Land where faces find no furrow,
With the flush of life elated;
Where no grief is, save the sorrow
Of a pleasure that is sated;
Land of children lithe and slim,
Fresh of face and long of limb.
Land of fair enwreathëd cities,
Wide towns that the green bush merge in;
Land whose history unwrit is —
Memory hath no chaster virgin!
Land that is a starting place
For a newer, nobler race.
Maoriland, my mother!
Holds the Earth so fair another?
O, my land of the moa and Maori,
Garlanded grand with your rata and kauri,
Lone you stand, only beauty your dowry,
Maoriland, my mother!
Arthur Adams
(1872-1936)
Maoriland
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More in: Adams, Arthur, Archive A-B, Archive A-B
Delight
I’ve been delighting in your face
since the Eureka mess of our embrace,
the cork of fizzing kissing taken place,
the sexual notation of blushing staves,
a lust-compass flashing up radar blips.
Sloppy corners, edges in melted clips
of our manic laughter, on risky ships,
in the city’s darkness and muddy trips,
naked tangles on private sandy strips,
isolated scrub lands and forest bits,
disused canal tunnel with freezing tits,
stopping the car in shadowy lay-bys,
alleyways, echoing blissed-out cries,
she delighted, ripping open my flies.
And through our lustiness a miracle came,
the pneumatic forces created the near-same,
through the acrobatic propagated struggle
in the hospital you pushed out of the bubble
when we saw you delight in your life force.
Now we are celebrating the main course
of us all together, as a loving source,
of the wonderful blended mix,
of our delight, our scented lives transfixed
we have built the home as well as the bricks.
Vincent Berquez
Delight
Vincent Berquez is a London–based artist and poet. He has published in Britain, Europe, America and New Zealand. His work is in many anthologies, collections and magazines worldwide (f.i. fleursdumal.nl).
# new book of poetry by Vincent Berquez:
The Sound of Blossom Falling
Author: Vincent Berquez
Paperback
Language: English
86 pages
Publisher: Cyberwit.net
2021
ISBN-10: 9390601096
ISBN-13: 978-9390601097
£10.89
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Berquez, Vincent, Vincent Berquez
Rimpels
We lijken alleen zo oud. Het is de lichtval maar.
Want, gedraaid, kijk: nu zijn we weer gladjong.
Als toen we de simpele hoop uitspraken later
samen te mogen rimpelen. Die speling in en van
rechtmatig verleden. We wachtten brave jaren
op tijdgenoten, maar die bleken er al lang te zijn.
Bert Bevers
Rimpels
(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
Dancing into
the cream of the night
You said take me dancing
in the cream of the night
like we did that time
when the music was jasper Spanish.
The seated flamenco women clapped
out the velocity of chattering rhythms
pushing the black and scarlet music
to the edge of our half-conscious world,
exciting the bloody pump with the drum
of temptation that agitated our lustiness.
The partnership of limbs tangled
loquacious, heady, demanding.
We took to the slippery dance floor
where I held the spine of your wet skin
in the stretch of my flexed palm –
you said your heart needed to dance with me
until the silver slit cracked into the shock
of the smoky grey marbled morning.
In charged anarchy, we succumbed
to fog drunkenly and lost ourselves till then.
Vincent Berquez
Dancing into the cream of the night
# Vincent Berquez is a London–based artist and poet. He has published in Britain, Europe, America and New Zealand. His work is in many anthologies, collections and magazines worldwide (f.i. fleursdumal.nl).
# new book of poetry by Vincent Berquez:
The Sound of Blossom Falling
Author: Vincent Berquez
Paperback
Language: English
86 pages
Publisher: Cyberwit.net
2021
ISBN-10: 9390601096
ISBN-13: 978-9390601097
£10.89
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Berquez, Vincent, Vincent Berquez
Tristesses de la lune
Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;
Ainsi qu’une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,
Qui d’une main distraite et légère caresse
Avant de s’endormir le contour de ses seins,
Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,
Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches
Qui montent dans l’azur comme des floraisons.
Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,
Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,
Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,
Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,
Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d’opale,
Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil.
Charles Baudelaire
(1821 – 1867)
Tristesses de la lune
Fleurs du mal (Flowers of Evil)
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal
Le Beau Navire
Je veux te raconter, ô molle enchanteresse!
Les diverses beautés qui parent ta jeunesse;
Je veux te peindre ta beauté,
Où l’enfance s’allie à la maturité.
Quand tu vas balayant l’air de ta jupe large,
Tu fais l’effet d’un beau vaisseau qui prend le large,
Chargé de toile, et va roulant
Suivant un rythme doux, et paresseux, et lent.
Sur ton cou large et rond, sur tes épaules grasses,
Ta tête se pavane avec d’étranges grâces;
D’un air placide et triomphant
Tu passes ton chemin, majestueuse enfant.
Je veux te raconter, ô molle enchanteresse!
Les diverses beautés qui parent ta jeunesse;
Je veux te peindre ta beauté,
Où l’enfance s’allie à la maturité.
Ta gorge qui s’avance et qui pousse la moire,
Ta gorge triomphante est une belle armoire
Dont les panneaux bombés et clairs
Comme les boucliers accrochent des éclairs;
Boucliers provoquants, armés de pointes roses!
Armoire à doux secrets, pleine de bonnes choses,
De vins, de parfums, de liqueurs
Qui feraient délirer les cerveaux et les coeurs!
Quand tu vas balayant l’air de ta jupe large
Tu fais l’effet d’un beau vaisseau qui prend le large,
Chargé de toile, et va roulant
Suivant un rythme doux, et paresseux, et lent.
Tes nobles jambes, sous les volants qu’elles chassent,
Tourmentent les désirs obscurs et les agacent,
Comme deux sorcières qui font
Tourner un philtre noir dans un vase profond.
Tes bras, qui se joueraient des précoces hercules,
Sont des boas luisants les solides émules,
Faits pour serrer obstinément,
Comme pour l’imprimer dans ton coeur, ton amant.
Sur ton cou large et rond, sur tes épaules grasses,
Ta tête se pavane avec d’étranges grâces;
D’un air placide et triomphant
Tu passes ton chemin, majestueuse enfant.
Charles Baudelaire
(1821 – 1867)
Le Beau Navire
Fleurs du mal (Flowers of Evil)
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal
Vanwege de roem die hem al bij leven ten deel viel, weten we over Dante Alighieri (ca. 1265 – 1321) meer dan over de meeste van zijn tijdgenoten.
We volgen de later wereldberoemde dichter vanaf zijn adolescentie: als de zoon van een woekeraar, die ervan droomt tot de wereld van edelen en schrijvers te behoren. We zien hem in de donkere wandelgangen van de corrupte politiek en tijdens zijn ballingschap, waarin hij de verscheidenheid van veertiende-eeuws Italië ontdekt.
Historicus Alessandro Barbero plaatst de schepper van De goddelijke komedie in zijn tijd, cultuur en maatschappelijke context. Dante is daarmee niet alleen een portret van een dichter; het boek biedt een volledig beeld van een man die vat probeert te krijgen op macht, geld, oorlog, familie, vriendschap en liefde.
Alessandro Barbero is een van de vooraanstaandste historici van Italië. Zijn werk wordt internationaal gepubliceerd. Hij doceert Middeleeuwse Geschiedenis aan de universiteit van Piedmont Orientale in Vercilli. Tot zijn bekendste werken behoren Waterloo en Het mooie leven en de oorlogen van anderen, waarvoor hij de Premio Strega ontving.
#new books
Dante
Alessandro Barbero
Vertaler: Etta Maris
Paperback
Ingenaaid
Nederlands
Uitgever Athenaeum
Druk 1
Verschenen sep. 2021
Bladzijden: 384
Genre: Biografieen literaire auteurs
EAN 9789025313432
Afmetingen 216 x 136 x 31 mm
€ 27,50
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More in: #Biography Archives, - Book News, Archive A-B, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Dante Alighieri, MONTAIGNE, TOMBEAU DE LA JEUNESSE - early death: writers, poets & artists who died young
A Dream
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;
I went to the window to see the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.
On they pass’d, and on they pass’d;
Townsfellows all, from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quench’d in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when they play’d
At soldiers once, but now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drown’d, I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too;
Some that I loved, and gasp’d to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
Some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd, where each seem’d lonely,
Yet of them all there was one, one only,
Raised a head or look’d my way;
She linger’d a moment, she might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face!
Ah! Mother dear! might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!
On, on, a moving bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;
Many long-forgot, but remembered then,
And first there came a bitter laughter;
A sound of tears a moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That eve morning, day by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.
William Allingham
(1824 – 1889)
A Dream
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More in: Allingham, William, Archive A-B, Archive A-B
Requiescat in Pace
A Alec Carter
Mort au champ d’honneur (1914).
(Qu’il repose en paix !).
Où donc repose-t-il à présent, l’être cher ?
Dans le creux de quel arbre ou sous quelle colline ?
Quel oreiller soutient son beau visage clair ?
Sur quels draps argileux crispe-t-il ses mains fines ?
Autrefois, sur mon bras, il dormait tendre et fier ;
Je voyais son regard à travers ses paupières,
A-t-il pris, pour mourir, sa pose familière ?
Et ses yeux sans regards, peut-être, sont ouverts ?
Je n’ écarterai plus ses cheveux sur sa tête,
Je ne le verrai plus sourire en s’éveillant,
Je ne connaîtrai plus la délicate fête
De prendre, en un baiser, la gaîté de ses dents.
Que n’ai-je pu du moins, charmer sa dernière heure !
Eclairer la douleur et l’ombre du chemin ;
Pour qu’il sente qu’une âme est près de lui, qui pleure,
Que je borde son lit de mes tremblantes mains.
Mais non ! le lit est fait de feuilles et de terre,
C’est un lit à la fois, étroit, vaste et glacé…
Sans couronnes de fleurs, sans cierges mortuaires,
Je ne sais où – là-bas – est mort le bien-aimé !
Emilienne d’Alençon
(1869-1946)
Requiescat in pace
A Alec Carter Mort au champ d’honneur (1914).
(Qu’il repose en paix !).
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, d'Alençon, Émilienne
My Love
She has tender eyes that tell
All her prim, set lips suppress —
Daring thoughts that ever dwell
Prisoned in her bashfulness;
Hints of sudden tenderness
That within her breast rebel.
Till her bosom’s fall and swell
Tell her meaning all too well,
To her heart’s demure distress.
She has soft, smooth cheeks that flame
As she nestles close, so close,
With the new half-joy, half-shame,
That within her bosom glows,
And each fevered feature shows.
Her hot pulses beat acclaim
Of the hopes she dare not tame,
Fervid thoughts she cannot name —
Till I kiss her, and she knows.
She has clinging arms of white,
Little hands and fingers fine,
And she holds me tight, so tight;
While her eager arms entwine
Deep I drink her kisses’ wine.
Hush! I feel through all her slight,
Trembling figure love’s delight,
And she knows that all is right,
And her bosom beats with mine.
Arthur Adams
(1872-1936)
My Love
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More in: Adams, Arthur, Archive A-B, Archive A-B
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