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Archive S-T

· Maud by Alfred Tennyson · Love’s Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley · Ernst Toller: Nacht · William Shakespeare: Being your slave, what should I do but tend · Ernst Toller: Begegnung in der Zelle · Doubt by Sara Teasdale · William Shakespeare: Who is Silvia? what is she · ANTOINE TIMMERMANS: TUTTI FRUTTI – “portretten waar de verf vanaf spat” · William Shakespeare: Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all · I Am Not Yours by Sara Teasdale · Gregor Schneider by Raimund Stecker (Ed.) · Moritz von Strachwitz: Venedig

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Maud by Alfred Tennyson

 

Maud

Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, ‘There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.’
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, ‘The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine,’ so I sware to the rose,
‘For ever and ever, mine.’

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash’d in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh’d for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near;’
And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late;’
The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear;’
And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809 – 1892)
Maud
Published in 1855.

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Love’s Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

Love’s Philosophy

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the Ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
in one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?-

See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?

Percy Bysshe Shelley
(1792 – 1822)
Love’s Philosophy

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Ernst Toller: Nacht

Nacht

Zinnoberroter Traum emporreißt unterdrückte Lust,
Die wandgeketteten verdammten Pritschen stöhnen,
O, nun auftauchen Bilder, die den kahlen Raum verschönen,
Der Dämon wühlt in unsrer Brust.

Erwachend höhnen, Kupplerinnen, uns die Eisengitter,
Im Morgengrauen sind die Zellen wie verweinte Mütter.

Ernst Toller
(1893 – 1939)
Nacht

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William Shakespeare: Being your slave, what should I do but tend

 

Being your slave,
what should I do but tend

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you.
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought,
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

William Shakespeare
(1564 – 1616)
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Sonnet 57

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Ernst Toller: Begegnung in der Zelle

 

Begegnung in der Zelle

Die Dinge, die erst feindlich zu dir schauen,
Als wären sie in Späherdienst gezwängte Schergen,
Sie laden dich zu Fahrten ein gleich guten Fergen,
Und hegen dich wie schwesterliche Frauen.

Es nähern sich dir all die kargen Dinge:
Die schmale Pritsche kommt, die blauen Wasserkrüge,
Der Schemel flüstert, daß er gern dich trüge,
Die Wintermücken wiegen sich wie kleine Schmetterlinge.

Und auch das Gitterfenster kommt, das du verloren,
Mit Augen, die sich an den schwarzen Stäben stachen,
Anstarrtest, während deine Arme hilflos brachen,

Und Köpfe der Erschoßnen wuchsen aus versperrten Toren.
Das Gitterfenster ruft: Nun, Lieber, schaue, schaue,
Wie ich aus Wolken dir ein Paradies erbaue.

Ernst Toller
(1893 – 1939)
Begegnung in der Zelle

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Doubt by Sara Teasdale

Doubt

My soul lives in my body’s house,
And you have both the house and her,
But sometimes she is less your own
Than a wild, gay adventurer;
A restless and an eager wraith,
How can I tell what she will do,
Oh, I am sure of my body’s faith,
But what if my soul broke faith with you?

Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
Doubt

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William Shakespeare: Who is Silvia? what is she

 

Who is Silvia?
what is she

Who is Silvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admirèd be.

Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness;
And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling;
To her let us garlands bring

William Shakespeare
(1564 – 1616)
Song: “Who is Silvia? what is she”
(from Two Gentlemen of Verona)

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ANTOINE TIMMERMANS: TUTTI FRUTTI – “portretten waar de verf vanaf spat”

De lente lonkt, het virus blaast de aftocht, tijd voor een lustige expositie in het ‘Metropolitan Museum Tilburg’, de raamtentoonstellingen aan de Stedekestraat. Het museum presenteert u ‘TUTTI FRUTTI’ van de veelzijdige Tilburgse kunstenaar Antoine Timmermans.

De meester pakt uitbundig uit met een reeks sprankelende portretten, spontane, bijkans impulsieve, schilderijen waar de kleurenrijkdom vanaf spat. Doeken met fleurige geliefden en gestorvenen, echte en gedroomde, ze kijken u allen doordringend aan.

Het werk van Timmermans is doortrokken van het ‘echte’ leven, iets waar, volgens hem, kunst over zou moeten gaan: “we hebben betere verhalen nodig voor onze toekomst!” Nu met canvas, penselen en olieverf. En zoals altijd met humor. De kunstenaar is daarnaast bekend als decorbouwer, ontwerper van flamboyante kleding, theatermaker, maar vooral als de dragqueen ‘Cybersissy’. U kent haar vast van Roze Maandag of uit de vele clubs in binnen- en buitenland.

De schilder volgde zijn kunstopleidingen in Breda, Arendonk, Den Haag en Den Bosch. In weerwil wat destijds in zwang was legde hij zich toe op de figuratieve kunst. In prikkelende beelden, extravagante kostuums, bonte pruiken en mutsen, en natuurlijk in zijn schilderijen. Deze laatsten kunt u zien in het ‘Metropolitan Museum’ van vrijdag 18 maart t/m zondag 8 mei 2022, Stedekestraat 15, 5041DM Tilburg. Dagelijks, dag en nacht open, toegang vrij.

‘Metropolitan Museum Tilburg’
Stedekestraat 15
5041DM Tilburg
vrijdag 18 maart t/m zondag 8 mei 2022

‘TUTTI FRUTTI’ Antoine Timmermans
# 18 maart t/m 8 mei 2022
# dagelijks, dag en nacht, toegang vrij
# ‘Metropolitan Museum | Tilburg’
Stedekestraat 15, 5041DM Tilburg
telefoon: 013 5358041 / 06 20325030
email: post@metropolitanmuseum.nl
website: www.metropolitanmuseum.nl

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William Shakespeare: Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all

 

Take all my loves, my love,
yea, take them all

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call—
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.

William Shakespeare
(1564 – 1616)
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all
Sonnet 40

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I Am Not Yours by Sara Teasdale

I Am Not Yours

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love, put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
I Am Not Yours

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Gregor Schneider by Raimund Stecker (Ed.)

Since 1985, Gregor Schneider has occupied an abandoned house next to one of the largest chasms in the world—the lignite-rich surface mine near Rheydt-Mönchengladbach known as the Garzweiler—which is also next to where his parents ran their business.

In the building, which he named Haus u r, he proceeded to build rooms within rooms.

These eerie spaces are constructed from materials salvaged from the houses that were to be crushed by juggernaut-sized bucket-wheel excavators to expand the mine.

With this publication, art historian Raimund Stecker reconnects with his first visit to Haus u r. Schneider and Stecker have known each other since the artist’s student years at the Münster Academy of Art in the late 1980s.

In 1992, Stecker curated one of Schneider’s first exhibitions, and has closely followed his career ever since.

This book is published on the occasion of Konschthal Esch’s inaugural exhibition, curated by Christian Mosar.

# new books
Gregor Schneider
by Raimund Stecker (Ed.)
January 2022,
German/English
13.4×20.3 cm
112 pages
18 b/w ill.
softcover
ISBN 978-3-95679-635-7
Sternberg Press
Design: Cropmark
Copublisher: Konschthal Esch
Available
€28.00

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Moritz von Strachwitz: Venedig

Venedig

Ich bin so krank und sterben möcht’ ich gerne
Hier in Venedig, und begraben liegen
In dieser Flut, dem Ruheplatz der Sterne!

In jeder Nacht pfleg’ ich mich drauf zu wiegen,
Und ihrer Tiefe schwärzeste Geschichten
Behorch’ ich dann mit schaurigem Vergnügen. –

Beschloß der Rat der Drei, geheim zu richten
Ein Opfer, des Geschrei’s im Volke wegen,
Und galt’s ein schnell und spurenlos Vernichten:

Da glitt um Mitternacht, dem Mond entgegen,
Die Gondel aus der Seufzerbrücke Schatten,
So schwarz und still, wie alle Gondeln pflegen.

Und lautlos durch Galeeren und Fregatten
Kroch sie hindurch, bis wo des Meeres Enge
Sich dehnt zu breiteren, smaragdnen Matten.

Dort hielt sie still. Dann aber war’s, als sprenge
Ein dumpfer Fall die kaum bewegte Fläche,
Und leise Kreise zitterten in Menge.

Auch war’s den Schiffern, die im Nachtgespräche
An Lido’s Ufern stellten ihre Stricke,
Als ob ein Schrei im Wellenschlag zerbräche.

Die stille Gondel aber schwamm zurücke,
Wie sie gekommen, spurlos und verborgen,
Und schwand im Schattenstreif der Seufzerbrücke:

Doch der Verbrecher starb am andern Morgen.

Moritz von Strachwitz
(1822 – 1847)
Venedig

Moritz Karl Wilhelm Graf von Strachwitz (1822-1847), deutscher Dichter
Lithographie von Josef Kriehuber, 1841

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