Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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Spring Night
The park is filled with night and fog,
The veils are drawn about the world,
The drowsy lights along the paths
Are dim and pearled.
Gold and gleaming the empty streets,
Gold and gleaming the misty lake,
The mirrored lights like sunken swords,
Glimmer and shake.
Oh, is it not enough to be
Here with this beauty over me?
My throat should ache with praise, and I
Should kneel in joy beneath the sky.
O, beauty, are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love,
With youth, a singing voice, and eyes
To take earth’s wonder with surprise?
Why have I put off my pride,
Why am I unsatisfied,
I, for whom the pensive night
Binds her cloudy hair with light,
I, for whom all beauty burns
Like incense in a million urns?
O beauty, are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love?
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
Spring Night
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Spring, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Natural history, Teasdale, Sara
The Storm
I thought of you when I was wakened
By a wind that made me glad and afraid
Of the rushing, pouring sound of the sea
That the great trees made.
One thought in my mind went over and over
While the darkness shook and the leaves were thinned—
I thought it was you who had come to find me,
You were the wind.
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
The Storm
from: Flame and Shadow
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
At Midnight
Now at last I have come to see what life is,
Nothing is ever ended, everything only begun,
And the brave victories that seem so splendid
Are never really won.
Even love that I built my spirit’s house for,
Comes like a brooding and a baffled guest,
And music and men’s praise and even laughter
Are not so good as rest.
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
At Midnight
from: Flame and Shadow
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
The Higher Pantheism
The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains,-
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns?
Is not the Vision He, tho’ He be not that which He seems?
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?
Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb,
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him?
Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason why,
For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel “I am I”?
Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom,
Making Him broken gleams and a stifled splendour and gloom.
Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet-
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.
God is law, say the wise; O soul, and let us rejoice,
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice.
Law is God, say some; no God at all, says the fool,
For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool;
And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see;
But if we could see and hear, this Vision-were it not He?
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
The Higher Pantheism
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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
I Shall Not Care
When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Tho’ you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
I Shall Not Care
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
Ask me no more
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answer’d thee?
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal’d:
I strove against the stream and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Ask me no more
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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
En écho au mouvement « Femme, Vie, Liberté », 16 femmes iraniennes livrent ici leurs témoignages.
Ces voix s’élèvent parfois depuis l’exil, parfois depuis des cellules de prison. Elles parlent d’une vie sans droits contrôlée par la police des mœurs, d’humiliations, de mise sous tutelle et de détresse économique.
Mais aussi d’une nouvelle génération, d’une révolution que plus rien ne pourra arrêter, de libertés qui se gagnent pas à pas et de l’incroyable résilience du peuple iranien. Leurs textes sont bouleversants, remplis de larmes et porteurs d’espoir. Leur bravoure est une leçon d’humanité.
Avec les témoignages de : Golshifteh Farahani, Ghazal Abdollahi, Parastou Forouhar, Shohreh Bayat, Shila Behjat, Ani, Nargess Eskandari-Grünberg, Fariba Balouch, Rita Jahanforuz, Jasmin Shakeri, Shirin Ebadi, Masih Alinejad, Narges Mohammadi, Nazanin Boniadi, Nasrin Sotoudeh, Leily.
Traduit de l’allemand par Mathilde Ramadier, sauf pour le témoignage de Golshifteh Farahani, recueilli par Sophie Caillat.
Nous n’avons pas peur
Le courage des femmes iraniennes
Natalie Amiri & Düzen Tekkal
Avec le témoignage de Golshifteh Farahani
Traduction : Mathilde Ramadier
Editions du Faubourg
ISBN : 9782493594686
Publié le 1 mars 2024
208 pages
140 x 190 mm
Acheter le livre en librairie au prix de € 18,-
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, - Book News, - Book Stories, - Bookstores, Archive A-B, Archive S-T, Banned Books, Feminism, Persian Art, REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS
« Je voulais raconter ça, l’histoire d’une famille de pasteurs qui perd la mémoire. Traiter d’un drame, avec le plus de lumière possible. » 〈Emma Doude van Troostwijk〉
Le temps d’un séjour de quelques semaines dans sa maison d’enfance, la narratrice raconte ses retrouvailles avec sa famille, où, depuis trois générations, hommes et femmes ont choisi le métier de pasteur. Mais quand elle arrive, quelque chose de cet ordre ancien s’est profondément déréglé.
Plongez, grâce à ce subtil premier roman, dans l’atmosphère enveloppante et mystérieuse d’un presbytère. Un premier roman aux charmes puissants, tout en clair-obscur, serti de détails lumineux. Un livre bouleversant sur la mémoire, l’oubli et la puissance de la narration – pour retisser du lien.
Une grande découverte ! 〈Gallimard〉
Emma Doude van Troostwijk écrit un premier roman éminemment original. Son originalité est à la fois narrative et formelle. L’histoire est sombre, pourtant ceux qui la vivent restent libres. 〈Le Monde〉
Ceux qui appartiennent au jour
par Emma Doude Van Troostwijk
Roman Francais
Date de parution: 2 Janvier 2024
Éditions Minuit
EAN 9782707349484
Nombre de pages: 176
Longueur 18.5 cm
Largeur 13.5 cm
Épaisseur 1.5 cm
Broché
€ 17.00
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More in: - Book Lovers, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive C-D, Archive S-T, Art & Literature News, Emma Doude Van Troostwijk
Marriage Morning
Light, so low upon earth,
You send a flash to the sun.
Here is the golden close of love,
All my wooing is done.
Oh, all the woods and the meadows,
Woods, where we hid from the wet,
Stiles where we stayed to be kind,
Meadows in which we met!
Light, so low in the vale
You flash and lighten afar,
For this is the golden morning of love,
And you are his morning star.
Flash, I am coming, I come,
By meadow and stile and wood,
Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart,
Into my heart and my blood!
Heart, are you great enough
For a love that never tires?
O heart, are you great enough for love?
I have heard of thorns and briers.
Over the thorns and briers,
Over the meadows and stiles,
Over the world to the end of it
Flash of a million miles.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Marriage Morning
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
Evening: New York
Blue dust of evening over my city,
Over the ocean of roofs and the tall towers
Where the window-lights, myriads and myriads,
Bloom from the walls like climbing flowers.
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
Evening: New York
from: Flame and Shadow
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
Late, Late, so Late
Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
No light had we: for that we do repent;
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!
O, let us in, that we may find the light!
Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.
Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet?
O, let us in, tho’ late, to kiss his feet!
No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.”
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Late, Late, so Late
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
Crossing the Bar
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Crossing the Bar
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
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