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Little Red Riding-Hood
If you listen, children, I will tell
The story of little Red Riding-hood:
Such wonderful, wonderful things befell
Her and her grandmother, old and good
(So old she was never very well),
Who lived in a cottage in a wood.
Little Red Riding-hood, every day,
Whatever the weather, shine or storm,
To see her grandmother tripped away,
With a scarlet hood to keep her warm,
And a little mantle, soft and gay,
And a basket of goodies on her arm.
A pat of butter, and cakes of cheese,
Were stored in the napkin, nice and neat;
As she danced along beneath the trees,
As light as a shadow were her feet;
And she hummed such tunes as the bumble-bees
Hum when the clover-tops are sweet.
But an ugly wolf by chance espied
The child, and marked her for his prize.
“What are you carrying there?” he cried;
“Is it some fresh-baked cakes and pies?”
And he walked along close by her side,
And sniffed and rolled his hungry eyes.
“A basket of things for granny, it is,”
She answered brightly, without fear.
“Oh, I know her very well, sweet miss!
Two roads branch towards her cottage here;
You go that way, and I’ll go this.
See which will get there first, my dear!”
He fled to the cottage, swift and sly;
Rapped softly, with a dreadful grin.
“Who’s there?” asked granny. “Only I!”
Piping his voice up high and thin.
“Pull the string, and the latch will fly!”
Old granny said; and he went in.
He glared her over from foot to head;
In a second more the thing was done!
He gobbled her up, and merely said,
“She wasn’t a very tender one!”
And then he jumped into the bed,
And put her sack and night-cap on.
And he heard soft footsteps presently,
And then on the door a timid rap;
He knew Red Riding-hood was shy,
So he answered faintly to the tap:
“Pull the string and the latch will fly!”
She did: and granny, in her night-cap,
Lay covered almost up to her nose.
“Oh, granny dear!” she cried, “are you worse?”
“I’m all of a shiver, even to my toes!
Please won’t you be my little nurse,
And snug up tight here under the clothes?”
Red Riding-hood answered, “Yes,” of course.
Her innocent head on the pillow laid,
She spied great pricked-up, hairy ears,
And a fierce great mouth, wide open spread,
And green eyes, filled with wicked leers;
And all of a sudden she grew afraid;
Yet she softly asked, in spite of her fears:
“Oh, granny! what makes your ears so big?”
“To hear you with! to hear you with!”
“Oh, granny! what make your eyes so big?”
“To see you with! to see you with!”
“Oh, granny! what makes your teeth so big?”
“To eat you with! to eat you with!”
And he sprang to swallow her up alive;
But it chanced a woodman from the wood,
Hearing her shriek, rushed, with his knife,
And drenched the wolf in his own blood.
And in that way he saved the life
Of pretty little Red Riding-hood.
Hark, hark
The dogs do bark
Beggars are coming to town;
Some in jags,
Some in rags,
And some in velvet gowns.
Clara Doty Bates
(1838 – 1895)
Little Red Riding-Hood
Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bates, Clara Doty, Children's Poetry, Grimm, Andersen e.o.: Fables, Fairy Tales & Stories, Tales of Mystery & Imagination
Lana Del Rey follows in the same musician/poet footsteps as Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, Jewel and Lou Reed.
Lana’s music and lyrics evoke images of a saturated Kodachrome photograph, so it would stand to reason that she’d now add “poet” to her artist’s kit. Even without music, her words work their way around you, pulling you into a world that’s not unlike a David Lynch movie.
The New York Times bestselling debut book of poetry from Lana Del Rey, Violet Bent Backwards Over the Grass.
“Violet Bent Backwards Over the Grass is the title poem of the book and the first poem I wrote of many. Some of which came to me in their entirety, which I dictated and then typed out, and some that I worked laboriously picking apart each word to make the perfect poem. They are eclectic and honest and not trying to be anything other than what they are and for that reason I’m proud of them, especially because the spirit in which they were written was very authentic.” —Lana Del Rey
Lana’s breathtaking first book solidifies her further as “the essential writer of her times” (The Atlantic). The collection features more than thirty poems, many exclusive to the book: Never to Heaven, The Land of 1,000 Fires, Past the Bushes Cypress Thriving, LA Who Am I to Love You?, Tessa DiPietro, Happy, Paradise Is Very Fragile, Bare Feet on Linoleum, and many more. This beautiful hardcover edition showcases Lana’s typewritten manuscript pages alongside her original photography. The result is an extraordinary poetic landscape that reflects the unguarded spirit of its creator.
Violet Bent Backwards Over the Grass is also brought to life in an unprecedented spoken word audiobook which features Lana Del Rey reading fourteen select poems from the book accompanied by music from Grammy Award–winning musician Jack Antonoff.
Lana Del Rey is an American singer, songwriter, artist, and poet. Violet Bent Backwards Over the Grass is her first book.
Violet Bent Backwards over the Grass
by Lana Del Rey
Poetry
English language
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Publication date: 09/29/2020
ISBN-13: 9781982167288
Pages: 128
Hardcover
$24.99
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More in: # Music Archive, #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Lana Del Rey
“Hab’ Sonne im Herzen”
Hab’ Sonne im Herzen, obs stürmt oder schneit
Ob der Himmel voll Wolken, die Erd voller Streit.
Hab’ Sonne im Herzen, dann komme was mag,
das leuchtet voll Licht dir den dunkelsten Tag.
Hab’ ein Lied auf den Lippen mit fröhlichem Klang
und macht auch des Alltags Gedränge dich bang!
Hab’ ein Lied auf den Lippen, dann komme was mag,
das hilft dir verwinden den einsamsten Tag!
Hab’ ein Wort auch für andre in Sorg’ und in Pein,
und sag, was dich selber so frohgemut lässt sein:
Hab’ ein Lied auf den Lippen, verlier nie den Mut,
hab’ Sonne im Herzen, und alles wird gut.
Cäsar Flaischlen
(1864-1920)
“Hab’ Sonne im Herzen”
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive E-F, Archive E-F
Females
The female fox she is a fox;
The female whale a whale;
The female eagle holds her place
As representative of race
As truly as the male.
The mother hen doth scratch for her chicks,
And scratch for herself beside;
The mother cow doth nurse her calf,
Yet fares as well as her other half
In the pasture free and wide.
The female bird doth soar in air;
The female fish doth swim;
The fleet-foot mare upon the course
Doth hold her own with the flying horse–
Yea and she beateth him!
One female in the world we find
Telling a different tale.
It is the female of our race,
Who holds a parasitic place
Dependent on the male.
Not so, saith she, ye slander me!
No parasite am I.
I earn my living as a wife;
My children take my very life;
Why should I share in human strife,
To plant and build and buy?
The human race holds highest place
In all the world so wide,
Yet these inferior females wive,
And raise their little ones alive,
And feed themselves beside.
The race is higher than the sex,
Though sex be fair and good;
A Human Creature is your state,
And to be human is more great
Than even womanhood!
The female fox she is a fox;
The female whale a whale;
The female eagle holds her place
As representative of race
As truly as the male.
Charlotte Perkins Gilman
(1860-1935)
Females
Suffrage Songs and Verses
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Feminism
Soms humoristisch, soms zakelijk, maar altijd in een volstrekt eigen vorm. De poëzie van Alfred Schaffer wordt alom geroemd om haar meerstemmigheid en schakelt moeiteloos tussen engagement en absurditeit.
Schaffer ontving de P.C. Hooft-prijs 2021 en is daarmee een van de jongste laureaten ooit van Nederlands belangrijkste literaire oeuvreprijs. Sinds zijn debuutbundel Zijn opkomst in de voorstad (2000), die werd bekroond met de eerste Jo Peters Poëzieprijs, weet Schaffer zich constant te vernieuwen, met het vol lof onthaalde wie was ik. strafregels (2020) als meest recente uiting van zijn virtuoze dichterschap.
Zo heb ik u lief. alle gedichten tot nu toe brengt twintig jaar dichterschap en negen bundels samen in één band en laat zien dat Schaffer ontegenzeggelijk een van de beste hedendaagse dichters in het Nederlandse taalgebied is.
Alfred Schaffer (1973) is dichter, docent en vertaler. Hij studeerde Nederlandse Taal- en Letterkunde en Film- en Theaterwetenschappen alvorens in 1996 naar Zuid-Afrika te verhuizen, waar hij als docent verbonden was aan de Universiteit van Kaapstad. Tussen 2007 en 2010 was hij fondsredacteur van De Bezige Bij. In 2011 vertrok hij opnieuw naar Zuid-Afrika, waar hij doceert aan de Universiteit van Stellenbosch.
Nog niet verschenen. Reserveer het boek nu bij uw boekhandel. Het boek verschijnt rond 02-09-2021.
Zo heb ik u lief
Alle gedichten tot nu toe
Auteur: Alfred Schaffer
ISBN: 9789403141213
NUR: 306
Paperback
Aantal pagina’s: 736
Uitgever: De Bezige Bij
Verschijningsdatum: 02-09-2021
Prijs: 34,99
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More in: #Modern Poetry Archive, Archive S-T, Archive S-T
Diane Seuss writes in this brilliant, candid work, her most personal collection to date.
These poems tell the story of a life at risk of spilling over the edge of the page, from Seuss’s working-class childhood in rural Michigan to the dangerous allures of New York City and back again.
With sheer virtuosity, Seuss moves nimbly across thought and time, poetry and punk, AIDS and addiction, Christ and motherhood, showing us what we can do, what we can do without, and what we offer to one another when we have nothing left to spare.
Like a series of cels on a filmstrip, frank: sonnets captures the magnitude of a life lived honestly, a restless search for some kind of “beauty or relief.” Seuss is at the height of her powers, devastatingly astute, austere, and―in a word―frank.
“The sonnet, like poverty, teaches you what you can do / without,”
# New Poetry
frank: sonnets
by Diane Seuss
Publisher: Graywolf Press
March 2, 2021
Language: English
Paperback
152 pages
ISBN-10: 1644450453
ISBN-13: 978-1644450451
$15.99
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More in: #Modern Poetry Archive, Archive S-T, Archive S-T
Time-Stone
Hallo, Metropolitan –
Ubiquitous windows staring all ways,
Red eye notching the darkness.
No use to ogle that slip of a moon.
This midnight the moon,
Playing virgin after all her encounters,
Will break another date with you.
You fuss an awful lot,
You flight of ledger books,
Overrun with multiple ant-black figures
Dancing on spindle legs
An interminable can-can.
But I’d rather… like the cats in the alley… count time
By the silver whistle of a moonbeam
Falling between my stoop-shouldered walls,
Than all your tally of the sunsets,
Metropolitan, ticking among stars.
Lola Ridge
(1873-1941)
Time-Stone
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More in: Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Ridge, Lola
Canticle Of The Babe
I
Over the broken world, the dark gone by,
Horror of outcast darkness torn with wars;
And timeless agony
Of the white fire, heaped high by blinded Stars,
Unfaltering, unaghast;–
Out of the midmost Fire
At last,–at last,–
Cry! …
O darkness’ one desire,–
O darkness, have you heard?–
Black Chaos, blindly striving towards the Word?
–The Cry!
Behold thy conqueror, Death!
Behold, behold from whom
It flutters forth, that triumph of First-Breath,
Victorious one that can but breathe and cling,–
This pulsing flower,–this weaker than a wing,
Halcyon thing!–
Cradled above unfathomable doom.
II
Under my feet, O Death,
Under my trembling feet!
Back, through the gates of hell, now give me way.
I come.–I bring new Breath!
Over the trampled shards of mine own clay,
That smoulder still, and burn,
Lo, I return!
Hail, singing Light that floats
Pulsing with chorused motes:–
Hail to thee, Sun, that lookest on all lands!
And take thou from my weak undying hands,
A precious thing, unblemished, undefiled:–
Here, on my heart uplift,
Behold the Gift,–
Thy glory and my glory, and my child!
III
(And our eyes were opened; eyes that had been holden.
And I saw the world, and the fruits thereof.
And I saw their glories, scarlet-stained and golden,
All a crumbled dust beneath the feet of Love.
And I saw their dreams, all of nothing worth;
But a path for Love, for Him to walk above,
And I saw new heaven, and new earth.)
IV
The grass is full of murmurs;
The sky is full of wings;
The earth is full of breath.
With voices, choir on choir
With tongues of fire,
They sing how Life out-sings–
Out-numbers Death.
V
Who are these that fly;
As doves, and as doves to the windows?
Doves, like hovering dreams round Love that slumbereth;
Silvering clouds blown by,
Doves and doves to the windows,–
Warm through the radiant sky their wings beat breath.
They are the world’s new-born:
Doves, doves to the windows!
Lighting, as flakes of snow;
Lighting, as flakes of flame;
Some to the fair sown furrows;
Some to the huts and burrows
Choked of the mire and thorn,–
Deep in the city’s shame.
Wind-scattered wreaths they go,
Doves, and doves, to the windows;
Some for worshipping arms, to shelter and fold, and shrine;
Some to be torn and trodden,
Withered and waste, and sodden;
Pitiful, sacred leaves from Life’s dishonored vine.
VI
O Vine of Life, that in these reaching fingers,
Urges a sunward way!
Hold here and climb, and halt not, that there lingers
So far outstripped, my halting, wistful clay.
Make here thy foothold of my rapturous heart,–
Yea, though the tendrils start
To hold and twine!
I am the heart that nursed
Thy sunward thirst.–
A little while, a little while, O Vine,
My own and never mine,
Feed thy sweet roots with me
Abundantly.
O wonder-wildness of the pushing Bud
With hunger at the flood,
Climb on, and seek, and spurn.
Let my dull spirit learn
To follow with its longing, as it may,
While thou seek higher day.–
But thou, the reach of my own heart’s desire,
Be free as fire!
Still climb and cling; and so
Outstrip,–outgrow.
O Vine of Life, my own and not my own,
So far am I outgrown!
High as I may, I lift thee, Soul’s Desire.
–Lift thou me higher.
And thou, Wayfaring Woman, whom I meet
On all the highways,–every brimming street,
Lady Demeter, is it thou, grown gaunt
With work and want?
At last, and with what shamed and stricken eyes,
I see through thy disguise
Of drudge and Exile,–even the holy boon
That silvers yonder in the Harvest-moon;–
That dimly under glows
The furrows of thy worn immortal face,
With mother-grace.
O Queen and Burden-bearer, what of those
To whom thou gavest the lily and the rose
Of thy far youth?… For whom,
Out of the wondrous loom
Of thine enduring body, thou didst make
Garments of beauty, cunningly adorned,
But only for Death’s sake!
Largess of life, but to lie waste and scorned.–
Could not such cost of pain,
Nor daily utmost of thy toil prevail?–
But they must fade, and pale,
And wither from thy desolated throne?–
And still no Summer give thee back again
Thine own?
Lady of Sorrows,–Mother,–Drudge august.
Behold me in the dust.
Josephine Preston Peabody
(1874 – 1922)
Canticle Of The Babe
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive O-P, Archive O-P
Winner of the 2021 Wandering Aengus Book Award!
Alina Ștefănescu’s DOR is a compendium of desire, displacement, longing, and belonging. While the word “dor” itself “serves as a bridge which creates its own territory from fusion,” here Stefanescu’s words do their own act of bridging the spaces between the body and language. In these poems, tongues, like nations, have borders; nouns and verbs come alive with ownership and agency. Stefanescu writes “a good girl poem waits // for the bass.” but these are not good girl poems.
Part genealogy of influences, part meditation on love, lust, and loss, and part pointed feminist critique, DOR is a multi-faceted collection that creates a newly textured landscape of language. — Emily Holland, author of Lineage and editor of Poet Lore
Alina Stefanescu was born in Romania and lives in Birmingham, Alabama with her partner and several intense mammals. Her writing can be found in diverse journals, including Prairie Schooner, North American Review, FLOCK, Southern Humanities Review, Crab Creek Review, Virga, Whale Road Review, and others. Alina is the author of Ribald, a prose microchapbook, from Bull City Press. She serves as Poetry Editor for Pidgeonholes, Poetry Editor for Random Sample Review, Poetry Reviewer for Up the Staircase Quarterly, and Co-Director of PEN America’s Birmingham Chapter. A finalist for the 2019 Kurt Brown AWP Prize, Alina won the 2019 River Heron Poetry Prize.
Poem for the Black Bird
(. . .)
You will never forget me, Doru. No one else left
their homeland for you. Her hands shook, pressing
words into the flesh of our home. The life she was
leaving. Her notes, that winding charred necklace,
encircling us. The bird was not black.
It was the color of fire absent smoke.
I can’t forget what it spoke.
Dor
by Alina Stefanescu
English
Poetry
Paperback
Pages: 112
ISBN-13: 9780578915784
Publisher: Wandering Aengus Press
Publication date: 07/22/2021
$20.00
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More in: #More Poetry Archives, - Book News, Archive S-T, Archive S-T
Een nieuwe ster aan het poëtisch firmament
Leeft een lichaam nog als het alleen maar naar een beeldscherm staart? Wat glinstert er tussen de ruïnes van de eenentwintigste eeuw? Dat onderzoekt Maxime Garcia Diaz in deze spetterende debuutbundel.
Haar associatieve gedichten kronkelen, bedwelmen, ontregelen, en wortelen diep in het digitale, het feminiene en het hedendaagse. Flarden van nieuwsberichten vermengen zich met academische theorie en uitgestorven webpagina’s uit de jaren nul. In haar poëzie worden grenzen poreus – tussen lichamen, talen, stemmen – en is alles onzuiver. Het is warm in de hivemind is als een analoog internet, een papieren web, een bloederige rotzooi van popcultuur, ondode URL’s en meisjeslichamen. Een bruisend poëtisch debuut waarin de taal welig tiert, over fantasie, gekte, woede, angst, en een spookachtige revolutie. Deze meerstemmige, meertalige maelstrom lijkt nog het meest op het internet zelf: grillig, gevaarlijk en vol van een duistere en vreugdevolle overvloed.
live through this w/ me
(. . .)
voor nu heb ik geen honger meer
ik heb de hele middag in een bushokje
gezeten (neorexisch koninkrijk)
met euroshopper & amnesia haze
en een amerikaanse tiener
opgekruld in een hoekje als een
suburban spook, zielige zieke ideeën
& een meisje (girl of the geist)
that promised to live through this
with me
(. . .)
Maxime Garcia Diaz (1993) studeerde Cultural Analysis aan de Universiteit van Amsterdam. In 2019 won ze het NK Poetry Slam. Haar werk is eerder gepubliceerd door De Internet Gids, Samplekanon, Yes The Void, Deus Ex Machina en De Optimist. In 2020 kwam haar chapbook Artificielle uit bij het label Marktcorruptie en werkte ze met andere jonge schrijvers aan de voorstelling Poetic Resistance. Garcia Diaz is Nederlands en Uruguayaans en woont in Amsterdam.
Het is warm in de hivemind
Maxime Garcia Diaz
Gedichten
ISBN: 9789403120614
NUR: 306
Type: Paperback
Aantal pagina’s: 112
Uitgever: De Bezige Bij
Verschijningsdatum: 15-07-2021
Prijs: 22,99 euro
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Garcia Diaz, Maxime, STREET POETRY
A highly anticipated collection of new poems from the award-winning writer Ocean Vuong: Time Is a Mother.
How else do we return to ourselves but to fold
The page so it points to the good part
In this deeply intimate second poetry collection, Ocean Vuong searches for life among the aftershocks of his mother’s death, embodying the paradox of sitting within grief while being determined to survive beyond it. Shifting through memory, and in concert with the themes of his novel On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Vuong contends with personal loss, the meaning of family, and the cost of being the product of an American war in America. At once vivid, brave, and propulsive, Vuong’s poems circle fragmented lives to find both restoration as well as the epicenter of the break.
The author of the critically acclaimed poetry collection Night Sky With Exit Wounds, winner of the 2016 Whiting Award, the 2017 T. S. Eliot Prize, and a 2019 MacArthur fellow, Vuong writes directly to our humanity without losing sight of the current moment. These poems represent a more innovative and daring experimentation with language and form, illuminating how the themes we perennially live in and question are truly inexhaustible. Bold and prescient, and a testament to tenderness in the face of violence, Time Is a Mother is a return and a forging forth all at once.
Ocean Vuong is the author of the critically acclaimed poetry collection Night Sky with Exit Wounds and the New York Times bestselling novel On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. A recipient of the 2019 MacArthur “Genius” Grant, he is also the winner of the Whiting Award and the T.S. Eliot Prize. His writings have been featured in The Atlantic, Harper’s Magazine, The Nation, The New Republic, The New Yorker, and The New York Times. Born in Saigon, Vietnam, he currently lives in Northampton, Massachusetts.
Time Is a Mother
By Ocean Vuong
Poetry
Hardcover
ISBN-13: 9780593300237
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date: 04/05/2022
Pages: 128
$24.00
This item will be available on April 5, 2022
Available for Pre-Order.
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive U-V, Archive U-V, Ocean Vuong
Writing
A man who keeps a diary, pays
Due toll to many tedious days;
But life becomes eventful then
His busy hand forgets the pen.
Most books, indeed, are records less
Of fullness than of emptiness.
William Allingham
(1824 – 1889)
Writing
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More in: Allingham, William, Archive A-B, Archive A-B
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