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Wachten op de perenval
Een boerengedicht
Tussen verse klaver en bloeiende netel
roestige val: de dreiging blijft. Aan de voetzolen
poldermodder, smeuïg en zwart.
Uit langse karren bulken ajuinen. Erachter houden
wielrenners zich uit de wind. Boeren klotsen klompen
over de deel. Er zit regen in de lucht.
Bezwangerd land. Fazanten schieten door de greppels.
Hoera: gloeit achter gindse wolk de zon niet weer?
Harken krabben van de tuin de jeuk weg.
Hé Adriaen van Grijpstraten, waar heb je toch mijn
zwingel gelaten? neuriet de knecht. Vergeten is
de landheer die hier dertig jaar geleden op de rozen piste
nog niet gans.
Bert Bevers
Uit: Onaangepaste tijden, Zinderend, Bergen op Zoom, 2006
Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be)
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Weltende
Dem Bürger fliegt vom spitzen Kopf der Hut,
In allen Lüften hallt es wie Geschrei,
Dachdecker stürzen ab und gehn entzwei.
Und an den Küsten – liest man – steigt die Flut.
Der Sturm ist da, die wilden Meere hupfen
An Land, um dicke Dämme zu zerdrücken.
Die meisten Menschen haben einen Schnupfen.
Die Eisenbahnen fallen von den Brücken.
Jakob van Hoddis
(1887 – 1942)
Weltende (Gedicht)
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More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Hoddis, Jakob van
Love
Oh Love! how fondly, tenderly enshrined
In human hearts, how with our being twined!
Immortal principle, in mercy given,
The brightest mirror of the joys of heaven.
Child of Eternity’s unclouded clime,
Too fair for earth, too infinite for time:
A seraph watching o’er Death’s sullen shroud,
A sunbeam streaming through a stormy cloud;
An angel hovering o’er the paths of life,
But sought in vain amidst its cares and strife;
Claimed by the many–known but to the few
Who keep thy great Original in view;
Who, void of passion’s dross, behold in thee
A glorious attribute of Deity!
Susanna Moodie:
Love (Poem)
(1803 – 1885)
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More in: Archive M-N, Archive M-N, CLASSIC POETRY
Vloed
Ze kruipt graag voor, de branding. Spoelt zich het kader
uit de blik in, een kamer waarin nog nooit gewoond werd
tegemoet. Door druppels heen voeren winden landzieke
beloftes aan. Zonder wat voor twijfels dan ook zwijgt
schamel het strand van de ontrouw, en bilzacht de bank.
Bert Bevers
Bert Bevers schreef dit gedicht bij de foto van Joep Eijkens
© gedicht Bert Bevers 2020
© foto Joep Eijkens 2020
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Archive E-F, Bevers & Eijkens, Bevers, Bert, Joep Eijkens Photos, Photography
Die Liebe
Wenn ihr Freunde vergeßt, wenn ihr die Euern all,
O ihr Dankbaren, sie, euere Dichter schmäht,
Gott vergeb es, doch ehret
Nur die Seele der Liebenden.
Denn o saget, wo lebt menschliches Leben sonst,
Da die knechtische jetzt alles, die Sorge, zwingt?
Darum wandelt der Gott auch
Sorglos über dem Haupt uns längst.
Doch, wie immer das Jahr kalt und gesanglos ist
Zur beschiedenen Zeit, aber aus weißem Feld
Grüne Halme doch sprossen,
Oft ein einsamer Vogel singt,
Wenn sich mählich der Wald dehnet, der Strom sich regt,
Schon die mildere Luft leise von Mittag weht
Zur erlesenen Stunde,
So ein Zeichen der schönern Zeit,
Die wir glauben, erwächst einziggenügsam noch,
Einzig edel und fromm über dem ehernen,
Wilden Boden die Liebe,
Gottes Tochter, von ihm allein.
Sei gesegnet, o sei, himmlische Pflanze, mir
Mit Gesange gepflegt, wenn des ätherischen
Nektars Kräfte dich nähren,
Und der schöpfrische Strahl dich reift.
Wachs und werde zum Wald! eine beseeltere,
Vollentblühende Welt! Sprache der Liebenden
Sei die Sprache des Landes,
Ihre Seele der Laut des Volks!
Friedrich Hölderlin
(1770 – 1843)
Die Liebe
Gedicht
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More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Hölderlin, Friedrich
To The Sun
Great Phoebus ! thou on whom we all depend
For countless joys which thou alone canst send,
A saturated mortal to thee speaks,
And for an answer to this question seeks —
Where hast thou been through all these sloppy weeks?
Oh ! by sweet thoughts of punt and shade and pipe.
By horrid dreams of Fruit far, far from ripe,
By hopes of pleasures culled throughout the “Long,”
By thoughts of Margate with its ni^er song.
By trips proposed upon the “Continong”;
Shine forth, O mighty Sun ! and turn thy face
On match, regatta, party, pic-nic, race;
Dispel the gloom that o’er our island lowers,
And people all the land with countless flowers,
And let us have at least some rainless hours.
Let Bobbies murmur in the Street of Bow,
And swear that on their beat they will not go:
Let Postmen fill our souls with endless fears
That correspondence may get in arrears :
Let thoughts of striking fill our Grenadiers :
Let all these cease from labour, if they like ;
But thou, great Sun-god, go not thou on strike!
Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott
(1865–1927)
To The Sun (Poem)
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More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Mostyn Turtle Pigott
Vermont and the Hills and the Valleys
1
Tremendous are the ways of the simple people,
The hills speak with their mouths,
The sky laughs out the rims of their eyes,
The earth walks with the feet of the people
And the wind and the dead are their souls awake
And the sleep, that is theirs comes when the eye-lid
Slips down to meet the soiled slant of their cheeks.
2
Great are the mountain slopes curving along the line
Flanked by the river or the smooth-glint track of train:
A speed of smoke, a sprung-coil loosely heaped beyond the span of steel.
Look to right — look to the left and the fields
That fit in languid patterns between trees,
Umber cornstalks, hay in warm-split stacks!
3
Tight is the hair of women who call cows to the milking,
Wrists and fingers playing out the movement of the udder-press.
White is the angle and the piss and splash of milk.
Let it be remembered, O, let it be remembered
That there are the women and the simple people!
4
The oxen plow and wagon the hay in its high dung-gold,
Making long horns shape and hold the moon,
The red of their sides squat.
The green of the trees spring in wide green waves to the wind,
To the fields and the wide-palmed spread of space.
5
The men are before the night:
With the cracks of their cheeks filled with dust,
And the hands heavy like listless takes swung down,
And the dirt and sweat on their lips,
And the rise and fall of their chests.
6
The women go from the milking to the pot without compunction.
Steps of men and women from the field to the home,
From the plow to the reaping in the deep high swell of wheat.
There are the simple people
Whose hands rest still on a Sabbath,
And great are the fields and the mountains,
And great are the slopes and the valleys.
Joan Murray
(1917-1942)
Vermont and the Hills and the Valleys
(poem)
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More in: Archive M-N, Archive M-N, Joan Murray
From Sappho
Thou liest dead, lie on: of thee
No sweet remembrances shall be,
Who never plucked Pierian rose,
Who never chanced on Anteros.
Unknown, unnoticed, there below
Through Aides’ houses shalt thou go
Alone, for never a flitting ghost
Shall find in thee a lover lost.
Digby Mackworth Dolben
(1848 – 1867)
From Sappho
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Digby Mackworth Dolben, Sappho
The wound-dresser
1
An old man bending I come among new faces,
Years looking backward resuming in answer to children,
Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me,
(Arous’d and angry, I’d thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war,
But soon my fingers fail’d me, my face droop’d and I resign’d myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;)
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances,
Of unsurpass’d heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;)
Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth,
Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?
2
O maidens and young men I love and that love me,
What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls,
Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover’d with sweat and dust,
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful charge,
Enter the captur’d works–yet lo, like a swift-running river they fade,
Pass and are gone they fade–I dwell not on soldiers’ perils or soldiers’ joys,
(Both I remember well-many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content.)
But in silence, in dreams’ projections,
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on,
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand,
With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up there,
Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.)
Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in,
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass the ground,
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof’d hospital,
To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return,
To each and all one after another I drawn near, not one do I miss,
An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail,
Soon to be fill’d with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill’d again.
I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds,
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable,
One turns to me his appealing eyes-poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.
3
On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!)
The crush’d head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away,)
The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through I examine,
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard,
(Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death!
In mercy come quickly.)
From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,
I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood,
Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv’d neck and side-falling head,
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody stump,
And has not yet look’d on it.
I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep,
But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.
I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound,
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive,
While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail.
I am faithful, I do not give out,
The fractur’d thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,
These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame.)
4
Thus in silence in dreams’ projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals,
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young,
Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,
(Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested,
Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
The wound-dresser
From: Leaves of grass
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More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt
Les trois oiseaux
L’oiseau de fer, l’oiseau d’acier,
après avoir lacéré les nuages du matin
et voulu picorer des étoiles
au-delà du jour,
descend comme à regret
dans une grotte artificielle.
L’oiseau de chair, l’oiseau de plumes
qui creuse un tunnel dans le vent
pour parvenir jusqu’à la lune qu’il a vue en rêve
dans les branches,
tombe en même temps que le soir
dans un dédale de feuillage.
Celui qui est immatériel, lui,
charme le gardien du crâne
avec son chant balbutiant,
puis ouvre des ailes résonnantes
et va pacifier l’espace
pour n’en revenir qu’une fois éternel.
Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo
(1901? 1903? – 1937)
Les trois oiseaux (poème)
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More in: Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo
Marieke Lucas Rijneveld wint de Ida Gerhardt Poëzieprijs 2020 voor haar bundel Fantoommerrie. De andere genomineerden waren Bart Moeyaert met Helium en Iduna Paalman: De grom uit de hond halen.
De feestelijke prijsuitreiking in Zutphen op zaterdagavond 14 maart j.l. is geannuleerd vanwege het corona-virus. Op een nader te bepalen moment krijgt Marieke Lucas Rijneveld de geldprijs van 1000 euro en een bronzen beeldje voorstellende Ida Gerhardt overhandigd.
‘Haar overrompelende debuut Kalfsvlies (2015) blijkt geen toevalstreffer’, schrijven juryleden Petra Possel en Arjan Peters in het juryrapport. ‘In lange zinnen, gulle beelden en rijke strofen, hoeft deze dichter ogenschijnlijk niet te zoeken naar woorden; zodra ze gaat schrijven, komen de woorden aan gegaloppeerd.’ Fantoommerrie (2019) zit vol dreigende en onontkoombare taal, aldus de jury. ‘Als een geluid dat steeds tussen je oren suist en maar niet weg wil gaan.’
Fantoommerrie
Auteur: Marieke Lucas Rijneveld
Taal: Nederlands
Paperback
Druk 1
Verschijningsdatum januari 2019
Afmetingen 24 x 17 x 0,5 cm
64 pagina’s
Uitgever Atlas Contact
EAN 9789025453459
NUR code 306
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More in: Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Awards & Prizes, Rijneveld, Marieke Lucas
Chanson
Vos beaux yeux sur ma franchise
N’adressent pas bien leurs coups,
Tête chauve et barbe grise
Ne sont pas viande pour vous ;
Quand j’aurais l’heure de vous plaire,
Ce serait perdre du temps ;
Iris, que pourriez-vous faire
D’un galant de cinquante ans ?
Ce qui vous rend adorable
N’est propre qu’à m’alarmer,
Je vous trouve trop aimable
Et crains de vous trop aimer :
Mon cœur à prendre est facile,
Mes vœux sont des plus constants ;
Mais c’est un meuble inutile
Qu’un galant de cinquante ans.
Si l’armure n’est complète,
Si tout ne va comme il faut,
Il vaut mieux faire retraite
Que d’entreprendre un assaut :
L’amour ne rend point la place
À de mauvais combattants,
Et rit de la vaine audace
Des galants de cinquante ans.
Pierre Corneille
(1606-1684)
Chanson
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Corneille, Pierre
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