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FLEURSDUMAL POETRY LIBRARY – classic, modern, experimental & visual & sound poetry, poetry in translation, city poets, poetry archive, pre-raphaelites, editor’s choice, etc.

· A Dressed Man by George Orwell · Death be Not Proud, Poem by John Donne · Diana Anphimiadi: Why I No Longer Write Poems · Maud by Alfred Tennyson · The Opposite of Loneliness, Essays and Stories by Marina Keegan · Love’s Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley · Antonin Artaud: Poème Révolte contre la poésie · She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron · Ernst Toller: Nacht · Our Minds Are Married, But We Are Too Young by George Orwell · Among the Multitude by Walt Whitman · William Shakespeare: Being your slave, what should I do but tend

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A Dressed Man by George Orwell

 

A Dressed Man

A dressed man and a naked man
Stood by the kip-house fire,
Watching the sooty cooking-pots
That bubble on the wire;

And bidding tanners up and down,
Bargaining for a deal,
Naked skin for empty skin,
Clothes against a meal.

‘Ten bob it is,’ the dressed man said,
‘These boots cost near a pound,
This coat’s a blanket of itself.
When you kip on the frosty ground.’

‘One dollar,’ said the nakd man,
‘And that’s a hog too dear;
I’ve seen a man strip off his shirt
For a fag and a pot of beer.’

‘Eight and a tanner,’ the dressed man said,

George Orwell
(1903 – 1950)
A Dressed Man

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More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, George Orwell, Orwell, George


Death be Not Proud, Poem by John Donne

 

Death be Not Proud

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

John Donne
(1572 – 1631)
Death be Not Proud
(±1618)

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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Donne, John


Diana Anphimiadi: Why I No Longer Write Poems

Diana Anphimiadi is a poet, publicist, linguist and teacher. She has published four collections of poetry in Georgian: Shokoladi (Chocolate, 2008), Konspecturi Mitologia (Resumé of Mythology, 2009), Alhlokhedvis Traektoria (Trajectory of the Short-Sighted, 2012) and Chrdilis Amoch’ra (Cutting the Shadow, 2015).

Her poetry has received prestigious awards, including first prize in the 2008 Tsero (Crane Award) and the Saba Prize for the best first collection in 2009. Her chapbook, Beginning to Speak, was published in 2018 by the Poetry Translation Centre, and Why I No Longer Write Poems, the first full-length Georgian-English selection of her poetry, is published by Bloodaxe Books with the Poetry Translation Centre in 2022, both titles translated by Natalia Bukia-Peters and Jean Sprackland.
Diana Anphimiadi lives in Tblisi with her son.

The poems in this selection have been collaboratively translated into English by the leading Georgian translator Natalia Bukia-Peters and award-winning British poet Jean Sprackland. A chapbook selection of their translations of Anphimiadi’s work, Beginning to Speak, was published in 2018 and praised by Adham Smart in Modern Poetry in Translation for capturing the ‘electricity of Anphimiadi’s language’ which ‘crackles from one poem to the next in Bukia-Peters and Sprackland’s fine translation’.

#new poetry
Diana Anphimiadi
Why I No Longer Write Poems
Translated by Jean Sprackland & Natalia Bukia-Peters
Publication Date : 24 Feb 2022
Winner English PEN Award
Paperback
Pages: 160
Size: 216 x 138mm
Bloodaxe Books Ltd
ISBN: 9781780375472
£12.99

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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Jean Genet


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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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Tennyson, Alfred Lord


The Opposite of Loneliness, Essays and Stories by Marina Keegan

Marina Keegan (1989-2012) was an award-winning author, journalist, playwright, poet, actress, and activist.

Her nonfiction has been published in The New York Times; her fiction has been published on NewYorker.com, and read on NPR’s Selected Shorts; her musical, Independents, was a New York Times Critics’ Pick. Marina’s final essay for The Yale Daily News, “The Opposite of Loneliness”, became an instant global sensation, viewed by more than 1.4 million people from 98 countries.

‘A generation-defining collection published posthumously…Her voice is relevant, sharp, fresh, unfiltered and poetic, with a dry wit. You can dive in and out of her questioning and her musings and meanderings. So much promise’, Jenna Coleman, star of Doctor Who and Victoria.

Marina Keegan’s star was on the rise when she graduated from Yale in May 2012. She had a play that was to be produced at the New York International Fringe Festival and a job waiting for her at the New Yorker. Tragically, five days after graduation, Marina died in a car crash.

As her family, friends and classmates, deep in grief, joined to create a memorial service for Marina, her unforgettable last essay for the Yale Daily News, ‘The Opposite of Loneliness’, went viral, receiving more than 1.4 million hits.

She had struck a chord. Even though she was just 22 when she died, Marina left behind a rich, expansive trove of prose that, like her title essay, captures the hope, uncertainty and possibility of her generation. The Opposite of Loneliness is an assemblage of Marina’s essays and stories that articulates the universal struggle we all face as we work out what we aspire to be and how we can harness our talents to make an impact on the world.

The Opposite of Loneliness:
Essays and Stories
by Marina Keegan (Author),
Anne Fadiman (Introduction)
Publisher: ‎ Scribner,
Simon & Schuster Ltd
First Edition (April 8, 2014)
Language: ‎ English
240 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 147675361X
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1476753614
Price: Paperback € 19,99

Marina Keegan (1989-2012)
American author, playwright, journalist, actress and poet
Born: Marina Evelyn Keegan
October 25, 1989
Boston, Massachusetts
Died: May 26, 2012 (aged 22)
Cape Cod (USA)
Alma mater; Yale University
The Opposite of Loneliness:
Essays and Stories (2014)
American literature

For more information, visit:  TheOppositeofLoneliness.com

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More in: #Biography Archives, #Editors Choice Archiv, - Book News, Archive K-L, Archive K-L, In Memoriam, Marina Keegan, THEATRE


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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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Shelley, Percy Byssche


Antonin Artaud: Poème Révolte contre la poésie

 

Poème Révolte contre la poésie

Nous n’avons jamais écrit qu’avec la mise en incarnation de l’âme,
mais elle était déjà faite, et pas par nous-mêmes,
quand nous sommes entrés dans la poésie.
Le poète qui écrit s’adresse au Verbe et le Verbe a ses lois.
Il est dans l’inconscient du poète de croire automatiquement à ces lois.
Il se croit libre et il ne l’est pas.

Antonin Artaud
(1896 – 1948)
Poème Révolte contre la poésie

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More in: Antonin Artaud, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Artaud, Antonin


She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron

 

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair’d the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

Lord Byron
(1788 – 1824)
She Walks in Beauty

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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord


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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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Toller, Ernst


Our Minds Are Married, But We Are Too Young by George Orwell

 

Our Minds Are Married,
But We are Too Young

Our minds are married, but we are too young
For wedlock by the customs of this age
When parent homes pen each in separate cage
And only supper-earning songs are sung.
Times past, when medieval woods were green,
Babes were betrothed, and that betrothal brief.
Remember Romeo in love and grief—
Those star-crossed lovers—Juliet was fourteen.

Times past, the caveman by his new-found fire
Rested beside his mate in woodsmoke’s scent.
By our own fireside we shall rest content
Fifty years hence keep troth with hearts desire.

We shall remember, when our hair is white,
These clouded days revealed in radiant light.

George Orwell
(1903 – 1950)
Our Minds Are Married, But We are Too Young

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More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, George Orwell, Orwell, George, Romeo & Juliet


Among the Multitude by Walt Whitman

 

Among the Multitude

Among the men and women the multitude,
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,
Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother, child,
any nearer than I am,
Some are baffled, but that one is not–that one knows me.

Ah lover and perfect equal,
I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections,
And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.

Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: Among the Multitude

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More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt


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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More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Shakespeare, William


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