Fleurs du Mal
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The Soul unto itself
The Soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend –
Or the most agonizing Spy –
An Enemy – could send –
Secure against its own –
No treason it can fear –
Itself – its Sovereign – of itself
The Soul should stand in Awe –
Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
The Soul unto itself
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I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My mind was going numb –
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here –
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –
Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
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If I should die
If I should die,
And you should live,
And time should gurgle on,
And morn should beam,
And noon should burn,
As it has usual done;
If birds should build as early,
And bees as bustling go,—
One might depart at option
From enterprise below!
’T is sweet to know that stocks will stand
When we with daisies lie,
That commerce will continue,
And trades as briskly fly.
It makes the parting tranquil
And keeps the soul serene,
That gentlemen so sprightly
Conduct the pleasing scene!
Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
If I should die
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My Life had stood –
a Loaded Gun
My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun –
In Corners – till a Day
The Owner passed – identified –
And carried Me away –
And now We roam in Sovreign Woods –
And now We hunt the Doe –
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply –
And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow –
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through –
And when at Night – Our good Day done –
I guard My Master’s Head –
’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s
Deep Pillow – to have shared –
To foe of His – I’m deadly foe –
None stir the second time –
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye –
Or an emphatic Thumb –
Though I than He – may longer live
He longer must – than I –
For I have but the power to kill,
Without – the power to die –
Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun
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A Day
I’ll tell you how the sun rose, —
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”
But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while
Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.
Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
A Day
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Because I could not
stop for Death
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.
We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –
Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –
Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
Because I could not stop for Death
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Wild nights – Wild nights!
Wild nights – Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile – the winds –
To a Heart in port –
Done with the Compass –
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden –
Ah – the Sea!
Might I but moor – tonight –
In thee!
Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
Wild nights – Wild nights!
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The Outlet
My river runs to thee:
Blue sea, wilt welcome me?
My river waits reply.
Oh sea, look graciously!
I’ll fetch thee brooks
From spotted nooks,—
Say, sea,
Take me!
Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
The Outlet, 1860
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I’m Nobody! Who are you?
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
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Poems About Sculpture
Foreword by Robert Pinsky & Edited by Murray Dewart
Poems About Sculpture is a unique anthology of poems from around the world and across the ages about our most enduring art form.
About Poems
About Sculpture
Sculpture has the longest memory of the arts: from the Paleolithic era, we find stone carvings and clay figures embedded with human longing. And poets have long been fascinated by the idea of eternity embodied by the monumental temples and fragmented statues of ancient civilizations. From Keats’s Grecian urn and Shelley’s “Ozymandias” to contemporary verse about Maya Lin’s Vietnam Veterans Memorial and Janet Echelman’s wind-borne hovering nets, the pieces in this collection convert the physical materials of the plastic arts—clay, wood, glass, marble, granite, bronze, and more—into lapidary lines of poetry. Whether the sculptures celebrated here commemorate love or war, objects or apparitions, forms human or divine, they have called forth evocative responses from a wide range of poets, including Homer, Ovid, Shakespeare, Baudelaire, Rilke, Dickinson, Yeats, Auden, and Plath. A compendium of dazzling examples of one art form reflecting on another, Poems About Sculpture is a treat for art lovers of all kinds.
Dare You See A Soul At The White Heat?
Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door—
Red—is the Fire’s common tint—
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame’s conditions,
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith
Whose Anvil’s even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs—within—
Refining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Until the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge—
Emily Dickinson
(1830 – 1886)
La Beauté
Je suis belle, ô mortels! comme un rêve de pierre,
Et mon sein, où chacun s’est meurtri tour à tour,
Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour
Eternel et muet ainsi que la matière.
Je trône dans l’azur comme un sphinx incompris;
J’unis un coeur de neige à la blancheur des cygnes;
Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.
Les poètes, devant mes grandes attitudes,
Que j’ai l’air d’emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,
Consumeront leurs jours en d’austères études;
Car j’ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles:
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles!
Charles Baudelaire
(1821 – 1867)
Poems About Sculpture
Foreword by Robert Pinsky
Edited by Murray Dewart
Hardcover, 256 p.
ISBN 9781101907757
Publ. by Everyman’s Library, 2016
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More in: - Book News, Art & Literature News, Baudelaire, Charles, Dickinson, Emily, Museum of Literary Treasures, POETRY ARCHIVE, Sculpture
One Year ago
One Year ago — jots what?
God — spell the word! I — can’t —
Was’t Grace? Not that —
Was’t Glory? That — will do —
Spell slower — Glory —
Such Anniversary shall be —
Sometimes — not often — in Eternity —
When farther Parted, than the Common Woe —
Look — feed upon each other’s faces — so —
In doubtful meal, if it be possible
Their Banquet’s true —
I tasted — careless — then —
I did not know the Wine
Came once a World — Did you?
Oh, had you told me so —
This Thirst would blister — easier — now —
You said it hurt you — most —
Mine — was an Acorn’s Breast —
And could not know how fondness grew
In Shaggier Vest —
Perhaps — I couldn’t —
But, had you looked in —
A Giant — eye to eye with you, had been —
No Acorn — then —
So — Twelve months ago —
We breathed —
Then dropped the Air —
Which bore it best?
Was this — the patientest —
Because it was a Child, you know —
And could not value — Air?
If to be “Elder” — mean most pain —
I’m old enough, today, I’m certain — then —
As old as thee — how soon?
One — Birthday more — or Ten?
Let me — choose!
Ah, Sir, None!
Emily Dickinson
January 1, 2015
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
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Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
The Martyr Poets
The Martyr Poets did not tell,
But wrought their Pang in syllable:
That, when their mortal name be numb,
Their mortal fate encourage Some.
The Martyr Painters never spoke,
Bequeathing—rather—to their Work:
That when their conscious fingers cease,
Some seek in Art the Art of Peace.
[4-voetige jambische regels, rijmschema aabb, 1 halfrijm]
De Dichter Martelaars
De Dichter Martelaars spraken niet,
Hun pijn bleek sprekend uit hun lied:
Dat men, hun naam gedood voorgoed,
Soms uit hun noodlot put voor moed.
De Schilder Martelaars, spraken nooit,
Vermaakten— veeleer—Werk voltooid;
Dat men, hun hand zijn vormkracht kwijt,
Uit Kunst, soms Vredeskunst bereidt.
Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld
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