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When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer
When I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer
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More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt
Take all my loves, my love,
yea, take them all
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call—
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.
William Shakespeare
(1564 – 1616)
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all
Sonnet 40
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I Am Not Yours
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love, put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
I Am Not Yours
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Sydney
In her grey majesty of ancient stone
She queens it proudly, though the sun’s caress
Her piteous cheeks, ravished of bloom, confess,
And her dark eyes his bridegroom glance have know.
Robed in her flowing parks, serene, alone,
She fronts the east; and with the tropic stress
Her smooth brow ripples into weariness;
Yet hers the sea for footstool, and for throne
A continent predestined. Round her trails
The turbid squalor of her streets, and dim
Into the dark heat-haze her domes flow up;
Her long lean fingers, with their grey-old nails,
Giving her thirsty lips to the cool brim
Of the bronze beauty of her harbour’s cup.
Arthur Adams
(1872-1936)
Sydney
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Venedig
Ich bin so krank und sterben möcht’ ich gerne
Hier in Venedig, und begraben liegen
In dieser Flut, dem Ruheplatz der Sterne!
In jeder Nacht pfleg’ ich mich drauf zu wiegen,
Und ihrer Tiefe schwärzeste Geschichten
Behorch’ ich dann mit schaurigem Vergnügen. –
Beschloß der Rat der Drei, geheim zu richten
Ein Opfer, des Geschrei’s im Volke wegen,
Und galt’s ein schnell und spurenlos Vernichten:
Da glitt um Mitternacht, dem Mond entgegen,
Die Gondel aus der Seufzerbrücke Schatten,
So schwarz und still, wie alle Gondeln pflegen.
Und lautlos durch Galeeren und Fregatten
Kroch sie hindurch, bis wo des Meeres Enge
Sich dehnt zu breiteren, smaragdnen Matten.
Dort hielt sie still. Dann aber war’s, als sprenge
Ein dumpfer Fall die kaum bewegte Fläche,
Und leise Kreise zitterten in Menge.
Auch war’s den Schiffern, die im Nachtgespräche
An Lido’s Ufern stellten ihre Stricke,
Als ob ein Schrei im Wellenschlag zerbräche.
Die stille Gondel aber schwamm zurücke,
Wie sie gekommen, spurlos und verborgen,
Und schwand im Schattenstreif der Seufzerbrücke:
Doch der Verbrecher starb am andern Morgen.
Moritz von Strachwitz
(1822 – 1847)
Venedig
Moritz Karl Wilhelm Graf von Strachwitz (1822-1847), deutscher Dichter
Lithographie von Josef Kriehuber, 1841
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive S-T, Archive S-T
Joris-Karl Huysmans (1848-1907) wordt door velen tot de fine fleur van de Franse letteren gerekend. Zelf omschreef hij zich vaak als een ‘Parijse Hollander’.
Met het hoofd in Frankrijk, met het hart in Nederland en met de pen in een spagaat werkte deze auteur aan een uitzonderlijk oeuvre, doorspekt met verwijzingen naar – en reflecties op – de Nederlandse cultuur, volksaard, schilderkunst en religie.
Dit boek brengt deze Hollandse kant van Huysmans in kaart. Aan de hand van zijn biografie (Huysmans en Nederland), zijn kritische onthaal in de literaire journalistiek (Huysmans in Nederland) en zijn thematiek (Nederland in Huysmans), wordt een rijk en verrassend beeld gevormd van deze sleutelfiguur uit het Franse fin-de-siècle.
Huysmans omschreef zichzelf graag als een ‘Parijse Hollander’. Met zijn ene been in het artistieke leven van de Franse hoofdstad en met zijn andere in de Brabantse klei, werkte deze auteur aan een uitzonderlijk oeuvre doorspekt met verwijzingen naar – en reflecties op – de Nederlandse cultuur, volksaard, schilderkunst en religie. Dit boek brengt deze Hollandse kant van Huysmans in kaart. Aan de hand van zijn biografie, zijn kritische onthaal in de literaire journalistiek en zijn thematiek, wordt een rijk en verrassend beeld gevormd van deze sleutelfiguur uit het fin-de-siècle. Charles-Georges Huijsmans. Joris-Karl Huysmans. Met het hoofd in Frankrijk, met het hart in Nederland, met de pen in een spagaat.
# new books
Joris-Karl Huysmans (1848-1907)
Een Parijse Hollander
Auteur: Marc Smeets
Taal: Nederlands
ISBN: 9789087049256
NUR codes: 654 , 647
Jaar van uitgave: 2021
Druk 1
Uitgeverij Verloren
Bindwijze: paperback
Aantal bladzijdes: 226
Met illustraties
€20,00
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More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive G-H, Archive S-T, Histoire de France, Huysmans, J.-K., Huysmans, Joris-Karl, Joris-Karl Huysmans
Dichterschap
Hij gaf verdwenen talen. Aan een school
in Rotterdam. Daaruit ontstond misschien
die diepe eenzaamheid die in hem school,
de angst dat iemand hem zou willen zien
om wie hij was, – om wie hij had te zijn,
een fluisteraar van oude stemmen zacht
die zich in peppels om de woning klein
verstopten voor de stiltes van de nacht.
Paul Bezembinder
Dichterschap
Gedicht
Foto: J.H. Leopold (1865 – 1925)
Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij vooral in klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Zijn gedichten en vertalingen (Russisch-Nederlands) verschenen in verschillende (online) literaire tijdschriften. Bundels: Kwatrijnen (Fantom E-books, 2018), Gedichten (2020, heruitgave), Parkzicht (2020). Meer voorbeelden van zijn werk vindt u op: www.paulbezembinder.nl.
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bezembinder, Paul, Leopold, J.H.
The Eviction
In early morning twilight, raw and chill,
Damp vapours brooding on the barren hill,
Through miles of mire in steady grave array
Threescore well-arm’d police pursue their way;
Each tall and bearded man a rifle swings,
And under each greatcoat a bayonet clings:
The Sheriff on his sturdy cob astride
Talks with the chief, who marches by their side,
And, creeping on behind them, Paudeen Dhu
Pretends his needful duty much to rue.
Six big-boned labourers, clad in common freize,
Walk in the midst, the Sheriff’s staunch allies;
Six crowbar men, from distant county brought, –
Orange, and glorying in their work, ’tis thought,
But wrongly,- churls of Catholics are they,
And merely hired at half a crown a day.
The hamlet clustering on its hill is seen,
A score of petty homesteads, dark and mean;
Poor always, not despairing until now;
Long used, as well as poverty knows how,
With life’s oppressive trifles to contend.
This day will bring its history to an end.
Moveless and grim against the cottage walls
Lean a few silent men: but someone calls
Far off; and then a child ‘without a stitch’
Runs out of doors, flies back with piercing screech,
And soon from house to house is heard the cry
Of female sorrow, swelling loud and high,
Which makes the men blaspheme between their teeth.
Meanwhile, o’er fence and watery field beneath,
The little army moves through drizzling rain;
A ‘Crowbar’ leads the Sheriff’s nag; the lane
Is enter’d, and their plashing tramp draws near,
One instant, outcry holds its breath to hear
“Halt!” – at the doors they form in double line,
And ranks of polish’d rifles wetly shine.
The Sheriff’s painful duty must be done;
He begs for quiet-and the work’s begun.
The strong stand ready; now appear the rest,
Girl, matron, grandsire, baby on the breast,
And Rosy’s thin face on a pallet borne;
A motley concourse, feeble and forlorn.
One old man, tears upon his wrinkled cheek,
Stands trembling on a threshold, tries to speak,
But, in defect of any word for this,
Mutely upon the doorpost prints a kiss,
Then passes out for ever. Through the crowd
The children run bewilder’d, wailing loud;
Where needed most, the men combine their aid;
And, last of all, is Oona forth convey’d,
Reclined in her accustom’d strawen chair,
Her aged eyelids closed, her thick white hair
Escaping from her cap; she feels the chill,
Looks round and murmurs, then again is still.
Now bring the remnants of each household fire;
On the wet ground the hissing coals expire;
And Paudeen Dhu, with meekly dismal face,
Receives the full possession of the place.
William Allingham
(1824 – 1889)
The Eviction
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She who is to come
A woman–in so far as she beholdeth
Her one Beloved’s face;
A mother–with a great heart that enfoldeth
The children of the Race;
A body, free and strong, with that high beauty
That comes of perfect use, is built thereof;
A mind where Reason ruleth over Duty,
And Justice reigns with Love;
A self-poised, royal soul, brave, wise and tender,
No longer blind and dumb;
A Human Being, of an unknown splendor,
Is she who is to come!
Charlotte Perkins Gilman
(1860-1935)
She who is to come
Suffrage Songs and Verses
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Dithyrambe
Glücklich, wem der Gott der Reben
Seine süßen Gaben beut,
Hüllend um das ganze Leben
Selige Vergessenheit!
Alle finstern Geister weichen,
Aller Fesseln sind wir los,
Herrscher in des Traumes Reichen,
Fühlt der Geist sich frei und groß.
Fort, mit deinen bleichen Zügen,
Träumende Erinnerung!
Deinen Zauber zu betrügen,
Fühl’ ich mächtig mich und jung!
Heiliger Entzückung Gluten
Fach’ ich in der Seele an;
Möchte frei das All’ umfluten,
Wie der alte Ocean!
Stürmt empor, ihr Jugendgeister!
Tanzt um mich in frohen Reih’n!
Immer frischer, immer dreister,
Stürzt ins Leben euch hinein!
Fluch den fremden, starren Mächten,
Die der Menschen Sinn betört;
Die uns martern, die uns knechten,
Die mein ganzes Sein zerstört!
Mächt’ger Gott der süßen Reben,
Spende mir Vergessenheit!
Schenke mir ein neues Leben,
Voll Genuß und Seligkeit!
Schlagt die Gläser all’ in Scherben:
So vergeh’ die alte Welt!
So mag sterben und verderben,
Was das Herz in Fesseln hält!
Louise Aston
(1814-1871)
Die wilde Rose
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Verwunschene
In den Armen der Mühle hängen
die bleichen Verwunschenen
Drehen langsam den Stein des Brotes,
Unendlich geduldig.
Rings im Lande jagen die Prasser,
Aber die bleichen Verwunschenen
Mahlen unendlich geduldig das Korn.
Fängt ein Sturm ihre langen Ärmel
Sinken sie stumm in die heilige Erde.
Schicken von neuem bleiche Gesellen
Den Armen der Mühle
Geduldig, unendlich,
Verwunschen.
Bess Brenck-Kalischer
(Betty Levy, 1878-1933)
Verwunschene
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Maoriland
Maoriland, my mother!
Holds the earth so fair another?
O, my land of the moa and Maori,
Garlanded grand with your forests of kauri,
Lone you stand, only beauty your dowry,
Maoriland, my mother!
Older poets sing their frozen
England in her mists enshrouded;
Newer lands my Muse has chosen,
‘Neath a Southern sky unclouded;
Set, a solitary gem,
In Pacific’s diadem.
Land of rugged white-clad ranges,
Standing proud, impassive, lonely;
Ice and snow, where never change is,
Save the mighty motion only
Where through valleys seared and deep
Slow the serpent glaciers creep.
Land of silent lakes that nestle
Deep as night, girt round with forest;
Water never cut by vessel,
In whose mirror evermore rest
Green-wrapt mountain-side and peak,
Reddened by the sunset’s streak.
Land of forests richly sweeping,
By the rata’s red fire spangled;
Where at noonday night is sleeping,
Where, beneath the creepers tangled,
Come the tui’s liquid calls
And the plash of waterfalls.
Land where fire from Earth’s deep centre
Fights for breath in anguish furied,
Till she from the weight that pent her
Flings her flames out fiercely lurid;
Where the geysers hiss and seethe,
And the rocks groan far beneath.
Land of tussocked plain extending
In the distant blue to mingle,
Where wide rivers sigh unending
Over weary wastes of shingle;
Cold as moonlight is their flow
From the glacier-ice and snow.
Land where torrents pause to dally
‘Neath the toi’s floating feather,
Where the flax-blades in the valley
Whisper stealthily together,
And within the cabbage-trees
Hides the dying evening breeze.
Land where all winds whisper one word,
“Death!” — though skies are fair above her.
Newer nations white press onward:
Her brown warriors’ fight is over —
One by one they yield their place,
Peace-slain chieftains of her race.
Land where faces find no furrow,
With the flush of life elated;
Where no grief is, save the sorrow
Of a pleasure that is sated;
Land of children lithe and slim,
Fresh of face and long of limb.
Land of fair enwreathëd cities,
Wide towns that the green bush merge in;
Land whose history unwrit is —
Memory hath no chaster virgin!
Land that is a starting place
For a newer, nobler race.
Maoriland, my mother!
Holds the Earth so fair another?
O, my land of the moa and Maori,
Garlanded grand with your rata and kauri,
Lone you stand, only beauty your dowry,
Maoriland, my mother!
Arthur Adams
(1872-1936)
Maoriland
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