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Vincent Berquez©: Fishermen
Vincent Berquez is a London–based artist and poet
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Früh, eh der Tag
Früh, eh der Tag seine Schwingen noch regt,
Alles noch schlummert und träumet und ruht,
Blümchen noch nickt in der Winde Hut,
Eh noch im Forste ein Vogel anschlägt,
Schreitet ein Engel
Durchs tauweiße Land
Streut ans den Segen
Mit schimmernder Hand.
Und es erwachet die Au und der Wald.
Blumen bunt reiben die Äuglein sich klar,
Staunen und flüstern in seliger Schar.
Aufstrahlt die Sonne, ein Amselruf schallt.
Aber der Engel
Zog längst schon landaus.
Flog wieder heim
In sein Vaterhaus.
Hugo Ball
(1886-1927)
Gedicht: Früh, eh der Tag
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More in: Archive A-B, Ball, Hugo, DADA, Dada, Dadaïsme
Across the Fields to Anne
How often in the summer-tide,
His graver business set aside,
Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed,
As to the pipe of Pan,
Stepped blithesomely with lover’s pride
Across the fields to Anne.
It must have been a merry mile,
This summer stroll by hedge and stile,
With sweet foreknowledge all the while
How sure the pathway ran
To dear delights of kiss and smile,
Across the fields to Anne.
The silly sheep that graze to-day,
I wot, they let him go his way,
Nor once looked up, as who should say:
“It is a seemly man.”
For many lads went wooing aye
Across the fields to Anne.
The oaks, they have a wiser look;
Mayhap they whispered to the brook:
“The world by him shall yet be shook,
It is in nature’s plan;
Though now he fleets like any rook
Across the fields to Anne.”
And I am sure, that on some hour
Coquetting soft ‘twixt sun and shower,
He stooped and broke a daisy-flower
With heart of tiny span,
And bore it as a lover’s dower
Across the fields to Anne.
While from her cottage garden-bed
She plucked a jasmine’s goodlihede,
To scent his jerkin’s brown instead;
Now since that love began,
What luckier swain than he who sped
Across the fields to Anne?
The winding path whereon I pace,
The hedgerow’s green, the summer’s grace,
Are still before me face to face;
Methinks I almost can
Turn poet and join the singing race
Across the fields to Anne!
Richard Burton
(1861-1940)
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
From The Fourth Booke of Ayres -VII-
There is a Garden in her face,
Where Roses and white Lillies grow;
A heav’nly paradice is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.
There Cherries grow, which none may buy
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.
Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose
Of Orient Pearle a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter showes,
They look like Rose-buds fill’d with snow.
Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.
Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;
Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,
Threatning with piercing frownes to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred Cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.
Thomas Campion
(1567-1620)
From The Fourth Booke of Ayres
VII
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More in: # Music Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, CLASSIC POETRY
The New England Boy’s Song
About Thanksgiving Day
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house we go;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow .
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house away !
We would not stop
For doll or top,
For ‘t is Thaksgiving day .
Over the river, and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow !
It stings the toes,
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go .
Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by .
Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play—
Hear the bells ring
Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving day !
Over the river, and through the wood—
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow .
Over the river, and through the wood,
To see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all,
And play snow-ball
And stay as long as we can .
Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey !
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound,
For ‘t is Thanksgiving day !
Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait .
Over the river, and through the wood—
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells .
Over the river, and through the wood—
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one .
Over the river, and through the wood—
Now grandmother’s cap I spy !
Hurra for the fun !
Is the pudding done ?
Hurra for the pumpkin pie !
Lydia Maria Child
(1802-1880)
The New England Boy’s Song About Thanksgiving Day
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, CLASSIC POETRY
The Bat
I
Thou dread, uncanny thing,
With fuzzy breast and leathern wing,
In mad, zigzagging flight,
Notching the dusk, and buffeting
The black cheeks of the night,
With grim delight!
II
What witch’s hand unhasps
Thy keen claw-cornered wings
From under the barn roof, and flings
Thee forth, with chattering gasps,
To scud the air,
And nip the ladybug, and tear
Her children’s hearts out unaware?
III
The glowworm’s glimmer, and the bright,
Sad pulsings of the firefly’s light,
Are banquet lights to thee.
O less than bird, and worse than beast,
Thou Devil’s self, or brat, at least,
Grate not thy teeth at me!
James Whitcomb Riley
(1849-1916)
The Bat
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More in: Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, CLASSIC POETRY, Natural history
*Walt Whitman Award Winner 2016
*One of The New Yorker’s Poetry I Was Grateful For in 2017, selected by Dan Chiasson
*One of The Brooklyn Rail’s Best Books of 2017
“[Afterland] reminds us what a distinctive instrument the human imagination is, no matter what tune it plays. There is a story in this book, and an important one. . . . Vang writes strikingly, often chillingly visual poems, their images projected one at a time, like slides in a lecture, or perhaps in a trial. . . . Afterland works its wonders with an intentionally rationed vocabulary, its counters combined and recombined in poem after poem: stars, water, hair, bones, fire. . . . The style creates an atmosphere of impending marvels, and many of Vang’s poems perform, in words, the transformations that they describe . . . . [Afterland] is among the most satisfying débuts by an American poet in some time.” — The New Yorker
“When I make the crossing, you must not be taken no matter what the current gives. When we reach the camp,
there will be thousands like us.?
If I make it onto the plane, you must follow me to the roads and waiting pastures of America.
We will not ride the water today on the shoulders of buffalo as we used to many years ago, nor will we forage? for the sweetest mangoes.
I am refugee. You are too. Cry, but do not weep.” — from “Transmigration”
“Afterland has haunted me. I keep returning to read these poems aloud, hearing in them a language at once atavistic, contemporary, and profoundly spiritual. Mai Der Vang confronts the Secret War in Laos, the flight of the Hmong people, and their survival as refugees. That a poet could absorb and transform these experiences in a single generation—incising the page with the personal and collective utterances of both the living and the dead, in luminous imagery and a surprising diction that turns both cathedral and widow into verbs, offering both land and body as swidden (slashed and burned)—is nothing short of astonishing.Here is deep attention, prismatic intelligence, and fearless truth.” — Carolyn Forché, judge’s statement for the Walt Whitman Award
Mai Der Vang
Afterland. Poems
Pages: 104
Pub Date: April 4, 2017
Poetry
Paperback, $16.00
ISBN: 978-1-55597-770-2
2016 Walt Whitman Award winner
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More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive U-V, Archive U-V, Art & Literature News, EDITOR'S CHOICE
Passionate and irreverent, Mortal Trash transports the readers into a world of wit, lament, and desire.
In a section called “Over the Bright and Darkened Lands,” canonical poems are torqued into new shapes. “Except Thou Ravish Me,” reimagines John Donne’s famous “Batter my heart, Three-person’d God” as told from the perspective of a victim of domestic violence.
Like Pablo Neruda, Addonizio hears “a swarm of objects that call without being answered”: hospital crash carts, lawn gnomes, Evian bottles, wind-up Christmas creches, edible panties, cracked mirrors.
Whether comic, elegiac, or ironic, the poems in Mortal Trash remind us of the beauty and absurdity of our time on earth.
From “Scrapbook”:
We believe in the one-ton rose
and the displaced toilet equally. Our blues
assume you understand
not much, and try to be alive, just as we do,
and that it may be helpful to hold the hand
of someone as lost as you.
Title: Mortal Trash
Subtitle: Poems
Author: Kim Addonizio
Publisher: W. W. Norton
Published 28 June 2017
ISBN-10 0393354342
ISBN-13 9780393354348
112 pages
Paperback – $15.95
More from Kim Addonizio
Bukowski in a Sundress
Confessions from a Writing Life
by Kim Addonizio
Behold the memoir of sex-positive rebel Kim Addonizio! This book moves from gritty/funny/sexy, to emotionally raw, in swift seamless strokes.
By the end, you will feel that Kim is an old friend whom you know far too well, but who you think the world of because she’s way cooler than you are.
Bukowski in a Sundress:
Confessions from a Writing Life
by Kim Addonizio (Author)
Paperback, 2016
Biography & Memoir
Publisher: Penguin Group USA
ISBN: 9780143128465
224 pages
$26.99
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More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Bukowski, Charles
O Cool Is The Valley Now
O cool is the valley now
And there, love, will we go
For many a choir is singing now
Where Love did sometime go.
And hear you not the thrushes calling,
Calling us away?
O cool and pleasant is the valley
And there, love, will we stay.
James Joyce
(1882-1941)
O Cool Is The Valley Now
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More in: Archive I-J, Archive I-J, Joyce, James, Joyce, James
Gestolen tijd
Zij was zijn lief en op een dag brak zij
zijn hart. Hij dook weg in een theorie
van scherven en geluk. Zo hoefde hij
nog niet te wennen aan een wereld die
de trekken hebben zou van haar gezicht.
Hij zocht haar jaren later pas weer op.
Zij brak zijn hart opnieuw. Zijn theorie,
hoe stevig ook, was nog volstrekt niet
opgewassen tegen de ravage die de
tijd in haar gezicht had aangericht.
Paul Bezembinder
gedicht: Gestolen tijd
Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij in vooral klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Zijn gedichten (Nederlands) en vertalingen (Russisch-Nederlands) verschenen in verschillende (online) literaire tijdschriften. Voorbeelden van zijn werk zijn te vinden op zijn website, www.paulbezembinder.nl
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Bezembinder, Paul, POETRY IN TRANSLATION: BEZEMBINDER
Lucebert verscheen als een komeet, zo schreef Gerrit Kouwenaar, en maakte zich binnen vijf jaar als dichter en later als schilder waar. Tot op de dag van vandaag wordt hij gezien als een van de grootste dichters in ons taalgebied.
Kouwenaar schreef ook: ‘Wij zijn allemaal van de oorlog, het leed en hoge tonen.’ Wat dat voor Lucebert (1924-1994) betekende, beschrijft Wim Hazeu in deze meeslepende biografie, die voor een deel gebaseerd is op eerder ontoegankelijke of onbekende bronnen. Lucebert is het levensverhaal van een gepassioneerde dichter en beeldend kunstenaar.
Deze meeslepende en onthullende biografie is ook het schokkende verhaal van een allesbepalende oorlog die daaraan voorafging. Het is het verhaal van worsteling en succes. Het is het verhaal van het naoorlogse artistieke leven, waarin Lucebert verzet aantekent tegen autoriteiten die politiek en kunst bij het oude willen laten.
Het is het verhaal over de dichters en kunstenaars die Lucebert omringden: Bertus Aafjes, Armando, Hans Andreus, Karel Appel en talloze anderen. En het is een verhaal over liefde en geliefden, over avonturen in Amsterdam, Bergen, Berlijn, Frankrijk, Italië en Spanje. Het leven van Lucebert was complex, en dit stelde Wim Hazeu voor vraagstukken die hij als biograaf nog niet eerder had hoeven oplossen.
Wim Hazeu (1940) was na zijn studie Nederlands werkzaam als journalist, radio- en televisieprogrammamaker en uitgever.
Publiceerde naast verschillende romans en dichtbundels omvangrijke biografieën van Achterberg, Slauerhoff (bekroond met de biografieprijs van de Dordtse Academie), M.C. Escher en S. Vestdijk (op deze biografie is hij aan de Groningse Universiteit gepromoveerd).
Ook bezorgde hij de briefwisseling tussen S. Vestdijk en Henriëtte van Eyk, Wij zijn van elkaar (2007). In 2012 verscheen zijn biografie over Marten Toonder waarvoor hij toegang kreeg tot de nalatenschap van Marten en Jan Gerhard Toonder en Toonders vrouw Phiny Dick.
Auteur: Wim Hazeu
Titel: Biografie Lucebert
Aantal pagina’s: 976
Uitvoering: Gebonden
ISBN10 9403104708
ISBN13 9789403104706
Taal: Nederlands
Onderwerp: Literaire non-fictie
Uitgever: Uitgeverij De Bezige Bij b.v.
Druk: 1
Verwacht: 7 februari 2018
Prijs: €39,99
new books
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Biography Archives, #Editors Choice Archiv, - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive G-H, Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Art & Literature News, Lucebert, Lucebert
Owed to New York
Vulgar of manner, overfed,
Overdressed and underbred,
Heartless, Godless, hell’s delight,
Rude by day and lewd by night;
Bedwarfed the man, o’ergrown the brute,
Ruled by boss and prostitute:
Purple-robed and pauper-clad,
Raving, rotting, money-mad;
A squirming herd in Mammon’s mesh,
A wilderness of human flesh;
Crazed by avarice, lust and rum,
New York, thy name’s “Delirium.”
Byron Rufus Newton
(1861-1938)
Owed to New York
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive M-N, Archive M-N, CLASSIC POETRY
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