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Martin Beversluis
Aanraken
Alle tijd is aanraken
en je niet meer
herinneren wat er
nooit toe deed
wat slechts
beweging was
in het gemoed
huidherinneringen
strelen en dichtbij
de glooïngen van
je vel en been het
terrein dat ik mag
ontginnen om
eenmaal ontgonnen
opnieuw te beginnen
begonnen.
Martin Beversluis poetry
Stadsdichter Tilburg 2015-2017
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Beversluis, Martin, City Poets / Stadsdichters
Katharine Tynan
(1859 – 1931)
Any Woman
I am the pillars of the house;
The keystone of the arch am I.
Take me away, and roof and wall
Would fall to ruin me utterly.
I am the fire upon the hearth,
I am the light of the good sun,
I am the heat that warms the earth,
Which else were colder than a stone.
At me the children warm their hands;
I am their light of love alive.
Without me cold the hearthstone stands,
Nor could the precious children thrive.
I am the twist that holds together
The children in its sacred ring,
Their knot of love, from whose close tether
No lost child goes a-wandering.
I am the house from floor to roof,
I deck the walls, the board I spread;
I spin the curtains, warp and woof,
And shake the down to be their bed.
I am their wall against all danger,
Their door against the wind and snow,
Thou Whom a woman laid in a manger,
Take me not till the children grow!
Katharine Tynan poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, CLASSIC POETRY
Carina van der Walt
de wetenschap van afvalscheiding
we gaan elke dag zorgzamer om met
chemisch afval dat dampt
bedorven organisch afval
brillen glazen flessen
kranten kartonnen dozen
kleef- & bubbeltjesplastic
& het systeemprobleem restafval
maar we weten niet wat we moeten doen
met de mensen die van ver af aanspoelen
gebarsten als blauw porselein op het strand
een systeemfout: mensen zonder papier
die van ver af aanwaaien & als lege plastic-
zakjes blijven hangen aan het prikkeldraad
de rest moet bij zichzelf te rade gaan
op het zwerfvuil
met het etiket mens
plakken we graag een mengverbod
want uit gevaarlijk afval
kunnen gassen lekken
die imploderen of exploderen
maar composteren is toch kerngezond
Carina van der Walt poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive W-X, Carina van der Walt, Walt, Carina van der
Lucy Maud Montgomery
(1874 – 1942)
With Tears They Buried You Today
With tears they buried you to-day,
But well I knew no turf could hold
Your gladness long beneath the mould,
Or cramp your laughter in the clay;
I smiled while others wept for you
Because I knew.
And now you sit with me to-night
Here in our old, accustomed place;
Tender and mirthful is your face,
Your eyes with starry joy are bright
Oh, you are merry as a song
For love is strong!
They think of you as lying there
Down in the churchyard grim and old;
They think of you as mute and cold,
A wan, white thing that once was fair,
With dim, sealed eyes that never may
Look on the day.
But love cannot be coffined so
In clod and darkness; it must rise
And seek its own in radiant guise,
With immortality aglow,
Making of death’s triumphant sting
A little thing.
Ay, we shall laugh at those who deem
Our hearts are sundered! Listen, sweet,
The tripping of the wind’s swift feet
Along the by-ways of our dream,
And hark the whisper of the rose
Wilding that blows.
Oh, still you love those simple things,
And still you love them more with me;
The grave has won no victory;
It could not clasp your shining wings,
It could not keep you from my side,
Dear and my bride!
Lucy Maud Montgomery poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive M-N, CLASSIC POETRY
De stervende Germanicus
Bij de schilderijen van Heinrich Füger en Nicolas Poussin
Omgeven door getrouwen sterft Germanicus.
Men rouwt reeds voor de laatste adem
zijn huidig lichaam rust geeft. Nog even
in het leven voelt hij zich daarom eenzamer
dan ooit, als Capreae in de zee. Hij denkt
aan sperwers over velden. Zijn ogen tekenen
wegen in de lucht die wij nooit volgen kunnen.
Bert Bevers
(Verschenen in Bzzlletin, 17de jaargang, nummer 160, Den Haag, 1988)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Paterson
(1864 – 1941)
Australian Scenery
The Mountains
A land of sombre, silent hills, where mountain cattle go
By twisted tracks, on sidelings deep, where giant gum trees grow
And the wind replies, in the river oaks, to the song of the stream below.
A land where the hills keep watch and ward, silent and wide awake
As those who sit by a dead campfire, and wait for the dawn to break,
Or those who watched by the Holy Cross for the dead Redeemer’s sake.
A land where silence lies so deep that sound itself is dead
And a gaunt grey bird, like a homeless soul, drifts, noiseless, overhead
And the world’s great story is left untold, and the message is left unsaid.
The Plains
A land as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow
Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go
Like shifting symbols of hope deferred — land where you never know.
Land of plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance,
Feast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance,
Where Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance.
And we catch a sound of a fairy’s song, as the wind goes whipping by,
Or a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry
— Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of the cattle lie.
Andrew Barton Paterson poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, CLASSIC POETRY
Martin Beversluis
Schermmensen
En op een ochtend
waren we kleiner
enkel een wandelend
schermpje van vier bij acht
centimeter met echt alle
communicatie bij de hand
verleerden we langzaam onze taal
onze tongen hingen er slapjes bij
want we scholden liever
ons schermpje vol
dat was anoniemer
starend in een nieuwe wereld
die onvoorstelbaar groot
toch klein en handzaam is
vier bij acht centimeter
voldoende om een mens
in op te bergen het laat
zelfs nog wat ruimte
voor vage fantasie
maar ook die zullen we weldra
in kaart kunnen brengen
we zullen haar van alle kanten
aandachtig bestuderen
en uiteindelijk besluiten
dat dat schermpje
nog een centimeter kleiner kan.
Martin Beversluis
Stadsdichter Tilburg 2015-2017
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Beversluis, Martin, City Poets / Stadsdichters
Sidney Lanier
(1842 – 1881)
Clover
Inscribed to the Memory of John Keats
Dear uplands, Chester’s favorable fields,
My large unjealous Loves, many yet one —
A grave good-morrow to your Graces, all,
Fair tilth and fruitful seasons!
Lo, how still!
The midmorn empties you of men, save me;
Speak to your lover, meadows! None can hear.
I lie as lies yon placid Brandywine,
Holding the hills and heavens in my heart
For contemplation.
‘Tis a perfect hour.
From founts of dawn the fluent autumn day
Has rippled as a brook right pleasantly
Half-way to noon; but now with widening turn
Makes pause, in lucent meditation locked,
And rounds into a silver pool of morn,
Bottom’d with clover-fields. My heart just hears
Eight lingering strokes of some far village-bell,
That speak the hour so inward-voiced, meseems
Time’s conscience has but whispered him eight hints
Of revolution. Reigns that mild surcease
That stills the middle of each rural morn —
When nimble noises that with sunrise ran
About the farms have sunk again to rest;
When Tom no more across the horse-lot calls
To sleepy Dick, nor Dick husk-voiced upbraids
The sway-back’d roan for stamping on his foot
With sulphurous oath and kick in flank, what time
The cart-chain clinks across the slanting shaft,
And, kitchenward, the rattling bucket plumps
Souse down the well, where quivering ducks quack loud,
And Susan Cook is singing.
Up the sky
The hesitating moon slow trembles on,
Faint as a new-washed soul but lately up
From out a buried body. Far about,
A hundred slopes in hundred fantasies
Most ravishingly run, so smooth of curve
That I but seem to see the fluent plain
Rise toward a rain of clover-blooms, as lakes
Pout gentle mounds of plashment up to meet
Big shower-drops. Now the little winds, as bees,
Bowing the blooms come wandering where I lie
Mixt soul and body with the clover-tufts,
Light on my spirit, give from wing and thigh
Rich pollens and divine sweet irritants
To every nerve, and freshly make report
Of inmost Nature’s secret autumn-thought
Unto some soul of sense within my frame
That owns each cognizance of the outlying five,
And sees, hears, tastes, smells, touches, all in one.
Tell me, dear Clover (since my soul is thine,
Since I am fain give study all the day,
To make thy ways my ways, thy service mine,
To seek me out thy God, my God to be,
And die from out myself to live in thee) —
Now, Cousin Clover, tell me in mine ear:
Go’st thou to market with thy pink and green?
Of what avail, this color and this grace?
Wert thou but squat of stem and brindle-brown,
Still careless herds would feed. A poet, thou:
What worth, what worth, the whole of all thine art?
Three-Leaves, instruct me! I am sick of price.
Framed in the arching of two clover-stems
Where-through I gaze from off my hill, afar,
The spacious fields from me to Heaven take on
Tremors of change and new significance
To th’ eye, as to the ear a simple tale
Begins to hint a parable’s sense beneath.
The prospect widens, cuts all bounds of blue
Where horizontal limits bend, and spreads
Into a curious-hill’d and curious-valley’d Vast,
Endless before, behind, around; which seems
Th’ incalculable Up-and-Down of Time
Made plain before mine eyes. The clover-stems
Still cover all the space; but now they bear,
For clover-blooms, fair, stately heads of men
With poets’ faces heartsome, dear and pale —
Sweet visages of all the souls of time
Whose loving service to the world has been
In the artist’s way expressed and bodied. Oh,
In arms’ reach, here be Dante, Keats, Chopin,
Raphael, Lucretius, Omar, Angelo,
Beethoven, Chaucer, Schubert, Shakespeare, Bach,
And Buddha (sweetest masters! Let me lay
These arms this once, this humble once, about
Your reverend necks — the most containing clasp,
For all in all, this world e’er saw!) and there,
Yet further on, bright throngs unnamable
Of workers worshipful, nobilities
In the Court of Gentle Service, silent men,
Dwellers in woods, brooders on helpful art,
And all the press of them, the fair, the large,
That wrought with beauty.
Lo, what bulk is here?
Now comes the Course-of-things, shaped like an Ox,
Slow browsing, o’er my hillside, ponderously —
The huge-brawned, tame, and workful Course-of-things,
That hath his grass, if earth be round or flat,
And hath his grass, if empires plunge in pain
Or faiths flash out. This cool, unasking Ox
Comes browsing o’er my hills and vales of Time,
And thrusts me out his tongue, and curls it, sharp,
And sicklewise, about my poets’ heads,
And twists them in, all — Dante, Keats, Chopin,
Raphael, Lucretius, Omar, Angelo,
Beethoven, Chaucer, Schubert, Shakespeare, Bach,
And Buddha, in one sheaf — and champs and chews,
With slantly-churning jaws, and swallows down;
Then slowly plants a mighty forefoot out,
And makes advance to futureward, one inch.
So: they have played their part.
And to this end?
This, God? This, troublous-breeding Earth? This, Sun
Of hot, quick pains? To this no-end that ends,
These Masters wrought, and wept, and sweated blood,
And burned, and loved, and ached with public shame,
And found no friends to breathe their loves to, save
Woods and wet pillows? This was all? This Ox?
“Nay,” quoth a sum of voices in mine ear,
“God’s clover, we, and feed His Course-of-things;
The pasture is God’s pasture; systems strange
Of food and fiberment He hath, whereby
The general brawn is built for plans of His
To quality precise. Kinsman, learn this:
The artist’s market is the heart of man;
The artist’s price, some little good of man.
Tease not thy vision with vain search for ends.
The End of Means is art that works by love.
The End of Ends . . . in God’s Beginning’s lost.”
Summer of 1876
Sidney Lanier poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive K-L, CLASSIC POETRY, Keats, John
Christine de Pisan
(ca. 1364-1430)
Seulette suis
Seulette suis et seulette veux être,
Seulette m’a mon doux ami laissée,
Seulette suis sans compagnon ni maître,
Seulette suis, dolente et courroucée,
Seulette suis en langueur malaisée,
Seulette suis plus que nulle égarée,
Seulette suis, sans ami demeurée.
Seulette suis à huis ou à fenêtre,
Seulette suis en un anglet mussée,
Seulette suis pour de pleurs me repaître,
Seulette suis, dolente ou apaisée,
Seulette suis, rien n’est qui tant me siée,
Seulette suis en ma chambre enserrée,
Seulette suis, sans ami demeurée.
Seulette suis partout et en tout estre (logis),
Seulette suis où je vais où je siée,
Seulette suis plus qu’autre rien terrestre,
Seulette suis de chacun délaissée,
Seulette suis durement abaissée,
Seulette suis souvent toute éplorée,
Seulette suis, sans ami demeurée.
Princes, or est ma douleur commencée:
Seulette suis de tout deuil menacée,
Seulette suis plus tainte que morée (couleur de mûre),
Seulette suis, sans ami demeurée.
Christine de Pisan poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Pisan, Christine de
Tekening van Freda Kamphuis
Titel: gekeerd
Techniek: typografische tekening
Jaar: 2014
Interview Freda Kamphuis door Rob de Vos in MEANDER MAGAZINE:
Beeldend kunstenaar en (visueel) dichter Freda Kamphuis
Zweven tussen meerdere disciplines
link: http://meandermagazine.net/wp/2015/07/zweven-tussen-meerdere-disciplines
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Freda Kamphuis, Freda Kamphuis, Kamphuis, Freda
Stefan George
(1868-1933)
Weihe
Hinaus zum strom! wo stolz die hohen rohre
Im linden winde ihre fahnen schwingen
Und wehren junger wellen schmeichelchore
Zum ufermoose kosend vorzudringen.
Im rasen rastend sollst du dich betäuben
Am starken urduft, ohne denkerstörung.
So dass die fremden hauche all zerstäuben.
Das auge schauend harre der erhörung.
Siehst du im takt des strauches laub schon zittern
Und auf der glatten fluten dunkelglanz
Die dünne nebelmauer sich zersplittern?
Hörst du das elfelied zum elfentanz?
Schon scheinen durch der zweige zackenrahmen
Mit sternenstädten selige gefilde.
Der zeiten flug verliert die alten namen
Und raum und dasein bleiben nur im bilde.
Nun bist du reif, nun schwebt die herrin nieder,
Mondfarbne gazeschleier sie umschlingen.
Halboffen ihre traumesschweren lider
Zu dir geneigt die segnung zu vollbringen:
Indem ihr mund auf deinem antlitz bebte
Und sie dich rein und so geheiligt sah
Dass sie im kuss nicht auszuweichen strebte
Dem finger stützend deiner lippe nah.
Stefan George Gedicht
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, George, Stefan
Carina van der Walt
bootramp by Lampedusa
die see offer 300 swart anemone
op die strande van Lampedusa
ontmenslik is hulle ledemate spons
wat in die vlak branders roer & roep
vryheid gelykheid broederskap suster Europa
aangespoel damp hulle lywe soutlug
droog hulle sagte oë gryswit & styf
verdamp verlangens verstil uitroepe
Europa kroon Lampedusa op sy strande
met segekranse van verwelkte anemone
Carina van der Walt poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive W-X, Carina van der Walt, Walt, Carina van der
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