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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.

«« Previous page · Daniil Charms: De dappere egel · Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott: The Philatelist (Poem) · Victor Hugo: La nature (Poème) · After Mozart (Heroin on 5th Street) poetry by Robert Lundquist · Agnita Feis: Menschenmateriaal (gedicht) · August Stramm: Mondschein (Gedicht) · Will Streets: A Soldier’s Funeral (Poem) · Georg Trakl: Nähe des Todes (Gedicht) · Francisca Stoecklin: Morphina (Gedicht) · Lord Byron: Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty’s Bloom (Poem) · Robert Southey: The Pauper’s Funeral (Poem) · Gladys Cromwell: Autumn Communion (Poem)

»» there is more...

Daniil Charms: De dappere egel

Daniil Charms die in werkelijkheid Daniil Ivanovic Juvacov heette, werd in 1905 in St. Petersburg geboren, waar hij in 1942 stierf.

In 1926 richtte hij met Aleksandr Vvdenski en Nikolaj Zabolotski de avantgardegroep Oberiu (Objeedinenije realnogo iskoesstva – ‘Vereniging van reële kunst’) op. Hun doel was een artistieke revolutie door te voeren, parallel aan de politieke revolutie.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is Charms2.jpgAlhoewel ze het woord niet gebruikten pleitten ze voor absurde kunst. De doodsteek kwam toen ze in 1930 beschuldigd werden van protest tegen de dictatuur van het proletariaat. Charms werd in 1931 veroordeeld tot verbanning naar Koersk, waarvandaan hij in 1933 terugkeerde.

Hij legde zich toen, omdat zijn werk voor volwassenen niet-publicabel was geworden, toe op kinderliteratuur.

Uiteindelijk werd hij in 1941, tijdens het beleg van het Leningrad (tot 1924 Petersburg genoemd), weer gearresteerd en krankzinnig verklaard. Charms stierf begin 1942, vermoedelijk uitgehongerd, in de psychiatrische afdeling van de gevangenis Kresty in Leningrad. Hij heeft geen graf.

Na zijn dood werden zijn manuscripten teruggevonden. In de jaren zestig begonnen publicaties van dit onuitgegeven werk te verschijnen, aanvankelijk vooral in het Westen. Op grond hiervan kreeg Charms algauw de reputatie van Ruslands belangrijkste absurdistische auteur.

# meer informatie op website: https://www.uitgeverijvleugels.nl/

daniil charms
De dappere egel
2019
60 pagina’s
vertaling: jan paul hinrichs
isbn 978 90 78627 82 1
uitgeverij vleugels
€ 21,80

uitgeverij vleugels
van ’t hoffstraat 27
2665 jl bleiswijk
t 06 30 49 77 49
email: info@uitgeverijvleugels.nl
website: https://www.uitgeverijvleugels.nl/

# more books
daniil charms
De dappere egel

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Archive K-L, Kharms (Charms), Daniil, Modernisme, Psychiatric hospitals, REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS, TRANSLATION ARCHIVE


Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott: The Philatelist (Poem)

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The Philatelist*

(*A man who collects stamps cares for nothing else in the world.)

” O come,” said Music, “come with me ;

To Adelina Patti list;
Melt in her magic melody ” —

“I shan’t !” quoth the Philatelist.

“Come,” said the Gourmand, “come with me.

And try the varied Gatti-list;
I prithee, try Gastronomy” —

“I won’t!” quoth the Philatelist.

” Come,” said the Eightsman, ” come with me”,

And to the merry rattle list;
“Come, join our cheery crew, and we ” —

” Please go!” quoth the Philatelist.

” Come”, said the Farmer, ” come with me”.

And to my lowing cattle list :
“They’re’ slowly winding o’er the lea ” —

” Let them !” quoth the Philatelist.

“Come,” said the Mother, “come with me,
And to my cherub’s prattle list ;

Come, take the babe upon thy knee” —
“No, thanks!” quoth the Philatelist

“Come,” said the Warrior, “come with me,

And to the roar of battle list;
Come, join our valiant company” —

“Not me!” quoth the Philatelist.

“Come,” said Society, “with me,

And to my tittle-tattle list;
“Come, try the World, the Flesh, the D— “

“Get out!” quoth the Philatelist.

Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott
(1865–1927)
The Philatelist (Poem)
• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Mostyn Turtle Pigott


Victor Hugo: La nature (Poème)

 

La nature

La terre est de granit, les ruisseaux sont de marbre ;
C’est l’hiver ; nous avons bien froid. Veux-tu, bon arbre,
Être dans mon foyer la bûche de Noël ?
— Bois, je viens de la terre, et, feu, je monte au ciel.
Frappe, bon bûcheron. Père, aïeul, homme, femme,
Chauffez au feu vos mains, chauffez à Dieu votre âme.
Aimez, vivez. — Veux-tu, bon arbre, être timon
De charrue ? — Oui, je veux creuser le noir limon,
Et tirer l’épi d’or de la terre profonde.
Quand le soc a passé, la plaine devient blonde,
La paix aux doux yeux sort du sillon entr’ouvert,
Et l’aube en pleurs sourit. — Veux-tu, bel arbre vert,
Arbre du hallier sombre où le chevreuil s’échappe,
De la maison de l’homme être le pilier ? — Frappe.
Je puis porter les toits, ayant porté les nids.
Ta demeure est sacrée, homme, et je la bénis ;
Là, dans l’ombre et l’amour, pensif, tu te recueilles ;
Et le bruit des enfants ressemble au bruit des feuilles.
— Veux-tu, dis-moi, bon arbre, être mât de vaisseau ?
— Frappe, bon charpentier. Je veux bien être oiseau.
Le navire est pour moi, dans l’immense mystère,
Ce qu’est pour vous la tombe ; il m’arrache à la terre,
Et, frissonnant, m’emporte à travers l’infini.
J’irai voir ces grands cieux d’où l’hiver est banni,
Et dont plus d’un essaim me parle en son passage.
Pas plus que le tombeau n’épouvante le sage,
Le profond Océan, d’obscurité vêtu,
Ne m’épouvante point : oui, frappe. — Arbre, veux-tu
Être gibet ? — Silence, homme ! va-t’en, cognée !
J’appartiens à la vie, à la vie indignée !
Va-t’en, bourreau ! va-t’en, juge ! fuyez, démons !
Je suis l’arbre des bois, je suis l’arbre des monts ;
Je porte les fruits mûrs, j’abrite les pervenches ;
Laissez-moi ma racine et laissez-moi mes branches !
Arrière ! homme, tuez, ouvriers du trépas,
Soyez sanglants, mauvais, durs ; mais ne venez pas,
Ne venez pas, traînants des cordes et des chaînes,
Vous chercher un complice au milieu des grands chênes !
Ne faites pas servir à vos crimes, vivants,
L’arbre mystérieux à qui parlent les vents !
Vos lois portent la nuit sur leurs ailes funèbres.
Je suis fils du soleil, soyez fils des ténèbres.
Allez-vous-en ! laissez l’arbre dans ses déserts.
A vos plaisirs, aux jeux, aux festins, aux concerts,
Accouplez l’échafaud et le supplice ; faites.
Soit. Vivez et tuez. Tuez, entre deux fêtes,
Le malheureux, chargé de fautes et de maux ;
Moi, je ne mêle pas de spectre à mes rameaux !

Janvier 1843.

Victor Hugo
(1802-1885)
La nature
(Poème)
Les Contemplations

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Hugo, Victor, Victor Hugo


After Mozart (Heroin on 5th Street) poetry by Robert Lundquist

Robert Lundquist was one of the rising stars of the Santa Cruz renaissance. By the early 1970s he was published in the Paris Review, anthologized in Raymond Carver’s magazine Quarry West, and listed in Rolling Stone magazine’s ‘Best 100 American Poets.’ This is Lundquist’s first major work. Discover a lost genius in these pages.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is robertlundquist.pngThese poems were written in bursts over five decades. From 1969 to 1973, from 1980 to 1985, and from 2014 to 2018. Lundquist has an extraordinarily sensitive voice deeply engaged with the works of García Lorca, César Vallejo, Paul Celan, James Wight, Wallace Stevens, and John Ashbery. He addresses themes of love, loss, alcoholism, and emotional pain. He meditates on death, romance, and beauty with wild formal experiments and a visceral, surreal vision that is all his own.

Central to his poetry is the changing spirit of Downtown L.A. The poet was raised and has lived his entire life there. His grandmother was a waitress in Union Station and his father an undercover policeman. Some darker chapters are inspired by a stint living next to skid row. The neighbourhoods of DTLA – the automobiles, diners, bars, porches, birds, and characters they contain – are evoked here with a noir melancholy and hallucinatory brilliance.

Until now most of this great work was available only in magazine archives, anthologies, and out-of-print chapbooks. Lundquist was previously led away from publishing by a rejection of the MFA culture that came to dominate American letters, struggles with addiction, the anxiety of influence, and a commitment to his psychoanalytic practice. A renewed interest in Lundquist’s work in recent years has resurrected his need to create, and we are all the better for it.

Robert Lundquist is a poet and practicing psychoanalyst in Los Angeles. Robert is also an avid blues harmonica player.  His poems have appeared in such magazines as: The Nation, The Paris Review, Poetry Now, Kayak, and Quarry West. Robert was also one of five writers who taught poetry in the prison system in California, afterwards editing an anthology of prose and poetry by the writers in prison;, the anthology is entitled About Time II.  When Robert is not with his wife, Nazare Magaz, or writing, he is seeing patients in his office above The Last Bookstore in Downtown Los Angeles.  Robert knows a lot about the inner workings of Downtown Los Angeles as his Grandmother was a waitress at Union Station and his father was an under cover cop, chasing down heroin dealers when smack was coming through Flower Street. Included in his adventures in DTLA was entering Zen Center Los Angeles for two years when he was eighteen and in his adolescence taking harmonica lessons from George Smith in Watts. Robert began to write poetry at twenty and at twenty-one moved to Santa Cruz, California, to be a part of a literary renaissance in Santa Cruz where he was featured in the magazine Quarry West started by Ray Carver.

After Mozart (Heroin on 5th Street)
by Robert Lundquist (Author)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 199963103X
ISBN-13: 978-1999631031
Published: 2018
Format: Soft cover/Paperback
Publisher: New River Press Ltd

# more poetry
Robert Lundquist
fleursdumal.nl magazine

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Agnita Feis: Menschenmateriaal (gedicht)

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Menschenmateriaal.

Het is
maar bloed.
Het is
maar been.

Is ‘t heusch
maar stof?
Is ‘t stof
alleen?

Men schendt
natuur.
Men schendt
den geest.

Men is
geen mensch.
Men is
geen beest!

Werp maar
den mensch
in ‘t vuur!
Ga voort!

Maar ‘t is
ùw ziel,
die wordt
vermoord!

Agnita Feis
(1881 – 1944)
Uit: Oorlog. Verzen in Staccato (1916).
Menschenmateriaal
• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: *War Poetry Archive, Agnita Feis, Antony Kok, Archive E-F, De Stijl, Doesburg, Theo van, Feis, Agnita, Kok, Antony, Theo van Doesburg, Theo van Doesburg (I.K. Bonset), WAR & PEACE


August Stramm: Mondschein (Gedicht)

 

Mondschein

Bleich und müde
Schmieg und weich
Kater duften
Blüten graunen
Wasser schlecken
Winde schluchzen
Schein entblößt die zitzen Brüste
Fühlen stöhnt in meine Hand.

August Stramm
(1874-1915)
Mondschein, 1914

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More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive S-T, Expressionism, Stramm, August


Will Streets: A Soldier’s Funeral (Poem)

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A Soldier’s Funeral

No splendid show of solemn funeral rite,
No stricken mourners following his bier,
No peal of organ reaching thro’ his night,
Is rendered him whom now we bury here.

‘Tis but a soldier stricken in the fight,
A youth who flung his passion into life,
Flung scorn at Death, fought true for Freedom’s might,
Till Death did close his vision in the strife.

No splendid rite is here – yet lay him low,
Ye comrades of his youth he fought beside,
Close where the winds do sigh and wild flowers grow,
Where the sweet brook doth babble by his side.
No splendour, yet we lay him tenderly
To rest, his requiem the artillery.

John William (Will) Streets
(1886 –1916)
A Soldier’s Funeral
• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive S-T, Streets, Will, WAR & PEACE


Georg Trakl: Nähe des Todes (Gedicht)

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Nähe des Todes

O der Abend, der in die finsteren Dörfer der Kindheit geht.
Der Weiher unter den Weiden
Füllt sich mit den verpesteten Seufzern der Schwermut.

O der Wald, der leise die braunen Augen senkt,
Da aus des Einsamen knöchernen Händen
Der Purpur seiner verzückten Tage hinsinkt.

O die Nähe des Todes. Laß uns beten.
Jn dieser Nacht lösen auf lauen Kissen
Vergilbt von Weihrauch sich der Liebenden schmächtige Glieder.

Georg Trakl
(1887 – 1914)
Nähe des Todes

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive S-T, Trakl, Georg, Trakl, Georg, WAR & PEACE


Francisca Stoecklin: Morphina (Gedicht)

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Morphina

Im Traume fand ich dich,
Mädchen, in mondener Nacht
Kamst du mir zögernd entgegen.
Auf deiner Stirne träumte ein Stern,
Deine kleinen Schritte klangen wie Glas,
Um deinen Mund ein überweltliches Lächeln.
Deine schmalen Schultern froren im Wind.
Ich umschlang dich, deinen eisigen Körper.
Schwester! wie lange bist du gestorben …
Wir sanken, wir fielen.

Mohn umblühte unser Sterben.

Francisca Stoecklin
(1894-1931)
Morphina
• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Opium-Eaters, Stoecklin, Francisca, ·


Lord Byron: Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty’s Bloom (Poem)

    

Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty’s Bloom

Oh! snatched away in beauty’s bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender
gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the
dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou – who tell’st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty’s Bloom
(Poem)

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

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


Robert Southey: The Pauper’s Funeral (Poem)

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The Pauper’s Funeral

What! and not one to heave the pious sigh!
Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye
For social scenes, for life’s endearments fled,
Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead!
Poor wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee,
And sorrow for forlorn humanity.
Yes I will weep, but not that thou art come
To the stern Sabbath of the silent tomb:
For squalid Want, and the black scorpion Care,
Heart-withering fiends! shall never enter there.
I sorrow for the ills thy life has known
As thro’ the world’s long pilgrimage, alone,
Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone,
Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on:
Thy youth in ignorance and labour past,
And thine old age all barrenness and blast!
Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom’d to woe,
Denied thee wisdom to support the blow;
And robb’d of all its energy thy mind,
Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind,
Abject of thought, the victim of distress,
To wander in the world’s wide wilderness.

Poor Outcast sleep in peace! the wintry storm
Blows bleak no more on thine unshelter’d form;
Thy woes are past; thou restest in the tomb;–
I pause–and ponder on the days to come.

Robert Southey
(1774 – 1843)
The Pauper’s Funeral

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, CLASSIC POETRY


Gladys Cromwell: Autumn Communion (Poem)

 

Autumn Communion

This autumn afternoon
My fancy need invent
No untried sacrament.
Man can still commune
With Beauty as of old:
The tree, the wind’s lyre,
The whirling dust, the fire—
In these my faith is told.

Beauty warms us all;
When horizons crimson burn,
We hold heaven’s cup in turn.
The dry leaves gleaming fall,
Crumbs of mystical bread;
My dole of Beauty I break,
Love to my lips I take,
And fear is quieted.

The symbols of old are made new:
I watch the reeds and the rushes,
The spruce trees dip their brushes
In the mountain’s dusky blue;
The sky is deep like a pool;
A fragrance the wind brings over
Is warm like hidden clover,
Though the wind itself is cool.

Across the air, between
The stems and the grey things,
Sunlight a trellis flings.
In quietude I lean:
I hear the lifting zephyr
Soft and shy and wild;
And I feel earth gentle and mild
Like the eyes of a velvet heifer.

Love scatters and love disperses.
Lightly the orchards dance
In a lovely radiance.
Down sloping terraces
They toss their mellow fruits.
The rhythmic wind is sowing,
Softly the floods are flowing
Between the twisted roots.

What Beauty need I own
When the symbol satisfies?
I follow services
Of tree and cloud and stone.
Color floods the world;
I am swayed by sympathy;
Love is a litany
In leaf and cloud unfurled.

Gladys Cromwell
(1885-1919)
Autumn Communion

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive C-D, Cromwell, Gladys, Gladys Cromwell


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