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Lord Byron
(1788-1824)
So We’ll Go No More A Roving
So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears the sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.
Lord Byron poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Byron, Lord
Aline (Murray) Kilmer
(1888-1941)
Things
Sometimes when I am at tea with you
I catch my breath
At a thought that is old as the world is old
And more bitter than death.
It is that the spoon that you just laid down
And the cup that you hold
May be here shining and insolent
When you are still and cold.
Your careless note that I laid away
May leap to my eyes like flame
When the world has almost forgotten your voice
Or the sound of your name.
The golden Virgin da Vinci drew
May smile on over my head,
And daffodils nod in the silver vase
When you are dead.
So let moth and dust corrupt and thieves
Break through and I shall be glad,
Because of the hatred I bear to things
Instead of the love I had.
For life seems only a shuddering breath,
A smothered, desperate cry,
And things have a terrible permanence
When people die.
Aline Kilmer poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive M-N, CLASSIC POETRY
Op zondagmiddag 18 januari a.s. is er een poëziemiddag in Libris-boekhandel Van der Meer in Noordwijk.
De optredende 5 dichters hebben allemaal het afgelopen najaar een nieuwe poëziebundel uitgebracht binnen het interessante & gedurfde fonds van Uitgeverij Voetnoot. Op de foto van links naar rechts: Arthur Lava, Andrea Voigt, Willem van Zadelhoff, Freda Kamphuis, Laura Mijnders.
Het wordt ongetwijfeld een inspirerende middag omdat deze 5 dichters de poëzie vanuit alle hoeken en gaten gaan benaderen en belichten. Verwacht contrast, verrassing, passie & humor!
Poëziemiddag in Noordwijk met Arthur Lava, Andrea Voigt, Willem van Zadelhoff, Freda Kamphuis en Laura Mijnders.
Datum: zondagmiddag 18 januari 2015
Tijd: aanvang: 15.00 uur, inloop: 14.30 uur
Entree: € 7,50 (inclusief welkomstdrankje)
Reserveren: 071 – 36 13 073 of info.vandermeer@libris.nl
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Bookstores, Art & Literature News, Freda Kamphuis, Kamphuis, Freda
The Day is Done
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
More in: Archive K-L, Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth
Ebenezer Jones
(1820-1860)
Remembrance of Feelings
Oh! never may the heart regain
Past feelings, as the mind may thought;
Departed joy leaves dreariest pain,
But memory of its nature!–nought:
Then cease remembrance to reprove;
I shall forget, alas! too soon,
Not that you gave me leave to love,
But what, the heaven, that was that boon.
I shall forget,–nay! World’s alone!
I shall remember, with dark fear,
With self disgust at all that’s known,
With self-despair’s most lying sneer,–
That this life loved you, and that then
Its ramifacations shot through heaven;
And thrilled with measureless rapture, when
Thereby heaven’s bliss to you seemed driven.
I shall remember I was pure;
Fearlessly loving, ever, the whole;
Sure that eternity’s obscure,
All paradised bright stars did roll,
That bearing you, there I might soar,
The joy in your cheek still wildly eyeing,
Its happiness light yet deepening more,
The more my strength rose, heaven defying.
I shall remember each love scene,
From love’s first dawn, to this wild end;
Your deepening clasp, your rapturous mien,
The murmuring sounds your heart did send;–
Take, take his jewels from your brow;
Bend, if your heart be not cold stone;
And I will whisper to you now,
What the forgettings that I moan.
I shall forget what was that heaven,
Through which my loving life did spread;
I shall forget the bliss me given,
When it seemed you through that heaven I led;
I shall forget how feel the pure,
Though remembering their bliss divine;
How pulsed the life yours did immure,
Though remembering that life was mine.
And these forgetting, all beside
In life, will darken deepening gloom;
The world of these deprived, denied,
Will seem to surge, a reeking tomb;
Such darkness may be truth, but when
We loved, how different dreamed this heart;
Might I recall love’s feelings, then
Perchance the dream might not depart.
Then cease remembering to reprove;
I shall forget, alas! too soon,
Not that you gave me leave to love,
But what, the heaven, that was that boon.
Would, lady! that the heart could gain
Past feelings, as the mind may thought;
The hours might then give up their pain,
And be with memoried raptures fraught.
Ebenezer Jones poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive I-J, CLASSIC POETRY
Mathias Jansson: Abstract Word Poem “Ink drops…”
Mathias Jansson is a Swedish art critic and poet. He has contributed with visual poetry to magazines as Lex-ICON, Anatematiskpress, Quarter After #4 and Maintenant 8: A Journal of Contemporary Dada. He has also published a chapbook at this is visual poetry and contributed with erasure poetry to anthologies from Silver Birch Press.
Homepage: http://mathiasjansson72.blogspot.se/ and http://wordshavenoeyes.blogspot.se/
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *Concrete + Visual Poetry F-J, Jansson, Mathias, Mathias Jansson, Mathias Jansson, Visual & Concrete Poetry
B e r t
B e v e r s
Asverstrooiing
Hoe van mij als grote broer
verwacht werd dat ik van ons pa
de as verstrooien zou. Ik weet
ons daar nog samen. Alleen.
Hij was nog meer dan ik van hem
verwachtte en liet zich door een
ferme ruk van oostenwind verspreiden.
Over mijn broek.
Over mijn schoenen.
Over mijn zin.
En van ons weg.
Bert Bevers
(uit Onaangepaste tijden, Uitgeverij Zinderend, Bergen op Zoom, 2006)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Don[ald Robert Perry] Marquis
(1878-1937)
“They Had No Poet . . .”
“Vain was the chief’s, the sage’s pride!
They had no poet and they died.” — POPE.
BY TIGRIS, or the streams of Ind,
Ere Colchis rose, or Babylon,
Forgotten empires dreamed and sinned,
Setting tall towns against the dawn,
Which, when the proud Sun smote upon,
Flashed fire for fire and pride for pride;
Their names were . . . Ask oblivion! . .
“They had no poet, and they died.”
Queens, dusk of hair and tawny-skinned,
That loll where fellow leopards fawn . . .
Their hearts are dust before the wind,
Their loves, that shook the world, are wan!
Passion is mighty . . . but, anon,
Strong Death has Romance for his bride;
Their legends . . . Ask oblivion! . . .
“They had no poet, and they died.”
Heroes, the braggart trumps that dinned
Their futile triumphs, monarch, pawn,
Wild tribesmen, kingdoms disciplined,
Passed like a whirlwind and were gone;
They built with bronze and gold and brawn,
The inner Vision still denied;
Their conquests . . . Ask oblivion! . . .
“They had no poet, and they died.”
Dumb oracles, and priests withdrawn,
Was it but flesh they deified?
Their gods were . . . Ask oblivion! . . .
“They had no poet, and they died.”
Don Marquis poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive M-N, CLASSIC POETRY
Ode
Aan jou opdragen, op onze drempel
van verstomming, een ode met woorden
die jou betovert, wil ik je gezel
naast mijn vermommingen zijn, openheid
aan jou tonen, toch verzand ik laf in
mijn opzet, ontluik jij, warm en bereid
maar zie ik haar voor mij in het begin
van een morgen, hoe ze mij bekoorde
zich naakt en koel van mij wendde, en ging
met de zon die binnen schoof op bussels
stof, de deur geruisloos open gleed, de
drempel sleets vertreden met mijn odes
Niels Landstra
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive K-L, Landstra, Niels
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!
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive C-D, Dickinson, Emily
Erik Satie
(1866 – 1925)
Le Réveil de la Mariée
Arrivée du cortège.
Appels.
Levez-vous !
Guitares faites avec de vieux chapeaux.
Un chien danse avec sa fiancée.
16 mai 1914
Erik Satie Le Réveil de la Mariée
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Erik Satie, Satie, Erik
Ben Jonson
(1573-1637)
Come, My Celia
Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever;
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
Suns that set may rise again;
But if once we lose this light,
‘Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumor are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies,
Or his easier ears beguile,
So removed by our wile?
‘Tis no sin love’s fruit to steal;
But the sweet theft to reveal.
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.
Ben Jonson poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive I-J, CLASSIC POETRY
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