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The Sorrows of Young Werther (01) by J.W. von Goethe

WERTHER4

The Sorrows of Young Werther

Die Leiden des jungen Werther (01)

by J.W. von Goethe

Translated by R.D. Boylan

PREFACE

I have carefully collected whatever I have been able to learn of the story of poor Werther, and here present it to you, knowing that you will thank me for it. To his spirit and character you cannot refuse your admiration and love: to his fate you will not deny your tears.

And thou, good soul, who sufferest the same distress as he endured once, draw comfort from his sorrows; and let this little book be thy friend, if, owing to fortune or through thine own fault, thou canst not find a dearer companion.

BOOK I

4 May 1771

How happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend, what a thing is the heart of man! To leave you, from whom I have been inseparable, whom I love so dearly, and yet to feel happy! I know you will forgive me. Have not other attachments been specially appointed by fate to torment a head like mine? Poor Leonora! and yet I was not to blame. Was it my fault, that, whilst the peculiar charms of her sister afforded me an agreeable entertainment, a passion for me was engendered in her feeble heart? And yet am I wholly blameless? Did I not encourage her emotions? Did I not feel charmed at those truly genuine expressions of nature, which, though but little mirthful in reality, so often amused us? Did I not–but oh! what is man, that he dares so to accuse himself? My dear friend I promise you I will improve; I will no longer, as has ever been my habit, continue to ruminate on every petty vexation which fortune may dispense; I will enjoy the present, and the past shall be for me the past.

No doubt you are right, my best of friends, there would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men–and God knows why they are so fashioned–did not employ their imaginations so assiduously in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their present lot with equanimity. Be kind enough to inform my mother that I shall attend to her business to the best of my ability, and shall give her the earliest information about it. I have seen my aunt, and find that she is very far from being the disagreeable person our friends allege her to be. She is a lively, cheerful woman, with the best of hearts. I explained to her my mother’s wrongs with regard to that part of her portion which has been withheld from her. She told me the motives and reasons of her own conduct, and the terms on which she is willing to give up the whole, and to do more than we have asked. In short, I cannot write further upon this subject at present; only assure my mother that all will go on well.

And I have again observed, my dear friend, in this trifling affair, that misunderstandings and neglect occasion more mischief in the world than even malice and wickedness. At all events, the two latter are of less frequent occurrence.

In other respects I am very well off here. Solitude in this terrestrial paradise is a genial balm to my mind, and the young spring cheers with its bounteous promises my oftentimes misgiving heart. Every tree, every bush, is full of flowers; and one might wish himself transformed into a butterfly, to float about in this ocean of perfume, and find his whole existence in it.

The town itself is disagreeable; but then, all around, you find an inexpressible beauty of nature. This induced the late Count M to lay out a garden on one of the sloping hills which here intersect each other with the most charming variety, and form the most lovely valleys. The garden is simple; and it is easy to perceive, even upon your first entrance, that the plan was not designed by a scientific gardener, but by a man who wished to give himself up here to the enjoyment of his own sensitive heart. Many a tear have I already shed to the memory of its departed master in a summer-house which is now reduced to ruins, but was his favourite resort, and now is mine. I shall soon be master of the place. The gardener has become attached to me within the last few days, and he will lose nothing thereby.

The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.

To be continued

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More in: -Die Leiden des jungen Werther, Archive G-H, Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von

T.T. Cloete: Eiewysheid

fleursdm01

Acht vertalingen van gedichten van T.T. Cloete (1924)

door Carina van der Walt & Geno Spoormans

T.T. Cloete

Eiewysheid

ek groei aarde toe krom ek hel lewendig
skuins hoe meer jare ek haal
hoe meer raak my kinkels bestendig
ek moet my vertikaal

handhaaf ek moet sekondegetrou
onthou om asem te haal
om koppig uit te hou

en te beweeg krapskeef
en aaphinkende ek moet uitputtend aanhou
oefen om deur die nag te leef

ek moet vratig bly drink
en eet en sweet
en hondhyg ek moet vermoeiend bly dink
ín teen die groot vergeet

T.T. Cloete

Eigenwijsheid

ik groei krom naar de aarde toe mijn lijf verzinkt
schuin en hoe meer jaren ik haal
hoe meer mijn kabel bestendig kinkt
verticaal

handhaaf ik mij ter nauw
en stipt adem ik elke haal
waarop ik koppig uithou

ik beweeg in kreeftsgang
hinkepink als een aap mijn oefeningen getrouw
en hou de nacht in bedwang

ik moet vretig blijven drinken
en eten en zweten
en hijgen als een hond tot vermoeiends blijven denken
tegen het grote vergeten

T.T. Cloete 8 gedichten: Vertalingen uit het Zuid-Afrikaans door Carina van der Walt & Geno Spoormans 2010

(wordt vervolgd)

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Nieuwe bundel Leo van der Sterren: Mythogrammen

sterrenleovd

Nieuwe bundel

Leo van der Sterren:

Mythogrammen

Pathetiek die bedriegt. Plechtigheid die misleidt. Frauduleuze verhevenheid. Mythogrammen bestaat uit gedichten die, ingebed in valse romantiek, allemaal kleine, op zichzelf staande mythen vormen. Voer voor de lichtgelovigen. Maar elke mythe in deze verzameling wil slechts een ironisch verzinsel zijn dat niet meer nut heeft dan het genot dat het verschaft. Een ornament. Een bron van amusement. Deze verdichtsels zijn spannend genoeg om te vermaken. En misschien bevat een enkel gedicht zelfs een heuse waarheid als een koe. Tot stand gekomen tussen 1976 en 2002 vond een deel van de gedichten eerder onderdak in gerenommeerde literaire tijdschriften.

Leo van der Sterren: “Geboren in 1959 te Venray waar ik nog altijd woonachtig ben, ving ik op mijn vijftiende aan met schrijven. Sindsdien schrijf ik omdat het moet en wil ik ook weten waar die plicht vandaan komt. Na mijn debuut in 1987 heb ik in talloze Nederlandse en Vlaamse literaire tijdschriften gepubliceerd. In 2008 verscheen mijn verhalenbundel bij uitgeverij Boekscout.nl. Ten slotte ben ik de drijvende kracht achter de weblog “

Gebruiksaanwijzing

Verwijder het beslag en licht de tip.

Beweeg het witte lipje linksom tegen

de schikring in de richting van de stip-

pellijnen en verbreek aldus het zegel.

Ontdoe u van het rode ezelsoor.

Ontsluit het doosje (zie afbeelding veertien)

en neem de fles eruit. Goed schudden voor

gebruik. De dop indrukken om te keren.

Schenk in een droge, voorverwarmde mok

precies negenentwintig komma negen-

entwintig milliliter. Met één slok

en rechtop staand de mok vervolgens legen.

Loop driemaal rond een authentieke bierkaai

en driemaal rond een grafsteen op een draf.

Vertolk nu driemaal drie is negen driemaal

en nog eens en ga dan terug naar af.

Leo van der Sterren : Mythogrammen

ISBN 978-94-022-0464-3

# website uitgeverij Boekenscout

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More in: - Book News, Art & Literature News, Sterren, Leo van der

Kurt Tucholsky: Der Graben

Kurt Tucholsky

(1890-1935)

Der Graben

Mutter, wozu hast Du Deinen aufgezogen,
Hast Dich zwanzig Jahr’ um ihn gequält?
Wozu ist er Dir in Deinen Arm geflogen,
Und Du hast ihm leise was erzählt?
Bis sie ihn Dir weggenommen haben
Für den Graben, Mutter, für den Graben!
Junge, kannst Du noch an Vater denken?
Vater nahm Dich oft auf seinen Arm,
Und er wollt’ Dir einen Groschen schenken,
Und er spielte mit Dir Räuber und Gendarm
Bis sie ihn Dir weggenommen haben
Für den Graben, Junge, für den Graben!

Werft die Fahnen fort!
Die Militärkapellen spielen auf
Zu Eurem Todestanz!

Seid Ihr hin?
Seid Ihr hin?

Ein Kranz von Immortellen,
Das ist dann der Dank des Vaterlands!

Hört auf Todesröcheln und Gestöhne!
Drüben stehen Väter, Mütter, Söhne,
Schuften schwer, wie ihr, um’s bißchen Leben.
Wollt Ihr denen nicht die Hände geben?
Reicht die Bruderhand als schönste aller Gaben
Über’n Graben, Leute, über’n Graben!

Kurt Tucholsky poetry

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Rupert Brooke: TIARE TAHITI

FLEURSDUMALPOE03

Rupert Brooke

(1887-1915)

TIARE TAHITI

AMUA, when our laughter ends,

And hearts and bodies, brown as white,

Are dust about the doors of friends,

Or scent ablowing down the night,

Then, oh! then, the wise agree,

Comes our immortality.

Mamua, there waits a land

Hard for us to understand.

Out of time, beyond the sun,

All are one in Paradise,

You and Pupure are one,

And Taü, and the ungainly wise.

There the Eternals are, and there

The Good, the Lovely, and the True,

And Types, whose earthly copies were

The foolish broken things we knew;

There is the Face, whose ghosts we are;

The real, the never-setting Star;

And the Flower, of which we love

Faint and fading shadows here;

Never a tear, but only Grief;

Dance, but not the limbs that move;

Songs in Song shall disappear;

Instead of lovers, Love shall be;

For hearts, Immutability;

And there, on the Ideal Reef,

Thunders the Everlasting Sea!

And my laughter, and my pain,

Shall home to the Eternal Brain.

And all lovely things, they say,

Meet in Loveliness again;

Miri’s laugh, Teipo’s feet,

And the hands of Matua,

Stars and sunlight there shall meet

Coral’s hues and rainbows there,

And Teüra’s braided hair;

And with the starred tiare’s white,

And white birds in the dark ravine,

And flamboyants ablaze at night,

And jewels, and evening’s after-green,

And dawns of pearl and gold and red,

Mamua, your lovelier head!

And there’ll no more be one who dreams

Under the ferns, of crumbling stuff,

Eyes of illusion, mouth that seems,

All time-entangled human love.

And you’ll no longer swing and sway

Divinely down the scented shade,

Where feet to Ambulation fade,

And moons are lost in endless Day.

How shall we wind these wreaths of ours,

Where there are neither heads nor flowers?

Oh, Heaven’s Heaven! — but we’ll be missing

The palms, and sunlight, and the south;

And there’s an end, I think, of kissing,

When our mouths are one with Mouth …

Taü here, Mamua,

Crown the hair, and come away!

Hear the calling of the moon,

And the whispering scents that stray

About the idle warm lagoon.

Hasten, hand in human hand,

Down the dark, the flowered way,

Along the whiteness of the sand,

And in the water’s soft caress,

Wash the mind of foolishness,

Mamua, until the day.

Spend the glittering moonlight there

Pursuing down the soundless deep

Limbs that gleam and shadowy hair,

Or floating lazy, half-asleep.

Dive and double and follow after,

Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call,

With lips that fade, and human laughter

And faces individual,

Well this side of Paradise! …

There’s little comfort in the wise.

Source: Rupert Brooke. London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1915

Rupert Brooke poetry

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Bundel bij 50 jaar uitgeverij Opwenteling

opwenteling

Bundel bij 50 jaar uitgeverij Opwenteling

Onnaspeurbaar: van Frans Kuipers tot Hans Vlek

“Tijd, Iedereen zegt dat je erg veranderd bent.” dichtte Frans Kuipers in Gottegot & Bubble Up (1977, vers 6). Het was niet de eerste bundel die de Eindhovense uitgeverij Opwenteling van Kuipers uitbracht. ‘Zoals wij’, het debuut van deze dichter, verscheen al in 1965 bij Opwenteling. Niemand kon nog vermoeden dat Gerrit Komrij later negen gedichten van Kuipers zou opnemen in zijn vermaarde bloemlezing.

Het gedicht ‘vers 6’ opent de jubileumbundel ‘Onnaspeurbaar. 50 jaar Opwenteling.’ die Opwenteling op 29 december 2013 presenteerde. De bundel bevat een kleine 50 gedichten. Samen laten ze zien hoeveel talent er in 50 jaar bij Opwenteling is verschenen. De bundel is daarmee overigens geen doorsnede van een periode. Het is eerder een bloemlezing waarmee de huidige Opwentelaars aangeven hoe Opwenteling anno 2013 denkt over poëtische kwaliteit. In die zin markeert de bundel eerder het begin van een nieuwe periode dan de afsluiting van een voorbije.

Opwenteling werd in 1962 geboren. Geestelijk vader was Joop Oversteegen, die het eigen geluid van Brabantse dichters wilde laten horen. Dat hij daarin geslaagd is, daarover bestaat geen twijfel. Opwenteling ontwikkelde zich tot een ideële uitgeverij, gerund door vrijwilligers, die honderden dichters de kans gaf te debuteren. Voor een aantal bleef het bij een debuut. Anderen, onder wie Frans Kuipers, maar ook Maria van der Steen, Frans Babylon, Hans Vlek, Hans van de Waarsenburg groeiden uit tot nationaal bekende poëtische grootheden.

opwenteling2

Onnaspeurbaar. 50 Jaar Opwenteling

Uitgever Stichting Opwenteling

ISBN-13 9789063381578 / ISBN-10 9063381573

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More in: - Book News, Art & Literature News, Babylon, Frans, Waarsenburg, Hans van de

Charles Wolfe: TO MARY

CharlesWolfe

Charles Wolfe

(1791-1823)

TO MARY

F I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:

It never through my mind had past

The time would e’er be o’er,

And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think ’twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook,

That I must look in vain.

But when I speak–thou dost not say

What thou ne’er left’st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e’en as thou art,

All cold and all serene–

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where they smiles have been.

While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;

But there–I lay thee on thy grave,

And I am now alone!

I do not think, where’er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart

In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne’er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!

Charles Wolfe poetry

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Thomas Chatterton: AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE

Chatterton2

Thomas Chatterton

(1752-1770)

AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE

N Virgynë the sweltrie sun gan sheene,

And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie;

The apple rodded from its palie greene,

And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie;

The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie;

‘Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare,

And eke the grounde was dighte in its moste defte aumere.

The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie,

Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue,

When from the sea arist in drear arraie

A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue,

The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe,

Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face,

And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd up apace.

Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side,

Which dide unto Seyncte Godwine’s covent lede,

A hapless pilgrim moneynge did abide.

Pore in his newe, ungentle in his weede,

Longe bretful of the miseries of neede,

Where from the hail-stone coulde the almer flie?

He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie.

Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne;

Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade!

Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne!

Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde.

Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde,

Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves;

Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.

The gatherd storme is rype; the bigge drops falle;

The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine;

The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall,

And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine;

Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe;

The welkin opes; the yellow levynne flies;

And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies.

Liste! now the thunder’s rattling clymmynge sound

Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs,

Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown’d,

Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges;

The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges;

Again the levynne and the thunder poures,

And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers.

Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine,

The Abbote of Seyncte Godwynes convente came;

His chapournette was drented with the reine,

And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame;

He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same;

The storme encreasen, and he drew aside,

With the mist almes craver neere to the holme to bide.

His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne,

With a gold button fasten’d neere his chynne;

His autremete was edged with golden twynne,

And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne;

Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne:

The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte,

For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte.

“An almes, sir prieste!” the droppynge pilgrim saide,

“O! let me waite within your covente dore,

Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade,

And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer;

Helpless and ould am I alas! and poor;

No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche;

All yatte I call my owne is this my silver crouche.”

“Varlet,” replyd the Abbatte, “cease your dinne;

This is no season almes and prayers to give;

Mie porter never lets a faitour in;

None touch mie rynge who not in honour live.”

And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve,

And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie,

The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie.

Once moe the skie was blacke, the thunder rolde;

Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen;

Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde;

His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene;

A Limitoure he was of order seene;

And from the pathwaie side then turned hee,

Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree.

“An almes, sir priest!” the droppynge pilgrim sayde,

“For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake.”

The Limitoure then loosen’d his pouche threade,

And did thereoute a groate of silver take;

The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake.

“Here take this silver, it maie eathe thie care;

We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare.

“But ah! unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me,

Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde.

Here take my semecope, thou arte bare I see;

Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde.”

He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde.

Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure,

Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power.

Thomas Chatterton poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Niels Landstra: Mishandelde straathond

Niels Landstra

Mishandelde straathond

Zijn hart een mishandelde straathond

Kruipt verstoten over straat, gekleineerd

door haar scheldkanonnades, gekromd

en stijf zijn foetushouding, uitgeteld

zinkend in kieren kinderkopjes

een kloppende placenta die met zich

meesleurt de versmelting, vruchtbodems

de oerbron. Het aanzwellende dwaallicht

lonkt naar de arm schouwende straathond

die naar zijn volgzame joyeuze hart

luisterde toen het wegrennen begon

samen naar de jonge horizon, zacht

in haar armen vlijen, de vagebond

die zij lustig ontving, met een glans in

haar blik die haar vruchtbare weerzin

verborg zolang haar boezem het verbond

verdroeg hem niet op straat te werpen

met zijn turen en huid en kreunen zacht

Niels Landstra poetry

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More in: Archive K-L, Landstra, Niels, MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY - department of ravens & crows, birds of prey, riding a zebra, spring, summer, autumn, winter

Happy New Year, Happy 2014

KAMPHUISPRELUDE

Happy New Year, Happy 2014

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More in: Art & Literature News, Freda Kamphuis, Kamphuis, Freda

Eugene Field: LITTLE BOY BLUE

EugeneField

Eugene Field

(1850-1895)

LITTLE BOY BLUE

HE little toy dog is covered with dust,

But sturdy and stanch he stands;

And the little toy soldier is red with rust,

And his musket moulds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new,

And the soldier was passing fair;

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue

Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,

“And don’t you make any noise!”

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,

He dreamt of the pretty toys;

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song

Awakened our Little Boy Blue–

Oh! the years are many, the years are long,

But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

Each in the same old place,

Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

The smile of a little face;

And they wonder, as waiting the long years through

In the dust of that little chair,

What has become of our Little Boy Blue,

Since he kissed them and put them there.

“Little Boy Blue” is reprinted from The Little Book of American Poets: 1787-1900. Ed. Jessie B. Rittenhouse. Cambridge: Riverside Press, 1915

Eugene Field poetry

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More in: Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Field, Eugene

Thomas Dekker: COUNTRY GLEE

thomasdekker

Thomas Dekker

(1570-1632)

COUNTRY GLEE

HAYMAKERS, rakers, reapers, and mowers,

Wait on your Summer-queen;

Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers,

Daffodils strew the green;

Sing, dance, and play,

‘Tis holiday;

The sun does bravely shine

On our ears of corn.

Rich as a pearl

Comes every girl,

This is mine, this is mine, this is mine;

Let us die, ere away they be borne.

Bow to the Sun, to our queen, and that fair one

Come to behold our sports:

Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one,

As those in a prince’s courts.

These and we

With country glee,

Will teach the woods to resound,

And the hills with echoes hollow:

Skipping lambs

Their bleating dams,

‘Mongst kids shall trip it round;

For joy thus our wenches we follow.

Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly,

Hounds make a lusty cry;

Spring up, you falconers, the partridges freely,

Then let your brave hawks fly.

Horses amain,

Over ridge, over plain,

The dogs have the stag in chase:

‘Tis a sport to content a king.

So ho ho! through the skies

How the proud bird flies,

And sousing kills with a grace!

Now the deer falls; hark, how they ring!

‘Country Glee’ was originally published in The Sun’s Darling (1656).

Thomas Dekker poetry

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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.

The Sorrows of Young Werther (01) by J.W. von Goethe

T.T. Cloete: Eiewysheid

Nieuwe bundel Leo van der Sterren: Mythogrammen

Kurt Tucholsky: Der Graben

Rupert Brooke: TIARE TAHITI

Bundel bij 50 jaar uitgeverij Opwenteling

Charles Wolfe: TO MARY

Thomas Chatterton: AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE

Niels Landstra: Mishandelde straathond

Happy New Year, Happy 2014

Eugene Field: LITTLE BOY BLUE

Thomas Dekker: COUNTRY GLEE