FLEURSDUMAL POETRY LIBRARY – classic, modern, experimental & visual & sound poetry, poetry in translation, city poets, poetry archive, pre-raphaelites, editor’s choice, etc.

«« Previous page · Henry Lawson: Knocked Up · William Butler Yeats: He Mourns For The Change That Has Come Upon Him And His Beloved, And Longs For The End Of The World · Giacomo Leopardi: Ultimo canto di Saffo · Nieuwe vertalingen Oscar Wilde door Cornelis W. Schoneveld · Museum of Public Protest: Stuttgart 21 · Bert Bevers: Bij het bekijken van een foto van mijn overleden vader als nog jonge man · Kurt Tucholsky: Sexuelle Aufklärung · Mireille Havet: Sur un tableau cubiste · Amy Levy: Christopher Found · Elizabeth (Lizzie) Siddal: Love and Hate · Irish Poet Seamus Heaney has died · Freda Kamphuis: Boeknecht Koekast

»» there is more...

Henry Lawson: Knocked Up

Henry Lawson

(1867-1922)

Knocked Up

I’m lyin’ on the barren ground that’s baked and cracked with drought,

And dunno if my legs or back or heart is most wore out;

I’ve got no spirits left to rise and smooth me achin’ brow —

I’m too knocked up to light a fire and bile the billy now.

Oh it’s trampin’, trampin’, tra-a-mpin’, in flies an’ dust an’ heat,

Or it’s trampin’ trampin’ tra-a-a-mpin’

through mud and slush ‘n sleet;

It’s tramp an’ tramp for tucker — one everlastin’ strife,

An’ wearin’ out yer boots an’ heart in the wastin’ of yer life.

They whine o’ lost an’ wasted lives in idleness and crime —

I’ve wasted mine for twenty years, and grafted all the time

And never drunk the stuff I earned, nor gambled when I shore —

But somehow when yer on the track yer life seems wasted more.

A long dry stretch of thirty miles I’ve tramped this broilin’ day,

All for the off-chance of a job a hundred miles away;

There’s twenty hungry beggars wild for any job this year,

An’ fifty might be at the shed while I am lyin’ here.

The sinews in my legs seem drawn, red-hot — ‘n that’s the truth;

I seem to weigh a ton, and ache like one tremendous tooth;

I’m stung between my shoulder-blades — my blessed back seems broke;

I’m too knocked out to eat a bite — I’m too knocked up to smoke.

The blessed rain is comin’ too — there’s oceans in the sky,

An’ I suppose I must get up and rig the blessed fly;

The heat is bad, the water’s bad, the flies a crimson curse,

The grub is bad, mosquitoes damned — but rheumatism’s worse.

I wonder why poor blokes like me will stick so fast ter breath,

Though Shakespeare says it is the fear of somethin’ after death;

But though Eternity be cursed with God’s almighty curse —

What ever that same somethin’ is I swear it can’t be worse.

For it’s trampin’, trampin’, tra-a-mpin’ thro’ hell across the plain,

And it’s trampin’ trampin’ tra-a-mpin’ thro’ slush ‘n mud ‘n rain —

A livin’ worse than any dog — without a home ‘n wife,

A-wearin’ out yer heart ‘n soul in the wastin’ of yer life.

Henry Lawson poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

William Butler Yeats: He Mourns For The Change That Has Come Upon Him And His Beloved, And Longs For The End Of The World

poetry04

William Butler Yeats

(1865-1939)

He Mourns For The Change That Has Come

Upon Him And His Beloved,

And Longs For The End Of The World

Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns?
I have been changed to a hound with one red ear;
I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns,
For somebody hid hatred and hope and desire and fear
Under my feet that they follow you night and day.
A man with a hazel wand came without sound;
He changed me suddenly; I was looking another way;
And now my calling is but the calling of a hound;
And Time and Birth and Change are hurrying by.
I would that the Boar without bristles had come from the West
And had rooted the sun and moon and stars out of the sky
And lay in the darkness, grunting, and turning to his rest.

W.B. Yeats poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler

Giacomo Leopardi: Ultimo canto di Saffo

Giacomo Leopardi

(1798-1837)

Ultimo canto di Saffo

Placida notte, e verecondo raggio

Della cadente luna; e tu che spunti

Fra la tacita selva in su la rupe,

Nunzio del giorno; oh dilettose e care

Mentre ignote mi fur l’erinni e il fato,

Sembianze agli occhi miei; già non arride

Spettacol molle ai disperati affetti.

Noi l’insueto allor gaudio ravviva

Quando per l’etra liquido si volve

E per li campi trepidanti il flutto

Polveroso de’ Noti, e quando il carro,

Grave carro di Giove a noi sul capo,

Tonando, il tenebroso aere divide.

Noi per le balze e le profonde valli

Natar giova tra’ nembi, e noi la vasta

Fuga de’ greggi sbigottiti, o d’alto

Fiume alla dubbia sponda

Il suono e la vittrice ira dell’onda.

Bello il tuo manto, o divo cielo, e bella

Sei tu, rorida terra. Ahi di cotesta

Infinita beltà parte nessuna

Alla misera Saffo i numi e l’empia

Sorte non fenno. A’ tuoi superbi regni

Vile, o natura, e grave ospite addetta,

E dispregiata amante, alle vezzose

Tue forme il core e le pupille invano

Supplichevole intendo. A me non ride

L’aprico margo, e dall’eterea porta

Il mattutino albor; me non il canto

De’ colorati augelli, e non de’ faggi

Il murmure saluta: e dove all’ombra

Degl’inchinati salici dispiega

Candido rivo il puro seno, al mio

Lubrico piè le flessuose linfe

Disdegnando sottragge,

E preme in fuga l’odorate spiagge.

Qual fallo mai, qual sì nefando eccesso

Macchiommi anzi il natale, onde sì torvo

Il ciel mi fosse e di fortuna il volto?

In che peccai bambina, allor che ignara

Di misfatto è la vita, onde poi scemo

Di giovanezza, e disfiorato, al fuso

Dell’indomita Parca si volvesse

Il ferrigno mio stame? Incaute voci

Spande il tuo labbro: i destinati eventi

Move arcano consiglio. Arcano è tutto,

Fuor che il nostro dolor. Negletta prole

Nascemmo al pianto, e la ragione in grembo

De’ celesti si posa. Oh cure, oh speme

De’ più verd’anni! Alle sembianze il Padre,

Alle amene sembianze eterno regno

Diè nelle genti; e per virili imprese,

Per dotta lira o canto,

Virtù non luce in disadorno ammanto.

Morremo. Il velo indegno a terra sparto,

Rifuggirà l’ignudo animo a Dite,

E il crudo fallo emenderà del cieco

Dispensator de’ casi. E tu cui lungo

Amore indarno, e lunga fede, e vano

D’implacato desio furor mi strinse,

Vivi felice, se felice in terra

Visse nato mortal. Me non asperse

Del soave licor del doglio avaro

Giove, poi che perìr gl’inganni e il sogno

Della mia fanciullezza. Ogni più lieto

Giorno di nostra età primo s’invola.

Sottentra il morbo, e la vecchiezza, e l’ombra

Della gelida morte. Ecco di tante

Sperate palme e dilettosi errori,

Il Tartaro m’avanza; e il prode ingegno

Han la tenaria Diva

E l’atra notte, e la silente riva.

Giacomo Leopardi poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Nieuwe vertalingen Oscar Wilde door Cornelis W. Schoneveld

poetry04

Nieuwe vertalingen Oscar Wilde door Cornelis W. Schoneveld

Bij uitgeverij Liverse te Dordrecht is vorige week een vertaling van alle 90 korte gedichten van Oscar Wilde uitgekomen, van de hand van Cornelis W. Schoneveld. Wilde schreef ze voordat hij grote bekendheid kreeg als toneelschrijver. Hij gebruikte een grote verscheidenheid aan versvormen, welluidend toegepast, gepaard gaande aan een scala van onderwerpen. Zo worden zijn ongelukkige liefdeservaringen, met de beroemde schoonheid Lillie Langtree aandoenlijk verwoord in vele toonaarden. Hetzelfde geldt voor Wilde’s verwerking van de dood van zijn vader en zijn kleine zusje. Groot pleitbezorger van het “L’art pour l’art ” idee, en zeer goed thuis in het nieuwe Franse Impressionisme, laat hij zich door beide vaak inspireren in zijn kijk op het leven, zijn emoties, en de natuur. Ook Wilde’s grote kennis van de antieke wereld en mythologie opgedaan als briljant student Klassieke Talen in Oxford en tijdens zijn reizen naar Italië en Griekenland leveren hem veel dichtstof op.

schoneveld wilde

Vallend bloemblad – Oscar Wilde

ISBN 978-90-976982-97-7 € 17,95

De verzamelde korte gedichten (tweetalige uitgave), vertaald door Cornelis W. Schoneveld

In zijn gedichten slaat Oscar Wilde een geheel andere toon aan dan de personages in zijn hilarische blijspelen doen. Humor maakt plaats voor gevoel, snedigheid voor subtiele beschrijving, luchthartigheid voor persoonlijke betrokkenheid. Nooit eerder werden al zijn 90 korte gedichten in het Nederlands vertaald. Cornelis W. Schoneveld, die twee eerdere bloemlezingen op zijn naam heeft staan, volgt ook hier rijm en ritme steeds nauwkeurig. De vertalingen van deze oud-docent Engelse letterkunde aan de Leidse Universiteit ‘geven blijk van een groot gevoel voor beide talen en voor poëzie’ (Heinz Wallisch).

≡ website uitgeverij liverse

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Museum of Public Protest: Stuttgart 21

Street poetry: Stuttgart 21

Museum of Public Protest

Photo Anton K. Berlin 2011

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Anton K. Photos & Observations, MUSEUM OF PUBLIC PROTEST, Street Art, Street Poetry

Bert Bevers: Bij het bekijken van een foto van mijn overleden vader als nog jonge man

bevers5003

Bij het bekijken van een foto van mijn
overleden vader als nog jonge man

Langs het jaagpad van verleden in alle soorten
klank tegen verval verweer. Kleine blonde Mariandl,
toe ga met mij eens aan de wandel, want zo alleen
te lopen is heus niets gedaan.

Hoe we oude liedjes zongen tot het vroeger
werd, ze nauwelijks meer klonken. Hoe ik in mijmeringen
gelukkig nog met papa loop, hand in hand, soms ook al los.
Nozel en stuimig, tot later ongeschikt voor jeugd.

Hoe pauwblauw de nacht zich opricht.

Bert Bevers

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Kurt Tucholsky: Sexuelle Aufklärung

Kurt Tucholsky

(1890-1935)

Sexuelle Aufklärung

Tritt ein, mein Sohn, in dieses Variété!

Die heiligen Hallen füllt ein lieblich Odium

von Rauchtabak, Parfüms und Eßbüffé.

Die blonde Emmy tänzelt auf das Podium,

der erste und der einzige Geiger schmiert <Kollodium>

auf seine Fiedel für das hohe C…

So blieb es, und so ists seit dreißig Jahren –

drum ist dein alter Vater mit dir hergefahren.

Sieh jenes Mädchen! Erster Jugendblüte

leichtrosa Schimmer ziert das reizende Gesicht.

So war sie schon, als ich mich noch um sie bemühte,

und wahrlich: ich blamiert mich nicht!

Siehst du sie jetzt, wie sie voll Scham erglühte?

Was flüstert sie? “Det die de Motten kricht…!”

Wie klingt mir dieser Wahlspruch doch vertraut

aus jener Zeit, da ich den Referendar gebaut!

Sei mir gegrüßt, du meine Tugendlilie,

du altes Flitterkleid, du Tamburin!

Nimm du sie hin, mein Sohn – es bleibt in der Familie –

und lern bei ihr: es gibt nur ein Berlin!

Nun aber spitz die Ohren, denn gleich singt Ottilie

ihr Lieblingslied vom kleinen Zeppeliihn

Kriegst du sie nicht, soll dich der Teufel holen!

Verhalt dich brav – und damit Gott befohlen!

Kurt Tucholsky poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Mireille Havet: Sur un tableau cubiste

havetmireille 02

Mireille Havet

(1898-1932)

Sur un tableau cubiste

Et mon rêve s’est penché sur le tableau cubiste

Harmonieux comme lui il a pris la forme profonde

de ses courbes.

Plus rien

Mon rêve oublie le monde, il s’enfonce et l’espace entier

fait place à ma pensée.

Les choses ne sont plus… Ah ! qu’importe les CHOSES

comme un arc-en-ciel, elles se décomposent

Prisme d’idée

Prisme de sensation

Réalisation enfin nouvelle d’une beauté simplifiée

comprise et universelle.

Vie simple

Sonorité sans limite

lumière ronde de ces lignes et s’emboîtant dans elle

comme des poupées russes.

Oh ! je vois des choses…

non! des lumières… le Paradis quand il était

situé dans le ciel devait avoir de ces profondeurs :

morceau de clarté jaillissante me faisant penser

à une tasse de porcelaine blanche au milieu d’un

crépuscule printanier.

Ombre divinement infinie

Ombre où l’on tombe comme une âme après la mort

doit tomber dans l’éternité.

Et mon rêve et moi-même sont entrés dans ces formes,

tels des pierres dans une maison neuve

Ne m’appelez plus maintenant, ne me demandez

plus rien de la vie : je pars — je suis partie

navire lointain sur la mer sans fin

On ne rappelle pas un navire. On ne rappelle pas

une pensée

et combien de sifflets, ce soir, annoncent des départs

auxquels vous ne songez.

Mireille Havet: Sur un tableau cubiste (‘ La culture physique ‘ de Picabia, exposée aux Indépendants en 1914)

Mireille Havet poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive G-H, Havet, Mireille, Mireille Havet

Amy Levy: Christopher Found

Amy Levy

(1861-1889)

Christopher Found

At last; so this is you, my dear!

How should I guess to find you here?

So long, so long, I sought in vain

In many cities, many lands,

With straining eyes and groping hands;

The people marvelled at my pain.

They said: “But sure, the woman’s mad;

What ails her, we should like to know,

That she should be so wan and sad,

And silent through the revels go?”

They clacked with such a sorry stir!

Was I to tell? were they to know

That I had lost you, Christopher?

Will you forgive me for one thing?

Whiles, when a stranger came my way,

My heart would beat and I would say :

” Here’s Christopher!” –then lingering

With longer gaze, would turn away

Cold, sick at heart. My dear, I know

You will forgive me for this thing.

It is so very long ago

Since I have seen your face–till now;

Now that I see it–lip and brow,

Eyes, nostril, chin, alive and clear;

Last time was long ago; I know

This thing you will forgive me, dear.

There is no Heaven–This is the best;

O hold me closer to your breast;

Let your face lean upon my face,

That there no longer shall be space

Between our lips, between our eyes.

I feel your bosom’s fall and rise.

O hold me near and yet more near;

Ah sweet ; I wonder do you know

How lone and cold, how sad and drear,

Was I a little while ago;

Sick of the stress, the strife, the stir;

But I have found you, Christopher.

III

If only you had come before!

(This is the thing I most deplore)

A seemlier woman you had found,

More calm, by courtesies more bound,

Less quick to greet you, more subdued

Of appetite; of slower mood.

But ah! you come so late, so late!

This time of day I can’t pretend

With slight, sweet things to satiate

The hunger-cravings. Nay, my friend,

I cannot blush and turn and tremble,

Wax loth as younger maidens do.

Ah, Christopher, with you, with you,

You would not wish me to dissemble?

So long have all the days been meagre,

With empty platter, empty cup,

No meats nor sweets to do me pleasure,

That if I crave–is it over-eager,

The deepest draught, the fullest measure,

The beaker to the brim poured up?

Shelley, that sprite from the spheres above,

Says, and would make the matter clear,

That love divided is larger love;–

We’ll leave those things to the bards, my dear.

For you never wrote a verse, you see;

And I–my verse is not fair nor new.

Till the world be dead, you shall love but me,

Till the stars have ceased, I shall love but you.

EPILOGUE

Thus ran the words; or rather, thus did run

Their purport. Idly seeking in the chest

(You see it yonder), I had found them there:

Some blotted sheets of paper in a case,

With a woman’s name writ on it: “Adelaide.”

Twice on the writing there was scored the date

Of ten years back; and where the words had end

Was left a space, a dash, a half-writ word,

As tho’ the writer minded, presently

The matter to pursue.

I questioned her,

That worthy, worthy soul, my châtelaine,

Who, nothing loth, made answer.

There had been

Another lodger ere I had the rooms,

Three months gone by–a woman.

“Young, sir ? No.

Must have seen forty if she’d seen a day!

A lonesome woman; hadn’t many friends;

Wrote books, I think, and things for newspapers.

Short in her temper–eyes would flash and flame

At times, till I was frightened. Paid her rent

Most regular, like a lady.

Ten years back,

They say (at least Ann Brown says), ten years back

The lady had a lover. Even then

She must have been no chicken.

Three months since

She died. Well, well, the Lord is kind and just.

I did my best to tend her, yet indeed

It’s bad for trade to have a lodger die.

Her brother came, a week before she died:

Buried her, took her things, threw in the fire

The littered heaps of paper.

Yes, the sheets,

They must have been forgotten in the chest;–

I never knew her name was Adelaide.”

Amy Levy poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Amy Levy, Archive K-L, Levy, Amy

Elizabeth (Lizzie) Siddal: Love and Hate

Elizabeth (Lizzie) Siddal

(1829-1862)

Love and Hate

Ope not thy lips, thou foolish one,

Nor turn to me thy face;

The blasts of heaven shall strike thee down

Ere I will give thee grace.

Take thou thy shadow from my path,

Nor turn to me and pray;

The wild wild winds thy dirge may sing

Ere I will bid thee stay.

Turn thou away thy false dark eyes,

Nor gaze upon my face;

Great love I bore thee: now great hate

Sits grimly in its place.

All changes pass me like a dream,

I neither sing nor pray;

And thou art like the poisonous tree

That stole my life away.

Elizabeth (Lizzie) Siddal poems

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Lizzy Siddal, Siddal, Lizzy

Irish Poet Seamus Heaney has died

seamusheaney 01

Irish Poet Seamus Heaney has died

Seamus Heaney, the best Irish poet since Yeats, has died aged 74. Heaney was born near Toomebridge, Northern Ireland. He was a teacher and had a distinguished career in poetry, winning the Nobel prize for literature in 1995.

Heaney had been awarded numerous prizes and received many honours for his work. He recently suffered from ill health.

Poetry

1966: Death of a Naturalist, Faber & Faber

1969: Door into the Dark, Faber & Faber

1972: Wintering Out, Faber & Faber

1975: Stations, Ulsterman

1975: North, Faber & Faber

1979: Field Work, Faber & Faber

1984: Station Island, Faber & Faber

1987: The Haw Lantern, Faber & Faber

1991: Seeing Things, Faber & Faber

1996: The Spirit Level, Faber & Faber

2001: Electric Light, Faber & Faber

2006: District and Circle, Faber & Faber

2010: Human Chain, Faber & Faber

In Memoriam Seamus Heaney 1939-2013

30 august 2013

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Freda Kamphuis: Boeknecht Koekast

Boeknecht Koekast2

Freda Kamphuis:

Boeknecht Koekast, 2013, fotocollage

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Freda Kamphuis, Kamphuis, Freda

Older Entries »« Newer Entries

Thank you for reading Fleurs du Mal - magazine for art & literature

Fleurs du Mal Magazine

In this category:

All categories

FLEURSDUMAL POETRY LIBRARY – classic, modern, experimental & visual & sound poetry, poetry in translation, city poets, poetry archive, pre-raphaelites, editor’s choice, etc.

Henry Lawson: Knocked Up

William Butler Yeats: He Mourns For The Change That Has Come Upon Him And His Beloved, And Longs For The End Of The World

Giacomo Leopardi: Ultimo canto di Saffo

Nieuwe vertalingen Oscar Wilde door Cornelis W. Schoneveld

Museum of Public Protest: Stuttgart 21

Bert Bevers: Bij het bekijken van een foto van mijn overleden vader als nog jonge man

Kurt Tucholsky: Sexuelle Aufklärung

Mireille Havet: Sur un tableau cubiste

Amy Levy: Christopher Found

Elizabeth (Lizzie) Siddal: Love and Hate

Irish Poet Seamus Heaney has died

Freda Kamphuis: Boeknecht Koekast