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

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Ambrose Bierce: A Commuted Sentence

Ambrose Bierce

(1842-1914?)

A Commuted Sentence

Boruck and Waterman upon their grills

In Hades lay, with many a sigh and groan,

Hotly disputing, for each swore his own

Were clearly keener than the other’s ills.

And, truly, each had much to boast of–bone

And sinew, muscle, tallow, nerve and skin,

Blood in the vein and marrow in the shin,

Teeth, eyes and other organs (for the soul

Has all of these and even a wagging chin)

Blazing and coruscating like a coal!

For Lower Sacramento, you remember,

Has trying weather, even in mid-December.

Now this occurred in the far future. All

Mankind had been a million ages dead,

And each to her reward above had sped,

Each to his punishment below,–I call

That quite a just arrangement. As I said,

Boruck and Waterman in warmest pain

Crackled and sizzed with all their might and main.

For, when on earth, they’d freed a scurvy host

Of crooks from the State prison, who again

Had robbed and ravaged the Pacific Coast

And (such the felon’s predatory nature)

Even got themselves into the Legislature.

So Waterman and Boruck lay and roared

In Hades. It is true all other males

Felt the like flames and uttered equal wails,

But did not suffer them; whereas they bored

Each one the other. But indeed my tale’s

Not getting on at all. They lay and browned

Till Boruck (who long since his teeth had ground

Away and spoke Gum Arabic and made

Stump speeches even in praying) looked around

And said to Bob’s incinerated shade:

“Your Excellency, this is mighty hard on

The inventors of the unpardonable pardon.”

The other soul–his right hand all aflame,

For ’twas with that he’d chiefly sinned, although

His tongue, too, like a wick was working woe

To the reserve of tallow in his frame–

Said, with a sputtering, uncertain flow,

And with a gesture like a shaken torch:

“Yes, but I’m sure we’ll not much longer scorch.

Although this climate is not good for Hope,

Whose joyous wing ‘twould singe, I think the porch

Of Hell we’ll quit with a pacific slope.

Last century I signified repentance

And asked for commutation of our sentence.”

Even as he spoke, the form of Satan loomed

In sight, all crimson with reflections’s fire,

Like some tall tower or cathedral spire

Touched by the dawn while all the earth is gloomed

In mists and shadows of the night time. “Sire,”

Said Waterman, his agitable wick

Still sputtering, “what calls you back so quick?

It scarcely was a century ago

You left us.” “I have come to bring,” said Nick,

“St. Peter’s answer (he is never slow

In correspondence) to your application

For pardon–pardon me!–for commutation.

“He says that he’s instructed to reply

(And he has so instructed me) that sin

Like yours–and this poor gentleman’s who’s in

For bad advice to you–comes rather high;

But since, apparently, you both begin

To feel some pious promptings to the right,

And fain would turn your faces to the light,

Eternity seems all too long a term.

So ’tis commuted to one-half. I’m quite

Prepared, when that expires, to free the worm

And quench the fire.” And, civilly retreating,

He left them holding their protracted meeting.

Ambrose Bierce poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Kees Godefrooij gedicht: Heilloos verlangen

Heilloos verlangen

door Kees Godefrooij

Om meer te doen dan louter liggen staren

om vat te krijgen op dit tijdsgewricht

leg ik wat woorden vast in een gedicht

als poging om de onlust te verklaren

maar leven in een vers stuit op bezwaren

vandaar dat ik mij anderszins verplicht

en mee zal trekken met het wijkend licht

tot in de eeuw van de Salons, de jaren

waarin blank marmer onbeschaamd zou stoeien

met de bronzen gloed van de Romantiek

en rechters zich met B* zouden bemoeien

vanwege zijn onkuise symboliek

een eeuw waarin de kunsten konden bloeien

en ik, die alsmaar zweef op haar thermiek

B* = Charles Baudelaire, tegen wie een proces werd aangespannen vanwege aanstootgevende gedichten.

Kees Godefrooij (Rotterdam 1951) laat zich inspireren door de kunst van de Antieken, de Italiaanse Renaissance, de literatuur van de Zwarte Romantiek en hedendaagse voorvallen. Hij heeft een voorkeur voor de vorm van het sonnet hoewel hij het vrije vers niet afwijst. Godefrooij woonde ondermeer in Kopenhagen en Barcelona en begon op latere leeftijd met een studie cultuurwetenschappen. Het was tijdens de studie dat hij de poëzie ontdekte van ondermeer Baudelaire en Rilke. Vijftien jaar geleden begon hij gedichten te schrijven, zijn poëzie verscheen op diverse plekken, in druk als wel op het internet. In eigen beheer zijn er inmiddels zes bundels verschenen.

kempis poetry magazine

Monica Richter: 3 Poems

monica richter: the final moment – allen g. 1969

monica richter: birdlife from roots 1968

monica richter: das einfache mädchen – franz k. 1963

Monica Richter poetry – kempis poetry magazine

More in: *Concrete + Visual Poetry P-T, FLUXUS LEGACY, Monica Richter, Richter, Monica, Visual & Concrete Poetry

Emily Dickinson: The Wind

Emily Dickinson

(1830-1886)

T h e W i n d

Of all the sounds despatched abroad,

There’s not a charge to me

Like that old measure in the boughs,

That phraseless melody

The wind does, working like a hand

Whose fingers brush the sky,

Then quiver down, with tufts of tune

Permitted gods and me.

When winds go round and round in bands,

And thrum upon the door,

And birds take places overhead,

To bear them orchestra,

I crave him grace, of summer boughs,

If such an outcast be,

He never heard that fleshless chant

Rise solemn in the tree,

As if some caravan of sound

On deserts, in the sky,

Had broken rank,

Then knit, and passed

In seamless company.

Emily Dickinson poetry

k e m p i s p o e t r y m a g a z i n e

William Henry Drummond: Madeleine Vercheres

William Henry Drummond

(1854 – 1907)

Madeleine Vercheres

I’ve told you many a tale, my child, of the old heroic days
Of Indian wars and massacre, of villages ablaze
With savage torch, from Ville Marie to the Mission of Trois Rivieres
But never have I told you yet, of Madeleine Vercheres.

Summer had come with its blossoms, and gaily the robin sang
And deep in the forest arches the axe of the woodman rang
Again in the waving meadows, the sun-browned farmers met
And out on the green St. Lawrence, the fisherman spread his net.

And so through the pleasant season, till the days of October came
When children wrought their parents, and even the old and lame
With tottering frames and footsteps, their feeble labors lent
At the gathering of the harvest le bon Dieu himself had sent.

For news there was none of battle, from the forts on the Richelieu
To the gates of the ancient city, where the flag of King Louis flew
All peaceful the skies hung over the seignerie of Vercheres,
Like the calm that so often cometh, ere the hurricanes rends the air.

And never a thought of danger had the Seigneur sailing away,
To join the soldiers of Carignan, where down at Quebec they lay,
But smiled on his little daughter, the maiden Madeleine,
And a necklet of jewels promised her, when home he should come again.

And ever the days passed swiftly, and careless the workmen grew
For the months they seemed a hundred, since the last war-bugle blew.
Ah! little they dreamt on their pillows, the farmers of Vercheres,
That the wolves of the southern forest had scented the harvest fair.

Like ravens they quickly gather, like tigers they watch their prey
Poor people! with hearts so happy, they sang as they toiled away.
Till the murderous eyeballs glistened, and the tomahawk leaped out
And the banks on the green St. Lawrence echoed the savage shout.

“Oh mother of Christ have pity,” shrieked the women in despair
“This is no time for praying,” cried the young Madeleine Vercheres,
“Aux armes! aux armes! les Iroquois! quick to your arms and guns
Fight for your God and country and the lives of the inocent ones.”

And she sped like a deer of the mountain, when beagles press close behind
And the feet that would follow after, must be swift as the prairie wind.
Alas! for the men and women, and litle ones that day
For the road it was long and weary, and the fort it was far away.

But the fawn had outstripped the hunters, and the palisades drew near,
And soon from the inner gateway the war, bugle rang out clear;
Gallant and clear it sounded, with never a note of despair
‘T was a soldier of France’s challenge, from the young Madeleine Vercheres.

“And this is my little garrison, my brothers Louis and Paul?
With soldiers two, and a cripple? may the Virgin pray for us all.
But we’ve powder and guns in plenty, and we ‘ll fight to the latest breath
And if need be for God and country, die a brave soldier’s death.

“Load all the carabines quickly, and whenever you sight the foe
Fire from the upper turret, and the loopholes down below.
Keep up the fire, brave soldiers, though the fight may be fierce and long
And they ‘ll think out little garrison is more than a hundred strong.”

So spake the maiden Madeleine, and she roused the Norman blood
That seemed for a moment sleeping, and sent it like a flood
Though every heart around her, and they fought the red Iroquois
As fought in the old time battles, the soldiers of Carignan.

And they say the black clouds gathered, and a tempest swept the sky
And the roar of the thunder mingled with the forest tiger’s cry
But still the garrison fought on, while the lightning’s jagged spear
Tore a hole in the night’s dark curtain, and showed them a foeman near.

And the sun rose up in the morning, and the color of blood was he
Gazing down from the heavens on the little company.
“Behold! my friend!” cried the maiden,” ‘t is a warning lest we forget
Though the night saw us do our duty, our work is not finished yet.”

And six days followed each other, and feeble her limbs became
Yet the maid never sought her pillow, and the flash of the carabines’ flames
Illuminated the powder-smoked face, aye, even when hope seemed gone
And she only smiled on her comrades, and told them to fight, fight on.

And she blew a blast on the bugle, and lo! from the forest black
Merrily, merrily ringing, an answer came pealing back
Oh! pleasant and sweet it sounded, borne on the morning air,
For it heralded fifty soldiers, with gallant De la Monniere.

And when he beheld the maiden, the soldier of Carignan,
And looked on the little garrison that fought the red Iroquois
And held their own in the battle, for six long weary days,
He stood for a moment speechless, and marvelled at woman’s ways.

Then he beckoned the men behind him and steadily they advance
And with carabines uplifted, the veterans of France
Saluted the brave young captain so timidly standing there
And they fired a volley in honor of Madeleine Vercheres.

And this, my dear, is the story of the maiden Madeleine
God grant that we in Canada may never see again
Such cruel wars and massacres, in waking or in dream
As our fathers and mothers saw, my child, in the days of the old regime.

William Henry Drummond poetry

kempis poetry magazine

P.A. de Génestet: Moeders Graf

P. A. d e G é n e s t e t

(1829 – 1861)

M o e d e r s G r a f

Wel hem, wien God in ’t vluchtig leven

Een vrome moeder heeft gegeven,

Want wie kan twijflen op haar graf?

v. d. HOEVEN Jr. naar LAMARTINE

Waar rijst, uit twijfel, zonde en smart,

Altijd, met diep gelooven,

Een ongeloovig menschenhart

Weer stille en rein, naar boven?

’t Is bij het graf der vrome vrouw,

Die ’t eerst ons hart bewaarde!

Begraaft gij uwer moeder trouw

Toch met geen handvol aarde.

Daar kan geen twijfel, die verleidt,

Des harten drang verhinderen

Het kinderoog ziet de eeuwigheid

En mannen worden kinderen.

1857

P. A. de Génestet gedichten

k e m p i s p o e t r y m a g a z i n e

Landscape 52

jef van kempen: landscape 52

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Jef van Kempen, Jef van Kempen Photos & Drawings, Kempen, Jef van, Spurensicherung

William Shakespeare: Sonnet 034

William Shakespeare

(1564-1616)

THE SONNETS

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,

And make me travel forth without my cloak,

To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way,

Hiding thy brav’ry in their rotten smoke?

‘Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,

To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,

For no man well of such a salve can speak,

That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:

Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief,

Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss,

Th’ offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief

To him that bears the strong offence’s cross.

Ah but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,

And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.

kempis poetry magazine

Robert Browning: A Face

R o b e r t B r o w n i n g

(1812-1889)

A F a c e

If one could have that little head of hers

Painted upon a background of pale gold,

Such as the Tuscan’s early art prefers!

No shade encroaching on the matchless mold

Of those two lips, which should be opening soft

In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,

For that spoils all; but rather as if aloft

Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff’s

Burthen of honey-colored buds to kiss

And capture ‘twixt the lips apart for this.

Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround,

How it should waver on the pale gold ground

Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!

I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts

Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb

Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb;

But these are only massed there, I should think,

Waiting to see some wonder momently

Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky

(That’s the pale ground you’d see this sweet face by),

All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye

Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.

Robert Browning poetry

k e m p i s p o e t r y m a g a z i n e

Willem Bilderdijk: De waereld

W i l l e m B i l d e r d i j k

(1756-1831)

D e w a e r e l d

Wat zijt ge, ô samenstel van onbegrijplijkheden?
ô Schaakling van gewrocht en oorzaak zonder end?
Wier mooglijkheid de geest te naauwernood rekent;
Wier dadelijk bestaan een nacht is voor de reden!

ô Afgrond! dien ’t besef geen weg windt in te treden!
Wat zijt ge? Een bloote schijn, het zintuig ingeprent?
Een indruk van ’t verstand, waarom ’t zich vruchtloos wendt?
Een denkbeeld, dat we ons zelf uit ijdle meening smeden?

Of zijt ge in tegendeel een wezen buiten my?
Bestaat ge? is dat bestaan geen enkle droomery?
Of is ’t een wijziging van eenig ander wezen?

Dus vraagde ik reis op reis, tot God my ’t andwoord gaf.
Hy sprak: ’t bestaan is ’t mijn’; wat is, hangt van my af,
De Waereld is mijn stem, en roept u, my te vreezen.

Willem Bilderdijk gedichten

kempis poetry magazine

Project Muurgedichten Leiden: Jagadada van Antony Kok opnieuw aangebracht

Foto Ed Visser

PROJECT MUURGEDICHTEN LEIDEN

Openbare Basisschool De Morskring

Damlaan 1 – 2332 XG Leiden

In april 2010 is het muurgedicht Jagadada van Antony Kok, dat met de sloop van de gymzaal van Basisschool De Morskring in Leiden in de zomer van 2004 is verdwenen, opnieuw aangebracht.

Voor informatie zie website: Muurgedichten Leiden

Antony Kok (1882 – 1969) – gedicht Jagadada 1923

fleursdumal magazine

More in: Antony Kok, Antony Kok, Kok, Antony, Street Art, Urban Art

Amy Levy: A London Plane-Tree

Amy Levy

(1861-1889)

A London Plane-Tree

Green is the plane-tree in the square,
The other trees are brown;
They droop and pine for country air;
The plane-tree loves the town.

Here from my garret-pane, I mark
The plane-tree bud and blow,
Shed her recuperative bark,
And spread her shade below.

Among her branches, in and out,
The city breezes play;
The dun fog wraps her round about;
Above, the smoke curls grey.

Others the country take for choice,
And hold the town in scorn;
But she has listened to the voice
On city breezes borne.

Amy Levy poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Fleurs du Mal Magazine

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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.

Ambrose Bierce: A Commuted Sentence

Kees Godefrooij gedicht: Heilloos verlangen

Monica Richter: 3 Poems

Emily Dickinson: The Wind

William Henry Drummond: Madeleine Vercheres

P.A. de Génestet: Moeders Graf

Landscape 52

William Shakespeare: Sonnet 034

Robert Browning: A Face

Willem Bilderdijk: De waereld

Project Muurgedichten Leiden: Jagadada van Antony Kok opnieuw aangebracht

Amy Levy: A London Plane-Tree