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The Advertiser
I am an advertiser great!
In letters bold
The praises of my wares I sound,
Prosperity is my estate;
The people come,
The people goIn one continuous,
Surging flow.
They buy my goods and come again
And I’m the happiest of men;
And this the reason I relate,
I’m an advertiser great!
There is a shop across the way
Where ne’er is heard a human tread,
Where trade is paralyzed and dead,
With ne’er a customer a day.
The people come,
The people go,
But never there.
They do not know
There’s such a shop beneath the skies,
Because he does not advertise!
While I with pleasure contemplate
That I’m an advertiser great.
The secret of my fortune lies
In one small fact, which I may state,
Too many tradesmen learn too late,
If I have goods,
I advertise.Then people come
And people go
In constant streams,
For people know
That he who has good wares to sell
Will surely advertise them well;
And proudly I reiterate,
I am an advertiser great!
Eugene Field
(1850 – 1895)
The Advertiser
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Field, Eugene
Machinist’s Song
The foot of my machine
Sails up and down
Upon the blue of this
fine lady’s gown.
Sail quickly, little boat,
With gifts for me,
Night and the goldy
streets and liberty.
Lesbia Harford
(1891-1927)
Machinist’s Song
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Harford, Lesbia, Workers of the World
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 S-T, Archive S-T, Expressionisme, Trakl, Georg, Trakl, Georg
Song of the Old Mother
I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow
Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow;
And then I must scrub and bake and sweep
Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;
And the young lie long and dream in their bed
Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head,
And their day goes over in idleness,
And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress:
While I must work because I am old,
And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.
W.B. Yeats
(1865—1939)
Song of the Old Mother
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
Großstadtstraße
Bij het gelijknamige schilderij uit 1931 van Hans Baluschek
Ze weten niets van morgen, en bewegen als om
ongemerkt tussen decorstukken te verdwijnen.
Maar je ziet aan hen dat ze er aan gewend zijn
om te leven. De avond begint zachtjes te trillen.
Ze lachen alleen wanneer het hun beleefd wordt
gevraagd. Hun harten blijven daarbij incognito.
Bert Bevers
Großstadtstraße
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert, FDM in Berlin
I was sad
I was sad
Having signed up in a rebel band,
Having signed up to rid the land
Of a plague it had.
For I knew
That I would suffer, I would be lost,
Be bitter and foolish and tempest tost
And a failure too.
I was sad;
Though far in the future our light would shine
For the present the dark was ours, was mine,
I couldn’t be glad.
Lesbia Harford
(1891-1927)
I was sad
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Feminism, Harford, Lesbia, Workers of the World
I Shall not Care
When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Tho’ you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
I Shall not Care
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
Bahnhofshalle
Bij het gelijknamige schilderij uit 1929 van Hans Baluschek
Ze meende dat ze bij elkaar hoorden maar in
het voorbijgaan vangt ze op hoe zij nog aan hem
vraagt van waar hij komt. “Een ’oekske”, zegt hij.
“Een donker ’oekske.” Zwijgend vreest hij dan
weer voor eeuwig de pantomime van krijgers
die alleen in tientallen rekenen, tellend doden.
Bert Bevers
Bahnhofshalle
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert, FDM in Berlin
Aubade chantée à Laetare l’an passé
C’est le printemps viens-t’en Pâquette
Te promener au bois joli
Les poules dans la cour caquètent
L’aube au ciel fait de roses plis
L’amour chemine à ta conquête
Mars et Vénus sont revenus
Ils s’embrassent à bouches folles
Devant des sites ingénus
Où sous les roses qui feuillolent
De beaux dieux roses dansent nus
Viens ma tendresse est la régente
De la floraison qui paraît
La nature est belle et touchante
Pan sifflote dans la forêt
Les grenouilles humides chantent
Guillaume Apollinaire
(1880 – 1918)
Poéme: Aubade chantée à Laetare l’an passé
Recueil: Alcools (1913)
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *Concrete + Visual Poetry A-E, Apollinaire, Guillaume, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Dada, DADA, Dadaïsme, Guillaume Apollinaire
Symphony In Yellow
An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
Oscar Wilde
(1854 – 1900)
Symphony In Yellow
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Wilde, Oscar, Wilde, Oscar
When you are old and grey
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
W.B. Yeats
(1865—1939)
When you are old and grey
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
Ballade De Marguerite
(Normande)
I am weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady’s side.
Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,
A Forester’s son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?
Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.
Perchance she is hunting of the deer,
How could you follow o’er hill and mere?
Ah, if she is riding with the court,
I might run beside her and wind the morte.
Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)
Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,
I might swing the censer and ring the bell.
Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.
But who are these knights in bright array?
Is it a pageant the rich folks play?
‘T is the King of England from over sea,
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.
But why does the curfew toll sae low?
And why do the mourners walk a-row?
O ‘t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.
Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.
O ‘t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,
I knew she would die at the autumn fall.
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.
O ‘t is none of our kith and none of our kin,
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)
But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet,
‘Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’
Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.
O mother, you know I loved her true:
O mother, hath one grave room for two?
Oscar Wilde
(1854 – 1900)
Ballade De Marguerite
(Normande)
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Wilde, Oscar, Wilde, Oscar
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