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Die junge Magd
1
Oft am Brunnen, wenn es dämmert,
Sieht man sie verzaubert stehen
Wasser schöpfen, wenn es dämmert.
Eimer auf und niedergehen.
In den Buchen Dohlen flattern
Und sie gleichet einem Schatten.
Ihre gelben Haare flattern
Und im Hofe schrein die Ratten.
Und umschmeichelt von Verfalle
Senkt sie die entzundenen Lider.
Dürres Gras neigt im Verfalle
Sich zu ihren Füßen nieder.
2
Stille schafft sie in der Kammer
Und der Hof liegt längst verödet.
Im Hollunder vor der Kammer
Kläglich eine Amsel flötet.
Silbern schaut ihr Bild im Spiegel
Fremd sie an im Zwielichtscheine
Und verdämmert fahl im Spiegel
Und ihr graut vor seiner Reine.
Traumhaft singt ein Knecht im Dunkel
Und sie starrt von Schmerz geschüttelt.
Röte träufelt durch das Dunkel.
Jäh am Tor der Südwind rüttelt.
3
Nächtens übern kahlen Anger
Gaukelt sie in Fieberträumen.
Mürrisch greint der Wind im Anger
Und der Mond lauscht aus den Bäumen.
Balde rings die Sterne bleichen
Und ermattet von Beschwerde
Wächsern ihre Wangen bleichen.
Fäulnis wittert aus der Erde.
Traurig rauscht das Rohr im Tümpel
Und sie friert in sich gekauert.
Fern ein Hahn kräht. Übern Tümpel
Hart und grau der Morgen schauert.
4
In der Schmiede dröhnt der Hammer
Und sie huscht am Tor vorüber.
Glührot schwingt der Knecht den Hammer
Und sie schaut wie tot hinüber.
Wie im Traum trifft sie ein Lachen;
Und sie taumelt in die Schmiede,
Scheu geduckt vor seinem Lachen,
Wie der Hammer hart und rüde.
Hell versprühn im Raum die Funken
Und mit hilfloser Geberde
Hascht sie nach den wilden Funken
Und sie stürzt betäubt zur Erde.
5
Schmächtig hingestreckt im Bette
Wacht sie auf voll süßem Bangen
Und sie sieht ihr schmutzig Bette
Ganz von goldnem Licht verhangen.
Die Reseden dort am Fenster
Und den bläulich hellen Himmel.
Manchmal trägt der Wind ans Fenster
Einer Glocke zag Gebimmel.
Schatten gleiten übers Kissen,
Langsam schlägt die Mittagsstunde
Und sie atmet schwer im Kissen
Und ihr Mund gleicht einer Wunde.
6
Abends schweben blutige Linnen,
Wolken über stummen Wäldern,
Die gehüllt in schwarze Linnen,
Spatzen lärmen auf den Feldern.
Und sie liegt ganz weiß im Dunkel.
Unterm Dach verhaucht ein Girren.
Wie ein Aas in Busch und Dunkel
Fliegen ihren Mund umschwirren.
Traumhaft klingt im braunen Weiler
Nach ein Klang von Tanz und Geigen,
Schwebt ihr Antlitz durch den Weiler,
Weht ihr Haar in kahlen Zweigen.
Georg Trakl
(1887 – 1914)
Die junge Magd, 1913
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Trakl, Georg, Trakl, Georg
Johnny Grey
What did he say. I was disagreeing with him. He said he didn’t have it by his side. He said. Hurry.
Eat it.
I am not going to talk about it. I am not going to talk about it.
Another thing.
This is mentioned. He was silly. He said there would have been many more elevators if it hadn’t been for this war.
He was so thirsty.
They asked him.
Please.
If it weren’t for them there would be wind.
I said there wasn’t.
I said it was balmy.
I said that when I was little I asked for a closet.
This was the way it was written.
I was awed.
It is so injudicious to make plans.
We will not decide about three.
Three is the best way to add.
The bank opens tomorrow.
I was mistaken.
I hope I can continue.
To be a tailor.
The other said nothing.
The other one said he was hindering him and he made that mistake and he would not prepare further.
It is not deceiving.
I can say so gladly.
It’s always better.
It’s wonderful how it always comes out.
Conversational.
Plants were said to bring lining together. This is not deceived. This is not deceived. Plants.
Plants were said to bring meadows springing. Shattering stubbornly in their teeth.
Plants aid sad and not furniture.
This is it.
Plants are riotous.
Not even.
If you give money.
Plants are said to be left out if you give money.
Join or gray.
Points are spoken. This in one. Picturesque. It is just the same.
I cannot freeze.
I understand a picture. It is to have stop it who does. It is to have asked about it the sneezing bell. Bell or better.
A simple extenuation.
I mean to be fine with it.
A picture with all of it bitten by that supper. Call it. I shall please. Nowadays.
I find this a very pleasant pencil. Do I. I find this a very pleasant pencil. Do I find this a pleasant pencil.
How to give soldiers fresh water.
How do you.
You use the echoes.
Dear Jenny.
I am your brother. Nestling.
Nestling noses.
My gay.
Baby.
Little.
Lobster.
Chatter.
Sweet.
Joy.
My.
Baby.
Example.
Be good.
Always.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
All.
The.
Time.
Me.
Extra.
My.
Baby.
Scenes where there is no piece of a let it go.
No I am not pleased with their descriptions.
This is not their year.
Two of them.
Johnny Grey and Eddy.
Why not however.
It was not polite.
A long way.
I understand and I say, I understand him to say that, I see him I say I see him or I say, I say that I understand. What is it. He doesn’t realise. I don’t say that he isn’t there I don’t solidly favor him. I said I was prepared. I was prepared to relieve him. I was prepared to relieve him then or then and I was holding, I was holding anything. I am often for them. They gave it. They were pleased. So pleased and side with it. So pleased and have it. So have it and say it. Say it then. If he was promised, it, he had been left by the belief. He had the action. All old. In it. He was wretched. I do not believe or for it. I do not arouse rubbers. When we went away were we then told to be left with them. Do they or do they do it. Do they believe the truth.
I am beginning. Go on Saturday. I believe for Sunday. We deceived everbody.
I forgot to drink water.
No I haven’t seen it.
He said it.
It’s wonderful.
Target.
They don’t believe it either.
Call it.
That.
Fat.
Cheeks.
By.
That.
Time.
Drenced.
By.
That.
Time.
Obligation.
To sign.
That
Today
When
By
That
Field.
He said he was a Spanish family.
It will make.
A
Terrible
Not terrible.
It will not make that one believe me it is not for my pleasure that I promise it.
No
Neither.
That
Or
Another
Neither
One
Lightly
Widened.
Widened by what.
Not this.
Not left.
Buy
Their
It’s not a country.
I told him so.
I wish to begin.
Lining.
Of that thing.
By that time.
It.
Or.
It.
Was.
How.
We don’t know whom to invite for lunch. You told me you’d tell me. I don’t know.
Either.
I do get wonderful action into them don’t I.
Blame.
Worthy.
Out.
Standing.
Eraser.
That was a seat.
Leave it out.
Seat.
Stretch.
Sober.
Left.
Over.
Curling.
Irresistible.
I come to it at last.
I know what I want.
Call.
Tried.
To be.
Just.
Seated.
Beside.
The.
Meaning.
Please come.
I met.
A steady house which was neither blocking nor behaving as if it would for the road.
He looks like it.
A ladder insults.
Me.
I do stem when in.
I don’t look at them any more.
Johnny Grey.
What did I say.
I said I would leave it.
He was so kind.
That was lasting.
I am so certain.
Please.
It’s remarkable that I can make good sentences.
It reminds me of a play that I remember which is better.
It is better.
Everything.
In.
I am coming.
To it.
I know it.
Please.
Pleased.
Pleased with me.
Pleased with me.
Canvas covers.
I wished to go away.
I asked for an astonishing green I asked for more Bertie.
I asked only once.
Pack it.
Package.
A little leaving.
We went to eat.
I have plenty of food.
Always.
Nearly.
Always.
Certainly.
By an example.
I was never afraid.
He doesn’t say anything.
In that way.
Not after.
He was.
Sure.
Of it.
Then.
By then.
We were.
In Munich.
And sat.
Today.
By way
Of
Staring.
And nearly all of it.
In.
That.
Shining.
Firm.
Spread.
Paul.
Slices.
If I copy nature.
If I copy nature.
If I copy nature.
If I copy nature.
For it.
Open.
Seen
Piling.
Left.
In.
Left in.
Not in.
Border
Sew.
Spaces.
I.
Mean.
To.
Laugh.
Do be.
Do be all.
Do be all out.
If you can.
Come.
To stay.
And.
After.
All.
Have.
A.
Night.
Which.
Means.
That.
There
Is.
Not
This
Essential.
By that way.
It was all out in it.
By this time.
Which was reasonable and an explanation.
We never expected he would tell a lie.
Not this.
For.
More.
To be.
Indians are disappointing.
Not to me.
I was never disappointed in an Indian.
I was never disappointed in an Indian in any way.
How old are you.
Careless.
Heavy all the time.
I know she is.
I am.
Politely.
Finished.
Gertrude Stein
(1874-1946)
Johnny Grey
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Gertrude Stein, Stein, Gertrude
Strange Meeting
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand fears that vision’s face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
“I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now. . . .”
Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
Strange Meeting (Poem)
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Galerie des Morts, Owen, Wilfred, WAR & PEACE
De slag.
De zon.
Een woud.
Een veld.
Een vliet:
‘t Is geel,
groen, blauw,
maar rood
is ‘t niet.
Gerij.
Gedraaf.
Geschut.
Gedreun:
Gegil!
Gekerm!
Gezucht!
Gekreun!
Geen zon.
Geen woud.
Geen mensch!
Geen hart!
‘t Is bloed!
‘t Is rood!
‘t Is grijs!
‘t Is zwart!
Agnita Feis
(1881 – 1944)
Uit: Oorlog. Verzen in Staccato (1916).
De Slag
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book Stories, Agnita Feis, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, De Stijl, Feis, Agnita, Theo van Doesburg
Euthanasia
When Time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o’er my dying bed!
No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.
But silent let me sink to earth,
With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear.
Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs,
Might then exert its latest power
In her who lives, and him who dies.
‘Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last
Thy features still serene to see:
Forgetful of its struggles past,
E’en Pain itself should smile on thee.
But vain the wish?for Beauty still
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath;
And women’s tears, produced at will,
Deceive in life, unman in death.
Then lonely be my latest hour,
Without regret, without a groan;
For thousands Death hath ceas’d to lower,
And pain been transient or unknown.
`Ay, but to die, and go,’ alas!
Where all have gone, and all must go!
To be the nothing that I was
Ere born to life and living woe!
Count o’er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o’er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,
‘Tis something better not to be.
George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Euthanasia
(Poem)
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord
Kind met het bleek gelaat
Kind met het bleek gelaat, dat van uw wijde blikken
geen liefde in mat gebaar noch in lede ogen ziet,
maar in uw zedig kleed uw knieën weet te schikken
zó, dat me te elken male een laaie drift doorschiet:
gij zult het nimmer aan mijn vrome woorden weten
hoe mijn begeren om uw kleren dolen dorst;
maar ìk draag in me-zelf de wonde, zelf gereten,
waarvan de koortse rilt en davert door mijn borst.
Want ‘k heb de straffe zélf in ‘t lillend vlees geslagen;
ik heb een spijt’ge spot gehamerd in mijn brein…
– Gij echter, ga voorbij, arm kind, en zónder vragen:
ik haat u om dees geert’, die ‘k minne om deze pijn…
Karel van de Woestijne
(1878 – 1929)
Kind met het bleek gelaat
Portret: Karel van de Woestijne, Ramah – Journal Het Roode Zeil, 15 April 1920
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Woestijne, Karel van de
Triolet En Scie Majeure
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne
A pour petit nom Daniel.
Il est rouge comme une guigne,
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne.
Vous n’avez qu’à lui faire signe:
Il file doux comme du miel.
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne
A pour petit nom Daniel.
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne
A pour petit nom Daniel.
Si vous avez une consigne,
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne
De sa main blanche comme un cygne
Vous fera monter jusqu’au ciel.
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne
A pour petit nom Daniel.
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne
A pour petit nom Daniel.
Le teint fleuri comme la vigne,
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne,
Avec une oeillade maligne,
Flûte en parlant, comme Ariel.
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne
A pour petit nom Daniel.
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne
A pour petit nom Daniel.
Depuis huit jours il a la guigne,
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne:
Je ne puis écrire une ligne
Sans qu’il y soit trempé de fiel.
Ce jeune lapin gras et digne
A pour petit nom Daniel.
Marcel Schwob
(1867-1905)
Triolet En Scie Majeure
Juin 1888
Portrait: Félix Vallotton
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Félix Vallotton, Marcel Schwob
The Breath
A trembling crest
Of smoke, the winter sky
Congeals to bloom,
To please a poet’s eye:
A slender reed
Arisen from some gold
Recess or womb
Of flame to spaces cold.
Between the twigs,
That for a nest are spun
On flight’s grey loom,
A sapphire thread may run
And so between the grey,
The woven boughs of trees,
A little plume
Of mist the poet sees :
It will suffice —
Too scant a breath to name
For him to whom
It signifies a flame.
Gladys Cromwell
(1885-1919)
The Breath
From: Poems 1919
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive C-D, Cromwell, Gladys, Gladys Cromwell
Het Portugese woord pessoa komt van het Latijnse persona, dat zowel ‘mens’ als ‘masker’ betekent.
Precies daar moeten we Fernando Pessoa plaatsen, in de wereld van schijn, vermomming, spel, fictie. Hij vergelijkt zichzelf met een podium waarop allerlei acteurs rondlopen.
Zijn bekendste heteroniemen zijn Bernardo Soares (schrijver van het Boek der rusteloosheid) en de dichters Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis en Álvaro de Campos. Pessoa heeft echter ook onder zijn eigen naam gedichten geschreven. Van dat orthonieme werk zag maar weinig het licht tijdens zijn leven.
Pas lang na zijn dood werden alle losse orthonieme gedichten bijeengebracht in drie delen van elk ruim vijfhonderd bladzijden.
Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935) was een groot Portugees dichter. Bij leven publiceerde deze kantoorklerk uit Lissabon slechts enkele werken. Na zijn dood werd op zijn huurkamer een kist aangetroffen met 27 duizend vol gekrabbelde velletjes. Uit die chaos kon een kolossaal oeuvre worden samengesteld. Niet dat van één dichter, maar van zo’n 25 ‘heteroniemen’ – afzonderlijke ‘schrijverspersoonlijkheden’ met elk een eigen stijl en woordkeus. Pessoa stierf op 47-jarige leeftijd, hij dronk zich dood.
De Arbeiderspers heeft de exclusieve vertaalrechten op zijn oeuvre. August Willemsen (1936-2007) vertaalde het leeuwendeel daarvan en schreef als introductie op de Pessoa-bibliotheek: Het ik als vreemde.
Auteur: Fernando Pessoa
Een spoor van mezelf.
Een keuze uit de orthonieme gedichten
Vertaler: Harrie Lemmens
Nederlands
Uitgeverij: De Arbeiderspers
NUR: 306
Poëzie
Paperback
296 pagina’s
ISBN: 9789029526456
Prijs: € 24,99
Publicatiedatum: 04-06-2019
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book News, Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Pessoa, Fernando, TRANSLATION ARCHIVE
In Punk Rock Is Cool for the End of the World, David Trinidad brings together a comprehensive selection of Ed Smith’s work: his published books; unpublished poems; excerpts from his extensive notebooks; photos and ephemera; and his timely “cry for civilization,” “Return to Lesbos”: put down that gun / stop electing Presidents.
Ed Smith blazed onto the Los Angeles poetry scene in the early 1980s from out of the hardcore punk scene. The charismatic, nerdy young man hit home with his funny/scary off-the-cuff-sounding poems, like “Fishing”: This is a good line. / This is a bad line. This is a fishing line.
Ed’s vibrant “gang” of writer and artist friends―among them Amy Gerstler, Dennis Cooper, Bob Flanagan, Mike Kelley, and David Trinidad―congregated at Beyond Baroque in Venice, on LA’s west side. They read and partied and performed together, and shared and published each others’ work.
Ed was more than bright and versatile: he worked as a math tutor, an animator, and a typesetter. In the mid-1990s, he fell in love with Japanese artist Mio Shirai; they married and moved to New York City. Despite productive years and joyful times, Ed was plagued by mood disorders and drug problems, and at the age of forty-eight, he took his own life.
Ed Smith’s poems speak to living in an increasingly dehumanizing consumer society and corrupt political system. This “punk Dorothy Parker” is more relevant than ever for our ADD, technology-distracted times.
Ed Smith (1957–2005) was a poet involved in the punk and alternative arts scenes in Los Angeles in the early 1980s. His books were Fantasyworld (1983) and Tim’s Bunnies (1988). His poems appeared in Rolling Stone, St. Mark’s Poetry Project Newsletter, and other publications. Smith also worked as an animator on Nickelodeon’s Blue’s Clues.
David Trinidad is the author of more than twenty books of poetry, collabora-tions, and edited volumes. These include Swinging on a Star (2017), Notes on a Past Life (2016), Dear Prudence: New and Selected Poems (2011), and Plasticville (2000), finalist for the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize. Trinidad is editor of A Fast Life: The Collected Poems of Tim Dlugos (2011), which won a Lambda Literary Award. He is a professor of poetry in the English and Creative Writing Department at Columbia College, Chicago.
Punk Rock Is Cool for the End of the World:
Poems and Notebooks of Ed Smith
by Ed Smith (Author), David Trinidad (Editor)
June 11, 2019
Publisher: Turtle Point Press
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1885983670
ISBN-13: 978-1885983671
Paperback
400 pages
$15.78
# new books
Poems and Notebooks
Ed Smith
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Music Archive, # Punk poetry, - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive S-T, Archive S-T
Les heures du jour
Nous sommes les Heures guerrières
Qui présidons aux durs travaux.
Quand Bellone ouvre les barrières,
Quand César marche à ses rivaux,
Notre cohorte échevelée
Pousse dans l’ardente mêlée
La ruse fertile en détours;
Et sur la plaine, vaste tombe
Où la moisson sanglante tombe,
Souriant à cette hécatombe,
Nous planons avec les vautours.
Gérard de Nerval
(1808 – 1855)
Les heures du jour – Poéme
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive M-N, Nerval, Gérard de, Nerval, Gérard de
Poésies En Argot
Tire-lupin et Grinche-tard
S’en allaient à la sorgue,
Jaspinons tout doux.
Ils virent en rompant un orgue
Avec un air ninar.
Tirlonfa,
Jaspinons tout doux;
Tirlonfa,
Jargonnons tout doux.
Il faudra prendre le grand truc,
Dit Grinche, sans haut braire,
Jaspinons tout doux;
Nous n’avons plus denier ni pluc,
Nous n’avons plus de caire.
Tirlonfa,
Jaspinons tout doux;
Tirlonfa,
Jargonnons tout doux.
Prenons bien garde à notre tronche,
La dure nous attend:
Jaspinons tout doux.
Et si tu remouches qu’il bronche,
Eschicquons en brouant.
Tirlonfa,
Jaspinons tout doux;
Tirlonfa,
Jargonnons tout doux!
Es-tu taffeur? barbote vite
Et ne prends que le blanc,
Jaspinons tout doux.
Et nous aurons une marmite,
Enfonce donc ton branc,
Tirlonfa,
Jaspinons tout doux;
Tirlonfa.
Jargonnons tout doux!
Malucé! mais les coups lansquinent,
Malucé! c’est le dab!
Jaspinons, tout doux.
Rompons -des digues qui jaspinent,
Malucé! c’est un cab. –
Tirlonfa,
Jaspinons tout doux;
Tirlonfa,
Jargonnons tout doux!
Marcel Schwob
(1867-1905)
Poésies En Argot
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Marcel Schwob
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