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Archive A-B

· Guillaume Apollinaire: Amour-roi · Bert Bevers: Onderbuik · Bert Bevers: Tussen de bomen · Arthur Henry Adams: My Land · Guillaume Apollinaire: Les fleurs rares · Diana Anphimiadi: Why I No Longer Write Poems · Antonin Artaud: Poème Révolte contre la poésie · She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron · Antonin Artaud: La rue · Guillaume Apollinaire: Guerre · Arthur Henry Adams: Civilization · The Maids Of Elfin-Mere by William Allingham

»» there is more...

Guillaume Apollinaire: Amour-roi

Amour-roi

Amour-roi
Dites-moi
La si belle
Colombelle
Infidèle
Qu’on appelle
Petit Lou
Dites où
Donc est-elle
Et chez qui
— Mais chez Gui

Guillaume Apollinaire
(1880 – 1918)
Amour-roi
Poèmes à Lou
1915

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: *Concrete + Visual Poetry A-E, Apollinaire, Guillaume, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Guillaume Apollinaire


Bert Bevers: Onderbuik

Onderbuik

In keurige lokalen dagen ze op om te kiezen
met ongeschoolde stemmen. De oude luister

van wijken ontrafelt heimwee naar de ranke
zwier van liedjes over herfstval, over navels

waar weer truitjes over zijn geschoven. Als ze
daarover vertellen wil niemand hen geloven.

Bert Bevers
Onderbuik
uit de bundel kin voorbereiding Bedekte termen

Bert Bevers is dichter en schrijver
Hij woont en werkt in Antwerpen (Be)

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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert


Bert Bevers: Tussen de bomen

Tussen de bomen

Vroeger, toen het bos nog jong was en
vinders van zwaarden er zwegen alsof
ze op een schande waren gestoten, was
het lover al goudkeverkleurig. Stel je voor

hoe hier de rituelen van de stam werden
overgeleverd door de hoofdzanger, in milde
doorschouwing naar klaarheid zwenkend.
Waarheid laat zich maar moeilijk vatten.

Bert Bevers
Tussen de bomen
verschenen in de catalogus Enghuizer Dialogen, Hummelo, 2016

Bert Bevers is dichter en schrijver
Hij woont en werkt in Antwerpen (Be)

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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert


Arthur Henry Adams: My Land

 

My Land

A new land, like a stainless flower set
In the green foliage of the waving sea;
Or like a maiden whose fair heart is free,
Whose honest eyes with no sad tears are wet,
Whose bosom has no passion to forget,
But thrills and lifts exuberant, as she
Voices some sudden-flooding melody!
A land of strength, life, vigour, youth — and yet
An old land, grey as I, her child, am grey;
Filled with the whispers of old thoughts that stir
And wake, like shadows of the past that play
Deep in the beauty of a child’s grave eyes,
And show beneath life’s gladness glancing there
The pathos of a hundred histories.

Arthur Adams
(1872-1936)
My Land

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More in: Adams, Arthur, Archive A-B, Archive A-B


Guillaume Apollinaire: Les fleurs rares

 

Les fleurs rares

Entreprenant un long voyage
Ptit Lou hanté par l’histoire de Jussieu
Au lieu d’un petit cèdre prit… Quoi donc ?… Je gage
Qu’on de devinera pas ce que Dieu
Fit prendre à mon ptit Lou :… une fleur rare…
Dont elle ferait don aux serres de Paris…
La fleur étant sans prix
Et Dame Lou voyant qu’elle en valait la peine
Froissa pour la cueillir sa jupe de futaine.
Mais en passant dans la forêt
Allant prendre son train à la ville prochaine
Ptit Lou vit sous un chêne
Une autre fleur : « plus belle encore elle paraît !»
La première fleur tombe
Et la forêt devient sa tombe
Tandis que mon ptit Lou d’un air rêveur
A cueilli la seconde fleur
Et l’entoure de sa sollicitude
Arrivant à la station
Après une montée un peu rude
Pour s’y reposer de sa lassitude.
Avec satisfaction
Ptiti Lou s’assied dans le jardin du chef de gare.
« Tiens ! dit-elle, une fleur ! Elle est encor plus rare !»
Et sans précaution
Ma bergère
Abandonna la timide fleur bocagère
Et cueillit la troisième fleur…
Cheu ! Cheu ! Pheu ! Pheu ! Cheu ! Cheu ! Pheu ! Pheu ! Le train arrive
Et puis repart pour regagner l’Intérieur
Mais dans le train la fleur se fane et Lou pensive
S’en va chez la fleuriste en arrivant :
« Ces rares fleurs… j’en vais rêvant
Elles sont si rares, Madame
Que je n’en tiens plus, sur mon âme !»
La fleuriste s’exprime ainsi
Et Lou dut se contenter d’un souci
Que lui refuse
Sans lui donner d’excuse
Le directeur (un personnage réussi)
Des serres de la ville
de Paris
malgré tous les pleurs et les cris
De Lou qui dut jeter cette fleur inutile.
Et Lou du
Vilain personnage
Quittant le bureau, dut
Entreprendre à rebours l’horticole voyage.

Je crois qu’il est sage
De nous arrêter
À la morale suivante… sans insister !

Des Lous et des fleurs il ne faut discuter
Et je n’en dis pas davantage

Guillaume Apollinaire
(1880 – 1918)
Les fleurs rares
Poèmes à Lou
1915

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: *Concrete + Visual Poetry A-E, Apollinaire, Guillaume, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Guillaume Apollinaire


Diana Anphimiadi: Why I No Longer Write Poems

Diana Anphimiadi is a poet, publicist, linguist and teacher. She has published four collections of poetry in Georgian: Shokoladi (Chocolate, 2008), Konspecturi Mitologia (Resumé of Mythology, 2009), Alhlokhedvis Traektoria (Trajectory of the Short-Sighted, 2012) and Chrdilis Amoch’ra (Cutting the Shadow, 2015).

Her poetry has received prestigious awards, including first prize in the 2008 Tsero (Crane Award) and the Saba Prize for the best first collection in 2009. Her chapbook, Beginning to Speak, was published in 2018 by the Poetry Translation Centre, and Why I No Longer Write Poems, the first full-length Georgian-English selection of her poetry, is published by Bloodaxe Books with the Poetry Translation Centre in 2022, both titles translated by Natalia Bukia-Peters and Jean Sprackland.
Diana Anphimiadi lives in Tblisi with her son.

The poems in this selection have been collaboratively translated into English by the leading Georgian translator Natalia Bukia-Peters and award-winning British poet Jean Sprackland. A chapbook selection of their translations of Anphimiadi’s work, Beginning to Speak, was published in 2018 and praised by Adham Smart in Modern Poetry in Translation for capturing the ‘electricity of Anphimiadi’s language’ which ‘crackles from one poem to the next in Bukia-Peters and Sprackland’s fine translation’.

#new poetry
Diana Anphimiadi
Why I No Longer Write Poems
Translated by Jean Sprackland & Natalia Bukia-Peters
Publication Date : 24 Feb 2022
Winner English PEN Award
Paperback
Pages: 160
Size: 216 x 138mm
Bloodaxe Books Ltd
ISBN: 9781780375472
£12.99

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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Jean Genet


Antonin Artaud: Poème Révolte contre la poésie

 

Poème Révolte contre la poésie

Nous n’avons jamais écrit qu’avec la mise en incarnation de l’âme,
mais elle était déjà faite, et pas par nous-mêmes,
quand nous sommes entrés dans la poésie.
Le poète qui écrit s’adresse au Verbe et le Verbe a ses lois.
Il est dans l’inconscient du poète de croire automatiquement à ces lois.
Il se croit libre et il ne l’est pas.

Antonin Artaud
(1896 – 1948)
Poème Révolte contre la poésie

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More in: Antonin Artaud, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Artaud, Antonin


She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron

 

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair’d the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

Lord Byron
(1788 – 1824)
She Walks in Beauty

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord


Antonin Artaud: La rue

 

La rue

La rue sexuelle s’anime
le long de faces mal venues,
les cafés pepiant de crimes
deracinent les avenues.

Des mains de sexe brûlent les poches
et les ventres bouent par-dessous;
toutes les pensees s’entrechoquent,
et les tetes moins que les trous.

Antonin Artaud
(1896 – 1948)
La rue

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More in: Antonin Artaud, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Artaud, Antonin, Psychiatric hospitals


Guillaume Apollinaire: Guerre

 

Guerre

Rameau central de combat
Contact par l’écoute
On tire dans la direction ‘ des bruits entendus ‘
Les jeunes de la classe 1915
Et ces fils de fer électrisés
Ne pleurez donc pas sur les horreurs de la guerre
Avant elle nous n’avions que la surface
De la terre et des mers
Après elle nous aurons les abîmes
Le sous-sol et l’espace aviatique
Maîtres du timon
Après après
Nous prendrons toutes les joies
Des vainqueurs qui se délassent
Femmes Jeux Usines Commerce
Industrie Agriculture Métal
Feu Cristal Vitesse
Voix Regard Tact à part
Et ensemble dans le tact venu de loin
De plus loin encore
De l’Au-delà de cette terre

Guillaume Apollinaire
(1880 – 1918)
Guerre

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: *Concrete + Visual Poetry A-E, Apollinaire, Guillaume, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Guillaume Apollinaire


Arthur Henry Adams: Civilization

 

Civilization

One moment mankind rides the crested wave,
A moment glorious, beyond recall;
And then the wave, with slow and massive fall,
Obliterates the beauty that it gave.
When discrowned king and manumitted slave
Are free and equal to be slaves of all,
Democracies in their wide freedom brawl,
And go down shouting to a common grave.
So one by one the petals of the rose
Shrivel and fade, and all its splendour goes
Back to the earth; and in her arms embraced
Through wintry centuries the dead seeds sleep
Till spring comes troubling them, and they unleap,
Once more their petals on the world to waste.

Arthur Adams
(1872-1936)
Civilization
(from The Sonnet in Australasia)

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More in: Adams, Arthur, Archive A-B, Archive A-B


The Maids Of Elfin-Mere by William Allingham

 

The Maids Of Elfin-Mere

When the spinning-room was here
Came Three Damsels, clothed in white,
With their spindles every night;
One and Two and three fair Maidens,
Spinning to a pulsing cadence,
Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;
Till the eleventh hour was toll’d,
Then departed through the wold.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

Three white Lilies, calm and clear,
And they were loved by every one;
Most of all, the Pastor’s Son,
Listening to their gentle singing,
Felt his heart go from him, clinging
Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere.
Sued each night to make them stay,
Sadden’d when they went away.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

Hands that shook with love and fear
Dared put back the village clock,
Flew the spindle, turn’d the rock,
Flow’d the song with subtle rounding,
Till the false ‘eleven’ was sounding;
Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere
Swiftly, softly, left the room,
Like three doves on snowy plume.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

One that night who wander’d near
Heard lamentings by the shore,
Saw at dawn three stains of gore
In the waters fade and dwindle.
Never more with song and spindle
Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere,
The Pastor’s Son did pine and die;
Because true love should never lie.
Years ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.

William Allingham
(1824 – 1889)
The Maids Of Elfin-Mere
• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Allingham, William, Archive A-B, Archive A-B


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