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Archive A-B

· Lord Byron: By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept (Poem) · Bert Bevers: Terugwerkende kracht (Gedicht) · Lord Byron: Remind me not, remind me not (Poem) · Bert Bevers: Gouy (Gedicht) · Lord Byron: It is the hour (Poem) · Lord Byron: Euthanasia (Poem) · Albert Hagenaars over de nieuwe dichtbundel ‘Nederzettingen’ van Bert Bevers · Louis Aragon: De Hollandse reis · Fatima Bhutto: The Runaways · Guillaume Apollinaire: Les Fenêtres · Lord Byron: I Speak Not (Poem) · Lord Byron: Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer (Poem)

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Lord Byron: By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept (Poem)

 

By the Rivers of Babylon
We Sat Down and Wept

1
We sat down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem’s high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.

2
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which rolled on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!

3
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were
ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne’er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept
(Poem)

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


Bert Bevers: Terugwerkende kracht (Gedicht)

 This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is Bert_Bevers53-150x150.jpg

Terugwerkende kracht
 Bij Nostalghia van Andrej Tarkovski

Toen ik het hier voor het eerst zag
moest ik huilen, want dit licht doet
me denken aan herfst in Bologna.

Ik wil niets meer voor mezelf alleen.

Wat kan er gebeuren?

Alles wat je wenst als je knielt, want
zonder enig gebed gebeurt er niets.

Je wilt zeker gelukkig zijn, maar
in het leven zijn er belangrijker zaken.

Dus: een, twee, drie, geloof!

Wat moeten wij dan doen
om elkaar te leren kennen?

Grenzen slechten.

Welke?

Die tussen vroeger en later.

 

Bert Bevers

Terugwerkende kracht
Bij Nostalghia van Andrej Tarkovski
Verschenen op Versindaba, Stellenbosch, februari 2019
Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be)

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


Lord Byron: Remind me not, remind me not (Poem)

 

Remind me not, remind me not

Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish’d hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till Time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.

Can I forget—canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach’d yet rais’d desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.

And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes’ darken’d gloss
Seem’d stealing o’er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven’s plumage smooth’d on snow.

I dreamt last night our love return’d,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn’d,
For eyes that ne’er like thine could beam
In Rapture’s wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not,
Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,
Till Thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless, as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Remind me not, remind me not
(Poem)

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


Bert Bevers: Gouy (Gedicht)

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Gouy
Bij de Scheldebron

Schuw welhaast laat zich traag water
wellen tot niet veel meer dan beek.

Ze heeft geen weet nog van de haven
die zij op zal rekken in een ander land.

Grond die krimpt en zwelt is klei, dat
voelt ze naarmate het noorden nadert,

haar oevers verder van elkaar te liggen
komen. Hier echter is zij beleefd nog

stroompje dat gehuchten passeert waarin
lopers roesten in lang vergeten sloten.

Met zicht op haar eerste meander schiet
iemand in de regen zich door het hart.

Bert Bevers

Gouy
Bij de Scheldebron
Verschenen in Ballustrada, jaargang 33, nummer 2-3, Terneuzen, april 2019
Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be)

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


Lord Byron: It is the hour (Poem)

It is the hour

It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale’s high note is heard;
It is the hour — when lover’s vows
Seem sweet in every whisper’d word;
And gentle winds and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the Heaven that clear obscure
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
That follows the decline of day
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
It is the hour
(Poem)

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


Lord Byron: Euthanasia (Poem)

   

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)

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


Albert Hagenaars over de nieuwe dichtbundel ‘Nederzettingen’ van Bert Bevers

In De Verborgen Hoek besteedt recensent Albert Hagenaars uitgebreid aandacht aan de meest recente dichtbundel ‘Nederzettingen’ van Bert Bevers en de verhouding daarvan tot zijn eerdere werk.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is nederzettingen400.jpg‘Nederzettingen’ verscheen bij uitgeverij Kleinood & Grootzeer. De bundel is verdeeld in drie reeksen: Nederzettingen, Uit de tijd en Gedichten uit een stadje in de heuvels en bevat dertig recente gedichten.

Bert Bevers is een dichter met een brede kijk op zijn onderwerpen en een onmiskenbaar eigen idioom.

Eerste druk 100 genummerde en door de auteur gesigneerde exemplaren. Boekje, 42 pagina’s, gelijmd 21 x 10,5 cm. ISBN/EAN 978-90-76644-91-2. Prijs € 18,-

Bert Bevers (Bergen op Zoom, 1954) woont en werkt in Antwerpen. Keuzes uit zijn gedichten verschenen in de verzamelbundels Afglans (1997) en Eigen terrein (2013). Werk van zijn hand verscheen in literaire tijdschriften als Ballustrada, Bzzlletin, Deus ex Machina, Dietsche Warande & Belfort, Digther, Fleurs du mal.nl, Gierik & Nieuw Vlaams Tijdschrift, Hollands Maandblad, Meander, Poëziekrant, De Tweede Ronde, TZUM en Versindaba alsmede in vele bloemlezingen.

Albert Hagenaars (Bergen op Zoom, 1955) is dichter en schrijver. De belangrijkste thema’s in zijn boeken zijn reizen, interculturele relaties, vervreemding en identiteit. Verder schrijft hij al jarenlang literaire recensies, meestal over poëzie.

# Albert Hagenaars: Kruisbestuivingen tussen tijd en plaats over Bert Bevers

# link naar literaire blog De Verborgen Hoek 

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More in: - Book Lovers, - Book Stories, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Archive G-H, Art & Literature News, Bevers, Bert, PRESS & PUBLISHING


Louis Aragon: De Hollandse reis

Le voyage de Hollande verscheen op 12 februari 1964 bij de Franse uitgever Seghers. De editie (2025 exemplaren!) werd verfraaid met een tekening van Jongkind, een typisch Hollands landschap met windmolens, beemden en scheepjes onder een lage wolkenlucht.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is aragon-holl-reis.jpegAl in 1965 verscheen een herdruk, daarna werd de bundel opnieuw uitgegeven in 1981 en 2005, telkens bij Seghers. In 2007 ten slotte werd Le voyage de Hollande in de Bibliothèque de la Pléiade opgenomen als onderdeel van Aragons volledige dichtwerk (OEuvres poétiques complètes, deel II, Parijs, Gallimard).

In de zomer van 1963 verbleven Louis Aragon (1897-1982) en zijn vrouw Elsa Triolet (1896-1970) een maand in Nederland. Tussen 29 juli en 26 augustus bezochten ze onder meer Texel, Zuid-Holland (Wassenaar) en Utrecht.

De neerslag van die reis vinden we terug in Le voyage de Hollande, een bundel bestaande uit zes delen van wisselende lengte (twee tot twaalf gedichten), voorafgegaan door een kwatrijn waarin de lezer wordt aangemaand nooit de liefde in opspraak te brengen: wie dat doet mag het ‘domein’ van de dichter niet betreden. Een domein dat ten dele reëel is, geïnspireerd door het verblijf in Nederland, ten dele utopie van de liefde en ode aan de geliefde.

Louis Aragon
De Hollandse reis
2019
Vertaling: Katelijne De Vuyst
Tweetalige bundel
Uitgeverij Vleugels
Franse reeks
isbn 978 90 78627 67 8
128 pagina’s
€ 23,50

# new books
Louis Aragon
De Hollandse reis

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More in: - Book News, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Surrealism, SURREALISM, Surrealisme


Fatima Bhutto: The Runaways

How far would you run to escape your life?

Anita lives in Karachi’s biggest slum. Her mother is a maalish wali, paid to massage the tired bones of rich women. But Anita’s life will change forever when she meets her elderly neighbour, a man whose shelves of books promise an escape to a different world.

On the other side of Karachi lives Monty, whose father owns half the city and expects great things of him. But when a beautiful and rebellious girl joins his school, Monty will find his life going in a very different direction.

Sunny’s father left India and went to England to give his son the opportunities he never had. Yet Sunny doesn’t fit in anywhere. It’s only when his charismatic cousin comes back into his life that he realises his life could hold more possibilities than he ever imagined.

These three lives will cross in the desert, a place where life and death walk hand in hand, and where their closely guarded secrets will force them to make a terrible choice.

‘Incredibly ambitious, extremely powerful and moving’ – BBC Radio 4

Fatima Bhutto was born in Kabul. She is the author of a book of poetry, two works of non-fiction, including her bestselling memoir Songs of Blood and Sword, and the highly acclaimed novel The Shadow Of The Crescent Moon, which was longlisted in 2014 for the Bailey’s Women’s Prize for Fiction.

Fatima Bhutto
The Runaways
Penguin Books Ltd
Imprint: Viking
Fiction
English
Published: 07/03/2019
ISBN: 9780241346990
Hardcover
Length: 432 Pages
RRP: £14.99

# new novel
Fatima Bhutto
The Runaways

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More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Fatima Bhutto


Guillaume Apollinaire: Les Fenêtres

 

Les Fenêtres

Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt
Quand chantent les aras dans les forêts natales
Abatis de pihis
Il y a un poème à faire sur l’oiseau qui n’a qu’une aile
Nous l’enverron en message téléphonique
Truamatisme géant
Il fait couler les yeux
Voilà une jolie jeune fille parmi les jeunes Turinaises
Le pauvre jeune homme se mouchait dans sa cravate blanche
Tu soulèveras le rideau
Et maintenant voilà que s’ouvre la fenêtre
Araignées quand les mains tissaient la lumière
Beauté pâleur insondables violets
Nous tenterons en vain de prendre du repos
On commencera à minuit
Quand on a le temps on a la liberté
Bignorneaux Lotte multiples Soleils et l’Oursin du couchant
Une vielle paire de chaussures jaunes devant la fenêtre
Tours
Les Tours ce sont les rues
Puits
Puits ce sont les places
Puits
Arbres creux qui abritent les Câpresses vagabondes
Les Chabins chantent des airs à mourir
Aux Chabines marrones
Et l’oie oua-oua trompette au nord
Où le train blanc de neige et de feux nocturnes fuit l’hiver
O Paris
Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt
Paris Vancouver Hyères Maintenon New-York et les Antilles
Le fenêtre s’ouvre comme une orange
Le beau fruit de la lumière

Guillaume Apollinaire
(1880 – 1918)
Les Fenêtres

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More in: Apollinaire, Guillaume, Archive A-B, Guillaume Apollinaire


Lord Byron: I Speak Not (Poem)

 

I Speak Not

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name;
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame;
But the tear that now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,
Were those hours – can their joy or their bitterness cease?
We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain, –
We will part, we will fly to – unite it again!
Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one! – forsake if thou wilt;
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it – whatever thou may’st.
And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,
With thee at my side, than with worlds at our feet.
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove.
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign –
Thy lips shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
I Speak Not
(Poem)

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


Lord Byron: Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer (Poem)

 

Farewell!
If Ever Fondest Prayer

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For other’s weal availed on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky.
‘Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,
Are in that word – Farewell! – Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,
The thought that ne’er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel;
I only know we loved in vain –
I only feel – Farewell! – Farewell!

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer
(Poem)

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


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