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Tristram en Isolde
Tristram moest Isolde minnen,
de blauwe pil dwong hem ertoe.
Koning Mark wilde haar winnen,
op eigen kracht. Hij wist niet hoe.
De nevel drong de huizen binnen.
Haar lichaam deed de deuren toe.
Ze was klaar, zei ze, met minnen.
Ze hees haar rode zeil. Was moe.
Paul Bezembinder
Tristram en Isolde
Gedicht
Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij vooral in klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Bij uitgeverij Leeuwenhof (Oostburg) verschenen de bundels Gedichten (2020), Parkzicht (2020) en Duizelingen (2022). Website: www.paulbezembinder.nl.
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In her new collection Who Will Make The Fire, published in association with New River Press, Bellamacina employs metaphors of wind, dawn, trees and fire to explore an interior world.
A personal book about love, loss, nature, depression and recovery, the wind in Who Will Make The Fire becomes the biographer of the self; a way to trace this everevolving garden, that must die, again and again, like a wild bird shedding its unimaginable feathers.
Who Will Make The Fire questions what it is to really live, to live with stillness and fire; to combat the digital world and to get back to the earth and let the hidden circle of nature find its way back into the self.
‘Dreamlike, with bite. Bellamacina’s work is brutal, floral, blood-soaked and knowing, in the way that nature is both cruel and beautiful.’ ― Florence Welch
Greta Bellamacina published her first collection ‘Kaleidoscope’ in 2011. In 2014 she was short-listed as the Young Poet Laureate of London. In 2015 she edited ‘A Collection of Contemporary British Love Poetry’ a survey of British love poetry from Ted Hughes til now, it features the work of Wendy Cope, Emily Berry, Annie Freud and Sam Riviere. She has been a writer-in-residence at the Chateau Marmont Hotel in LA. and Andy Warhol’s Interview Magazine says Greta, ” is garnering critical acclaim for her way with words and her ability to translate the classic poetic form into the contemporary creative landscape.” Greta’s new collection “Perishing Tame” is a dazzling and frank meditation on motherhood, female identity, ennui and love. Greta and her work have featured in The Guardian, The Times, The Evening Standard, Dazed & Confused, I-D Magazine, Interview Magazine, British Vogue, Elle , Wonderland, and Hunger Magazine. She has performed her poetry on CNN, BBC World News, BBC Radio 4 , BBC London, BBC Radio 2 with Jonathan Ross and BBC Radio 3 on The Verb poetry show.
Greta Bellamacina:
Who Will Make the Fire
Publisher: Cheerio Publishing
Publication Date: 20 Jun. 2024
Language: English
Hardcover
ISBN-10: 1739440595
ISBN-13 978-1739440596
£12.99
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Song of the American Indian
Stranger, stay, nor wish to climb
The heights of yonder hills sublime;
For there strange shapes and spirits dwell,
That oft the murmuring thunders swell,
Of power from the impending steep
To hurl thee headlong to the deep;
But secure with us abide,
By the winding river’s side;
Our gladsome toil, our pleasures share,
And think not of a world of care.
The lonely cayman, where he feeds
Among the green high-bending reeds,
Shall yield thee pastime; thy keen dart
Through his bright scales shall pierce his heart.
Home returning from our toils,
Thou shalt bear the tiger’s spoils;
And we will sing our loudest strain
O’er the forest-tyrant slain!
Sometimes thou shalt pause to hear
The beauteous cardinal sing clear;
Where hoary oaks, by time decayed,
Nod in the deep wood’s pathless glade;
And the sun, with bursting ray,
Quivers on the branches gray.
By the river’s craggy banks,
O’erhung with stately cypress-ranks,
Where the bush-bee hums his song,
Thy trim canoe shall glance along.
To-night at least, in this retreat,
Stranger! rest thy wandering feet;
To-morrow, with unerring bow,
To the deep thickets fearless we will go.
William Lisle Bowles
(1762 – 1850)
Song of the American Indian
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, #Archive Native American Library, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Cowboys and Indians, Racism, Western Fiction
Houvast
Kennen wij niets meer dan nagebootste
gebarentaal? Soms, soms is de waarheid
moeilijk. Bij een vraag als Spant de boog
de pees, of kromt de pees de boog? is ons
de grens van wetten te vaag. Er is geen
weerstand zonder tekenen aan de wand.
Van verbeelding geven zij misleidende
straling af, als fosforstronken in het woud.
Houvast: de cartografie van het geheugen,
het register van de weemoed. En natuurlijk,
sterk en zacht als gepolijst olijvenhout,
de eeuwigheid. Die eeuwigheid. ‘O’ zegt
de een er voor, en ‘Ach’ de ander….
Bert Bevers
Houvast
Verschenen in de uitgave ter herdenking van Erik Heyman (1960-2010),
Voorspel, Liedekerke/Aalst, 2010
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Winters erfrecht
Gesloten luiken, gezegende ogen.
Het mededogen van sneeuw
verrast zelfs kinderen.
Er gaat geen eeuw voorbij
als er niets gebeurt.
Geheugen van geuren
is legendarisch.
Bert Bevers
Winters erfrecht
Eigen terrein,
Uitgeverij WEL, Bergen op Zoom, 2013
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The Dying Slave
Faint-gazing on the burning orb of day,
When Afric’s injured son expiring lay,
His forehead cold, his labouring bosom bare,
His dewy temples, and his sable hair,
His poor companions kissed, and cried aloud,
Rejoicing, whilst his head in peace he bowed:—
Now thy long, long task is done,
Swiftly, brother, wilt thou run,
Ere to-morrow’s golden beam
Glitter on thy parent stream,
Swiftly the delights to share,
The feast of joy that waits thee there.
Swiftly, brother, wilt thou ride
O’er the long and stormy tide,
Fleeter than the hurricane,
Till thou see’st those scenes again,
Where thy father’s hut was reared,
Where thy mother’s voice was heard;
Where thy infant brothers played
Beneath the fragrant citron shade;
Where through green savannahs wide
Cooling rivers silent glide,
Or the shrill cicalas sing
Ceaseless to their murmuring;
Where the dance, the festive song,
Of many a friend divided long,
Doomed through stranger lands to roam,
Shall bid thy spirit welcome home!
Fearless o’er the foaming tide
Again thy light canoe shall ride;
Fearless on the embattled plain
Thou shalt lift thy lance again;
Or, starting at the call of morn,
Wake the wild woods with thy horn;
Or, rushing down the mountain-slope,
O’ertake the nimble antelope;
Or lead the dance, ‘mid blissful bands,
On cool Andracte’s yellow sands;
Or, in the embowering orange-grove,
Tell to thy long-forsaken love
The wounds, the agony severe,
Thy patient spirit suffered here!
Fear not now the tyrant’s power,
Past is his insulting hour;
Mark no more the sullen trait
On slavery’s brow of scorn and hate;
Hear no more the long sigh borne
Murmuring on the gales of morn!
Go in peace; yet we remain
Far distant toiling on in pain;
Ere the great Sun fire the skies
To our work of woe we rise;
And see each night, without a friend,
The world’s great comforter descend!
Tell our brethren, where ye meet,
Thus we toil with weary feet;
Yet tell them that Love’s generous flame,
In joy, in wretchedness the same,
In distant worlds was ne’er forgot;
And tell them that we murmur not;
Tell them, though the pang will start,
And drain the life-blood from the heart,—
Tell them, generous shame forbids
The tear to stain our burning lids!
Tell them, in weariness and want,
For our native hills we pant,
Where soon, from shame and sorrow free,
We hope in death to follow thee!
William Lisle Bowles
(1762 – 1850)
The Dying Slave
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William Blake’s Universe
until 19 May 2024
Discover William Blake’s universe and a constellation of European artists seeking spirituality in their lives and art in response to war, revolution and political turbulence.
Sometimes seen as an eccentric figure or lone genius, William Blake’s Universe is the first exhibition to explore Blake’s boundless imagination in the context of wider trends and themes in European art including romanticism, mysticism and ideas of spiritual regeneration.
This timely new exhibition brings together the largest-ever display of works by the radical British artist, printmaker and poet from our own collection, alongside artworks by his European contemporaries such as the German romantic painters Philipp Otto Runge and Caspar David Friedrich – many of which have never been displayed publicly in the UK until now.
Though these artists never met or connected in their lifetimes, Blake, Runge and Friedrich shared a strong sense of individuality and an unwavering belief in the power of art to redeem a society in crisis.
William Blake’s Universe
until 19 May 2024
University of Cambridge Museums
The Fitzwilliam Museum
Trumpington Street
Cambridge
CB2 1RB
Tel: +44 (0)1223 333 230
Email: tickets@museums.cam.ac.uk
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Mijn dolk
Ik sloot jou in mijn hart, mijn maat, mijn dolk,
Sinds jaar en dag mijn onderkoelde kameraad,
Gesmeed werd jij door vrijgevochten ruitervolk,
Geslepen door een christenhart vervuld van haat.
Door lelieblanke hand wist jij jouw heft omvat,
Als aandenken aan wat – aan wíe – ik achterliet,
In plaats van bloed vergleed er langs jouw blad
Een opgewelde traan – een parel van verdriet.
Haar rokerige ogen vast op mijn persoon gericht,
Vervuld van onbenoembaar, onuitspreekbaar leed,
Verschoten, vlamden dan weer op, in haar gezicht,
Zoals jouw kling dat in het laaiend kampvuur deed.
Zij maakte jou mijn metgezel, haar liefdespand,
De vagebond in mij volgt steeds jouw wijze raad,
Ja, trouw ben ik haar, ik doe mijn woord gestand,
En jij, jij houdt mij bij de les, mijn kille kameraad!
Michail Lermontov,
Mijn dolk, Кинжал (1838)
(1814 – 1841)
Vertaling Paul Bezembinder
Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij vooral in klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Bij uitgeverij Leeuwenhof (Oostburg) verschenen de bundels Gedichten (2020), Parkzicht (2020) en Duizelingen (2022). Website: www.paulbezembinder.nl
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To My Dear and Loving Husband
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompence.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever[e],
That when we live no more, we may live ever.
Anne Bradstreet
(1612 – 1672)
To My Dear and Loving Husband
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Na de dag
Het licht heeft je gezicht verweerd
en de marok wil met je aan de haal,
barok wordt rococo, de wijn creëert
de tralies voor de panter van de taal.
De wind steekt op, sirocco of simoem,
rhizomen worden schaars, de gentiaan
verdorst, de iris wordt een zonnebloem
en aan de hemel dient de maan zich aan.
Paul Bezembinder
Na de dag
Gedicht
Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij vooral in klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Bij uitgeverij Leeuwenhof (Oostburg) verschenen de bundels Gedichten (2020), Parkzicht (2020) en Duizelingen (2022). Website: www.paulbezembinder.nl.
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bezembinder, Paul
To Winter
O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:
The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
He hears me not, but o’er the yawning deep
Rides heavy; his storms are unchain’d, sheathed
In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes;
For he hath rear’d his scepter o’er the world.
Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings
To his strong bones, strides o’er the groaning rocks:
He withers all in silence, and in his hand
Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
He takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner
Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that deal’st
With storms; till heaven smiles, and the monster
Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.
William Blake
(1757 – 1827)
To Winter
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Winter – A Dirge
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
“The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,”
The joyless winter-day
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Power Supreme whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest; they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want—O do Thou grant
This one request of mine.—
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.
Robert Burns
(1759 – 1796)
Winter – A Dirge
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