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Across the Fields to Anne
How often in the summer-tide,
His graver business set aside,
Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed,
As to the pipe of Pan,
Stepped blithesomely with lover’s pride
Across the fields to Anne.
It must have been a merry mile,
This summer stroll by hedge and stile,
With sweet foreknowledge all the while
How sure the pathway ran
To dear delights of kiss and smile,
Across the fields to Anne.
The silly sheep that graze to-day,
I wot, they let him go his way,
Nor once looked up, as who should say:
“It is a seemly man.”
For many lads went wooing aye
Across the fields to Anne.
The oaks, they have a wiser look;
Mayhap they whispered to the brook:
“The world by him shall yet be shook,
It is in nature’s plan;
Though now he fleets like any rook
Across the fields to Anne.”
And I am sure, that on some hour
Coquetting soft ‘twixt sun and shower,
He stooped and broke a daisy-flower
With heart of tiny span,
And bore it as a lover’s dower
Across the fields to Anne.
While from her cottage garden-bed
She plucked a jasmine’s goodlihede,
To scent his jerkin’s brown instead;
Now since that love began,
What luckier swain than he who sped
Across the fields to Anne?
The winding path whereon I pace,
The hedgerow’s green, the summer’s grace,
Are still before me face to face;
Methinks I almost can
Turn poet and join the singing race
Across the fields to Anne!
Richard Burton
(1861-1940)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
Passionate and irreverent, Mortal Trash transports the readers into a world of wit, lament, and desire.
In a section called “Over the Bright and Darkened Lands,” canonical poems are torqued into new shapes. “Except Thou Ravish Me,” reimagines John Donne’s famous “Batter my heart, Three-person’d God” as told from the perspective of a victim of domestic violence.
Like Pablo Neruda, Addonizio hears “a swarm of objects that call without being answered”: hospital crash carts, lawn gnomes, Evian bottles, wind-up Christmas creches, edible panties, cracked mirrors.
Whether comic, elegiac, or ironic, the poems in Mortal Trash remind us of the beauty and absurdity of our time on earth.
From “Scrapbook”:
We believe in the one-ton rose
and the displaced toilet equally. Our blues
assume you understand
not much, and try to be alive, just as we do,
and that it may be helpful to hold the hand
of someone as lost as you.
Title: Mortal Trash
Subtitle: Poems
Author: Kim Addonizio
Publisher: W. W. Norton
Published 28 June 2017
ISBN-10 0393354342
ISBN-13 9780393354348
112 pages
Paperback – $15.95
More from Kim Addonizio
Bukowski in a Sundress
Confessions from a Writing Life
by Kim Addonizio
Behold the memoir of sex-positive rebel Kim Addonizio! This book moves from gritty/funny/sexy, to emotionally raw, in swift seamless strokes.
By the end, you will feel that Kim is an old friend whom you know far too well, but who you think the world of because she’s way cooler than you are.
Bukowski in a Sundress:
Confessions from a Writing Life
by Kim Addonizio (Author)
Paperback, 2016
Biography & Memoir
Publisher: Penguin Group USA
ISBN: 9780143128465
224 pages
$26.99
new books
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Bukowski, Charles
Gestolen tijd
Zij was zijn lief en op een dag brak zij
zijn hart. Hij dook weg in een theorie
van scherven en geluk. Zo hoefde hij
nog niet te wennen aan een wereld die
de trekken hebben zou van haar gezicht.
Hij zocht haar jaren later pas weer op.
Zij brak zijn hart opnieuw. Zijn theorie,
hoe stevig ook, was nog volstrekt niet
opgewassen tegen de ravage die de
tijd in haar gezicht had aangericht.
Paul Bezembinder
gedicht: Gestolen tijd
Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij in vooral klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Zijn gedichten (Nederlands) en vertalingen (Russisch-Nederlands) verschenen in verschillende (online) literaire tijdschriften. Voorbeelden van zijn werk zijn te vinden op zijn website, www.paulbezembinder.nl
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Bezembinder, Paul, POETRY IN TRANSLATION: BEZEMBINDER
Meet We no Angels, Pansie?
Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet,
In white, to find her lover;
The grass grew proud beneath her feet,
The green elm-leaves above her:–
Meet we no angels, Pansie?
She said, ‘We meet no angels now’;
And soft lights stream’d upon her;
And with white hand she touch’d a bough;
She did it that great honour:–
What! meet no angels, Pansie?
O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes,
Down-dropp’d brown eyes, so tender!
Then what said I? Gallant replies
Seem flattery, and offend her:–
But–meet no angels, Pansie?
Thomas Ashe
(1836-1889)
Meet We no Angels, Pansie?
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
Amper een bestemming
Van om de hoek is daar opeens
dat meisje: haar rechterhand
trekt een ballon, hartvormig
glimmend rood. Ze oogt zich
er niet van bewust, deint samen
met het ding naar amper een
bestemming. Geen lust in
doelgericht lopen is haar aan
te zien. De straat draagt haar
welhaast verlegen.
Bert Bevers
gedicht: Amper een bestemming
Verschenen in Appel, jaargang 19, nummer 1, Sint-Truiden, 1994
Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Ick bin in Tempelhof jebore
Ick bin in Tempelhof jeboren
Der Flieder wächst mich aus die Ohren.
In meinem Maule grast die Kuh.
Ick geh zuweilen sehr und schwanger
Auf einem Blumen-i-o-anger
Mein Vater, was sagst Du dazu?
Wir gleichen sehr den Baletteusen,
Pleureusen – Dösen – Schnösen – lösen.
Gewollt zu haben – selig sein.
Verehrte Herrn, verehrte Damen,
Die um mich hören herzu kamen
Dies widmet der Gesangverein.
Und Jungfraun kamen wunderbar
Geschmeide scheidegelb im Haar
Mit schlankgestielten Lilien.
Der Kakagei und Papadu
Die sahen auch dabei dazu
Und kamen aus Brasilien.
(Klarinetta Klaball)
Hugo Ball
(1886-1927)
Ick bin in Tempelhof jebore
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Ball, Hugo, Dada, DADA, Dadaïsme
Song
Love in Phantastique Triumph sat,
Whilst Bleeding hearts about him flow’d,
For whom fresh pays he did create,
And strange Tyrannick pow’r he shew’d;
From thy bright Eyes he took his fires,
Which round about in sport he hurl’d;
But ’twas from mine he took desires,
Enough t’undoe the Amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears,
And ev’ry killing Dart from thee:
Thus thou, and I, the God have arm’d,
And set him up a Deity,
But my poor heart alone is harm’d,
Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.
Aphra Behn
(1640-1689)
From Abdelazer, or the Moor’s Revenge:
Song
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
Jaag zacht
Praat niet hardop in het woud.
Dat is voor niets goed. Immers:
de waarheid is als een schuw dier.
Mensen hebben er schrik van.
Bert Bevers
gedicht: Jaag zacht
Verschenen in de Enghuizer Dialogen VIII, Hummelo, mei 2017
Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert, Natural history
Styxoтворение
Het was een wat desolate zondagmiddag.
Wij bezochten de dierentuin van Overloon.
Bij het gouden kooitje van het vogelverblijf
beseften wij: poetry, that rare bird, had flown.
Ooit had zij hier haar hoogste vorm gevonden
in een vogellijfje ingepakt in kleurenpracht –
тихотворенье in rumoerig gezelschap
en шумасшествие in de stilte van de nacht.
Zou zij gevlucht zijn of zou zij zijn gevlogen?
Vond het zorgteam haar met haar pootjes omhoog?
Of was ze toch maar paradijsvogel geworden?
Eentje die krijsend naar de onderwereld vloog?
Paul Bezembinder
gedicht: Styxoтворение
Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij in vooral klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Zijn gedichten (Nederlands) en vertalingen (Russisch-Nederlands) verschenen in verschillende (online) literaire tijdschriften. Voorbeelden van zijn werk zijn te vinden op zijn website, www.paulbezembinder.nl
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Bezembinder, Paul, POETRY IN TRANSLATION: BEZEMBINDER
Einer Verdammten
Ha, wie sie heuchlerisch entrüstet,
Sich hüllen in die Kutten der Moral
Und wie Papa vertraulich flüstert:
»Mama, dies ist ein offener Skandal«.
Die hohe Gattin nickt verständlich
Und vor »Empörung« brennend rot
Ruft sie: »Von Denen ist es schändlich
Uns schützt vor Kindersegen doch der liebe Gott.«
Hugo Ball
(1886 – 1927)
Erstdruck in:
Der Revoluzzer (Zürich),
1. Jg., Nr. 12, Oktober 1915
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Ball, Hugo, Dada, DADA, Dadaïsme
Freedom
A! Fredome is a noble thing!
Fredome mays man to haiff liking;
Fredome all solace to man giffis,
He levys at ese that frely levys!
A noble hart may haiff nane ese,
Na ellys nocht that may him plese,
Gyff fredome fail; for fre liking
Is yarnyt our all othir thing.
Na he that ay has levyt fre
May nocht knaw weill the propyrte,
The angyr, na the wretchyt dome
That is couplyt to foule thyrldome.
Bot gyff he had assayit it,
Than all perquer he suld it wyt;
And suld think fredome mar to prise
Than all the gold in warld that is.
Thus contrar thingis evirmar
Discoweryngis off the tothir ar.
John Barbour
(c. 1320 -1395)
Freedom
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
To Thos. Floyd
How fares it, friend, since I by Fate annoy’d
Left the old home in need of livelier play
For body and mind? How fare, this many a day,
The stubborn thews and ageless heart of Floyd?
If not too well with country sport employ’d,
Visit my flock, the breezy hill that they
Choose for their fold; and see, for thence you may,
From rising walls all roofless yet and void,
The lovely city, thronging tower and spire,
The mind of the wide landscape, dreaming deep,
Grey-silvery in the vale; a shrine where keep
Memorian hopes their pale celestial fire:
Like man’s immortal conscience of desire,
The spirit that watcheth in me ev’n in my sleep.
“While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry”
While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry
And blackening east that so embitters March,
Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch,
And driven dust and withering snowflake fly;
Already in glimpses of the tarnish’d sky
The sun is warm and beckons to the larch,
And where the covert hazels interarch
Their tassell’d twigs, fair beds of primrose lie.
Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hid
A million buds but stay their blossoming;
And trustful birds have built their nests amid
The shuddering boughs, and only wait to sing
Till one soft shower from the south shall bid,
And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.
“In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan”
In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan
Is fragrant in the wake of summer hence,
‘Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereon
In melancholy and godlike indolence:
When the proud spirit, lull’d by mortal prime
To fond pretence of immortality,
Vieweth all moments from the birth of time,
All things whate’er have been or yet shall be.
And like the garden, where the year is spent,
The ruin of old life is full of yearning,
Mingling poetic rapture of lament
With flowers and sunshine of spring’s sure returning;
Only in visions of the white air wan
By godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.
Robert Bridges
(1844-1930)
To Thos. Floyd
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive A-B, Bridges, Robert
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