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Robert Bridges
I have loved flowers that fade,
Within whose magic tents
Rich hues have marriage made
With sweet unmemoried scents:
A honeymoon delight,
A joy of love at sight,
That ages in an hour
My song be like a flower!.
I have loved airs that die
Before their charm is writ
Along a liquid sky
Trembling to welcome it.
Notes, that with pulse of fire
Proclaim the spirit’s desire,
Then die, and are nowhere
My song be like an air!.
Die, song, die like a breath,
And wither as a bloom;
Fear not a flowery death,
Dread not an airy tomb!
Fly with delight, fly hence!
‘Twas thine love’s tender sense
To feast; now on thy bier
Beauty shall shed a tear.
Robert Seymour Bridges (1844 – 1930)
I have loved flowers that fade
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Bridges, Robert
Innokenti Annenski
(1855–1909)
Van de sterren …
Van de sterren glinsterend en stil
is er één die ik van naam goed ken,
niet omdat ik van haar houden wil,
maar bij andere steeds droevig ben.
Als ik mij in twijfel tot haar richt,
vraag ik háár naar wat er nodig is,
niet omdat zij dan de nacht verlicht,
maar bij haar het licht niet nodig is.
Innokenti Annenski, Среди миров, 1901
Vertaling Paul Bezembinder, 2017
Paul Bezembinder: zijn gedichten en vertalingen verschenen in verschillende (online) literaire tijdschriften. Zie meer op zijn website: www.paulbezembinder.nl
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Annenski, Annenski, Innokenti, Archive A-B
Wolken
elomen elomen lefitalominal
wolminuscaio
baumbala bunga
acycam glastula feirofim flinsi
elominuscula pluplubasch
rallalalaio
endremin saxassa flumen flobollala
feilobasch falljada follidi
flumbasch
cerobadadrada
gragluda gligloda glodasch
gluglamen gloglada gleroda glandridi
elomen elomen lefitalominai
wolminuscaio
baumbala bunga
acycam glastala feirofim blisti
elominuscula pluplusch
rallabataio
Hugo Ball
(1886-1927)
Wolken
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Ball, Hugo, Dada, DADA, Dadaïsme
Picasso’s bicycle
The clutter was busy with itself,
dusty, rusty bits of calloused iron
struggled in the dinosaur maxim
of becoming dead skeletons
at the end of a so-so utilitarian life.
The effeminate ballroom
was not far behind, peeling
paint and whimpering plaster
on stained alabaster flooring,
the dream of luxury expiring.
The ghost of a danced waltz
in a Fin de Siècle stench spewed
to the vibration of tuneless strings.
Cobweb filled champagne bottles
sipped by drunk working class guests,
parched their sandy mouths thirsty.
The dirt filled the building slowly
travelling illegally on the back
of the Sirocco from the Levant
to leave an arid skin on every surface.
The walls bleached and blistered,
the fascias cracked and crumbled,
the Republic surrendered easily
to the upstart Spaniard’s charms
and chivvied slices of glory for him
in the ruined hypocrisy of its noblesse.
His work attested to a fall in standards
in slices of past glory, all ideas stolen
by the old devil’s goat-like desires.
The scrapyard sniggered in contempt
at the old fool, and the camera stared.
03.02.11
Vincent Berquez
Vincent Berquez is a London–based artist and poet
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Berquez, Vincent, Pablo Picasso, Vincent Berquez
Haikoe
Voor de bomen blij
ben ik dat het weer regent
en er achter ook
Bert Bevers
Uit: Onaangepaste tijden,
Zinderend, Bergen op Zoom, 2006
Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Verse ohne Worte
gadji beri bimba glandridi laula lonni cadori
gadjama gramma berida bimbala glandri galassassa laulitalomini
gadji beri bin blassa glassala laula lonni cadorsu sassala bim
gadjama tuffm i zimzalla binban gligla wowolimai bin beri ban
o katalominai rhinozerossola hopsamen laulitalomini hoooo
gadjama rhinozerossola hopsamen
bluku terullala blaulala loooo
zimzim urullala zimzim urullala zimzim zanzibar zimzalla zam
elifantolim brussala bulomen brussala bulomen tromtata
velo da bang bang affalo purzamai affalo purzamai lengado tor
gadjama bimbalo glandridi glassala zingtata pimpalo ögrögöööö
viola laxato viola zimbrabim viola uli paluji malooo
tuffm im zimbrabim negramai bumbalo negramai bumbalo tuffm i zim
gadjama bimbala oo beri gadjama gaga di gadjama affalo pinx
gaga di bumbalo bumbalo gadjamen
gaga di bling blong
gaga blung
Hugo Ball
(1886-1927)
Verse ohne Worte
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Ball, Hugo, Dada, DADA, Dadaïsme
Selected for the National Poetry Series by Ada Limón, I Know Your Kind is a haunting, blistering debut collection about the American opioid epidemic and poverty in rural Appalachia.
In West Virginia, fatal overdoses on opioids have spiked to three times the national average. In these poems, William Brewer demonstrates an immersive, devastating empathy for both the lost and the bereaved, the enabled and the enabler, the addict who knocks late at night and the brother who closes the door.
He shows us the high, at once numbing and transcendent: “this warm moment when I forget which part of me / I blamed.”
He shows us the overdose, when “the poppies on my arms / bruised red petals.” And he shows us the mourner, attending his high school reunion: “I guess we were underdressed: / me in my surf shoes / you in an urn.”
Underneath and among this multiplicity of voices runs the Appalachian landscape—a location, like the experience of drug addiction itself, of stark contrasts: beauty and ruin, nature and industry, love and despair.
Uncanny, heartbreaking, and often surreal, I Know Your Kind is an unforgettable elegy for the people and places that have been lost to opioids.
William Brewer is the author of I Know Your Kind, a winner of the 2016 National Poetry Series, as well as the chapbook Oxyana, which was awarded the Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship 30 and Under. He is currently a Stegner Fellow at Stanford University. He was born and raised in West Virginia.
Poetry
I Know Your Kind
By William Brewer
Paperback $16.00
ISBN: 978-1-57131-495-6
Publish Date: Sept. 2017
Pages: 96
Size:5.5 × 8.5 × 0.25 in
Milkweed Books
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, EDITOR'S CHOICE, Opium-Eaters
Is there for Honest Poverty
1.
Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, an’ a’ that ?
The coward slave, we pass him by—
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Our toils obscure, an’ a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.
2.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an’ a’ that ?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine—
A man’s a man for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their tinsel show, an’ a’ that,
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.
3.
Ye see yon birkie ca’d ‘a lord,’
Wha struts, an’ states, an’ a’ that ?
Tho’ hundreds worship at this word,
He’s but a cuif for a’ that.
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
His ribband, star, an’ a’ that,
The man o’ independent mind,
He looks an’ laughs at a’ that
4.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an’ a’ that!
But an honest man’s aboon his might—
Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
Their dignities, an’ a’ that,
The pith o’ sense an’ pride o’ worth
Are higher rank than a’ that.
5.
Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a’ that)
That Sense and Worth o’er ‘ a’ the earth
Shall bear the gree an’ a’ that!
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
It’s comin yet for a’ that,
That man to man the world o’er
Shall brithers be for a’ that.
Robert Burns (1759 – 1796)
Is there for Honest Poverty
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Burns, Robert
Mr. V. Van Gogh last painting
He was super ill, the paint slivered and writhed
bad blood worms on rough canvas slicing
his brain out of deflecting eyes, nail-bitten fingers.
From in the curly mind, out of black chemistry
and dodgy pharmacy, a loaded sharp tongue
despaired, slammed a miserable self-realization
of the road’s inadequacy, of the dissatisfaction,
of skittish skills, the ongoing failure with women.
From loathing, the dust of crumbling charcoal
and blunting pencil, the mass rank alcohol drank,
the acrid cigarettes, bad behaviour with friends,
family, his failure, the verdict of good judgement
just left him with an empty chair far from home.
The analysis of the doctors, the screech of trees,
the tar-coloured crows beating their deathly wings.
He could no longer see the actual investment
away from a loaded pistol. The experiment of death
won battles over him and followed too closely.
The canvas could not fill life when the sun shone hard,
the colours chattered, which was unbelievable but true.
He often left his charnel house lamenting with flowers
with pity, with the irony of the age to come, with freedom
he never had, the love he could not sustain.
The hue turned darker, blacker and then he was no more.
07.10.08
Vincent Berquez
Vincent Berquez is a London–based artist and poet
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Berquez, Vincent, Vincent Berquez, Vincent van Gogh
Growing Old
But now at thirty years my hair is grey—
(I wonder what it will be like at forty ?
I thought of a peruke the other day—)
My heart is not much greener ; and, in short, I
Have squandered my whole summer while ’twas May,
And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I
Have spent my life, both interest and principal,
And deem not, what I deemed, my soul invincible.
No more—no more—Oh ! never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see
Extracts emotions beautiful and new ;
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o’ the bee.
Think’st thou the honey with those objects grew ?
Alas ! ’twas not in them, but in thy power
To double even the sweetness of a flower.
No more—no more—Oh! never more my heart,
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe !
Once all in all, but now a thing apart,
Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse :
The illusion’s gone for ever, and thou art
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,
And in thy stead I’ve got a deal of judgement,
Thou Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgement.
My days of love are over ; me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
Can make the fool of which they made before,—
In short, I must not lead the life I did do ;
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o’er,
The copious use of claret is forbid too,
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,
I think I must take up with avarice.
Ambition was my idol, which was broken
Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure ;
And the two last have left me many a token
O’er which reflection may be made at leisure :
Now, like Friar Bacon’s Brazen Head, I’ve spoken,
‘Time is, Time was, Time’s past’ : a chymic treasure
Is glittering Youth, which I have spent betimes—
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
What is the end of Fame ? ’tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper :
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour ;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their ‘midnight taper’,
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture and worse bust.
What are the hopes of man ? Old Egypt’s King
Cheops erected the first Pyramid
And largest, thinking it was just the thing
To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid ;
But somebody or other rummaging,
Burglariously broke his coffin’s lid :
Let not a monument give you or me hopes,
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.
But I, being fond of true philosophy,
Say very often to myself, ‘Alas!
All things that have been born were born to die,
And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass ;
You’ve passed your youth not so unpleasantly,
And if you had it o’er again—’twould pass—
So thank your stars that matters are no worse,
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.’
Lord Byron (1788-1824)
Growing Old
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Byron, Lord
Pierre-Jean de Béranger
Le roi d’Yvetot
Il était un roi d’Yvetot
Peu connu dans l’histoire ;
Se levant tard, se couchant tôt,
Dormant fort bien sans gloire,
Et couronné par Jeanneton
D’un simple bonnet de coton,
Dit-on.
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah !
Quel bon petit roi c’était là !
La, la.
Il faisait ses quatre repas
Dans son palais de chaume,
Et sur un âne, pas à pas,
Parcourait son royaume.
Joyeux, simple et croyant le bien,
Pour toute garde il n’avait rien
Qu’un chien.
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah
Quel bon petit roi c’était là !
La, la.
Il n’avait de goût onéreux
Qu’une soif un peu vive ;
Mais en rendant son peuple heureux,
Il faut bien qu’un roi vive.
Lui-même, à table et sans suppôt,
Sur chaque muid levait un pot
D’impôt.
Oh ! oh !oh !oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah !
Quel bon petit roi c’était là !
La, la.
Aux filles de bonnes maisons
Comme il avait su plaire,
Ses sujets avaient cent raisons
De le nommer leur père
D’ailleurs il ne levait de ban
Que pour tirer quatre fois l’an
Au blanc.
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah !
Quel bon petit roi c’était là !
La, la.
Il n’agrandit point ses états,
Fut un voisin commode,
Et, modèle des potentats,
Prit le plaisir pour code.
Ce n’est que lorsqu’il expira
Que le peuple qui l’enterra
Pleura.
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah !
Quel bon petit roi c’était là !
La, la.
On conserve encor le portrait
De ce digne et bon prince ;
C’est l’enseigne d’un cabaret
Fameux dans la province.
Les jours de fête, bien souvent,
La foule s’écrie en buvant
Devant :
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah !
Quel bon petit roi c’était là !
La, la.
Chanson écrite en mai 1813.
Pierre-Jean de Béranger (1780-1857)
Le roi d’Yvetot
Toutes les chansons de Béranger (1843)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Béranger, Pierre-Jean de, MUSIC
bfirr
bfirr bfirr
ongog
rorr sss
dumpa
feif dirri
chu gaba
raur
ss
Hugo Ball
(1886-1927)
gedicht
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Ball, Hugo, Dada, DADA, Dadaïsme
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