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Martin Beversluis
Aanraken
Alle tijd is aanraken
en je niet meer
herinneren wat er
nooit toe deed
wat slechts
beweging was
in het gemoed
huidherinneringen
strelen en dichtbij
de glooïngen van
je vel en been het
terrein dat ik mag
ontginnen om
eenmaal ontgonnen
opnieuw te beginnen
begonnen.
Martin Beversluis poetry
Stadsdichter Tilburg 2015-2017
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Beversluis, Martin, City Poets / Stadsdichters
De stervende Germanicus
Bij de schilderijen van Heinrich Füger en Nicolas Poussin
Omgeven door getrouwen sterft Germanicus.
Men rouwt reeds voor de laatste adem
zijn huidig lichaam rust geeft. Nog even
in het leven voelt hij zich daarom eenzamer
dan ooit, als Capreae in de zee. Hij denkt
aan sperwers over velden. Zijn ogen tekenen
wegen in de lucht die wij nooit volgen kunnen.
Bert Bevers
(Verschenen in Bzzlletin, 17de jaargang, nummer 160, Den Haag, 1988)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Martin Beversluis
Schermmensen
En op een ochtend
waren we kleiner
enkel een wandelend
schermpje van vier bij acht
centimeter met echt alle
communicatie bij de hand
verleerden we langzaam onze taal
onze tongen hingen er slapjes bij
want we scholden liever
ons schermpje vol
dat was anoniemer
starend in een nieuwe wereld
die onvoorstelbaar groot
toch klein en handzaam is
vier bij acht centimeter
voldoende om een mens
in op te bergen het laat
zelfs nog wat ruimte
voor vage fantasie
maar ook die zullen we weldra
in kaart kunnen brengen
we zullen haar van alle kanten
aandachtig bestuderen
en uiteindelijk besluiten
dat dat schermpje
nog een centimeter kleiner kan.
Martin Beversluis
Stadsdichter Tilburg 2015-2017
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Beversluis, Martin, City Poets / Stadsdichters
Graffiguur
Bij het beeld van Julien Dillens
Uit het meisje dat poseerde voor
dit beeld moet haast zeker weer een
vrouw gegroeid zijn, die misschien
nog altijd niet weet of ze zichzelf terug
ging zien. Ze kan, over het definitieve
dezer vorm, haar grieven hebben gekend.
Je went niet graag aan jezelf als dat je
huiveren doet. Er is een moed die dat ontstijgt:
Je zwijgt, leeft voort en vermoedt je eigen graf.
Hoe kan marmer, koud als steen toch, warme
tranen laten vloeien over vlees? Is zij, deze
graffiguur, de ware grootte van verdriet?
Bert Bevers
(Verschenen in Afglans – Gedichten 1972-1997, WEL, Bergen op Zoom, 1997)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Aphra Behn
(1640 – 1689)
The Disappointment
1
One Day the Amarous Lisander,
By an impatient Passion sway’d,
Surpris’d fair Cloris, that lov’d Maid,
Who cou’d defend her self no longer ;
All things did with his Love conspire,
The gilded Planet of the Day,
In his gay Chariot, drawn by Fire,
War now descending to the Sea,
And left no Light to guide the World,
But what from Cloris brighter Eves was hurl’d.
2
In alone Thicket, made for Love,
Silent as yielding Maids Consent,
She with a charming Languishment
Permits his force, yet gently strove ?
Her Hands his Bosom softly meet,
But not to put him back design’d,
Rather to draw him on inclin’d,
Whilst he lay trembling at her feet;
Resistance ’tis to late to shew,
She wants the pow’r to sav — Ah!what do you do?
3
Her bright Eyes sweat, and yet Severe,
Where Love and Shame confus’dly strive,
Fresh Vigor to Lisander give :
And whispring softly in his Ear,
She Cry’d — Cease — cease — your vain desire,
Or I’ll call out — What wou’d you do ?
My dearer Honour, ev’n to you,
I cannot — must not give — retire,
Or take that Life whose chiefest part
I gave you with the Conquest of my Heart.
4
But he as much unus’d to fear,
As he was capable of Love,
The blessed Minutes to improve,
Kisses her Lips, her Neck, her Hair !
Each touch her new Desires alarms !
His burning trembling Hand he prest
Upon her melting Snowy Breast,
While she lay panting in his Arms !
All her unguarded Beauties lie
The Spoils and Trophies of the Enemy.
5
And now, without Respect or Fear,
He seeks the Objects of his Vows ;
His Love no Modesty allows :
By swift degrees advancing where
His daring Hand that Alter seiz’d,
Where Gods of Love do Sacrifice ;
That awful Throne, that Paradise,
Where Rage is tam’d, and Anger pleas’d ;
That Living Fountain, from whose Trills
The melted Soul in liquid Drops distils.
6
Her balmy Lips encountring his,
Their Bodies as their Souls are joyn’d,
Where both in Transports were confin’d,
Extend themselves upon the Moss.
Cloris half dead and breathless lay,
Her Eyes appear’d like humid Light,
Such as divides the Day and Night;
Or falling Stars, whose Fires decay ;
And now no signs of Life she shows,
But what in short-breath-sighs returns and goes.
7
He saw how at her length she lay,
He saw her rising Bosom bare,
Her loose thin Robes, through which appear
A Shape design’d for Love and Play;
Abandon’d by her Pride and Shame,
She do’s her softest Sweets dispence,
Offring her Virgin-Innocence
A Victim to Loves Sacred Flame ;
Whilst th’ or’e ravish’d Shepherd lies,
Unable to perform the Sacrifice.
8
Ready to taste a Thousand Joys,
Thee too transported hapless Swain,
Found the vast Pleasure turn’d to Pain :
Pleasure, which too much Love destroys !
The willing Garments by he laid,
And Heav’n all open to his view ;
Mad to possess, himself he threw
On the defenceless lovely Maid.
But oh ! what envious Gods conspire
To snatch his Pow’r, yet leave him the Desire !
9
Natures support, without whose Aid
She can no humane Being give,
It self now wants the Art to live,
Faintness it slacken’d Nerves invade :
In vain th’ enraged Youth assaid
To call his fleeting Vigour back,
No Motion ’twill from Motion take,
Excess of Love his Love betray’d ;
In vain he Toils, in vain Commands,
Th’ Insensible fell weeping in his Hands.
10
In this so Am’rous cruel strife,
Where Love and Fate were too severe,
The poor Lisander in Despair,
Renounc’d his Reason with his Life.
Now all the Brisk and Active Fire
That should the Nobler Part inflame,
Unactive Frigid, Dull became,
And left no Spark for new Desire ;
Not all her Naked Charms cou’d move,
Or calm that Rage that had debauch’d his Love.
11
Cloris returning from the Trance
Which Love and soft Desire had bred,
Her tim’rous Hand she gently laid,
Or guided by Design or Chance,
Upon that Fabulous Priapus,
That Potent God (as Poets feign.)
But never did young Shepherdess
(Garth’ring of Fern upon the Plain)
More nimbly draw her Fingers back,
Finding beneath the Verdant Leaves a Snake.
12
Then Cloris her fair Hand withdrew,
Finding that God of her Desires
Disarm’d of all his pow’rful Fires,
And cold as Flow’rs bath’d in the Morning-dew.
Who can the Nymphs Confusion guess ?
The Blood forsook the kinder place,
And strew’d with Blushes all her Face,
Which both Disdain and Shame express ;
And from Lisanders Arms she fled,
Leaving him fainting on the gloomy Bed.
13
Like Lightning through the Grove she hies,
Or Daphne from the Delphick God ;
No Print upon the Grassie Road
She leaves, t’ instruct pursuing Eyes.
The Wind that wanton’d in her Hair,
And with her ruffled Garments plaid,
Discover’d in the flying Maid
All that the Gods e’re made of Fair.
So Venus, when her Love was Slain,
With fear and haste flew o’re the fatal Plain.
14
The Nymphs resentments, none but I
Can well imagin, and Condole ;
But none can guess Lisander’s Soul,
But those who sway’d his Destiny :
His silent Griefs, swell up to Storms,
And not one God, his Fury spares,
He Curst his Birth, his Fate, his Stars,
But more the Shepherdesses Charms ;
Whose soft bewitching influence,
Had Damn’d him to the Hell of Impotence.
Aphra Behn poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
William Lisle Bowles
(1762 – 1850)
In Age
And art thou he, now “fallen on evil days,”
And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek,
These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak!
A spirit reckless of man’s blame or praise,–
A spirit, when thine eyes to the noon’s blaze
Their dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek,
As in the sight of God intent to seek,
Mid solitude or age, or through the ways
Of hard adversity, the approving look
Of its great Master; whilst the conscious pride
Of wisdom, patient and content to brook
All ills to that sole Master’s task applied,
Shall show before high heaven the unaltered mind,
Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind!
William Lisle Bowles poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
Katharine Lee Bates
(1859 – 1929)
Matthew Arnold
On Hearing Him Read His Poems
In Boston
A stranger, schooled to gentle arts,
He stept before the curious throng;
His path into our waiting hearts
Already paved by song.
Full well we knew his choristers,
Whose plaintive voices haunt our rest,
Those sable-vested harbingers
Of melancholy guest.
We smiled on him for love of these,
With eyes that swift grew dim to scan
Beneath the veil of courteous ease
The faith-forsaken man.
To his wan gaze the weary shows
And fashions of our vain estate,
Our shallow pain and false repose,
Our barren love and hate,
Are shadows in a land of graves,
Where creeds, the bubbles of a dream,
Flash each and fade, like melting waves
Upon a moonlight stream.
Yet loyal to his own despair,
Erect beneath a darkened sky,
He deems the austerest truth more fair
Than any gracious lie;
And stands, heroic, patient, sage,
With hopeless hands that bind the sheaf,
Claiming God’s work with His wage,
The bard of unbelief.
Katharine Lee Bates poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
Wilhelm Busch
(1832-1908)
Summa summarum
Sag, wie wär es, alter Schragen,
Wenn du mal die Brille putztest,
Um ein wenig nachzuschlagen,
Wie du deine Zeit benutztest.
Oft wohl hätten dich so gerne
Weiche Arme weich gebettet;
Doch du standest kühl von ferne,
Unbewegt, wie angekettet.
Oft wohl kam’s, daß du die schöne
Zeit vergrimmtest und vergrolltest,
Nur weil diese oder jene
Nicht gewollt, so wie du wolltest.
Demnach hast du dich vergebens
Meistenteils herumgetrieben;
Denn die Summe unsres Lebens
Sind die Stunden, wo wir lieben.
Wilhelm Busch poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY, Galerie Deutschland, Wilhelm Busch
Aphra Behn
(1640 – 1689)
A Thousand Martyrs I Have Made
A thousand Martyrs I have made,
All sacrific’d to my desire;
A thousand Beauties have betray’d,
That languish in resistless Fire.
The untam’d Heart to hand I brought,
And fixt the wild and wandring Thought.
I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain
But both, th false, were well receiv’d.
The Fair are pleas’d to give us pain,
And what they wish is soon believ’d.
And th I talked of Wounds and Smart,
Loves Pleasures only toucht my Heart.
Alone the Glory and the Spoil
I always Laughing bore away;
The Triumphs, without Pain or Toil,
Without the Hell, the Heav’n of Joy.
And while I thus at random rove
Despise the Fools that whine for Love.
Aphra Behn poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
Mark Akenside
(1721 – 1770)
Amoret
If rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be fix’d in Love’s decrees,
That Beauty ought not to be tried
But by its native power to please,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell
What fair can Amoret excel?
Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yetshe so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen
We naught but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.
But neither music, nor the powers
Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer,
Add half the sunshine to the hours,
Or make life’s prospect half so clear,
As memory brings it to the eye
From scenes where Amoret was by.
This, sure, is Beauty’s happiest part;
This gives the most unbounded sway;
This shall enchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of Time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.
Mark Akenside poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
Katharine Lee Bates
(1859 – 1929)
Blood Road
The Old Year groaned as he trudged away,
His guilty shadow black on the snow,
And the heart of the glad New Year turned grey
At the road Time bade him go.
“O Gaffer Time, is it blood-road still?
Is the noontide dark as the stormy morn?
Is man’s will yet as a wild beast’s will?
When shall the Christ be born?”
He laughed as he answered, grim Gaffer Time,
Whose laugh is sadder than all men’s moan.
“That name rides high on our wrath and crime,
For the Light in darkness shone.
“And thou, fair youngling, wilt mend the tale?”
The New Year stared on the misty word,
Where at foot of a cross all lustrous pale
Men raged for their gods of gold.
“Come back, Old Year, with thy burden bent.
Come back and settle thine own dark debt.”
“Nay, let me haste where the years repent,
For I’ve seen what I would forget.”
“And I, the first of a stately train,
The tramp of a century heard behind,
Must I be fouled with thy murder-stain?
Is there no pure path to find?”
The Old Year sneered as he limped away
To the place of his penance dim and far.
The New Year stood in the gates of day,
Crowned with the morning star.
Katharine Lee Bates poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
Aphra Behn
(1640 – 1689)
The Dream
All trembling in my arms Aminta lay,
Defending of the bliss I strove to take;
Raising my rapture by her kind delay,
Her force so charming was and weak.
The soft resistance did betray the grant,
While I pressed on the heaven of my desires;
Her rising breasts with nimbler motions pant;
Her dying eyes assume new fires.
Now to the height of languishment she grows,
And still her looks new charms put on;
Now the last mystery of Love she knows,
We sigh, and kiss: I waked, and all was done.
`Twas but a dream, yet by my heart I knew,
Which still was panting, part of it was true:
Oh how I strove the rest to have believed;
Ashamed and angry to be undeceived!
Aphra Behn poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
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