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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
Mark Akenside
(1721 – 1770)
Hymn To Science
Science! thou fair effusive ray
From the great source of mental day,
Free, generous, and refin’d!
Descend with all thy treasures fraught,
Illumine each bewilder’d thought,
And bless my lab’ring mind.
But first with thy resistless light,
Disperse those phantoms from my sight,
Those mimic shades of thee;
The scholiast’s learning, sophist’s cant,
The visionary bigot’s rant,
The monk’s philosophy.
O! let thy powerful charms impart
The patient head, the candid heart,
Devoted to thy sway;
Which no weak passions e’er mislead,
Which still with dauntless steps proceed
Where Reason points the way.
Give me to learn each secret cause;
Let number’s, figure’s, motion’s laws
Reveal’d before me stand;
These to great Nature’s scenes apply,
And round the globe, and thro’ the sky,
Disclose her working hand.
Next, to thy nobler search resign’d,
The busy, restless, human mind
Thro’ ev’ry maze pursue;
Detect Perception where it lies,
Catch the ideas as they rise,
And all their changes view.
Say from what simple springs began
The vast, ambitious thoughts of man,
Which range beyond control;
Which seek Eternity to trace,
Dive thro’ th’ infinity of space,
And strain to grasp the whole.
Her secret stores let Memory tell,
Bid Fancy quit her fairy cell,
In all her colours drest;
While prompt her sallies to control,
Reason, the judge, recalls the soul
To Truth’s severest test.
Then launch thro’ Being’s wide extent;
Let the fair scale, with just ascent,
And cautious steps, be trod;
And from the dead, corporeal mass,
Thro’ each progressive order pass
To Instinct, Reason, God.
There, Science! veil thy daring eye;
Nor dive too deep, nor soar too high,
In that divine abyss;
To Faith content thy beams to lend,
Her hopes t’ assure, her steps befriend,
And light her way to bliss.
Then downwards take thy flight agen;
Mix with the policies of men,
And social nature’s ties:
The plan, the genius of each state,
Its interest and its pow’rs relate,
Its fortunes and its rise.
Thro’ private life pursue thy course,
Trace every action to its source,
And means and motives weigh:
Put tempers, passions in the scale,
Mark what degrees in each prevail,
And fix the doubtful sway.
That last, best effort of thy skill,
To form the life, and rule the will,
Propitious pow’r! impart:
Teach me to cool my passion’s fires,
Make me the judge of my desires,
The master of my heart.
Raise me above the vulgar’s breath,
Pursuit of fortune, fear of death,
And all in life that’s mean.
Still true to reason be my plan,
Still let my action speak the man,
Thro’ every various scene.
Hail! queen of manners, light of truth;
Hail! charm of age, and guide of youth;
Sweet refuge of distress:
In business, thou! exact, polite;
Thou giv’st Retirement its delight,
Prosperity its grace.
Of wealth, pow’r, freedom, thou! the cause;
Foundress of order, cities, laws,
Of arts inventress, thou!
Without thee what were human kind?
How vast their wants, their thoughts how blind!
Their joys how mean! how few!
Sun of the soul! thy beams unveil!
Let others spread the daring sail,
On Fortune’s faithless sea;
While undeluded, happier I
From the vain tumult timely fly,
And sit in peace with thee.
Mark Akenside poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY
26 juni 2015 – Martin Beversluis wordt de nieuwe Stadsdichter van Tilburg. De officiële installatie is op 30 augustus tijdens Boeken rond het Paleis.
Martin Beversluis is voorgedragen door de stadsdichterscommissie (die bestaat uit Ingrid Luycks, Ingrid Ramaan, Jef van Kempen en Wilbert van Herwijnen). Het college heeft deze voordracht overgenomen.
Tilburg heeft sinds 2003 een stadsdichter. Om de 2 jaar benoemt het college een nieuwe dichter. Op dit moment is Jasper Mikkers stadsdichter. Hij neemt op 30 augustus afscheid. Eerder waren JACE van de Ven, Nick J. Swarth, Frank van Pamelen, Cees van Raak en Esther Porcelijn stadsdichter van Tilburg.
Wethouder Marcelle Hendrickx: “Martin Beversluis is een gedreven dichter die ook echt het podium durft te pakken. Hij legt mooie en verrassende verbindingen met muziek. En dat past uitstekend bij een stad die zich juist met podiumkunsten wil profileren.”
Moeder
Het zal zo tussen
Twee en half drie
Geweest zijn toen
Moeder opeens een
Zucht slaakte en zich
Afvroeg waar de echte
Wereld eindigde en
Haar kaartspel begon
Zij speelt in haar eentje
Patience speelt patience
In haar eentje op de veranda
Zij vindt eerder herinneringen
dan troost in het spel haar
Glanzende lippen lispelen af en
Toe een woord als kutkaarten
Godver weer niet of mooi maar
Dan spottend ook het zonlicht
kan haar niet raken als zij daar
niet zelf om gevraagd heeft.
De kaarten schudt moeder
Met een onvaste hand
Benieuwd welke kaart
Openvalt of verborgen
Blijft aangevallen door
Vliegen en muggen verdedigd
Door een eenzame mot
Dan tekent ze haar kinderen
Een handzaam vermaak
Het houdt de sleur weg
Het vastleggen haalt de
sleur weg de kaarten
Verdrijven moeder’s
Stemming naar buiten
De oeroude wetten van
Tevredenheid tot huilt
van godweetwaar en wie
Vermoedt of viert dat wat
Binnenin haar schuilt?
Martin Beversluis (Vlaardingen, 1972) debuteerde in 1995 met de bundel ‘De Zeisloper’. Als dichter speelde hij in de band Listening Principles en werkte hij samen met kunstenaar John Dohmen. Uit deze samenwerking ontstonden de bundels ‘Rijpen onder invloed’ (2005) en ‘Blauw van jou’ (2007). Sinds 2007 maakt Beversluis furore als slamdichter. In 2009 stond hij in de finale van het Nederlands Kampioenschap Poetry Slam, in 2011 wist hij de halve finale te bereiken. In datzelfde jaar presenteerde Beversluis zijn zevende bundel ‘Talisman’. Een jaar later zag de minibundel ‘Tijdreis’ het licht. Wegens zijn twintigjarig dichterschap verscheen in januari 2015 zijn jubileumbundel ‘De liefde begonnen’. Behalve als deelnemer is Beversluis ook actief als organisator van Poetry Slams, zoals het Tilburgse Podiumvlees Poetry Slam in samenwerking met Daan Taks.
# Meer gedichten van Martin Beversluis op deze website: fleursdumal.nl magazine
# Meer informatie over Martin Beversluis op zijn website: beversluis.com
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Beversluis, Martin, City Poets / Stadsdichters
Robert Bridges
(1844 – 1930)
Melancholia
The sickness of desire, that in dark days
Looks on the imagination of despair,
Forgetteth man, and stinteth God his praise;
Nor but in sleep findeth a cure for care.
Incertainty that once gave scope to dream
Of laughing enterprise and glory untold,
Is now a blackness that no stars redeem,
A wall of terror in a night of cold.
Fool! thou that hast impossibly desired
And now impatiently despairest, see
How nought is changed: Joy’s wisdom is attired
Splended for others’ eyes if not for thee:
Not love or beauty or youth from earth is fled:
If they delite thee not, ’tis thou art dead.
Robert Bridges poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Bridges, Robert
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