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Archive O-P

· Wilfred Owen: Strange Meeting (Poem) · Fernando Pessoa: Een spoor van mezelf. Een keuze uit de orthonieme gedichten · Eerste Grote Poëzieprijs voor Radna Fabias · Thierry Laget: Proust, prix Goncourt. Une émeute littéraire · Luigi Pirandello: One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand · Wilfred Owen: Anthem for Doomed Youth (Poem) · Laure (Colette Peignot): Ils craignent · Wilfred Owen: Arms and the Boy (Poem) · Wilfred Owen: A Terre (Poem) · Wilfred Owen poetry: The End · The Unknown Poe. An Anthology of Fugitive Writings by Edgar Allan Poe · Armistice of 11 November 1918/2018 – Wilfred Owen: Dulce et Decorum Est (Poem)

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Wilfred Owen: Strange Meeting (Poem)

    

Strange Meeting

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand fears that vision’s face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

“I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now. . . .”

Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
Strange Meeting (Poem)

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Fernando Pessoa: Een spoor van mezelf. Een keuze uit de orthonieme gedichten

Het Portugese woord pessoa komt van het Latijnse persona, dat zowel ‘mens’ als ‘masker’ betekent.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is pessoa-spoor.jpegPrecies daar moeten we Fernando Pessoa plaatsen, in de wereld van schijn, vermomming, spel, fictie. Hij vergelijkt zichzelf met een podium waarop allerlei acteurs rondlopen.

Zijn bekendste heteroniemen zijn Bernardo Soares (schrijver van het Boek der rusteloosheid) en de dichters Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis en Álvaro de Campos. Pessoa heeft echter ook onder zijn eigen naam gedichten geschreven. Van dat orthonieme werk zag maar weinig het licht tijdens zijn leven.

Pas lang na zijn dood werden alle losse orthonieme gedichten bijeengebracht in drie delen van elk ruim vijfhonderd bladzijden.

Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935) was een groot Portugees dichter. Bij leven publiceerde deze kantoorklerk uit Lissabon slechts enkele werken. Na zijn dood werd op zijn huurkamer een kist aangetroffen met 27 duizend vol gekrabbelde velletjes. Uit die chaos kon een kolossaal oeuvre worden samengesteld. Niet dat van één dichter, maar van zo’n 25 ‘heteroniemen’ – afzonderlijke ‘schrijverspersoonlijkheden’ met elk een eigen stijl en woordkeus. Pessoa stierf op 47-jarige leeftijd, hij dronk zich dood.

De Arbeiderspers heeft de exclusieve vertaalrechten op zijn oeuvre. August Willemsen (1936-2007) vertaalde het leeuwendeel daarvan en schreef als introductie op de Pessoa-bibliotheek: Het ik als vreemde.

Auteur: Fernando Pessoa
Een spoor van mezelf.
Een keuze uit de orthonieme gedichten
Vertaler: Harrie Lemmens
Nederlands
Uitgeverij: De Arbeiderspers
NUR: 306
Poëzie
Paperback
296 pagina’s
ISBN: 9789029526456
Prijs: € 24,99
Publicatiedatum: 04-06-2019

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Eerste Grote Poëzieprijs voor Radna Fabias

Met haar succesdebuut Habitus wint Radna Fabias na de C. Buddingh’-prijs 2018 en de Awater Poëzieprijs en Herman De Coninckprijs 2019 óók deze eerste editie van De Grote Poëzieprijs.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is grote-poe-prijs19.jpg

De prijs, € 25.000,- voor de beste Nederlandstalige bundel van het jaar, werd op de slotdag van het gouden Poetry International Festival uitgereikt samen met de C. Buddingh’-prijs, die naar Roberta Petzoldt ging, voor haar debuut Vruchtwatervuurlinie’. Habitus is daarmee zonder meer de meest prijswinnende debuutbundel ooit.

Ook werden op het festival prijzen uitgereikt door jongeren, een initiatief van School der Poëzie.

De School der Poëzie-Communityprijs ging naar Ted van Lieshout voor Ze gaan er met je neus vandoor,

Roelof ten Napel kreeg de Jongerenprijs voor Het woedeboek waarmee hij ook kans maakte op De Grote Poëzieprijs én de C. Buddingh’-prijs. Met het uitreikingsprogramma ‘Prijs de poëzie!’ sloot Poetry International het gouden jubileumfestival even feestelijk af als dat het begon.

De Grote Poëzieprijs voor Radna Fabias

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is fabias.jpgDe Grote Poëzieprijs is dé prijs voor Nederlandstalige poëzie en bekroont de beste Nederlandstalige bundel van het jaar met € 25.000,-.

De jury van De Grote Poëzieprijs 2019 kreeg 150 bundels ter lezing en nomineerde er niet vijf maar zes, vanwege het hoge aantal inzendingen, de verlengde periode waarover werd gejureerd en de aangetroffen kwaliteit.

Opnieuw gaat de hoofdprijs dus naar Radna Fabias: “Fabias graaft net zo lang in wat bedenkelijk is – waarbij ze ook zichzelf niet spaart – totdat de complexiteit van een probleem zich openbaart.

Dit maakt dat Habitus (Arbeiderspers) deelneemt aan het ‘gesprek van de dag’, maar tegelijk – en belangrijker – dat de bundel er ook een krachtig tegengif tegen is.

Niets is eenvoudig in deze bundel, niets is op te lossen met een paar slimme oneliners of standpunten. Fabias maakt het persoonlijke politiek en het politieke persoonlijk,” oordeelde de jury.

De C. Buddingh’-prijs voor Roberta Petzoldt

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is Vruchtwatervuurl.jpegDe prijs voor beste Nederlandstalige poëziedebuut – jaarlijks uitgereikt op het Poetry International Festival – gaat dit jaar naar Roberta Petzoldt.

Haar debuut Vruchtwatervuurlinie (Van Oorschot) gaat over verlies en is strijdbaar, humoristisch, prikkelend en fel maar boven alles een rigoureus allerindividueelst onderzoek waarbij de dichter, sneller dan de eigen schaduw, de poëzie zelf op de staart probeert te trappen of ‘zonder vliegtuig de wolken raken / bewegen door / een getraind gevoel voor humor / en een eenzame logica’.

Op intieme wijze creëert de dichter een verrassend nieuw poëtisch universum, wat weergaloze gedichten en tijdloze regels oplevert: ‘ik weet dat mensen op hun honden lijken, maar jij / lijkt op de hond van iemand anders’”, aldus de jury.

Jongerenprijzen bij De Grote Poëzieprijs

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is lieshout.pngSchool der Poëzie reikte op de slotavond van Poetry International twee prijzen uit namens de Poëzie Community en namens scholieren uit Nederland en Vlaanderen.

De Poëzie Community van School der Poëzie koos unaniem voor Ze gaan er met je neus vandoor (Leopold) van Ted van Lieshout, omdat het “een avontuur was om te lezen.” Jongeren van scholen uit Antwerpen, Amsterdam, Rotterdam en Gent namen deel aan workshops van School der Poëzie en lieten zich inspireren door de gedichten van de zes genomineerden. Zij kenden hun Jongerenprijs toe aan Roelof ten Napel voor Het woedeboek (Hollands Diep) “omdat het over woede gaat én over liefde.”

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is woedeboek-napel.jpegDe jury van De Grote Poëzieprijs bestond uit Joost Baars, Yra van Dijk, Adriaan van Dis, Cindy Kerseborn en Maud Vanhauwaert.

Zij nomineerden naast Habitus van Radna Fabias ook Nachtboot van Maria Barnas, Stalker van Joost Decorte, Het woedeboek van Roelof ten Napel, Genadeklap van Willem Jan Otten en Onze kinderjaren van Xavier Roelens. De jury van de C. Buddingh’-prijs bestond uit Els Moors, Tsead Bruinja en Kila van der Starre. Zij nomineerden ook Obelisque van Obe Alkema, Dwaallichten van Gerda Blees en Het woedeboek van Roelof ten Napel.

Eerste Grote Poëzieprijs voor Radna Fabias
Roberta Petzoldt wint ‘de Buddingh’
Jongerenprijzen voor Ted van Lieshout en Roelof ten Napel

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Thierry Laget: Proust, prix Goncourt. Une émeute littéraire

10 décembre 1919: le prix Goncourt est attribué à Marcel Proust pour À l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs.

Aussitôt éclate un tonnerre de protestations : anciens combattants, pacifistes, réactionnaires, révolutionnaires, chacun se sent insulté par un livre qui, ressuscitant le temps perdu, semble dédaigner le temps présent.

Pendant des semaines, Proust est vilipendé dans la presse, brocardé, injurié, menacé. Son tort? Ne plus être jeune, être riche, ne pas avoir fait la guerre, ne pas raconter la vie dans les tranchées.

Retraçant l’histoire du prix et les manœuvres en vue de son attribution à Proust, s’appuyant sur des documents inédits, dont il dévoile nombre d’extraits savoureux, Thierry Laget fait le récit d’un événement inouï – cette partie de chamboule-tout qui a déplacé le pôle magnétique de la littérature – et de l’émeute dont il a donné le signal.


Thierry Laget
Proust, prix Goncourt. Une émeute littéraire
Collection Blanche, Gallimard
Parution : 04-04-2019
272 pages
140 x 205 mm
ISBN : 9782072846786
Genre : Essais
Prix €19,50

# new books
Thierry Laget
Proust
prix Goncourt

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Luigi Pirandello: One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand

Luigi Pirandello’s extraordinary final novel begins when Vitangelo Moscarda’s wife remarks that Vitangelo’s nose tilts to the right.

This commonplace interaction spurs the novel’s unemployed, wealthy narrator to examine himself, the way he perceives others, and the ways that others perceive him.

At first he only notices small differences in how he sees himself and how others do; but his self-examination quickly becomes relentless, dizzying, leading to often darkly comic results as Vitangelo decides that he must demolish that version of himself that others see.

Pirandello said of his 1926 novel that it “deals with the disintegration of the personality. It arrives at the most extreme conclusions, the farthest consequences.” Indeed, its unnerving humor and existential dissection of modern identity find counterparts in Samuel Beckett’s Molloy trilogy and the works of Thomas Bernhard and Vladimir Nabokov.

Luigi Pirandello (1867-1936) was an Italian author, who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1934 for his “bold and brilliant renovation of the drama and the stage.” Pirandello’s works include novels, hundreds of short stories, and plays. Pirandello’s plays are often seen as forerunners for the theatre of the absurd.

One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand
Luigi Pirandello
Translated by William Weaver
Publisher Spurl Editions
Format Paperback
218 pages
ISBN-10 194367907X
ISBN-13 9781943679072
2018
$18.00

# new books
Title One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand
Author Luigi Pirandello
Translated by William Weaver

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Wilfred Owen: Anthem for Doomed Youth (Poem)

      

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
Anthem for Doomed Youth (Poem)

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Laure (Colette Peignot): Ils craignent

 

Ils craignent

Peu savent qu’à se détourner
ils retrouveraient le sel de la vie

A se détourner ils craindraient
de se voir transformer en statue de sel.

Peu savent qu’à se détourner de droit chemin
ils retrouveraient le goût.

 

Laure
(Colette Peignot 1903 – 1938)
Ils craignent

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Wilfred Owen: Arms and the Boy (Poem)

      

Arms and the Boy

Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
Blue with all malice, like a madman’s flash;
And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.

Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-leads,
Which long to nuzzle in the hearts of lads,
Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth
Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.

For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.
There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;
And God will grow no talons at his heels,
Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls.

Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
Arms and the Boy (Poem)

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Wilfred Owen: A Terre (Poem)

      

A Terre

(Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.)

Sit on the bed; I’m blind, and three parts shell.
Be careful; can’t shake hands now; never shall.
Both arms have mutinied against me,—brutes.
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.

I tried to peg out soldierly,—no use!
One dies of war like any old disease.
This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes.
I have my medals?—Discs to make eyes close.
My glorious ribbons?—Ripped from my own back
In scarlet shreds. (That’s for your poetry book.)

A short life and a merry one, my buck!
We used to say we’d hate to live dead-old,—
Yet now … I’d willingly be puffy, bald,
And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys
At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose
Little I’d ever teach a son, but hitting,
Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.
Well, that’s what I learnt,—that, and making money.

Your fifty years ahead seem none too many?
Tell me how long I’ve got? God! For one year
To help myself to nothing more than air!
One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?
Spring wind would work its own way to my lung,
And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.

My servant’s lamed, but listen how he shouts!
When I’m lugged out, he’ll still be good for that.
Here in this mummy-case, you know, I’ve thought
How well I might have swept his floors for ever.
I’d ask no night off when the bustle’s over,
Enjoying so the dirt. Who’s prejudiced
Against a grimed hand when his own’s quite dust,
Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,
Less warm than dust that mixes with arms’ tan?
I’d love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?

O Life, Life, let me breathe,—a dug-out rat!
Not worse than ours the lives rats lead—
Nosing along at night down some safe rut,
They find a shell-proof home before they rot.
Dead men may envy living mites in cheese,
Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys,
And subdivide, and never come to death.
Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.
“I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone,”
Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned:
The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now.
“Pushing up daisies,” is their creed, you know.

To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap,
For all the usefulness there is in soap.
D’you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?
Some day, no doubt, if …
Friend, be very sure
I shall be better off with plants that share
More peaceably the meadow and the shower.
Soft rains will touch me,— as they could touch once,
And nothing but the sun shall make me ware.
Your guns may crash around me. I’ll not hear;
Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince.

Don’t take my soul’s poor comfort for your jest.
Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds,
But here the thing’s best left at home with friends.

My soul’s a little grief, grappling your chest,
To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased
On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.

Carry my crying spirit till it’s weaned
To do without what blood remained these wounds.

Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
A Terre (Poem)

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Wilfred Owen poetry: The End

  

The End

After the blast of lightning from the east,
The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot Throne;
After the drums of time have rolled and ceased,
And by the bronze west long retreat is blown,

Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth
All death will he annul, all tears assuage?-
Or fill these void veins full again with youth,
And wash, with an immortal water, Age?

When I do ask white Age he saith not so:
‘My head hangs weighed with snow.’
And when I hearken to the Earth, she saith:

‘My fiery heart shrinks, aching. It is death.
Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified,
Nor my titanic tears, the seas, be dried.’

Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
The End

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The Unknown Poe. An Anthology of Fugitive Writings by Edgar Allan Poe

An indispensable anthology of brilliant hard-to-find writings by Poe on poetry, the imagination, humor, and the sublime which adds a new dimension to his stature as a speculative thinker and philosopher. Essays (in translation) by Charles Baudelaire, Stéphane Mallarmé, Paul Valéry, & André Breton shed light on Poe’s relevance within European literary tradition.

These are the arcana of Edgar Allan Poe: writings on wit, humor, dreams, drunkenness, genius, madness, and apocalypse. Here is the mind of Poe at its most colorful, its most incisive, and its most exceptional.

Edgar Allan Poe’s dark, melodic poems and tales of terror and detection are known to readers everywhere, but few are familiar with his cogent literary criticism, or his speculative thinking in science, psychology or philosophy. This book is an attempt to present his lesser known, out of print, or hard to find writings in a single volume, with emphasis on the theoretical and esoteric. The second part, “The Friend View,” includes seminal essays by Poe’s famous admirers in France, clarifying his international literary importance.

America has never seen such a personage as Edgar Allan Poe. He is a figure who appears once an epoch, before passing into myth. American critics from Henry James to T. S. Eliot have disparaged and attempted to explain away his influence to no end, save to perpetuate his fame. Even the disdainful Eliot once conceded, “and yet one cannot be sure that one’s own writing has not been influence by Poe.”

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), born in Boston, Massachusetts, was an American poet, writer, editor, and literary critic. He is well known for his haunting poetry and mysterious short stories. Regarded as being a central figure of Romanticism, he is also considered the inventor of detective fiction and the growing science fiction genre. Some of his most famous works include poems such as The Raven, Annabel Lee, and A Dream Within a Dream; tales such as The Cask of Amontillado, The Masque of Red Death, and The Tell-Tale Heart.

Title: The Unknown Poe
Subtitle: An Anthology of Fugitive Writings
Author: Edgar Allan Poe
Edited by Raymond Foye
Publisher: City Lights Publishers
Format: Paperback
124 pages
1980
ISBN-10 0872861104
ISBN-13 9780872861107
List Price $11.95

# American writers
Edgar Allan Poe
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Armistice of 11 November 1918/2018 – Wilfred Owen: Dulce et Decorum Est (Poem)

      

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
Dulce et Decorum Est (Poem)
# Armistice of 11 November 1918 – 2018

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