Archive O-P

· Edgar Allan Poe: Dream-Land · If You Love That Lady. Poems by Maya C. Popa · Modern Scots poetry from Len Pennie: ‘Poyums’ & ‘Poyums Annaw’ · Nina Mingya Powles: In the Hollow of the Wave (Poetry) · Anne Provoost: Decem. Ongelegenheidsgedichten voor asielverstrekkers · The Revelation by Coventry Patmore · The Toys by Coventry Patmore · Giosuè Carducci: Petrarca · Christine de Pisan: Seulette suis… · Edgar Allan Poe: The Sleeper · Christine de Pisan: Comme surpris · Christine de Pisan: Belle, ce que j’ay requis

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Edgar Allan Poe: Dream-Land

Dream-Land

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule —
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of Space — out of Time.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters — lone and dead, —
Their still waters — still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead, —
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily, —
By the mountains — near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, —
By the grey woods, — by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp, —
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls, —
By each spot the most unholy —
In each nook most melancholy, —
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past —
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by —
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth — and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion

’Tis a peaceful, soothing region —
For the spirit that walks in shadow
O! it is an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not — dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.

Edgar Allan Poe
(1809—1849)
Dream-Land

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If You Love That Lady. Poems by Maya C. Popa

“One of my generation’s finest poets—a truly peerless voice. . . . An immense book and a searing achievement.” —Ocean Vuong, author of The Emperor of Gladness

The stunning third collection from award-winning poet Maya C. Popa dramatizes the paradox of correspondence: the private worlds shaped by the act of writing, and the charged silences that follow.

Drawing from nineteenth-century courtship letters, the collection lingers in the rush of love and its fallout: “Happiness was no small thing, / but neither was its cost.” Delivered with piercing elegance and signature wit—“What a formidable excuse he was. / What a pair of borrowed eyes / with a side of Keats”—these poems remind us that our appetites, like poetry, depend on revelation and restraint alike.

Set in America, England, and Romania, these poems are part elegy to the passing of impossible things, part ars poetica of remaking. If You Love That Lady explores the inventive, relentless drive of longing, proving that what breaks us open at last reveals us to ourselves.

From “Dark Matter”:
Desire’s what’s the matter
with our lives, a sea parting
to reveal another sea.
Its command renews,
swells and beckons:
you’d be a fool not to love
until the last second.

Maya C. Popa is the author of If You Love That Lady, forthcoming from W.W. Norton and Picador in 2026. Her previous collections include Wound is the Origin of Wonder (W.W. Norton 2022; Picador 2023), named one of the Guardian’s Best Books of Poetry. American Faith (Sarabande 2019) was runner-up in the Kathryn A. Morton Prize judged by Ocean Vuong and was awarded the North American Book Prize in 2020. She has received awards from the Poetry Foundation and the Oxford Poetry Society among others. Popa holds a PhD on the role of wonder in poetry from Goldsmiths, University of London, where she was a recipient of a department bursary for exceptional merit, and previous degrees from Oxford University, NYU, and Barnard College. Maya is the Poetry Reviews Editor at Publishers Weekly and is the founder of Conscious Writers Collective, where she teaches and oversees all literary programming for poets and prose writers.

If You Love That Lady.
Poems
Author: Maya C. Popa
English
Available for Sale: 14/07/2026
Hardcover
Price €34,00
ISBN 978-1-324-12456-6
80 pages
Publ.: W.W. Norton and Picador

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Modern Scots poetry from Len Pennie: ‘Poyums’ & ‘Poyums Annaw’

From Len Pennie, the performance poet sensation, come electric debut collections about loving, learning, surviving, growing and giving – an instant Sunday Times bestseller in two poetry books of modern Scots poetry: ‘Poyums'(2024) & ‘Poyums Annaw'(2025).

‘Poyums’
by Len Pennie
Publisher : ‎ Canongate Books
Publication date: ‎ April 23, 2024
Edition: ‎ Main
Language: ‎ English
Print length: ‎ 128 pages
ISBN-10: ‎1805301381
ISBN-13: ‎978-1805301387
Hardcover
11,99 Euro

A formidable follow up to her award-winning debut poetry collection, Len Pennie‘s poyums annaw is just like her: defiant, angry and trailblazing.

These poems are a call to arms, confronting ideas of patriarchy, gender-based violence and societal injustice with equal parts tenderness, quick-wit and righteous fury. poyums annaw firmly cements Len as a defining voice in contemporary Scots poetry.

‘Poyums Annaw’
by Len Pennie (Author)
Publisher: ‎ Canongate Books
Publication date: ‎September 30, 2025
Edition: ‎Main
Language: ‎ English
Print length ‏ : ‎ 144 pages
ISBN-10: ‎1837263280
ISBN-13: ‎978-1837263288
Hardcover
21,99 Euro

Len Pennie (1999) is an award winning poet who writes predominantly in the Scots language. Her first book poyums won 2024 Scots book of the year and The British Book Awards Discover Book of the Year. She writes passionately about the promotion of minoritised languages, survivors of domestic abuse and the destigmatisation of mental illness. She has a massive following on social media of nearly 1.3 million engaged followers and her celebrity fans include Nigella Lawson and Michael Sheen.
Instagram & TikTok @misspunnypennie | Twitter @Lenniesaurus

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Nina Mingya Powles: In the Hollow of the Wave (Poetry)

Women Poet’s Prize and Nan Shepherd Prize winner: Nina Mingya Powles publishes a much-anticipated second collection in July 2025

– In the Hollow of the Wave examines Orientalism, art and artmaking in a time of ecological crisis in distinctive poems that are elemental and tactile, shaped by memory and landscapes of the body.

Powles’ debut poetry collection, Magnolia, was shortlisted for the Forward Prize for Best First Collection and the Ondaatje Prize.

Nina Mingya Powles (born 1993) is a New Zealand poet and essayist. Born in Wellington, Powles has spent time living in Shanghai and London.

Her poetry and essay collections are inspired by nature and her Chinese – Malaysian heritage, and she has received a number of notable awards including the inaugural Women Poets’ Prize in 2018.

In the Hollow of the Wave (Poems)
by Nina Mingya Powles
Nine Arches Press
ISBN: 9781916760226
Publication date: 24th July 2025
Format: Paperback
72 pp
ISBN: 9781916760226
Price: £11.99

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Anne Provoost: Decem. Ongelegenheidsgedichten voor asielverstrekkers

Een jongeman meent zich alles nog te herinneren: hij stapte in een bootje op zoek naar een land met een tandarts, zijn vrouw bleef in het water achter en werd door vissers begraven, en er was ook nog ergens een kind.

Door de shock verliest hij het zicht op de gebeurtenissen, maar zijn verblijfsvergunning hangt af van hoe geloofwaardig zijn rouw klinkt.

In een reeks ongelegenheidsgedichten veegt hij zijn ondervragers met cynische precisie de mantel uit.

Decem
Ongelegenheidsgedichten voor asielverstrekkers
Auteur: Anne Provoost
Poëzie
Bindwijze: Paperback
80 pagina’s
Druk 1e
Taal: Nederlands
Uitgeverij: Querido
NUR: 306
Paperback
ISBN: 9789025317836
Publicatiedatum: 26-09-2024
Prijs: € 20,00

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The Revelation by Coventry Patmore

The Revelation

An idle poet, here and there,
Looks round him; but, for all the rest,
The world, unfathomably fair,
Is duller than a witling’s jest.
Love wakes men, once a lifetime each;
They lift their heavy lids, and look;
And, lo, what one sweet page can teach,
They read with joy, then shut the book.
And some give thanks, and some blaspheme
And most forget; but, either way,
That and the Child’s unheeded dream
Is all the light of all their day.

Coventry Patmore
1823–1896
The Revelation

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The Toys by Coventry Patmore

The Toys

My little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey’d,
I struck him, and dismiss’d
With hard words and unkiss’d,
His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken’d eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein’d stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray’d
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
“I will be sorry for their childishness.”

Coventry Patmore
(1823–1896)
The Toys

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Giosuè Carducci: Petrarca

Petrarca

If far from turbid thoughts and gloomy mood
Some smiling day should see my wish fulfilled
Where breathe the vales with gentle brooks enrilled
The soft air of my Tuscan neighbourhood,
There, where is heard no more the garrulous brood
Of thoughtless minds, in deep oblivion stilled,
Would I to thee my heart’s pure altar build
In the green blackness of the tangled wood.

There with the dying splendours of the sun
Thy song should glow amid the flowers springing
On breezy banks where whispering streams do run;
As if, still sweeter sounds and odours flinging
Upward to heaven when the day is done,
A nightingale from bough to bough were singing.

Giosuè Carducci
(1835 – 1907)
Petrarca

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Christine de Pisan: Seulette suis…

Seulette suis…

Seulette suis, et seulette veux être,
Seulette m’a mon doux ami laissée.
Seulette suis, sans compagnon ni maître,
Seulette suis, dolente et courroucée,
Seulette suis, en langueur malaisée,
Seulette suis, plus que nulle égarée,
Seulette suis, sans ami demeurée.

Seulette suis, à huis ou à fenêtre,
Seulette suis, en un anglet muciée,
Seulette suis, pour moi de pleurs repaître,
Seulette suis, dolente ou apaisée,
Seulette suis, rien qui tant messiée,
Seulette suis, en ma chambre enserrée,
Seulette suis, sans ami demeurée.

Seulette suis, partout et en tout aître,
Seulette suis, que je marche ou je siée,
Seulette suis, plus qu’autre rien terrestre,
Seulette suis, de chacun délaissée,
Seulette suis, durement abaissée,
Seulette suis, souvent toute éplorée,
Seulette suis, sans ami demeurée.

Princes, or est ma douleur commencée :
Seulette suis, de tout deuil menacée,

Seulette suis, plus teinte que morée,
Seulette suis, sans ami demeurée.

Christine de Pisan
(1364/1365 – 1430)
Seulette suis…
Poéme

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Edgar Allan Poe: The Sleeper

The Sleeper

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringéd lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And wingéd pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals—

Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portals she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

Edgar Allan Poe
(1809 – 1849)
The Sleeper

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