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In een prachtig parlando, dat schatplichtig is aan de oude Perzische dichters, dicht Sholeh Rezazadeh in Neem ruim zei de zee over de kracht van de natuur en de onmogelijkheid om de ander te kennen.
In haar eerste dichtbundel komen we vertrouwde elementen tegen die ze ook in haar twee lovend ontvangen romans veelvuldig verwerkte: rivieren en zeeën, bomen en bergen, vissen, vogels en vlinders.
Net als in haar romans is de natuur geen achtergrond maar een echt personage, dat ziet en voelt, dat liefheeft en vergeet. De mens zelf is een feilbaar wezen dat wanhopig zoekt naar liefde en verbinding maar zich ook verbaast over het gebrek aan aandacht voor de ander.
Sholeh Rezazadeh (1989) verhuisde in 2015 naar Nederland en begon direct met het leren van de Nederlandse taal. Haar debuutbundel Neem ruim zei de zee kwam in 2024 uit en markeerde niet alleen haar poëtische entree in Nederland maar ook het begin van haar bredere missie: meer poëzie in Nederland. Rezazadeh weet dat poëzie verbindende kracht heeft, iets wat zij tijdens haar leven in Iran heeft ervaren. Poëzie is daar in de spreektaal vervlochten zoals spreekwoorden in het Nederlands.
in welke taal zal ik je woorden geven
zodat we elkaar opnieuw kunnen vinden
in welke blik, welke stilte
gaan we elkaar weer verstaan?
in welke regel moet ik het stotteren van de zon uitleggen
laag na laag, wolk na wolk
als we van elkaar slechts schaduwen herkennen
in welke taal kan ik je omarmen
zodat je blijft
( . . . )
Uit: boekenweekgedicht (cpnb 2025)
Titel: Neem ruim zei de zee.
Gedichten
Auteur: Sholeh Rezazadeh
Taal: Nederlands
ISBN 9789026371554
Genre: Poëzie
Bindwijze: Gebonden
Verschenen: 17-03-2025
72 pagina’s
5e Druk
Uitgever Ambo|Anthos
20,99 euro
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Fierce, frank, witty poetry about cancer diagnosis, treatment, remission, and end-of-life
Written in the last three years of her life, Andrea Werblin Reid‘s To See Yourself As You Vanish is a collection of unsparingly brave and insightful poems about her experience with ovarian cancer. Frank, fierce, and witty, her work does not hide behind cliches, platitudes, or tropes, but addresses the hopes, frustrations, fears, and longings that would be easy to leave unspoken.
She offers friendship and understanding to those who share her experiences and powerful insights for caregivers and those who work in oncology, hospice, research, and psychology. Of these poems, Reid herself said: “I have struggled with the implications of war metaphors and the perspectives they perpetuate since receiving my own cancer diagnosis.
People living with cancer and other chronic illnesses are not taking up arms, they are living as long and as humanely as possible: not to win or lose, simply to live.” The scenes in these poems are rich and spare, magical and sane, awful and special: “one bird comes to the end of his branch looking like a clever moustache. /one bird comes to the end of his song like an ordinary bird.”
ANDREA WERBLIN REID (1965–2022) is the author of Lullaby for One Fist (Wesleyan, 2001) and Sunday with the Sound Turned Off (Lost Horse, 2014). Her poem “Language is the Virus” was named a finalist for the prestigious Perkoff Prize from the Missouri Review and her work has been published in the LA Review of Books, Virginia Quarterly Review, Massachusetts Review, Brooklyn Rail, Pank, Smartish Pace, and more.
THE COLOR OF WAITING
is hypnotic pink, under whose spell
you’ve been living for years
like a small fossilized creature.
or magenta, a bruise
that evolves,
(. . .)
then sharp as the serrated smiles
doctors have been honing for years.
waiting masquerades as the inflatable idea
of hope, waterproofed for safety, maybe,
devoid of vision, punctured that easily
To See Yourself as You Vanish
poetry by
Andrea Werblin Reid
Series: Wesleyan Poetry Series
Sales Date: 09-09-2025 !
88 Pages
Hardcover
ISBN 9780819502070
$26.95
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Bannières de mai
Aux branches claires des tilleuls
Meurt un maladif hallali.
Mais des chansons spirituelles
Voltigent parmi les groseilles.
Que notre sang rie en nos veines,
Voici s’enchevêtrer les vignes.
Le ciel est joli comme un ange.
L’azur et l’onde communient.
Je sors. Si un rayon me blesse
Je succomberai sur la mousse.
Qu’on patiente et qu’on s’ennuie
C’est trop simple. Fi de mes peines.
je veux que l’été dramatique
Me lie à son char de fortunes
Que par toi beaucoup, ô Nature,
– Ah moins seul et moins nul ! – je meure.
Au lieu que les Bergers, c’est drôle,
Meurent à peu près par le monde.
Je veux bien que les saisons m’usent.
A toi, Nature, je me rends ;
Et ma faim et toute ma soif.
Et, s’il te plaît, nourris, abreuve.
Rien de rien ne m’illusionne ;
C’est rire aux parents, qu’au soleil,
Mais moi je ne veux rire à rien ;
Et libre soit cette infortune.
Arthur Rimbaud
(1854 – 1891)
Bannières de mai
Derniers vers
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Insomnia
Thin are the night-skirts left behind
By daybreak hours that onward creep,
And thin, alas! the shred of sleep
That wavers with the spirit’s wind:
But in half-dreams that shift and roll
And still remember and forget,
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.
Our lives, most dear, are never near,
Our thoughts are never far apart,
Though all that draws us heart to heart
Seems fainter now and now more clear.
To-night Love claims his full control,
And with desire and with regret
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.
Is there a home where heavy earth
Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,
Where water leaves no thirst again
And springing fire is Love’s new birth?
If faith long bound to one true goal
May there at length its hope beget,
My soul that hour shall draw your soul
For ever nearer yet.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
(1828 – 1882)
Insomnia
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Départ
Assez vu. La vision s’est rencontrée à tous les airs.
Assez eu. Rumeurs des villes, le soir, et au soleil, et toujours.
Assez connu. Les arrêts de la vie. – Ô Rumeurs et Visions !
Départ dans l’affection et le bruit neufs !
Arthur Rimbaud
(1854 – 1891)
Départ
Illuminations
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La Chambrée de nuit
Rêve
On a faim dans la chambrée –
C’est vrai…
Émanations, explosions. Un génie :
« Je suis le gruère ! » –
Lefêbvre « Keller ! »
Le génie « Je suis le Brie ! » –
Les soldats coupent sur leur pain :
« C’est la vie ! »
Le génie. – « Je suis le Roquefort ! »
– « Ça s’ra not’ mort !… »
Je suis le gruère
Et le Brie !… etc.
Valse
On nous a joints, Lefèbvre et moi, etc.
Arthur Rimbaud
(1854 – 1891)
La Chambrée de nuit
Rêve
Derniers vers
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Thaw
Blow through me wind
As you blow through apple blossoms…
Scatter me in shining petals over the passers-by…
Joyously I reunite… sway and gather to myself…
Sedately I walk by the dancing feet of children—
Not knowing I too dance over the cobbled spring.
O, but they laugh back at me,
(Eyes like daisies smiling wide open),
And we both look askance at the snowed-in people
Thinking me one of them.
Lola Ridge
(1873-1941)
Thaw
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Autumn
I dwell alone – I dwell alone, alone,
Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,
Gilded with flashing boats
That bring no friend to me:
O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,
O love-pangs, let me be.
Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone
And spices bear to sea:
Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,
Love-promising, entreating –
Ah! sweet, but fleeting –
Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.
Hush! the wind flags and fails –
Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand –
Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;
Their songs wake singing echoes in my land –
They cannot hear me moan.
One latest, solitary swallow flies
Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tossed,
Poor bird, shall it be lost?
Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,
With no kind eyes
To watch it while it dies,
Unguessed, uncared for, free:
Set free at last,
The short pang past,
In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.
Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,
Some rent by thunder strokes,
Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze;
Fair fall my fertile trees,
That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.
A spider’s web blocks all mine avenue;
He catches down and foolish painted flies
That spider wary and wise.
Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew
Betwixt boughs green with sap,
So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:
I will not mar the web,
Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.
It shakes – my trees shake – for a wind is roused
In cavern where it housed:
Each white and quivering sail,
Of boats among the water leaves
Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:
Each maiden sings again –
Each languid maiden, whom the calm
Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm
Miles down my river to the sea
They float and wane,
Long miles away from me.
Perhaps they say: ‘She grieves,
Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower.’
Perhaps they say: ‘One hour
More, and we dance among the golden sheaves.’
Perhaps they say: ‘One hour
More, and we stand,
Face to face, hand in hand;
Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!’
My trees are not in flower,
I have no bower,
And gusty creaks my tower,
And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.
Christina Georgina Rossetti
(1830 – 1894)
Autumn
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On the morning of August 12, 2022, Salman Rushdie was standing onstage at the Chautauqua Institution, preparing to give a lecture on the importance of keeping writers safe from harm, when a man in black—black clothes, black mask—rushed down the aisle toward him, wielding a knife. His first thought: So it’s you. Here you are.
What followed was a horrific act of violence that shook the literary world and beyond. Now, for the first time, and in unforgettable detail, Rushdie relives the traumatic events of that day and its aftermath, as well as his journey toward physical recovery and the healing that was made possible by the love and support of his wife, Eliza, his family, his army of doctors and physical therapists, and his community of readers worldwide.
Knife is Rushdie at the peak of his powers, writing with urgency, with gravity, with unflinching honesty. It is also a deeply moving reminder of literature’s capacity to make sense of the unthinkable, an intimate and life-affirming meditation on life, loss, love, art—and finding the strength to stand up again.
#1 NATIONAL BESTSELLER • From Booker Prize winner Salman Rushdie, a searing, deeply personal account of enduring—and surviving—an attempt on his life thirty years after the fatwa that was ordered against him.
Salman Rushdie is the author of fifteen novels—Luka and the Fire of Life; Grimus; Midnight’s Children (for which he won the Booker Prize and the Best of the Booker); Shame; The Satanic Verses; Haroun and the Sea of Stories; The Moor’s Last Sigh; The Ground Beneath Her Feet; Fury; Shalimar the Clown; The Enchantress of Florence; Two Years, Eight Months, and Twenty-Eight Nights; The Golden House; Quichotte (which was shortlisted for the Booker Prize); and Victory City—and one collection of short stories: East, West. He has also published five works of nonfiction—The Jaguar Smile; Imaginary Homelands; Step Across This Line; Joseph Anton; and Languages of Truth—and coedited two anthologies, Mirrorwork and Best American Short Stories 2008. He is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and a Distinguished Writer in Residence at New York University. A former president of PEN American Center, Rushdie was knighted in 2007 for services to literature.
Knife:
Meditations After an Attempted Murder
Author: Salman Rushdie
Publisher: Random House
April 16, 2024
Language: English
Hardcover: 224 pages
Price: $28.00
ISBN-10: 0593730240
ISBN-13: 978-0593730249
Dimensions: 5.73 x 0.91 x 8.53 inches
#1 in Censorship & Politics
#4 in Author Biographies
#60 in Memoirs (Books)
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The Sleeping Beauty
Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile—
Though shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
And move, and breathe delicious sighs!
Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
And mantle o’er her neck of snow:
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish—and fear to know!
She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast:
—And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
A seraph in the realms of rest!
Sleep on secure! Above control
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain within its sanctuary!
Samuel Rogers
(1763 – 1855)
The Sleeping Beauty
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Summer
Winter is cold-hearted
Spring is yea and nay,
Autumn is a weather-cock
Blown every way:
Summer days for me
When every leaf is on its tree;
When Robin’s not a beggar,
And Jenny Wren’s a bride,
And larks hang singing, singing, singing,
Over the wheat-fields wide,
And anchored lilies ride,
And the pendulum spider
Swings from side to side,
And blue-black beetles transact business,
And gnats fly in a host,
And furry caterpillars hasten
That no time be lost,
And moths grow fat and thrive,
And ladybirds arrive.
Before green apples blush,
Before green nuts embrown,
Why, one day in the country
Is worth a month in town;
Is worth a day and a year
Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion
That days drone elsewhere.
Christina Georgina Rossetti
(1830 – 1894)
Summer
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Written at Midnight
While thro’ the broken pane the tempest sighs,
And my step falters on the faithless floor,
Shades of departed joys around me rise,
With many a face that smiles on me no more;
With many a voice that thrills of transport gave,
Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!
Samuel Rogers
(1763 – 1855)
Written at Midnight, 1786
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