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Jonathan Swift
(1667–1745)
Advice To The Grub Street Verse-writers
Ye poets ragged and forlorn,
Down from your garrets haste;
Ye rhymers, dead as soon as born,
Not yet consign’d to paste;
I know a trick to make you thrive;
O, ’tis a quaint device:
Your still-born poems shall revive,
And scorn to wrap up spice.
Get all your verses printed fair,
Then let them well be dried;
And Curll must have a special care
To leave the margin wide.
Lend these to paper-sparing Pope;
And when he sets to write,
No letter with an envelope
Could give him more delight.
When Pope has fill’d the margins round,
Why then recall your loan;
Sell them to Curll for fifty pound,
And swear they are your own.
Jonathan Swift poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, LIGHT VERSE, Swift, Jonathan
Jonathan Swift
(1667–1745)
On The World
With a whirl of thoughts oppress’d,
I sunk from reverie to rest.
A horrid vision seized my head,
I saw the graves give up their dead!
Jove, arm’d with terrors, bursts the skies,
And thunder roars and lightning flies!
Amazed, confused, its fate unknown,
The world stands trembling at his throne!
While each pale sinner hung his head,
Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said:
“Offending race of human kind,
By nature, reason, learning, blind;
You who, through frailty, stepp’d aside;
And you, who never fell from pride:
You who in different sects were shamm’d,
And come to see each other damn’d;
(So some folk told you, but they knew
No more of Jove’s designs than you;)
—The world’s mad business now is o’er,
And I resent these pranks no more.
—I to such blockheads set my wit!
I damn such fools!—Go, go, you’re bit.”
Jonathan Swift poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Swift, Jonathan
Elizabeth (Lizzie) Siddal
(1829-1862)
At Last
O mother, open the window wide
And let the daylight in;
The hills grow darker to my sight
And thoughts begin to swim.
And mother dear, take my young son,
(Since I was born of thee)
And care for all his little ways
And nurse him on thy knee.
And mother, wash my pale pale hands
And then bind up my feet;
My body may no longer rest
Out of its winding sheet.
And mother dear, take a sapling twig
And green grass newly mown,
And lay them on my empty bed
That my sorrow be not known.
And mother, find three berries red
And pluck them from the stalk,
And burn them at the first cockcrow
That my spirit may not walk.
And mother dear, break a willow wand,
And if the sap be even,
Then save it for sweet Robert’s sake
And he’ ll know my sou’s in heaven.
And mother, when the big tears fall,
(And fall, God knows, they may)
Tell him I died of my great love
And my dying heart was gay.
And mother dear, when the sun has set
And the pale kirk grass waves,
Then carry me through the dim twilight
And hide me among the graves.
Elizabeth (Lizzie) Siddal poems
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Lizzy Siddal, Siddal, Lizzy
De Stichting Motel Mozaïque organiseert jaarlijks een aantal bijzondere culturele programma’s, waarvan het gelijknamige festival ondertussen is uitgegroeid tot een nationaal en internationaal gewaardeerd evenement. In 2004 is Motel Mozaïque tot ‘Beste Festival’ uitgeroepen door de Vereniging Nederlandse Poppodia & Festivals. Motel Mozaïque is ontstaan én gevestigd in Rotterdam.
Het kunstenfestival Motel Mozaïque is de meest in het oog springende en bekendste activiteit van de stichting. Motel Mozaïque biedt een organische mix van muziek, theater, beeldende kunst, film en de mogelijkheid daadwerkelijk te overnachten in kunstwerken. Daarnaast (ver)leiden de Gidsen van Motel Mozaïque de bezoekers langs bijzondere plekken in de stad en in het festival.
Gastvrijheid is de rode draad in het programma en tevens de inspiratiebron voor de makers van Motel Mozaïque. Tijdens het festival zijn bekende en onbekende muzikanten, dj’s, beeldend kunstenaars en theatergezelschappen afwisselend of gezamenlijk te gast in het motel. De festivaleditie Motel Mozaïque is een zeer nauwe samenwerking van Motel Mozaïque met de Rotterdamse kunstinstellingen de Rotterdamse Schouwburg, CBK Rotterdam en Rotown.
Motel Mozaïque is ontstaan tijdens Rotterdam 2001, Culturele Hoofdstad van Europa. Initiatiefnemer van dit kunstenfestival is Harry Hamelink. Het redactieteam scout en nodigt artiesten en performers uit die in hun werk laten zien, naast warmte en kwaliteit, een ‘open mind’ te hebben. Daarnaast creëren kunstenaars slaapplaatsen op uiteenlopende plekken in de stad en worden de bezoekers door gidsen meegenomen naar de programma-onderdelen die zij zelf nog niet ontdekt hebben.
Naast Kate Tempest zijn onder meer te gast: Temples, Asgeir, Jungle, George Ezra, Kurt Vile, Wild Beasts, Larry Gus, Aufgang, Hauschka, Angel Olsen, Ivo Dimchev, Florentijn Hofman, Jaga Jazzist & Rotterdam Sinfonia, AlunaGeorge, Laura Mvula, The Veils, Jose James, Soap&Skin, Patrick Watson, Django Django, Balthazar, Blaudzun, Fink, The Maccabees, Jose Gonzalez, Belle & Sebastian, James Blake, Lykke Li, Mumford & Sons, Ben Howard, James Vincent McMorrow, Band Of Horses, Angus & Julia Stone, The Gaslamp Killer, Mulatu Astatke, Fuck Buttons, Midlake, The Whitest Boy Alive, Fever Ray, Nico Muhly, dEUS, Trentemoller, Goldfrapp, Efterklang, CocoRosie, LCD Soundsystem, Scissor Sisters, Antony & The Johnsons, Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, Nancy Sinatra, Arthur Lee, The Kills, Feist, The Libertines, Peaches, Carina Molier, Benji Reid, Zita Swoon, Abattoir Fermé, !!!, A Silver Mt. Zion, Kung Fu, PONI, Schie 2.0, Observatorium, Bliss, Miriam Reeders, Madeleine Berkhemer, Michael Spencer Jones, Gotan Project, Múm, Sigurdur Gudmundsson, Emiliana Torrini, Atelier van Lieshout, Dré Wapenaar, Mogwai, Claudy Jongstra, Villanella / Hanneke Paauwe, The Veils, Amon Tobin en 2ManyDJ’s waren al te gast tijdens Motel Mozaïque.
Gisteren was Kate Tempest op TV te zien in DWDD met een veel te kort optreden, vandaag (vrijdag 10 april) treedt het Engelse super-dicht-talent op in Rotterdam. Het optreden van vandaag maakt deel uit van haar Europese tour. Na Rotterdam staan deze maand de volgende shows nog op het programma: 11 April: Trix, Antwerp – 13 April: VEGA, Copenhagen – 14 April: Debaser, Stockholm – 16 April: Fri-Son, Fribourg – 17 April: Biko, Milan – 18 April: Teatro Quirinetta, Rome – 20 April: Gebaude 9, Cologne – 21 April: Berghain, Berlin
Voor meer info over dichter Kate Tempest, zie deze website (fleursdumal.nl) en natuurlijk haar eigen website: katetempest.co.uk
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Kate/Kae Tempest, MUSIC, Tempest, Kate/Kae, THEATRE
Jonathan Swift
(1667–1745)
Stella’s Birthday March 13, 1719
Stella this day is thirty-four,
(We shan’t dispute a year or more:)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy size and years are doubled,
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green;
So little is thy form declin’d;
Made up so largely in thy mind.
Oh, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit;
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair;
With half the lustre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle Fate,
(That either nymph might have her swain,)
To split my worship too in twain.
Jonathan Swift poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Swift, Jonathan
Elizabeth (Lizzie) Siddal
(1829-1862)
He and She and Angels Three
Ruthless hands have torn her
From one that loved her well;
Angels have upborn her,
Christ her grief to tell.
She shall stand to listen,
She shall stand and sing,
Till three winged angels
Her lover’s soul shall bring.
He and she and the angels three
Before God’s face shall stand;
There they shall pray among themselves
And sing at His right hand.
Elizabeth Siddal poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Siddal, Lizzy
Erik Satie
(1866 – 1925)
La Pieuvre
La pieuvre est dans sa caverne.
Elle s’amuse avec un crabe.
Elle le poursuit.
Elle l’a avalé de travers.
Hagarde, elle se marche sur les pieds.
Elle boit un verre d’eau salée pour se remettre.
Cette boisson lui fait grand bien et lui change les idées.
17 mars 1914
Erik Satie La Pieuvre
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Erik Satie, MUSIC, Satie, Erik
Op donderdag 26 maart is de Zweedse dichter Tomas Tranströmer overleden. Hij was 83 jaar oud. In 2011 won Tranströmer de Nobelprijs voor de Literatuur.
Tomas Tranströmer, debuteerde in 1954 met de bundel 17 gedichten. Hij wordt gezien als de belangrijkste hedendaagse dichter van Zweden. Zijn werk werd in meer dan vijftig talen vertaald. Bernlef vertaalde veel van zijn gedichten in het Nederlands.
Photo: Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmer at Writers’ and Literary Translators’ International Conference (Stockholm, June 30, 2008)
Photo: Andrei Romanenko
Zijn laatste bundel: Gedichten en Proza 1954-2004 verscheen in 2011. Tranströmer’s werken werden in Nederland uitgegeven door De Bezige Bij.
In Memoriam Tomas Gösta Tranströmer (Stockholm, 15 april 1931 – aldaar, 26 maart 2015)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Art & Literature News, In Memoriam
Algernon Charles Swinburne
(1837-1909)
The Garden of Proserpine
Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep,
Of what may came hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.
No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine.
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness, morn.
Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end, it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love’s who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
Today will die tomorrow;
Time stoops to no man’s lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no man lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light;
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight;
Nor wintry nor vernal,
Nor days, nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.
Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Swinburne, Algernon Charles
Percy Bysshe Shelley
(1792-1822)
Ozymandias of Egypt
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on those lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Percy Byssche Shelley, Shelley, Percy Byssche
Erik Satie
(1866 – 1925)
Le Carnaval
Les confetti descendent !
Voici un masque mélancolique.
Un pierrot ivre fait le malin.
Arrivent de souples dominos.
On se bouscule pour les voir.
« Sont-elles jolies ? »
3 avril 1914
Erik Satie Le Carnaval
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Erik Satie, Satie, Erik
Erik Satie
(1866 – 1925)
Le Réveil de la Mariée
Arrivée du cortège.
Appels.
Levez-vous !
Guitares faites avec de vieux chapeaux.
Un chien danse avec sa fiancée.
16 mai 1914
Erik Satie Le Réveil de la Mariée
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Erik Satie, Satie, Erik
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