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Sara Teasdale
(1884 – 1933)
Swans
Night is over the park, and a few brave stars
Look on the lights that link it with chains of gold,
The lake bears up their reflection in broken bars
That seem too heavy for tremulous water to hold.
We watch the swans that sleep in a shadowy place,
And now and again one wakes and uplifts its head;
How still you are–your gaze is on my face–
We watch the swans and never a word is said.
Sara Teasdale poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY - department of ravens & crows, birds of prey, riding a zebra, spring, summer, autumn, winter, Teasdale, Sara
Sara Teasdale
(1884 – 1933)
In the Metropolitan Museum
Within the tiny Pantheon
We stood together silently,
Leaving the restless crowd awhile
As ships find shelter from the sea.
The ancient centuries came back
To cover us a moment’s space,
And thro’ the dome the light was glad
Because it shone upon your face.
Ah, not from Rome but farther still,
Beyond sun-smitten Salamis,
The moment took us, till you stooped
To find the present with a kiss.
Sara Teasdale poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
Erik Satie
(1866 – 1925)
Aubade
Ne dormez pas, belle endormie.
Écoutez la voix de votre bien-aimé.
Il pince un rigaudon.
Comme il vous aime !
C’est un poète.
L’entendez-vous ?
Il ricane, peut-être ?
Non : Il vous adore, douce Belle !
Il repince un rigaudon et un rhume.
Vous ne voulez l’aimer ?
Pourtant, c’est un poète, un vieux poète !
3 octobre 1915
Erik Satie Aubade
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, MUSIC, Satie, Erik
Eunice Tietjens
(1884 – 1944)
The Camels
Whence do you come, and whither make return, you
silent padding beasts?
Over the mountain passes; through the Great Wall; to
Kalgan–and beyond, whither?…
Here in the city you are alien, even as I am alien.
Your sidling jaw, your pendulous neck–incredible–and
that slow smile about your eyes and lip,
these are not of this land.
About you some far sense of mystery, some tawny
charm, hangs ever.
Silently, with the dignity of the desert, your caravans
move among the hurrying hordes, remote and
slowly smiling.
But whence are you, and whither do you make return?
Over the mountain passes; through the Great Wall; to
Kalgan–and beyond, whither?…
(Peking)
Eunice Tietjens poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Tietjens, Eunice
Edward Thomas
(1878–1917)
Like the Touch of Rain
Like the touch of rain she was
On a man’s flesh and hair and eyes
When the joy of walking thus
Has taken him by surprise:
With the love of the storm he burns,
He sings, he laughs, well I know how,
But forgets when he returns
As I shall not forget her ‘Go now’.
Those two words shut a door
Between me and the blessed rain
That was never shut before
And will not open again.
Edward Thomas poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Thomas, Edward
Sara Teasdale
(1884 – 1933)
There Will Come Soft Rains
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools, singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Sara Teasdale poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
Eunice Tietjens
(1884 – 1944)
On the Canton River Boat
Up and down, up and down, paces the sentry.
He is dressed in a uniform of khaki and his socks are
green. Over his shoulder is slung a rifle, and
from his belt hang a pistol and cartridge pouch.
He is, I think, Malay and Chinese mixed.
Behind him the rocky islands, hazed in blue, the yellow
sun-drenched water, the tropic shore, pass as a
background in a dream.
He only is sweltering reality.
Yet he is here to guard against a nightmare, an
anachronism, something that I cannot grasp.
He is guarding me from pirates.
Piracy! The very name is fantastic in my ears, colored
like a toucan in the zoo.
And yet the ordinance is clear: “Four armed guards,
strong metal grills behind the bridge, the engine-room
enclosed–in case of piracy.”
The socks of the sentry are green.
Up and down, up and down he paces, between the
bridge and the first of the life-boats.
In my deck chair I grow restless.
Am I then so far removed from life, so wrapped in
cotton wool, so deep-sunk in the soft lap of civilization,
that I cannot feel the cold splash of truth?
It is a disquieting thought–for certainly piracy seems
as fantastic as ever.
The socks of the sentry annoy me. They are _too_
green for so hot a day.
And his shoes squeak.
I should feel much cooler if he wouldn’t pace so.
Piracy!
(Somewhere on the River)
Eunice Tietjens poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Tietjens, Eunice
Erik Satie
(1866 – 1925)
La Comédie italienne
À la napolitaine
Scaramouche explique les beautés de l’état militaire.
On y est fortement malin, dit-il.
On fait peur aux civils.
Et les galantes aventures !
Et le reste !
Quel beau métier !
29 avril 1914
Erik Satie La Comédie italienne
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Erik Satie, Satie, Erik
Erik Satie
(1866 – 1925)
Le Tango
Le tango est la danse du diable.
C’est celle qu’il préfère.
Il la danse pour se refroidir.
Sa femme, ses filles et ses domestiques se refroidissent.
5 mai 1914
Erik Satie Le Tango
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, DANCE & PERFORMANCE, Erik Satie, Satie, Erik
Charles Sainte-Beuve
(1804-1869)
Les rayons jaunes
Les dimanches d’été, le soir, vers les six heures,
Quand le peuple empressé déserte ses demeures
Et va s’ébattre aux champs,
Ma persienne fermée, assis à ma fenêtre,
Je regarde d’en haut passer et disparaître
Joyeux bourgeois, marchands,
Ouvriers en habits de fête, au coeur plein d’aise ;
Un livre est entr’ouvert près de moi, sur ma chaise :
Je lis ou fais semblant ;
Et les jaunes rayons que le couchant ramène,
Plus jaunes ce soir-là que pendant la semaine,
Teignent mon rideau blanc.
J’aime à les voir percer vitres et jalousie ;
Chaque oblique sillon trace à ma fantaisie
Un flot d’atomes d’or ;
Puis, m’arrivant dans l’âme à travers la prunelle,
Ils redorent aussi mille pensers en elle,
Mille atomes encor.
Ce sont des jours confus dont reparaît la trame,
Des souvenirs d’enfance, aussi doux à notre âme
Qu’un rêve d’avenir :
C’était à pareille heure (oh ! je me le rappelle)
Qu’après vêpres, enfants, au choeur de la chapelle,
On nous faisait venir.
La lampe brûlait jaune, et jaune aussi les cierges ;
Et la lueur glissant aux fronts voilés des vierges
Jaunissait leur blancheur ;
Et le prêtre vêtu de son étole blanche
Courbait un front jauni, comme un épi qui penche
Sous la faux du faucheur.
Oh ! qui dans une église à genoux sur la pierre,
N’a bien souvent, le soir, déposé sa prière,
Comme un grain pur de sel ?
Qui n’a du crucifix baisé le jaune ivoire ?
Qui n’a de l’Homme-Dieu lu la sublime histoire
Dans un jaune missel ?
Mais où la retrouver, quand elle s’est perdue,
Cette humble foi du coeur, qu’un ange a suspendue
En palme à nos berceaux ;
Qu’une mère a nourrie en nous d’un zèle immense ;
Dont chaque jour un prêtre arrosait la semence
Aux bords des saints ruisseaux ?
Peut-elle refleurir lorsqu’a soufflé l’orage,
Et qu’en nos coeurs l’orgueil debout, a dans sa rage
Mis le pied sur l’autel ?
On est bien faible alors, quand le malheur arrive
Et la mort… faut-il donc que l’idée en survive
Au voeu d’être immortel !
J’ai vu mourir, hélas ! ma bonne vieille tante,
L’an dernier ; sur son lit, sans voix et haletante,
Elle resta trois jours,
Et trépassa. J’étais près d’elle dans l’alcôve ;
J’étais près d’elle encor, quand sur sa tête chauve
Le linceul fit trois tours.
Le cercueil arriva, qu’on mesura de l’aune ;
J’étais là… puis, autour, des cierges brûlaient jaune,
Des prêtres priaient bas;
Mais en vain je voulais dire l’hymne dernière ;
Mon oeil était sans larme et ma voix sans prière,
Car je ne croyais pas.
Elle m’aimait pourtant… ; et ma mère aussi m’aime,
Et ma mère à son tour mourra ; bientôt moi-même
Dans le jaune linceul
Je l’ensevelirai ; je clouerai sous la lame
Ce corps flétri, mais cher, ce reste de mon âme ;
Alors je serai seul ;
Seul, sans mère, sans soeur, sans frère et sans épouse ;
Car qui voudrait m’aimer, et quelle main jalouse
S’unirait à ma main ?…
Mais déjà le soleil recule devant l’ombre,
Et les rayons qu’il lance à mon rideau plus sombre
S’éteignent en chemin…
Non, jamais à mon nom ma jeune fiancée
Ne rougira d’amour, rêvant dans sa pensée
Au jeune époux absent ;
Jamais deux enfants purs, deux anges de promesse
Ne tiendront suspendu sur moi, durant la messe,
Le poêle jaunissant.
Non, jamais, quand la mort m’étendra sur ma couche,
Mon front ne sentira le baiser d’une bouche,
Ni mon oeil obscurci
N’entreverra l’adieu d’une lèvre mi-close !
Jamais sur mon tombeau ne jaunira la rose,
Ni le jaune souci !
Ainsi va ma pensée, et la nuit est venue ;
Je descends, et bientôt dans la foule inconnue
J’ai noyé mon chagrin :
Plus d’un bras me coudoie ; on entre à la guinguette,
On sort du cabaret ; l’invalide en goguette
Chevrotte un gai refrain.
Ce ne sont que chansons, clameurs, rixes d’ivrogne,
Ou qu’amours en plein air, et baisers sans vergogne,
Et publiques faveurs ;
Je rentre : sur ma route on se presse, on se rue ;
Toute la nuit j’entends se traîner dans ma rue
Et hurler les buveurs.
Charles Sainte-Beuve poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, CLASSIC POETRY
Kate Tempest: Brand New Ancients On Film – Part 2
In association with the Brand New Ancients tour, Battersea Arts Centre in collaboration with director Joe Roberts, has produced three short films interpreting Kate Tempest’s spoken word through moving image.
Kate Tempest started out when she was 16, rapping at strangers on night busses and pestering mc’s to let her on the mic at raves. Ten years later she is a published playwright, poet and respected recording artist.
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Art & Literature News, AUDIO, CINEMA, RADIO & TV, Kate/Kae Tempest, Tempest, Kate/Kae
Kate Tempest started out when she was 16, rapping at strangers on night busses and pestering mc’s to let her on the mic at raves. Ten years later she is a published playwright, poet and respected recording artist.
Her theatre writing includes Wasted for Paines Plough, Brand New Ancients for the BAC, and Glasshouse for Cardboard Citizens.
She has written poetry for the Royal Shakespeare Company, Barnado’s, Channel 4 and the BBC. She has worked with Amnesty International to create a schools pack helping secondary school children write their own protest songs, and was invited to write and perform a new poem for Aung San Suu Kyi when she recieved the Ambassador of Conscience award in Dublin.
Kate released her debut album Balance with Sound of Rum in 2011. She has featured on songs with Sinead O Connor, Bastille, the King Blues, Damien Dempsey, Pink Punk, and Landslide. She has just finished recording a new solo album Everybody Down with acclaimed music producer Dan Carey. She’s toured extensively, supporting Billy Bragg on his UK tour, as well as supporting Scroobius Pip, Femi Kuti, Saul Williams and John Cooper Clarke. She is 2 x slam winner at the prestigious Nu-Yorican poetry cafe in New York. She’s played all the major UK and European music festivals either solo or with Sound of Rum. She’s headlined Latitude festival and her poetry has been featured on the BBC’s Glastonbury highlights. In 2012 she launched her first poetry book to a sell out crowd at the Old Vic theatre in London.
She’s led workshops in schools, colleges and youth groups across the UK and taught a creative writing class at Yale. She’s given lectures at Goldsmiths University and to newly qualified English teachers for the Prince’s Teaching Institute.
Her first spoken word release Broken Herd came out on Pure Groove in 2009. Her poetry book/CD/DVD package Everything Speaks in its Own Way was published on her own imprint Zingaro in 2012, and is available now from this site: # website kate tempest
A new collection of poetry will be out in 2014, published by Picador.
Kate Tempest: Brand New Ancients On Film – Part 1
In association with the Brand New Ancients tour, Battersea Arts Centre in collaboration with director Joe Roberts, has produced three short films interpreting Kate’s spoken word through moving image.
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Art & Literature News, AUDIO, CINEMA, RADIO & TV, Kate/Kae Tempest, Poetry Slam, Tempest, Kate/Kae
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