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Archive W-X

· Walt Whitman: The wound-dresser (Poem) · Walt Whitman: Give me the splendid silent sun · Walt Whitman: City of ships (Poem) · Karel van de Woestijne: Ween aan mijn borst (Gedicht) · Walt Whitman: Vigil strange I kept on the field one night (Poem) · Walt Whitman: As I lay with my head in your lap camerado (Poem) · Menno Wigman: Verzamelde gedichten · Karel van de Woestijne: O Blik vol Dood en Sterren (Gedicht) · Karel van de Woestijne: Stad (Gedicht) · Karel van de Woestijne: Gij draagt een schone vlechte haar… (Gedicht) · Karel van de Woestijne: Gelijk een arme, blinde hond (Gedicht) · Karel van de Woestijne: Kind met het bleek gelaat (Gedicht)

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Walt Whitman: The wound-dresser (Poem)

  

 The wound-dresser

  1

An old man bending I come among new faces,
Years looking backward resuming in answer to children,
Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me,
(Arous’d and angry, I’d thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war,
But soon my fingers fail’d me, my face droop’d and I resign’d myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead;)
Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances,
Of unsurpass’d heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;)
Now be witness again, paint the mightiest armies of earth,
Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us?
What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics,
Of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?

  2

O maidens and young men I love and that love me,
What you ask of my days those the strangest and sudden your talking recalls,
Soldier alert I arrive after a long march cover’d with sweat and dust,
In the nick of time I come, plunge in the fight, loudly shout in the rush of successful charge,
Enter the captur’d works–yet lo, like a swift-running river they fade,
Pass and are gone they fade–I dwell not on soldiers’ perils or soldiers’ joys,
(Both I remember well-many the hardships, few the joys, yet I was content.)

But in silence, in dreams’ projections,
While the world of gain and appearance and mirth goes on,
So soon what is over forgotten, and waves wash the imprints off the sand,
With hinged knees returning I enter the doors, (while for you up there,
Whoever you are, follow without noise and be of strong heart.)

Bearing the bandages, water and sponge,
Straight and swift to my wounded I go,
Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in,
Where their priceless blood reddens the grass the ground,
Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roof’d hospital,
To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return,
To each and all one after another I drawn near, not one do I miss,
An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail,
Soon to be fill’d with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and fill’d again.

I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds,
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable,
One turns to me his appealing eyes-poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.

  3

On, on I go, (open doors of time! open hospital doors!)
The crush’d head I dress, (poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away,)
The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet through and through I examine,
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, yet life struggles hard,
(Come sweet death! be persuaded O beautiful death!
In mercy come quickly.)

From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand,
I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood,
Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curv’d neck and side-falling head,
His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody stump,
And has not yet look’d on it.

I dress a wound in the side, deep, deep,
But a day or two more, for see the frame all wasted and sinking,
And the yellow-blue countenance see.

I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound,
Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive,
While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail.

I am faithful, I do not give out,
The fractur’d thigh, the knee, the wound in the abdomen,
These and more I dress with impassive hand, (yet deep in my breast a fire, a burning flame.)

  4

Thus in silence in dreams’ projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals,
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young,
Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,
(Many a soldier’s loving arms about this neck have cross’d and rested,
Many a soldier’s kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)

Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
The wound-dresser
From: Leaves of grass

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More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt


Walt Whitman: Give me the splendid silent sun

 

Give me the splendid silent sun

1

Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling,
Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard,
Give me a field where the unmow’d grass grows,
Give me an arbor, give me the trellis’d grape,
Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching content,
Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars,
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturb’d,
Give me for marriage a sweet-breath’d woman of whom I should never tire,
Give me a perfect child, give me away aside from the noise of the world a rural domestic life,
Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for my own ears only,
Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal sanities!

These demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and rack’d by the war-strife,)
These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart,
While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city,
Day upon day and year upon year O city, walking your streets,
Where you hold me enchain’d a certain time refusing to give me up,
Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich’d of soul, you give me forever faces;
(O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries,
I see my own soul trampling down what it ask’d for.)

2

Keep your splendid silent sun,
Keep your woods O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods,
Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards,
Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum;
Give me faces and streets–give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs!
Give me interminable eyes–give me women–give me comrades and lovers by the thousand!
Let me see new ones every day–let me hold new ones by the hand every day!
Give me such shows–give me the streets of Manhattan!
Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching–give me the sound of the trumpets and drums!
(The soldiers in companies or regiments–some starting away, flush’d and reckless,
Some, their time up, returning with thinn’d ranks, young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;)
Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships!
O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied!
The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me!
The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the torchlight procession!
The dense brigade bound for the war, with high piled military wagons following;
People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants,
Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now,
The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even the sight of the wounded,)
Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus!
Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.

Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Give me the splendid silent sun
From: Leaves of grass

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More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt


Walt Whitman: City of ships (Poem)

 

City of ships

City of ships!
(O the black ships! O the fierce ships!
O the beautiful sharp-bow’d steam-ships and sail-ships!)
City of the world! (for all races are here,
All the lands of the earth make contributions here;)
City of the sea! city of hurried and glittering tides!
City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, whirling in and
out with eddies and foam!
City of wharves and stores–city of tall façades of marble and iron!
Proud and passionate city–mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!
Spring up, O city–not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself,
warlike!
Fear not–submit to no models but your own O city!
Behold me–incarnate me as I have incarnated you!
I have rejected nothing you offer’d me–whom you adopted I have
adopted,
Good or bad I never question you–I love all–I do not condemn any
thing,
I chant and celebrate all that is yours–yet peace no more,
In peace I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is mine,
War, red war is my song through your streets, O city!

Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
City of ships
From: Leaves of grass

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Karel van de Woestijne: Ween aan mijn borst (Gedicht)

 

Ween aan mijn borst

Ween aan mijn borst den schat der tranen
die rijk me maken van uw leed,
ik die van wankelende wanen
als gij het talmend smeken weet;

ik die, mijn kind, op andre schouder
om eendre vreze heb geschreid,
maar van elke onmacht oud en ouder,
weer om een nieuwe hope lijd;

ik die het goud van alle transen
voor de as van oude zonnen ken,
maar van elk glorend morgen-glanzen
de huiverende minnaar ben…

Ween uwe tranen, lange en lijze,
die van uw lijden rijk me maakt:
straks ziet ge in ‘t oog des levens-wijzen
hoe stééds de wanen-lampe waakt…

Het huis in de stad (1908-1909)

Karel van de Woestijne
(1878 – 1929)
Ween aan mijn borst

Portret van Karel van de Woestijne (1937) door Henri van Straten (1892 – 1944)

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Walt Whitman: Vigil strange I kept on the field one night (Poem)

 

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;
When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,
One look I but gave which your dear eyes return’d with a look I shall never forget,
One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach’d up as you lay on the ground,
Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,
Till late in the night reliev’d to the place at last again I made my way,
Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)
Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,
Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,
Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,
But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,
Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade–not a tear, not a word,
Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,
Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,
I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)
Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear’d,
My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,
Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,
And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,
Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,
Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)
Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten’d,
I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,
And buried him where he fell.

Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Vigil strange I kept on the field one night
From: Leaves of grass

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More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt


Walt Whitman: As I lay with my head in your lap camerado (Poem)

As I lay with my head in your lap camerado

As I lay with my head in your lap camerado,
The confession I made I resume, what I said to you and the open air I
resume,
I know I am restless and make others so,
I know my words are weapons full of danger, full of death,
For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle
them,
I am more resolute because all have denied me than I could ever have
been had all accepted me,
I heed not and have never heeded either experience, cautions,
majorities, nor ridicule,
And the threat of what is call’d hell is little or nothing to me;
And the lure of what is call’d heaven is little or nothing to me;
Dear camerado! I confess I have urged you onward with me, and still
urge you, without the least idea what is our destination,
Or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quell’d and defeated.

Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
As I lay with my head in your lap camerado
From: Leaves of grass

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More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Whitman, Walt


Menno Wigman: Verzamelde gedichten

Menno Wigman (1966-2018) was een van de grootste en eigenzinnigste dichters van Nederland.

Zijn stijl werd gekenmerkt door een zwart-romantische toon die, afgewisseld met een weemoedige blik, direct tot de verbeelding sprak. Zijn gedichten waren even toegankelijk als experimenteel, een combinatie van een uitgesproken intensiteit met de beleving van het alledaagse. Wigmans Verzamelde gedichten zijn samengesteld door Neeltje Maria Min en Rob Schouten, zijn goede vrienden en de beste kenners van zijn werk.

Van Menno Wigman (1966-2018) verschenen vijf dichtbundels, een dagboek, een essaybundel en vele vertalingen, bloemlezingen en gelegenheidsuitgaven. Tot de vele prijzen die hij kreeg, behoren de Gedichtendagprijs (2002), de Jan Campert-prijs (2002), de A. Roland Holstprijs (2015) en de Ida Gerhardt Poëzieprijs (2018).

Verzamelde gedichten
Menno Wigman
336 pagina’s
Druk 1
Verschenen 27-09-19
Taal Nederlands
Poëzie
Gebonden
ISBN 9789044641936
Uitgever Prometheus
€ 29,99

# new poetry
menno wigman

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Karel van de Woestijne: O Blik vol Dood en Sterren (Gedicht)

 

O Blik vol Dood en Sterren

o Blik vol dood en sterren,
o hart vol licht en leed.
De dag is spijtig verre;
de nacht is hel en wreed.

Mijn mond vol wondre smaken
die géne vrucht verzaadt.
Niemand, o hunkrend waken,
die langs mijn venster gaat…

Wij zullen nimmer wezen
dan Godes angst’ge wezen.
– God, laat ons waan en schijn
dat we Uwe wezen zijn.

 

Karel van de Woestijne
(1878 – 1929)
O Blik vol Dood en Sterren

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Karel van de Woestijne: Stad (Gedicht)

Stad

Verloren tijd, hoe schoon vind ik u weer,
waar elk herinnren wordt een nieuw verlangen.

o Steden-laan, wat zijn uw meisjes schoon.
Eens was ik jong, en ‘k ben niet jong gebleven…

Ik wandel bij de bomen die mijn jeugd
beveiligd hebben en haar jonge liefde.

Water is de adem van een meisjes mond
De stad is heet en droog als een begeerte.

Er is, tussen de dubble glans der laan,
er is een maan, er is een andre maan.
De een is de maan; de andere is gene maan.

Het paard wringt als een zilvren vis. En de ijlte is rood
maar roder zet de galm des voermans de ijlte uit.
Hitte.

Mijn vriend, gij hebt de geur der grote magazijnen.
Zo zijn er meisjes, schraal en met een witte neus.

Leeg schelpje aan nachtlijke ebbe: ik; maar de stad
in duizend dake’ als duizend diamanten.

Ik scheer de muren; – als een rechthoek ligt
naast mij mijn schaduw als een vals gedicht.

Menigte, uw geur bijt mijne lippen stuk.
o Menigte, gij doet mijne woorden bloeden.

Waarom te wenen in dit stenen woud?
Gij zult regeren als gij weet te lachen.

Jaag naar huis, o hart: gij vindt er
volle schotelen aan leed.

Stad: eind-punt; vierkant; rust en zekerheid.
‘k Zet me op een paal; ik wacht de roep der ijlte.

Karel van de Woestijne
(1878 – 1929)
Stad

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Karel van de Woestijne: Gij draagt een schone vlechte haar… (Gedicht)

   

Gij draagt een schone vlechte haar…

Gij draagt een schone vlechte haar
allangs uw lage leên…
– Het is een trage dag voorwaar
van weiflen en van wenen.

Het is een lengende avond van
mis-troosten en mis-prijzen.
’t Is of de dag niet sterven kan
en of geen nacht kan grijzen…

– Gij gaat mijn duister huis voorbij,
verlangenloos en rechte;
ik rade uw naakte, magre dij;
ik zie uw donkre vlechte.

Karel van de Woestijne
(1878 – 1929)
Gij draagt een schone vlechte haar…

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Karel van de Woestijne: Gelijk een arme, blinde hond (Gedicht)

 

Gelijk een arme, blinde hond

Geljk een arme, blinde hond
van alle troost verstoken,
dwaal ‘k door de zoele avond rond
en ruik de lente-roken.

Er waart – lijk om een vrouwe-kleed
waar oude driften in hangen –
er waart een geur van schamper leed
en van huilend-moe verlangen.

En ‘k dwaal, een blinde hond gelijk,
door dralige lente-roken,
mijn hart van alle liefden rijk,
mijn hart van liefde verstoken.

Karel van de Woestijne
(1878 – 1929)
Gelijk een arme, blinde hond

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Karel van de Woestijne: Kind met het bleek gelaat (Gedicht)

        

Kind met het bleek gelaat

Kind met het bleek gelaat, dat van uw wijde blikken
geen liefde in mat gebaar noch in lede ogen ziet,
maar in uw zedig kleed uw knieën weet te schikken
zó, dat me te elken male een laaie drift doorschiet:

gij zult het nimmer aan mijn vrome woorden weten
hoe mijn begeren om uw kleren dolen dorst;
maar ìk draag in me-zelf de wonde, zelf gereten,
waarvan de koortse rilt en davert door mijn borst.

Want ‘k heb de straffe zélf in ‘t lillend vlees geslagen;
ik heb een spijt’ge spot gehamerd in mijn brein…
– Gij echter, ga voorbij, arm kind, en zónder vragen:
ik haat u om dees geert’, die ‘k minne om deze pijn…

Karel van de Woestijne
(1878 – 1929)
Kind met het bleek gelaat

Portret: Karel van de Woestijne, Ramah – Journal Het Roode Zeil, 15 April 1920

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