Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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At the Door
I thought myself indeed secure,
So fast the door, so firm the lock;
But, lo! he toddling comes to lure
My parent ear with timorous knock.
My heart were stone could it withstand
The sweetness of my baby’s plea,—
That timorous, baby knocking and
“Please let me in,—it’s only me.”
I threw aside the unfinished book,
Regardless of its tempting charms,
And opening wide the door, I took
My laughing darling in my arms.
Who knows but in Eternity,
I, like a truant child, shall wait
The glories of a life to be,
Beyond the Heavenly Father’s gate?
And will that Heavenly Father heed
The truant’s supplicating cry,
As at the outer door I plead,
“‘T is I, O Father! only I”?
Eugene Field
(1850 – 1895)
At the Door
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Field, Eugene
Ik ben een zwerver overal
Ik ben een zwerver overal,
een doler en een vagebond
en een, die uit zich zelf geen pad,
geen ommekeer en geen uitweg vond.
Ik ben een napraatpapegaai,
ik ben een open spiegelrond,
des Eeuwigen gesproken woord,
het hapert in mijn stamelmond.
J.H. Leopold
(1865-1925)
Ik ben een zwerver overal
Oostersch IV
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Leopold, J.H.
My window pane is broken
My window pane is broken
Just a bit
Where the small curtain doesn’t
Cover it.
And in the afternoon
I like to lie
And watch the pepper tree
Against the sky.
Pink berries and blue sky
And leaves and sun
Are very fair to rest
One’s eyes upon.
And my tired feet are resting
On the bed
And there’s a pillow under
My tired head.
Parties and balls and books
I know are best
But when I’ve finished work
I like to rest.
Lesbia Harford
(1891-1927)
My window pane is broken
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Feminism, Harford, Lesbia, Workers of the World
The Advertiser
I am an advertiser great!
In letters bold
The praises of my wares I sound,
Prosperity is my estate;
The people come,
The people goIn one continuous,
Surging flow.
They buy my goods and come again
And I’m the happiest of men;
And this the reason I relate,
I’m an advertiser great!
There is a shop across the way
Where ne’er is heard a human tread,
Where trade is paralyzed and dead,
With ne’er a customer a day.
The people come,
The people go,
But never there.
They do not know
There’s such a shop beneath the skies,
Because he does not advertise!
While I with pleasure contemplate
That I’m an advertiser great.
The secret of my fortune lies
In one small fact, which I may state,
Too many tradesmen learn too late,
If I have goods,
I advertise.Then people come
And people go
In constant streams,
For people know
That he who has good wares to sell
Will surely advertise them well;
And proudly I reiterate,
I am an advertiser great!
Eugene Field
(1850 – 1895)
The Advertiser
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Field, Eugene
Machinist’s Song
The foot of my machine
Sails up and down
Upon the blue of this
fine lady’s gown.
Sail quickly, little boat,
With gifts for me,
Night and the goldy
streets and liberty.
Lesbia Harford
(1891-1927)
Machinist’s Song
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Harford, Lesbia, Workers of the World
Nähe des Todes
O der Abend, der in die finsteren Dörfer
der Kindheit geht.
Der Weiher unter den Weiden
Füllt sich mit den verpesteten Seufzern
der Schwermut.
O der Wald, der leise
die braunen Augen senkt,
Da aus des Einsamen knöchernen Händen
Der Purpur seiner verzückten Tage hinsinkt.
O die Nähe des Todes. Laß uns beten.
Jn dieser Nacht lösen auf lauen Kissen
Vergilbt von Weihrauch sich der Liebenden
schmächtige Glieder.
Georg Trakl
(1887 – 1914)
Nähe des Todes
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Expressionisme, Trakl, Georg, Trakl, Georg
Song of the Old Mother
I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow
Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow;
And then I must scrub and bake and sweep
Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;
And the young lie long and dream in their bed
Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head,
And their day goes over in idleness,
And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress:
While I must work because I am old,
And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.
W.B. Yeats
(1865—1939)
Song of the Old Mother
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
Großstadtstraße
Bij het gelijknamige schilderij uit 1931 van Hans Baluschek
Ze weten niets van morgen, en bewegen als om
ongemerkt tussen decorstukken te verdwijnen.
Maar je ziet aan hen dat ze er aan gewend zijn
om te leven. De avond begint zachtjes te trillen.
Ze lachen alleen wanneer het hun beleefd wordt
gevraagd. Hun harten blijven daarbij incognito.
Bert Bevers
Großstadtstraße
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert, FDM in Berlin
I was sad
I was sad
Having signed up in a rebel band,
Having signed up to rid the land
Of a plague it had.
For I knew
That I would suffer, I would be lost,
Be bitter and foolish and tempest tost
And a failure too.
I was sad;
Though far in the future our light would shine
For the present the dark was ours, was mine,
I couldn’t be glad.
Lesbia Harford
(1891-1927)
I was sad
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Feminism, Harford, Lesbia, Workers of the World
I Shall not Care
When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Tho’ you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.
I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
I Shall not Care
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
Bahnhofshalle
Bij het gelijknamige schilderij uit 1929 van Hans Baluschek
Ze meende dat ze bij elkaar hoorden maar in
het voorbijgaan vangt ze op hoe zij nog aan hem
vraagt van waar hij komt. “Een ’oekske”, zegt hij.
“Een donker ’oekske.” Zwijgend vreest hij dan
weer voor eeuwig de pantomime van krijgers
die alleen in tientallen rekenen, tellend doden.
Bert Bevers
Bahnhofshalle
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert, FDM in Berlin
Aubade chantée à Laetare l’an passé
C’est le printemps viens-t’en Pâquette
Te promener au bois joli
Les poules dans la cour caquètent
L’aube au ciel fait de roses plis
L’amour chemine à ta conquête
Mars et Vénus sont revenus
Ils s’embrassent à bouches folles
Devant des sites ingénus
Où sous les roses qui feuillolent
De beaux dieux roses dansent nus
Viens ma tendresse est la régente
De la floraison qui paraît
La nature est belle et touchante
Pan sifflote dans la forêt
Les grenouilles humides chantent
Guillaume Apollinaire
(1880 – 1918)
Poéme: Aubade chantée à Laetare l’an passé
Recueil: Alcools (1913)
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *Concrete + Visual Poetry A-E, Apollinaire, Guillaume, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Dada, DADA, Dadaïsme, Guillaume Apollinaire
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