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Regen
Bij het gelijknamige schilderij uit 1917 van Hans Baluschek
Droomloze schaduwen doen mensen op ieder
twee mensen lijken. Ze menen dat ze pas bestaan
als ze praten maar onzichtbaar als hoorspelen is
hun taal, een cadans in balans met het zwijgen.
Ze willen vreemde woorden spreken die lichtjes
opstijgen, en daar met de vinger naar wijzen.
Bert Bevers
Regen
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert, FDM in Berlin
The Snow-Storm
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
(1803 – 1882)
The Snow-Storm
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More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Emerson, Ralph Waldo
Song for the New Year
Old Time has turned another page
Of eternity and truth;
He reads with a warning voice to age,
And whispers a lesson to youth.
A year has fled o’er heart and head
Since last the yule log burnt;
And we have a task to closely ask,
What the bosom and brain have learnt?
Oh! let us hope that our sands have run
With wisdom’s precious grains;
Oh! may we find that our hands have done
Some work of glorious pains.
Then a welcome and cheer to the merry new year,
While the holly gleams above us;
With a pardon for the foes who hate,
And a prayer for those who love us.
We may have seen some loved ones pass
To the land of hallow’d rest;
We may miss the glow of an honest brow
And the warmth of a friendly breast:
But if we nursed them while on earth,
With hearts all true and kind,
Will their spirits blame the sinless mirth
Of those true hearts left behind?
No, no! it were not well or wise
To mourn with endless pain;
There’s a better world beyond the skies,
Where the good shall meet again.
Then a welcome and cheer to the merry new year,
While the holly gleams above us;
With a pardon for the foes who hate,
And a prayer for those who love us.
Have our days rolled on serenely free
From sorrow’s dim alloy?
Do we still possess the gifts that bless
And fill our souls with joy?
Are the creatures dear still clinging near?
Do we hear loved voices come?
Do we gaze on eyes whose glances shed
A halo round our home?
Oh, if we do, let thanks be pour’d
To Him who hath spared and given,
And forget not o’er the festive board
The mercies held from heaven.
Then a welcome and cheer to the merry new year,
While the holly gleams above us;
With a pardon for the foes who hate,
And a prayer for those who love us.
Eliza Cook
(1818 – 1889)
Song for the New Year
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
January 01, 2025
More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D
New Year’s Eve
There are only two things now,
The great black night scooped out
And this fire-glow.
This fire-glow, the core,
And we the two ripe pips
That are held in store.
Listen, the darkness rings
As it circulates round our fire.
Take off your things.
Your shoulders, your bruised throat!
Your breasts, your nakedness!
This fiery coat!
As the darkness flickers and dips,
As the fireflight falls and leaps
From your feet to your lips!
D. H. Lawrence
(1885 – 1930)
New Year’s Eve
•fleursdumal.nl magazine
December 31, 2024
More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive K-L, Archive K-L, D.H. Lawrence, Lawrence, D.H.
Arbeiterstadt
Bij het gelijknamige schilderij uit 1920 van Hans Baluschek
De wisselwachter van het verdriet gokt liever
niet, is beducht voor de ruigte der verbeelding
waarin geruisloos de onhandzame leegte van
vrede verkruimelt. Ineens is daar een wrede
schrik: de steekvlam van het besef dat hij zijn
moeder nimmer hardop heeft horen lachen.
Bert Bevers
Arbeiterstadt
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert, FDM in Berlin
A Cry from an Indian Wife
My Forest Brave, my Red-skin love, farewell;
We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell
What mighty ills befall our little band,
Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand?
Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye.
No roaming bison calls for it to-day;
No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;
The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:
’Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.
Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost.
Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack,
Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling pack
Of white-faced warriors, marching West to quell
Our fallen tribe that rises to rebel.
They all are young and beautiful and good;
Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood.
Curse to the fate that brought them from the East
To be our chiefs—to make our nation least
That breathes the air of this vast continent.
Still their new rule and council is well meant.
They but forget we Indians owned the land
From ocean unto ocean; that they stand
Upon a soil that centuries agone
Was our sole kingdom and our right alone.
They never think how they would feel to-day,
If some great nation came from far away,
Wresting their country from their hapless braves,
Giving what they gave us—but wars and graves.
Then go and strike for liberty and life,
And bring back honour to your Indian wife.
Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me?
Who pities my poor love and agony?
What white-robed priest prays for your safety here,
As prayer is said for every volunteer
That swells the ranks that Canada sends out?
Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout?
Who prays for our poor nation lying low?
None—therefore take your tomahawk and go.
My heart may break and burn into its core,
But I am strong to bid you go to war.
Yet stay, my heart is not the only one
That grieves the loss of husband and of son;
Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas;
Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees;
One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced child
That marches on toward the North-West wild.
The other prays to shield her love from harm,
To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm.
Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think,
Your tomahawk his life’s best blood will drink.
She never thinks of my wild aching breast,
Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crest
Endangered by a thousand rifle balls,
My heart the target if my warrior falls.
O! coward self I hesitate no more;
Go forth, and win the glories of the war.
Go forth, nor bend to greed of white men’s hands,
By right, by birth we Indians own these lands,
Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low . . .
Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so.
Emily Pauline Johnson
(1861 – 1913)
A Cry from an Indian Wife
Poem
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, *Archive Native American Literature, Archive I-J, Archive I-J, Emily Pauline Johnson, Racism
Bluebird
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
Lesbia Harford
(1891-1927)
Bluebird
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More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Feminism, Harford, Lesbia, Workers of the World
‘Easter 1916’.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
W.B. Yeats
(1865—1939)
‘Easter 1916’
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More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive Y-Z, Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler
Nostalgie
Jouw zwijgen vult mijn leegte niet.
Er komt geen eind aan het verdriet.
Hoe vaak je Heideggèr of Héraclite
deconstrueren kan, ik weet het niet.
Er komt geen eind aan het verdriet.
Jouw zwijgen vult mijn leegte niet.
Paul Bezembinder
Nostalgie
Gedicht
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bezembinder, Paul
Een jongeman meent zich alles nog te herinneren: hij stapte in een bootje op zoek naar een land met een tandarts, zijn vrouw bleef in het water achter en werd door vissers begraven, en er was ook nog ergens een kind.
Door de shock verliest hij het zicht op de gebeurtenissen, maar zijn verblijfsvergunning hangt af van hoe geloofwaardig zijn rouw klinkt.
In een reeks ongelegenheidsgedichten veegt hij zijn ondervragers met cynische precisie de mantel uit.
Decem
Ongelegenheidsgedichten voor asielverstrekkers
Auteur: Anne Provoost
Poëzie
Bindwijze: Paperback
80 pagina’s
Druk 1e
Taal: Nederlands
Uitgeverij: Querido
NUR: 306
Paperback
ISBN: 9789025317836
Publicatiedatum: 26-09-2024
Prijs: € 20,00
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More in: #Modern Poetry Archive, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive O-P, Archive O-P
O, als ik dood zal zijn
“O, als ik dood zal, dood zal zijn
kom dan en fluister, fluister iets liefs,
mijn bleeke ogen zal ik opslaan
en ik zal niet verwonderd zijn.
En ik zal niet verwonderd zijn ;
in deze liefde zal de dood
alleen een slapen, slapen gerust
een wachten op u, een wachten zijn.”
En schokkende het grote zwichten
en armen die in vertwijfeling slaan,
een wringen omhoog, een biddend reiken,
een klemmen en jammerend laten gaan.
En een hoofd verwordende en bedolven
in der snikken en in der haren nacht,
wond over ondoorgrondlijke stroomen
vervreemd en doodswit opgebracht.
En een stem verwezen en ingezonken
en die nog stervende aanbad:
ik heb zoo zielsveel van je gehouden,
ik heb je zoo lief, zoo lief gehad.
J.H. Leopold
(1865-1925)
O, als ik dood zal zijn
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More in: Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Leopold, J.H.
Na de dag
Het licht heeft je gezicht verweerd
en de marok wil met je aan de haal,
barok wordt rococo, de wijn creëert
de tralies voor de panter van de taal.
De wind steekt op, sirocco of simoem,
rhizomen worden schaars, de gentiaan
verdorst, de iris wordt een zonnebloem
en aan de hemel dient de maan zich aan.
Paul Bezembinder
Na de dag
Gedicht
Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij vooral in klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Bij uitgeverij Leeuwenhof (Oostburg) verschenen de bundels Gedichten (2020), Parkzicht (2020) en Duizelingen (2022). Website: www.paulbezembinder.nl.
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bezembinder, Paul
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