Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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Frederic Leighton, Flaming June, ca. 1895, olieverf op doek, 119 x 119 cm,
Collectie Museo de Arte de Ponce,
Fundación Luis A. Ferré, Inc., Ponce, Puerto Rico
De Schone Slaapster
Victoriaanse schilderkunst uit het Museo de Arte de Ponce
4 juli 2009 t/m 20 september 2009
Gemeentemuseum Den Haag
Het prachtige Flaming June van Frederic Leighton (1830-1896) en vijf sprookjesachtige schilderijen van Edward Burne-Jones (1833-1898) vormen de hoogtepunten van een bijzondere tentoonstelling die van 4 juli tot en met 20 september 2009 te zien is in het Gemeentemuseum Den Haag. Deze topstukken uit het Victoriaanse tijdperk maken deel uit van de collectie van het Museo de Arte de Ponce in Puerto Rico en zijn nu voor het eerst in Nederland te zien.
De prerafaëlieten leverden de belangrijkste Engelse bijdrage aan de negentiende-eeuwse schilderkunst. Kunstenaars als Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882), John Everett Millais (1829-1896) en William Hunt (1827-1910) hadden later grote invloed op stromingen als het Symbolisme en de Esthetic Movement rond Oscar Wilde. In de Victoriaanse tijd vonden hun hoofse ideeën over de mythische schoonheid van de vrouw navolging en werd er veel aandacht besteed aan de materiaalweergave van stoffen, marmer en bloemen.
Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones,
De prins treedt het woud binnen uit de kleine Doornroosje-serie,
1871 – 73, olieverf op doek, 61.28 x 129.54 cm,
Collectie Museo de Arte de Ponce, Fundación Luis A. Ferré, Inc., Ponce, Puerto Rico
Frederic, Lord Leighton schilderde zijn meesterlijke Flaming June rond 1895. Het is een beeld van een onschuldige, slapende vrouw in een oranje, doorschijnende jurk waaronder haar vrouwelijke vormen voorzichtig worden bloot gegeven. De bank waarop ze ligt is bekleed met kussens en rode doeken, op de achtergrond de glinstering van de zon in de zee. Met de weelderige lijnen en warme zonnige kleuren is dit schilderij een voorbeeld van Leightons voorliefde voor klassieke schoonheid en harmonie.
Een ander indrukwekkend doek is het monumentale De slaap van Koning Arthur in Avalon, van Edward Burne-Jones. Dit ruim zes meter brede schilderij wordt beschouwd als zijn ultieme meesterwerk waar hij van 1881 tot op de dag voor zijn dood in 1898 aan werkte om de compositie te perfectioneren. Door het grote formaat kan het schilderij alleen opgerold vervoerd worden en heeft het sinds de aankoop in de jaren 1960 het museum in Puerto Rico nooit meer verlaten. Het is dan ook zeer bijzonder dat het nu voor het eerst weer in Europa is te zien.
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Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones, De slaap van Koning Arthur in Avalon,
olieverfschets, ca. 1881, olieverf op doek, 83,2 x 288,9 cm,
Collectie Museo de Arte de Ponce, Fundación Luis A. Ferré, Inc., Ponce, Puerto Rico
In zijn onderwerpskeuze had Burne-Jones een voorkeur voor de fabelachtige wereld van sprookjes en legendes waarin hij zijn ideale wereld kon verbeelden. De cyclus van Doornroosje bijvoorbeeld bestaat uit drie fantastische werken waarin slapende menselijke figuren worden omringd door een zee van rozen. Hierin is goed te zien hoe Burne-Jones zich liet inspireren door het classicisme; zijn mensen zijn bijna onwerkelijk mooi, zijn draperieën vallen sierlijk en de composities zijn evenwichtig.
In de expositie zijn verder nog schilderijen opgenomen van onder andere Millais, Rossetti, Seddon en Hunt. Deze intieme, hoog kwalitatieve tentoonstelling bestaat uit tien schilderijen, zes tekeningen en een gouache, en is georganiseerd in samenwerking met het Museo del Prado in Madrid en het Memphis Brooks Museum of Art in de Verenigde Staten.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Romeinse weduwe, 1874,
olieverf op doek, 104,8 x 93,3 cm, Collectie Museo de Arte de Ponce,
Fundación Luis A. Ferré, Inc., Ponce, Puerto Rico
fleurdumal.nl magazine
More in: *The Pre-Raphaelites Archive, Art & Literature News
Algernon Charles Swinburne
(1837-1909)
In the water
The sea is awake, and the sound of the song
of the joy of her waking is rolled
From afar to the star that recedes, from anear
to the wastes of the wild wide shore.
Her call is a trumpet compelling us homeward:
if dawn in her east be acold,
From the sea shall we crave not her grace to rekindle
the life that it kindled before,
Her breath to requicken, her bosom to rock us,
her kisses to bless as of yore?
For the wind, with his wings half open, at pause
in the sky, neither fettered nor free,
Leans waveward and flutters the ripple to laughter
and fain would the twain of us be
Where lightly the wave yearns forward from under
the curve of the deep dawn’s dome,
And, full of the morning and fired with the pride
of the glory thereof and the glee,
Strike out from the shore as the heart in us bids
and beseeches, athirst for the foam.
Life holds not an hour that is better to live in:
the past is a tale that is told,
The future a sun-flecked shadow, alive and asleep,
with a blessing in store.
As we give us again to the waters, the rapture
of limbs that the waters enfold
Is less than the rapture of spirit whereby,
though the burden it quits were sore,
Our souls and the bodies they wield at their will
are absorbed in the life they adore–
In the life that endures no burden, and bows not
the forehead, and bends not the knee–
In the life everlasting of earth and of heaven,
in the laws that atone and agree,
In the measureless music of things, in the fervour
of forces that rest or that roam,
That cross and return and reissue, as I
after you and as you after me
Strike out from the shore as the heart in us bids
and beseeches, athirst for the foam.
For, albeit he were less than the least of them, haply
the heart of a man may be bold
To rejoice in the word of the sea as a mother’s
that saith to the son she bore,
Child, was not the life in thee mine, and my spirit
the breath in thy lips from of old?
Have I let not thy weakness exult in my strength,
and thy foolishness learn of my lore?
Have I helped not or healed not thine anguish, or made not
the might of thy gladness more?
And surely his heart should answer, The light
of the love of my life is in thee.
She is fairer than earth, and the sun is not fairer,
the wind is not blither than she:
From my youth hath she shown me the joy of her bays
that I crossed, of her cliffs that I clomb,
Till now that the twain of us here, in desire
of the dawn and in trust of the sea,
Strike out from the shore as the heart in us bids
and beseeches, athirst for the foam.
Friend, earth is a harbour of refuge for winter,
a covert whereunder to flee
When day is the vassal of night, and the strength
of the hosts of her mightier than he;
But here is the presence adored of me, here
my desire is at rest and at home.
There are cliffs to be climbed upon land, there are ways
to be trodden and ridden, but we
Strike out from the shore as the heart in us bids
and beseeches, athirst for the foam.
After a reading
For the seven times seventh time love would renew
the delight without end or alloy
That it takes in the praise as it takes in the presence
of eyes that fulfil it with joy;
But how shall it praise them and rest unrebuked
by the presence and pride of the boy?
Praise meet for a child is unmeet for an elder
whose winters and springs are nine
What song may have strength in its wings to expand them,
or light in its eyes to shine,
That shall seem not as weakness and darkness if matched
with the theme I would fain make mine?
The round little flower of a face that exults
in the sunshine of shadowless days
Defies the delight it enkindles to sing of it
aught not unfit for the praise
Of the sweetest of all things that eyes may rejoice in
and tremble with love as they gaze.
Such tricks and such meanings abound on the lips
and the brows that are brighter than light,
The demure little chin, the sedate little nose,
and the forehead of sun-stained white,
That love overflows into laughter and laughter
subsides into love at the sight.
Each limb and each feature has action in tune
with the meaning that smiles as it speaks
From the fervour of eyes and the fluttering of hands
in a foretaste of fancies and freaks,
When the thought of them deepens the dimples that laugh
in the corners and curves of his cheeks.
As a bird when the music within her is yet
too intense to be spoken in song,
That pauses a little for pleasure to feel
how the notes from withinwards throng,
So pauses the laugh at his lips for a little,
and waxes within more strong.
As the music elate and triumphal that bids
all things of the dawn bear part
With the tune that prevails when her passion has risen
into rapture of passionate art,
So lightens the laughter made perfect that leaps
from its nest in the heaven of his heart.
Deep, grave and sedate is the gaze of expectant
intensity bent for awhile
And absorbed on its aim as the tale that enthralls him
uncovers the weft of its wile,
Till the goal of attention is touched, and expectancy
kisses delight in a smile.
And it seems to us here that in Paradise hardly
the spirit of Lamb or of Blake
May hear or behold aught sweeter than lightens
and rings when his bright thoughts break
In laughter that well might lure them to look,
and to smile as of old for his sake.
O singers that best loved children, and best
for their sakes are beloved of us here,
In the world of your life everlasting, where love
has no thorn and desire has no fear,
All else may be sweeter than aught is on earth,
nought dearer than these are dear.
Love and scorn
I
Love, loyallest and lordliest born of things,
Immortal that shouldst be, though all else end,
In plighted hearts of fearless friend with friend,
Whose hand may curb or clip thy plume-plucked wings?
Not grief’s nor time’s: though these be lords and kings
Crowned, and their yoke bid vassal passions bend,
They may not pierce the spirit of sense, or blend
Quick poison with the soul’s live watersprings.
The true clear heart whose core is manful trust
Fears not that very death may turn to dust
Love lit therein as toward a brother born,
If one touch make not all its fine gold rust,
If one breath blight not all its glad ripe corn,
And all its fire be turned to fire of scorn.
II
Scorn only, scorn begot of bitter proof
By keen experience of a trustless heart,
Bears burning in her new-born hand the dart
Wherewith love dies heart-stricken, and the roof
Falls of his palace, and the storied woof
Long woven of many a year with life’s whole art
Is rent like any rotten weed apart,
And hardly with reluctant eyes aloof
Cold memory guards one relic scarce exempt
Yet from the fierce corrosion of contempt,
And hardly saved by pity. Woe are we
That once we loved, and love not; but we know
The ghost of love, surviving yet in show,
Where scorn has passed, is vain as grief must be.
III
O sacred, just, inevitable scorn,
Strong child of righteous judgment, whom with grief
The rent heart bears, and wins not yet relief,
Seeing of its pain so dire a portent born,
Must thou not spare one sheaf of all the corn,
One doit of all the treasure? not one sheaf,
Not one poor doit of all? not one dead leaf
Of all that fell and left behind a thorn?
Is man so strong that one should scorn another?
Is any as God, not made of mortal mother,
That love should turn in him to gall and flame?
Nay: but the true is not the false heart’s brother:
Love cannot love disloyalty: the name
That else it wears is love no more, but shame.
A solitude
Sea beyond sea, sand after sweep of sand,
Here ivory smooth, here cloven and ridged with flow
Of channelled waters soft as rain or snow,
Stretch their lone length at ease beneath the bland
Grey gleam of skies whose smile on wave and strand
Shines weary like a man’s who smiles to know
That now no dream can mock his faith with show,
Nor cloud for him seem living sea or land.
Is there an end at all of all this waste,
These crumbling cliffs defeatured and defaced,
These ruinous heights of sea-sapped walls that slide
Seaward with all their banks of bleak blown flowers
Glad yet of life, ere yet their hope subside
Beneath the coil of dull dense waves and hours?
First and last
Upon the borderlands of being,
Where life draws hardly breath
Between the lights and shadows fleeing
Fast as a word one saith,
Two flowers rejoice our eyesight, seeing
The dawns of birth and death.
Behind the babe his dawn is lying
Half risen with notes of mirth
From all the winds about it flying
Through new-born heaven and earth:
Before bright age his day for dying
Dawns equal-eyed with birth.
Equal the dews of even and dawn,
Equal the sun’s eye seen
A hand’s breadth risen and half withdrawn:
But no bright hour between
Brings aught so bright by stream or lawn
To noonday growths of green.
Which flower of life may smell the sweeter
To love’s insensual sense,
Which fragrance move with offering meeter
His soothed omnipotence,
Being chosen as fairer or as fleeter,
Borne hither or borne hence,
Love’s foiled omniscience knows not: this
Were more than all he knows
With all his lore of bale and bliss,
The choice of rose and rose,
One red as lips that touch with his,
One white as moonlit snows.
No hope is half so sweet and good,
No dream of saint or sage
So fair as these are: no dark mood
But these might best assuage;
The sweet red rose of babyhood,
The white sweet rose of age.
Algernon Charles Swinburne: Five Poems
kempis poetry magazine
More in: PRE-RAPHAELITES, Swinburne, Algernon Charles
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Algernon Charles Swinburne
(1837-1909)
S u n r i s e
If the wind and the sunlight of April and August had mingled the
past and hereafter
In a single adorable season whose life were a rapture of love and
of laughter,
And the blithest of singers were back with a song; if again from
his tomb as from prison,
If again from the night or the twilight of ages Aristophanes had
arisen,
With the gold-feathered wings of a bird that were also a god upon
earth at his shoulders,
And the gold-flowing laugh of the manhood of old at his lips, for a
joy to beholders,
He alone unrebuked of presumption were able to set to some adequate
measure
The delight of our eyes in the dawn that restores them the sun of
their sense and the pleasure.
For the days of the darkness of spirit are over for all of us here,
and the season
When desire was a longing, and absence a thorn, and rejoicing a
word without reason.
For the roof overhead of the pines is astir with delight as of
jubilant voices,
And the floor underfoot of the bracken and heather alive as a heart
that rejoices.
For the house that was childless awhile, and the light of it
darkened, the pulse of it dwindled,
Rings radiant again with a child’s bright feet, with the light of
his face is rekindled.
And the ways of the meadows that knew him, the sweep of the down
that the sky’s belt closes,
Grow gladder at heart than the soft wind made them whose feet were
but fragrant with roses,
Though the fall of the year be upon us, who trusted in June and by
June were defrauded,
And the summer that brought us not back the desire of our eyes be
gone hence unapplauded.
For July came joyless among us, and August went out from us arid
and sterile,
And the hope of our hearts, as it seemed, was no more than a flower
that the seasons imperil,
And the joy of our hearts, as it seemed, than a thought which
regret had not heart to remember,
Till four dark months overpast were atoned for, and summer began in
September.
Hark, April again as a bird in the house with a child’s voice
hither and thither:
See, May in the garden again with a child’s face cheering the woods
ere they wither.
June laughs in the light of his eyes, and July on the sunbright
cheeks of him slumbers,
And August glows in a smile more sweet than the cadence of
gold-mouthed numbers.
In the morning the sight of him brightens the sun, and the noon
with delight in him flushes,
And the silence of nightfall is music about him as soft as the
sleep that it hushes.
We awake with a sense of a sunrise that is not a gift of the
sundawn’s giving,
And a voice that salutes us is sweeter than all sounds else in the
world of the living,
And a presence that warms us is brighter than all in the world of
our visions beholden,
Though the dreams of our sleep were as those that the light of a
world without grief makes golden.
For the best that the best of us ever devised as a likeness of
heaven and its glory,
What was it of old, or what is it and will be for ever, in song or
in story,
Or in shape or in colour of carven or painted resemblance, adored
of all ages,
But a vision recorded of children alive in the pictures of old or
the pages?
Where children are not, heaven is not, and heaven if they come not
again shall be never:
But the face and the voice of a child are assurance of heaven and
its promise for ever.
kemp=mag poetry magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Swinburne, Algernon Charles
Algernon Charles Swinburne
(1837-1909)
A NEW-YEAR ODE
To Victor Hugo
I
Twice twelve times have the springs of years refilled
Their fountains from the river-head of time
Since by the green sea’s marge, ere autumn chilled
Waters and woods with sense of changing clime,
A great light rose upon my soul, and thrilled
My spirit of sense with sense of spheres in chime,
Sound as of song wherewith a God would build
Towers that no force of conquering war might climb.
Wind shook the glimmering sea
Even as my soul in me
Was stirred with breath of mastery more sublime,
Uplift and borne along
More thunderous tides of song,
Where wave rang back to wave more rapturous rhyme
And world on world flashed lordlier light
Than ever lit the wandering ways of ships by night.
II
The spirit of God, whose breath of life is song,
Moved, though his word was human, on the face
Of those deep waters of the soul, too long
Dumb, dark, and cold, that waited for the grace
Wherewith day kindles heaven: and as some throng
Of quiring wings fills full some lone chill place
With sudden rush of life and joy, more strong
Than death or sorrow or all night’s darkling race,
So was my heart, that heard
All heaven in each deep word,
Filled full with light of thought, and waxed apace
Itself more wide and deep,
To take that gift and keep
And cherish while my days fulfilled their space;
A record wide as earth and sea,
The Legend writ of Ages past and yet to be.
III
As high the chant of Paradise and Hell
Rose, when the soul of Milton gave it wings;
As wide the sweep of Shakespeare’s empire fell,
When life had bared for him her secret springs;
But not his various soul might range and dwell
Amid the mysteries of the founts of things;
Nor Milton’s range of rule so far might swell
Across the kingdoms of forgotten kings.
Men, centuries, nations, time,
Life, death, love, trust, and crime,
Rang record through the change of smitten strings
That felt an exile’s hand
Sound hope for every land
More loud than storm’s cloud-sundering trumpet rings,
And bid strong death for judgment rise,
And life bow down for judgment of his awless eyes.
IV
And death, soul-stricken in his strength, resigned
The keeping of the sepulchres to song;
And life was humbled, and his height of mind
Brought lower than lies a grave-stone fallen along;
And like a ghost and like a God mankind
Rose clad with light and darkness; weak and strong,
Clean and unclean, with eyes afire and blind,
Wounded and whole, fast bound with cord and thong,
Free; fair and foul, sin-stained,
And sinless; crowned and chained;
Fleet-limbed, and halting all his lifetime long;
Glad of deep shame, and sad
For shame’s sake; wise, and mad;
Girt round with love and hate of right and wrong;
Armed and disarmed for sleep and strife;
Proud, and sore fear made havoc of his pride of life.
V
Shadows and shapes of fable and storied sooth
Rose glorious as with gleam of gold unpriced;
Eve, clothed with heavenly nakedness and youth
That matched the morning’s; Cain, self-sacrificed
On crime’s first altar: legends wise as truth,
And truth in legends deep embalmed and spiced;
The stars that saw the starlike eyes of Ruth,
The grave that heard the clarion call of Christ.
And higher than sorrow and mirth
The heavenly song of earth
Sprang, in such notes as might have well sufficed
To still the storms of time
And sin’s contentious clime
With peace renewed of life reparadised:
Earth, scarred not yet with temporal scars;
Goddess of gods, our mother, chosen among the stars.
VI
Earth fair as heaven, ere change and time set odds
Between them, light and darkness know not when,
And fear, grown strong through panic periods,
Crouched, a crowned worm, in faith’s Lernean fen,
And love lay bound, and hope was scourged with rods,
And death cried out from desert and from den,
Seeing all the heaven above him dark with gods
And all the world about him marred of men.
Cities that nought might purge
Save the sea’s whelming surge
From all the pent pollutions in their pen
Deep death drank down, and wrought,
With wreck of all things, nought,
That none might live of all their names again,
Nor aught of all whose life is breath
Serve any God whose likeness was not like to death.
VII
Till by the lips and eyes of one live nation
The blind mute world found grace to see and speak,
And light watched rise a more divine creation
At that more godlike utterance of the Greek,
Let there be freedom. Kings whose orient station
Made pale the morn, and all her presage bleak,
Girt each with strengths of all his generation,
Dim tribes of shamefaced soul and sun-swart cheek,
Twice, urged with one desire,
Son following hard on sire,
With all the wrath of all a world to wreak,
And all the rage of night
Afire against the light
Whose weakness makes her strong-winged empire weak,
Stood up to unsay that saying, and fell
Too far for song, though song were thousand-tongued, to tell.
VIII
From those deep echoes of the loud Ægean
That rolled response whereat false fear was chid
By songs of joy sublime and Sophoclean,
Fresh notes reverberate westward rose to bid
All wearier times take comfort from the pæan
That tells the night what deeds the sunrise did,
Even till the lawns and torrents Pyrenean
Ring answer from the records of the Cid.
But never force of fountains
From sunniest hearts of mountains
Wherein the soul of hidden June was hid
Poured forth so pure and strong
Springs of reiterate song,
Loud as the streams his fame was reared amid,
More sweet than flowers they feed, and fair
With grace of lordlier sunshine and more lambent air.
IX
A star more prosperous than the storm-clothed east’s
Clothed all the warm south-west with light like spring’s,
When hands of strong men spread the wolves their feasts
And from snake-spirited princes plucked the stings;
Ere earth, grown all one den of hurtling beasts,
Had for her sunshine and her watersprings
The fire of hell that warmed the hearts of priests,
The wells of blood that slaked the lips of kings.
The shadow of night made stone
Stood populous and alone,
Dense with its dead and loathed of living things
That draw not life from death,
And as with hell’s own breath
And clangour of immitigable wings
Vexed the fair face of Paris, made
Foul in its murderous imminence of sound and shade.
X
And all these things were parcels of the vision
That moved a cloud before his eyes, or stood
A tower half shattered by the strong collision
Of spirit and spirit, of evil gods with good;
A ruinous wall rent through with grim division,
Where time had marked his every monstrous mood
Of scorn and strength and pride and self-derision:
The Tower of Things, that felt upon it brood
Night, and about it cast
The storm of all the past
Now mute and forceless as a fire subdued:
Yet through the rifted years
And centuries veiled with tears
And ages as with very death imbrued
Freedom, whence hope and faith grow strong,
Smiles, and firm love sustains the indissoluble song.
XI
Above the cloudy coil of days deceased,
Its might of flight, with mists and storms beset,
Burns heavenward, as with heart and hope increased,
For all the change of tempests, all the fret
Of frost or fire, keen fraud or force released,
Wherewith the world once wasted knows not yet
If evil or good lit all the darkling east
From the ardent moon of sovereign Mahomet.
Sublime in work and will
The song sublimer still
Salutes him, ere the splendour shrink and set;
Then with imperious eye
And wing that sounds the sky
Soars and sees risen as ghosts in concourse met
The old world’s seven elder wonders, firm
As dust and fixed as shadows, weaker than the worm.
XII
High witness borne of knights high-souled and hoary
Before death’s face and empire’s rings and glows
Even from the dust their life poured forth left gory,
As the eagle’s cry rings after from the snows
Supreme rebuke of shame clothed round with glory
And hosts whose track the false crowned eagle shows;
More loud than sounds through stormiest song and story
The laugh of slayers whose names the sea-wind knows;
More loud than peals on land
In many a red wet hand
The clash of gold and cymbals as they close;
Loud as the blast that meets
The might of marshalled fleets
And sheds it into shipwreck, like a rose
Blown from a child’s light grasp in sign
That earth’s high lords are lords not over breeze and brine.
XIII
Above the dust and mire of man’s dejection
The wide-winged spirit of song resurgent sees
His wingless and long-labouring resurrection
Up the arduous heaven, by sore and strange degrees
Mount, and with splendour of the soul’s reflection
Strike heaven’s dark sovereign down upon his knees,
Pale in the light of orient insurrection,
And dumb before the almightier lord’s decrees
Who bade him be of yore,
Who bids him be no more:
And all earth’s heart is quickened as the sea’s,
Even as when sunrise burns
The very sea’s heart yearns
That heard not on the midnight-walking breeze
The wail that woke with evensong
From hearts of poor folk watching all the darkness long.
XIV
Dawn and the beams of sunbright song illume
Love, with strange children at her piteous breast,
By grace of weakness from the grave-mouthed gloom
Plucked, and by mercy lulled to living rest,
Soft as the nursling’s nigh the grandsire’s tomb
That fell on sleep, a bird of rifled nest;
Soft as the lips whose smile unsaid the doom
That gave their sire to violent death’s arrest.
Even for such love’s sake strong,
Wrath fires the inveterate song
That bids hell gape for one whose bland mouth blest
All slayers and liars that sighed
Prayer as they slew and lied
Till blood had clothed his priesthood as a vest,
And hears, though darkness yet be dumb,
The silence of the trumpet of the wrath to come.
XV
Nor lacked these lights of constellated age
A star among them fed with life more dire,
Lit with his bloodied fame, whose withering rage
Made earth for heaven’s sake one funereal pyre
And life in faith’s name one appointed stage
For death to purge the souls of men with fire.
Heaven, earth, and hell on one thrice tragic page
Mixed all their light and darkness: one man’s lyre
Gave all their echoes voice;
Bade rose-cheeked love rejoice,
And cold-lipped craft with ravenous fear conspire,
And fire-eyed faith smite hope
Dead, seeing enthroned as Pope
And crowned of heaven on earth at hell’s desire
Sin, called by death’s incestuous name
Borgia: the world that heard it flushed and quailed with shame.
XVI
Another year, and hope triumphant heard
The consummating sound of song that spake
Conclusion to the multitudinous word
Whose expectation held her spirit awake
Till full delight for twice twelve years deferred
Bade all souls entering eat and drink, and take
A third time comfort given them, that the third
Might heap the measure up of twain, and make
The sinking year sublime
Among all sons of time
And fan in all men’s memories for his sake.
Each thought of ours became
Fire, kindling from his flame,
And music widening in his wide song’s wake.
Yea, and the world bore witness here
How great a light was risen upon this darkening year.
XVII
It was the dawn of winter: sword in sheath,
Change, veiled and mild, came down the gradual air
With cold slow smiles that hid the doom beneath.
Five days to die in yet were autumn’s, ere
The last leaf withered from his flowerless wreath.
South, east, and north, our skies were all blown bare,
But westward over glimmering holt and heath
Cloud, wind, and light had made a heaven more fair
Than ever dream or truth
Showed earth in time’s keen youth
When men with angels communed unaware.
Above the sun’s head, now
Veiled even to the ardent brow,
Rose two sheer wings of sundering cloud, that were
As a bird’s poised for vehement flight,
Full-fledged with plumes of tawny fire and hoar grey light.
XVIII
As midnight black, as twilight brown, they spread,
But feathered thick with flame that streaked and lined
Their living darkness, ominous else of dread,
From south to northmost verge of heaven inclined
Most like some giant angel’s, whose bent head
Bowed earthward, as with message for mankind
Of doom or benediction to be shed
From passage of his presence. Far behind,
Even while they seemed to close,
Stoop, and take flight, arose
Above them, higher than heavenliest thought may find
In light or night supreme
Of vision or of dream,
Immeasurable of men’s eyes or mounting mind,
Heaven, manifest in manifold
Light of pure pallid amber, cheered with fire of gold.
XIX
And where the fine gold faded all the sky
Shone green as the outer sea when April glows,
Inlaid with flakes and feathers fledged to fly
Of cloud suspense in rapture and repose,
With large live petals, broad as love bids lie
Full open when the sun salutes the rose,
And small rent sprays wherewith the heavens most high
Were strewn as autumn strews the garden-close
With ruinous roseleaves whirled
About their wan chill world,
Through wind-worn bowers that now no music knows,
Spoil of the dim dusk year
Whose utter night is near,
And near the flower of dawn beyond it blows;
Till east and west were fire and light,
As though the dawn to come had flushed the coming night.
XX
The highways paced of men that toil or play,
The byways known of none but lonely feet,
Were paven of purple woven of night and day
With hands that met as hands of friends might meet–
As though night’s were not lifted up to slay
And day’s had waxed not weaker. Peace more sweet
Than music, light more soft than shadow, lay
On downs and moorlands wan with day’s defeat,
That watched afar above
Life’s very rose of love
Let all its lustrous leaves fall, fade, and fleet,
And fill all heaven and earth
Full as with fires of birth
Whence time should feed his years with light and heat:
Nay, not life’s, but a flower more strong
Than life or time or death, love’s very rose of song.
XXI
Song visible, whence all men’s eyes were lit
With love and loving wonder: song that glowed
Through cloud and change on souls that knew not it
And hearts that wist not whence their comfort flowed,
Whence fear was lightened of her fever-fit,
Whence anguish of her life-compelling load.
Yea, no man’s head whereon the fire alit,
Of all that passed along that sunset road
Westward, no brow so drear,
No eye so dull of cheer,
No face so mean whereon that light abode,
But as with alien pride
Strange godhead glorified
Each feature flushed from heaven with fire that showed
The likeness of its own life wrought
By strong transfiguration as of living thought.
XXII
Nor only clouds of the everlasting sky,
Nor only men that paced that sunward way
To the utter bourne of evening, passed not by
Unblest or unillumined: none might say,
Of all things visible in the wide world’s eye,
That all too low for all that grace it lay:
The lowliest lakelets of the moorland nigh,
The narrowest pools where shallowest wavelets play,
Were filled from heaven above
With light like fire of love,
With flames and colours like a dawn in May,
As hearts that lowlier live
With light of thoughts that give
Light from the depth of souls more deep than they
Through song’s or story’s kindling scroll,
The splendour of the shadow that reveals the soul.
XXIII
For, when such light is in the world, we share,
All of us, all the rays thereof that shine:
Its presence is alive in the unseen air,
Its fire within our veins as quickening wine;
A spirit is shed on all men everywhere,
Known or not known of all men for divine.
Yea, as the sun makes heaven, that light makes fair
All souls of ours, all lesser souls than thine,
Priest, prophet, seer and sage,
Lord of a subject age
That bears thy seal upon it for a sign;
Whose name shall be thy name,
Whose light thy light of fame,
The light of love that makes thy soul a shrine;
Whose record through all years to be
Shall bear this witness written–that its womb bare thee.
XXIV
O mystery, whence to one man’s hand was given
Power upon all things of the spirit, and might
Whereby the veil of all the years was riven
And naked stood the secret soul of night!
O marvel, hailed of eyes whence cloud is driven,
That shows at last wrong reconciled with right
By death divine of evil and sin forgiven!
O light of song, whose fire is perfect light!
No speech, no voice, no thought,
No love, avails us aught
For service of thanksgiving in his sight
Who hath given us all for ever
Such gifts that man gave never
So many and great since first Time’s wings took flight.
Man may not praise a spirit above
Man’s: life and death shall praise him: we can only love.
XXV
Life, everlasting while the worlds endure,
Death, self-abased before a power more high,
Shall bear one witness, and their word stand sure,
That not till time be dead shall this man die
Love, like a bird, comes loyal to his lure;
Fame flies before him, wingless else to fly.
A child’s heart toward his kind is not more pure,
An eagle’s toward the sun no lordlier eye.
Awe sweet as love and proud
As fame, though hushed and bowed,
Yearns toward him silent as his face goes by:
All crowns before his crown
Triumphantly bow down,
For pride that one more great than all draws nigh:
All souls applaud, all hearts acclaim,
One heart benign, one soul supreme, one conquering name.
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Algernon Charles Swinburne: A New-Year Ode to Victor Hugo
fleursdumal.nl magazine – magazine for art & literature
More in: Swinburne, Algernon Charles, Victor Hugo
J. W. W A T E R H O U S E
(1849-1917)
Betoverd door vrouwen
Groninger Museum
14 december 2008 – 3 mei 2009
Het Groninger Museum presenteert van 14 december 2008 tot en met 3 mei 2009 de grootste overzichtstentoonstelling van werken van de wereldberoemde Britse kunstenaar John William Waterhouse (1849-1917) die ooit is georganiseerd. Vele kunstwerken komen uit Engeland, Ierland, Australië, Taiwan en Canada. De tentoonstelling toont schilderijen en tekeningen en wordt georganiseerd in samenwerking met de Royal Academy of Arts in Londen en het Montreal Museum of Fine Arts in Montreal.
De internationale, reizende tentoonstelling J.W. Waterhouse (1849-1917). Schoonheid en Passie is de eerste grootschalige monografische expositie van het werk van Waterhouse sinds 1978. Het is bovendien de eerste tentoonstelling ooit, die de gehele carrière van Waterhouse zal onderzoeken en werken uit publieke en private collecties van over de hele wereld samen zal brengen.
De tentoonstelling toont het engagement van Waterhouse met hedendaagse onderwerpen, variërend van thema’s uit de Klassieke Oudheid en de Middeleeuwen tot spiritualiteit. Klassieke mythes, zoals geïnterpreteerd door Homerus en Ovidius, en een romantische fascinatie voor intense vrouwelijke passies, zoals die worden beschreven in de gedichten van John Keats, Alfred Tennyson en het werk van William Shakespeare, spelen een belangrijke rol binnen zijn oeuvre. Voorbeelden hiervan zijn de Lady of Shalott, Cleopatra, Ulysses and the Sirens en La Belle Dame Sans Merci.
Hoewel de werken van J.W. Waterhouse door miljoenen mensen wereldwijd bewonderd worden, weet het publiek relatief weinig over de man zelf en zijn artistieke productie. De tentoonstelling in het Groninger Museum zal de meest beroemde werken van Waterhouse dan ook in de context van zijn gehele carrière plaatsen om aan te tonen waarom Waterhouse tot één van de meest belangrijke vertalers van klassieke en romantische tradities gerekend kan worden.
Tegenwoordig wordt Waterhouse vaak een ‘Moderne-Prerafaëliet’ genoemd, maar hij was ook een vertegenwoordiger van de nieuwe tijd en was zich volledig bewust van de spannende artistieke vernieuwingen in Parijs in de tweede helft van de negentiende eeuw. Hij voelde zich thuis in de betoverende wereld van mythen en sagen, maar heeft zich ook laten inspireren door poëzie en muziek en de lossere toon van het Frans impressionisme.
De passie van Waterhouse voor schoonheid leeft onmiskenbaar voort in de prachtige schilderijen en tekeningen die hij naliet en waarvan vele te zien zullen zijn in het Groninger Museum.
J.W. Waterhouse in Groninger Museum
fleursdumal.nl magazine – magazine for art & literature
More in: *The Pre-Raphaelites Archive, Art & Literature News
D a n t e G a b r i e l R o s s e t t i
(1828-1882)
S e v e n P o e m s
Insomnia
Thin are the night-skirts left behind
By daybreak hours that onward creep,
And thin, alas! the shred of sleep
That wavers with the spirit’s wind:
But in half-dreams that shift and roll
And still remember and forget,
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.
Our lives, most dear, are never near,
Our thoughts are never far apart,
Though all that draws us heart to heart
Seems fainter now and now more clear.
To-night Love claims his full control,
And with desire and with regret
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.
Is there a home where heavy earth
Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,
Where water leaves no thirst again
And springing fire is Love’s new birth?
If faith long bound to one true goal
May there at length its hope beget,
My soul that hour shall draw your soul
For ever nearer yet.
The Portrait
This is her picture as she was:
It seems a thing to wonder on,
As though mine image in the glass
Should tarry when myself am gone.
I gaze until she seems to stir,–
Until mine eyes almost aver
That now, even now, the sweet lips part
To breathe the words of the sweet heart:–
And yet the earth is over her.
Alas! even such the thin-drawn ray
That makes the prison-depths more rude,–
The drip of water night and day
Giving a tongue to solitude.
Yet only this, of love’s whole prize,
Remains; save what in mournful guise
Takes counsel with my soul alone,–
Save what is secret and unknown,
Below the earth, above the skies.
In painting her I shrin’d her face
Mid mystic trees, where light falls in
Hardly at all; a covert place
Where you might think to find a din
Of doubtful talk, and a live flame
Wandering, and many a shape whose name
Not itself knoweth, and old dew,
And your own footsteps meeting you,
And all things going as they came.
A deep dim wood; and there she stands
As in that wood that day: for so
Was the still movement of her hands
And such the pure line’s gracious flow.
And passing fair the type must seem,
Unknown the presence and the dream.
‘Tis she: though of herself, alas!
Less than her shadow on the grass
Or than her image in the stream.
That day we met there, I and she
One with the other all alone;
And we were blithe; yet memory
Saddens those hours, as when the moon
Looks upon daylight. And with her
I stoop’d to drink the spring-water,
Athirst where other waters sprang;
And where the echo is, she sang,–
My soul another echo there.
But when that hour my soul won strength
For words whose silence wastes and kills,
Dull raindrops smote us, and at length
Thunder’d the heat within the hills.
That eve I spoke those words again
Beside the pelted window-pane;
And there she hearken’d what I said,
With under-glances that survey’d
The empty pastures blind with rain.
Next day the memories of these things,
Like leaves through which a bird has flown,
Still vibrated with Love’s warm wings;
Till I must make them all my own
And paint this picture. So, ‘twixt ease
Of talk and sweet long silences,
She stood among the plants in bloom
At windows of a summer room,
To feign the shadow of the trees.
And as I wrought, while all above
And all around was fragrant air,
In the sick burthen of my love
It seem’d each sun-thrill’d blossom there
Beat like a heart among the leaves.
O heart that never beats nor heaves,
In that one darkness lying still,
What now to thee my love’s great will
Or the fine web the sunshine weaves?
For now doth daylight disavow
Those days,–nought left to see or hear.
Only in solemn whispers now
At night-time these things reach mine ear;
When the leaf-shadows at a breath
Shrink in the road, and all the heath,
Forest and water, far and wide,
In limpid starlight glorified,
Lie like the mystery of death.
Last night at last I could have slept,
And yet delay’d my sleep till dawn,
Still wandering. Then it was I wept:
For unawares I came upon
Those glades where once she walk’d with me:
And as I stood there suddenly,
All wan with traversing the night,
Upon the desolate verge of light
Yearn’d loud the iron-bosom’d sea.
Even so, where Heaven holds breath and hears
The beating heart of Love’s own breast,–
Where round the secret of all spheres
All angels lay their wings to rest,–
How shall my soul stand rapt and aw’d,
When, by the new birth borne abroad
Throughout the music of the suns,
It enters in her soul at once
And knows the silence there for God!
Here with her face doth memory sit
Meanwhile, and wait the day’s decline,
Till other eyes shall look from it,
Eyes of the spirit’s Palestine,
Even than the old gaze tenderer:
While hopes and aims long lost with her
Stand round her image side by side,
Like tombs of pilgrims that have died
About the Holy Sepulchre.
The Kiss
What smouldering senses in death’s sick delay
Or seizure of malign vicissitude
Can rob this body of honour, or denude
This soul of wedding-raiment worn to-day?
For lo! even now my lady’s lips did play
With these my lips such consonant interlude
As laurelled Orpheus longed for when he wooed
The half-drawn hungering face with that last lay.
I was a child beneath her touch, — a man
When breast to breast we clung, even I and she, —
A spirit when her spirit looked through me, —
A god when all our life-breath met to fan
Our life-blood, till love’s emulous ardours ran,
Fire within fire, desire in deity.
Through Death To Love
Like labour-laden moonclouds faint to flee
From winds that sweep the winter-bitten wold,–
Like multiform circumfluence manifold
Of night’s flood-tide,–like terrors that agree
Of hoarse-tongued fire and inarticulate sea,–
Even such, within some glass dimm’d by our breath,
Our hearts discern wild images of Death,
Shadows and shoals that edge eternity.
Howbeit athwart Death’s imminent shade doth soar
One Power, than flow of stream or flight of dove
Sweeter to glide around, to brood above.
Tell me, my heart,–what angel-greeted door
Or threshold of wing-winnow’d threshing-floor
Hath guest fire-fledg’d as thine, whose lord is Love?
The Gloom that Breathes Upon Me
The gloom that breathes upon me with these airs
Is like the drops which stike the traveller’s brow
Who knows not, darkling, if they bring him now
Fresh storm, or be old rain the covert bears.
Ah! bodes this hour some harvest of new tares,
Or hath but memory of the day whose plough
Sowed hunger once, — the night at length when thou,
O prayer found vain, didst fall from out my prayers?
How prickly were the growths which yet how smooth,
Along the hedgerows of this journey shed,
Lie by Time’s grace till night and sleep may soothe!
Even as the thisteldown from pathsides dead
Gleaned by a girl in autumns of her youth,
Which one new year makes soft her marriage-bed.
The Ballad of Dead Ladies
Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere–
She whose beauty was more than human?–
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Where’s Heloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From Love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen
Who willed that Buridan should steer
Sewed in a sack’s mouth down the Seine?–
But where are the snows of yester-year?
White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden–
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
And Ermengarde the lady of Maine–
And that good Joan whom Englishmen
At Rouen doomed and burned her there–
Mother of God, where are they then?–
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Except with this for an overword–
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Life-In-Love
| Not in thy body is thy life at all But in this lady’s lips and hands and eyes; Through these she yields thee life that vivifies What else were sorrow’s servant and death’s thrall. Look on thyself without her, and recall The waste remembrance and forlorn surmise That liv’d but in a dead-drawn breath of sighs O’er vanish’d hours and hours eventual.Even so much life hath the poor tress of hair Which, stor’d apart, is all love hath to show For heart-beats and for fire-heats long ago; Even so much life endures unknown, even where, ‘Mid change the changeless night environeth, Lies all that golden hair undimm’d in death. |
Dante Gabriel Rossetti: Seven Poems
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Rossetti, Dante Gabriel
Christina Georgina Rossetti
(1830-1894)
SONG
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress-tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
FATA MORGANA
A blue-eyed phantom far before
Is laughing, leaping toward the sun;
Like lead I chase it evermore,
I pant and run.
It breaks the sunlight bound on bound;
Goes singing as it leaps along
To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound
A dreamy song.
I laugh, it is so brisk and gay;
It is so far before, I weep:
I hope I shall lie down some day,
Lie down and sleep.
SWEET DEATH
The sweetest blossoms die.
And so it was that, going day by day
Unto the church to praise and pray,
And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully,
I saw how on the graves the flowers
Shed their fresh leaves in showers,
And how their perfume rose up to the sky
Before it passed away.
The youngest blossoms die.
They die and fall and nourish the rich earth
From which they lately had their birth;
Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by
And is as though it had not been:–
All colors turn to green;
The bright hues vanish and the odors fly,
The grass hath lasting worth.
And youth and beauty die.
So be it, O my God, Thou God of truth:
Better than beauty and than youth
Are Saints and Angels, a glad company;
And Thou, O Lord, our Rest and Ease,
Art better far than these.
Why should we shrink from our full harvest? why
Prefer to glean with Ruth?
SONG
She sat and sang alway
By the green margin of a stream,
Watching the fishes leap and play
Beneath the glad sunbeam.
I sat and wept alway
Beneath the moon’s most shadowy beam,
Watching the blossoms of the May
Weep leaves into the stream.
I wept for memory;
She sang for hope that is so fair:
My tears were swallowed by the sea;
Her songs died on the air.
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LOVE LIES BLEEDING
Love that is dead and buried, yesterday
Out of his grave rose up before my face,
No recognition in his look, no trace
Of memory in his eyes dust-dimmed and grey.
While I, remembering, found no word to say,
But felt my quickened heart leap in its place;
Caught afterglow thrown back from long set days,
Caught echoes of all music passed away.
Was this indeed to meet?–I mind me yet
In youth we met when hope and love were quick,
We parted with hope dead, but love alive:
I mind me how we parted then heart sick,
Remembering, loving, hopeless, weak to strive:–
Was this to meet? Not so, we have not met.
WHO SHALL DELIVER ME?
God strengthen me to bear myself;
That heaviest weight of all to bear,
Inalienable weight of care.
All others are outside myself;
I lock my door and bar them out,
The turmoil, tedium, gad-about.
I lock my door upon myself,
And bar them out; but who shall wall
Self from myself, most loathed of all?
If I could once lay down myself,
And start self-purged upon the race
That all must run! Death runs apace.
If I could set aside myself,
And start with lightened heart upon
The road by all men overgone!
God harden me against myself,
This coward with pathetic voice
Who craves for ease and rest and joys:
Myself, arch-traitor to myself;
My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe,
My clog whatever road I go.
Yet One there is can curb myself,
Can roll the strangling load from me.
Break off the yoke and set me free.
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kemp=poetry magazine
More in: Rossetti, Christina
Christina Georgina Rossetti
(1830-1894)
SONG
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress-tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
More in: Archive Q-R, Rossetti, Christina
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