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Renée Vivien
(1877-1909)
Roses Rising
My brunette with the golden eyes, your ivory body, your amber
Has left bright reflections in the room
Above the garden.
The clear midnight sky, under my closed lids,
Still shines….I am drunk from so many roses
Redder than wine.
Leaving their garden, the roses have followed me….
I drink their brief breath, I breathe their life.
All of them are here.
It’s a miracle….The stars have risen,
Hastily, across the wide windows
Where the melted gold pours.
Now, among the roses and the stars,
You, here in my room, loosening your robe,
And your nakedness glistens
Your unspeakable gaze rests on my eyes….
Without stars and without flowers, I dream the impossible
In the cold night.
Renée Vivien poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive U-V, Renée Vivien, Vivien, Renée
In Memory of Bonnie Elizabeth Parker (1910 – 1934)
Today, on 23 May 2014, it is exactly 80 years ago that outlaw Bonnie Parker was killed by the police (together with her friend Clyde Barrow). Bonnie Parker wrote poems since her schooldays.
A man can break every commandment
And the world will still lend him a hand,
Yet a girl that has loved, but un-wisely
Is an outcast all over the land.
Bonnie Parker
(fragment from the poem The Street Girl)
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Bonnie and Clyde, Bonnie Parker, CRIME & PUNISHMENT, In Memoriam
Renée Vivien
(1877-1909)
Ta royale jeunesse a la mélancolie
Ta royale jeunesse a la mélancolie
Du Nord où le brouillard efface les couleurs,
Tu mêles la discorde et le désir aux pleurs,
Grave comme Hamlet, pâle comme Ophélie.
Tu passes, dans l’éclair d’une belle folie,
Comme elle, prodiguant les chansons et les fleurs,
Comme lui, sous l’orgueil dérobant tes douleurs,
Sans que la fixité de ton regard oublie.
Souris, amante blonde, ou rêve, sombre amant,
Ton être double attire, ainsi qu’un double aimant,
Et ta chair brûle avec l’ardeur froide d’un cierge.
Mon coeur déconcerté se trouble quand je vois
Ton front pensif de prince et tes yeux bleus de vierge,
Tantôt l’Un, tantôt l’Autre, et les Deux à la fois.
Renée Vivien poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive U-V, Renée Vivien, Vivien, Renée
Hans Leybold
(1892-1914)
Auf einer Feldpostkarte
Zerflossen alles
in wirren Schaum,
mein Hirn ein weiter
luftleerer Raum.
Von außen schlagen
die Hämmer drauf:
mein Schädel ist
ein Kirchturmknauf.
Hans Leybold poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive K-L, Hans Leybold, Leybold, Hans
Photo by David Shankbone
In memory of Lucy Gordon
To One in Paradise
by Edgar Allan Poe
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
“On! on!”—but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o’er!
No more—no more—no more—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.
20 May 2014: In memory of Lucy Gordon (22 May 1980 – 20 May 2009)
Photo Lucy gordon by David Shankbone: Lucy Gordon at the 2007 premiere of Spider-Man 3
(David Shankbone: Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license), 2007)
Tombeau de la Jeunesse – fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: In Memoriam, Lucy Gordon, Poe, Edgar Allan
Renée Vivien
(1877-1909)
Prolong the night
Prolong the night, Goddess who sets us aflame!
Hold back from us the golden-sandalled dawn!
Already on the sea the first faint gleam
Of day is coming on.
Sleeping under your veils, protect us yet,
Having forgotten the cruelty day may give!
The wine of darkness, wine of the stars let
Overwhelm us with love!
Since no one knows what dawn will come,
Bearing the dismal future with its sorrows
In its hands, we tremble at full day, our dream
Fears all tomorrows.
Oh! keeping our hands on our still-closed eyes,
Let us vainly recall the joys that take flight!
Goddess who delights in the ruin of the rose,
Prolong the night!
Renée Vivien poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive U-V, Renée Vivien, Vivien, Renée
Bonnie Elizabeth Parker
(1910 – 1934)
The story of “Suicide Sal”
We each of us have a good “alibi”
For being down here in the “joint”
But few of them really are justified
If you get right down to the point.
You’ve heard of a woman’s glory
Being spent on a “downright cur”
Still you can’t always judge the story
As true, being told by her.
As long as I’ve stayed on this “island”
And heard “confidence tales” from each “gal”
Only one seemed interesting and truthful-
The story of “Suicide Sal”.
Now “Sal” was a gal of rare beauty,
Though her features were coarse and tough;
She never once faltered from duty
To play on the “up and up”.
“Sal” told me this tale on the evening
Before she was turned out “free”
And I’ll do my best to relate it
Just as she told it to me:
I was born on a ranch in Wyoming;
Not treated like Helen of Troy,
I was taught that “rods were rulers”
And “ranked” as a greasy cowboy.
Then I left my old home for the city
To play in its mad dizzy whirl,
Not knowing how little of pity
It holds for a country girl.
There I fell for “the line” of a “henchman”
A “professional killer” from “Chi”
I couldn’t help loving him madly,
For him even I would die.
One year we were desperately happy
Our “ill gotten gains” we spent free,
I was taught the ways of the “underworld”
Jack was just like a “god” to me.
I got on the “F.B.A.” payroll
To get the “inside lay” of the “job”
The bank was “turning big money”!
It looked like a “cinch for the mob”.
Eighty grand without even a “rumble”-
Jack was last with the “loot” in the door,
When the “teller” dead-aimed a revolver
From where they forced him to lie on the floor.
I knew I had only a moment-
He would surely get Jack as he ran,
So I “staged” a “big fade out” beside him
And knocked the forty-five out of his hand.
They “rapped me down big” at the station,
And informed me that I’d get the blame
For the “dramatic stunt” pulled on the “teller”
Looked to them, too much like a “game”.
The “police” called it a “frame-up”
Said it was an “inside job”
But I steadily denied any knowledge
Or dealings with “underworld mobs”.
The “gang” hired a couple of lawyers,
The best “fixers” in any mans town,
But it takes more than lawyers and money
When Uncle Sam starts “shaking you down”.
I was charged as a “scion of gangland”
And tried for my wages of sin,
The “dirty dozen” found me guilty-
From five to fifty years in the pen.
I took the “rap” like good people,
And never one “squawk” did I make
Jack “dropped himself” on the promise
That we make a “sensational break”.
Well, to shorten a sad lengthy story,
Five years have gone over my head
Without even so much as a letter-
At first I thought he was dead.
But not long ago I discovered;
From a gal in the joint named Lyle,
That Jack and his “moll” had “got over”
And were living in true “gangster style”.
If he had returned to me sometime,
Though he hadn’t a cent to give
I’d forget all the hell that he’s caused me,
And love him as long as I lived.
But there’s no chance of his ever coming,
For he and his moll have no fears
But that I will die in this prison,
Or “flatten” this fifty years.
Tommorow I’ll be on the “outside”
And I’ll “drop myself” on it today,
I’ll “bump ’em if they give me the “hotsquat”
On this island out here in the bay…
The iron doors swung wide next morning
For a gruesome woman of waste,
Who at last had a chance to “fix it”
Murder showed in her cynical face.
Not long ago I read in the paper
That a gal on the East Side got “hot”
And when the smoke finally retreated,
Two of gangdom were found “on the spot”.
It related the colorful story
Of a “jilted gangster gal”
Two days later, a “sub-gun” ended
The story of “Suicide Sal”.
Bonnie Elizabeth Parker (October 1, 1910 – May 23, 1934) and Clyde Chestnut Barrow (March 24, 1909 – May 23, 1934) were well-known (as Bonnie & Clyde) American outlaws and bankrobbers. They were both killed in a police ambush on May 23, 1934. Bonnie Parker wrote most of her poems, while in jail, in a little notebook she had obtained from The First National Bank of Burkburnett, Texas.
Bonnie Parker poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Bonnie and Clyde, Bonnie Parker, CRIME & PUNISHMENT, Suicide, Western Fiction
Bonnie Elizabeth Parker
(1910 – 1934)
The trail’s end
You’ve read the story of Jesse James
of how he lived and died.
If you’re still in need;
of something to read,
here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde.
Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang
I’m sure you all have read.
how they rob and steal;
and those who squeal,
are usually found dying or dead.
There’s lots of untruths to these write-ups;
they’re not as ruthless as that.
their nature is raw;
they hate all the law,
the stool pigeons, spotters and rats.
They call them cold-blooded killers
they say they are heartless and mean.
But I say this with pride
that I once knew Clyde,
when he was honest and upright and clean.
But the law fooled around;
kept taking him down,
and locking him up in a cell.
Till he said to me;
“I’ll never be free,
so I’ll meet a few of them in hell”
The road was so dimly lighted
there were no highway signs to guide.
But they made up their minds;
if all roads were blind,
they wouldn’t give up till they died.
The road gets dimmer and dimmer
sometimes you can hardly see.
But it’s fight man to man
and do all you can,
for they know they can never be free.
From heart-break some people have suffered
from weariness some people have died.
But take it all in all;
our troubles are small,
till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.
If a policeman is killed in Dallas
and they have no clue or guide.
If they can’t find a fiend,
they just wipe their slate clean
and hang it on Bonnie and Clyde.
There’s two crimes committed in America
not accredited to the Barrow mob.
They had no hand;
in the kidnap demand,
nor the Kansas City Depot job.
A newsboy once said to his buddy;
“I wish old Clyde would get jumped.
In these awfull hard times;
we’d make a few dimes,
if five or six cops would get bumped”
The police haven’t got the report yet
but Clyde called me up today.
He said,”Don’t start any fights;
we aren’t working nights,
we’re joining the NRA.”
From Irving to West Dallas viaduct
is known as the Great Divide.
Where the women are kin;
and the men are men,
and they won’t “stool” on Bonnie and Clyde.
If they try to act like citizens
and rent them a nice little flat.
About the third night;
they’re invited to fight,
by a sub-gun’s rat-tat-tat.
They don’t think they’re too smart or desperate
they know that the law always wins.
They’ve been shot at before;
but they do not ignore,
that death is the wages of sin.
Some day they’ll go down together
they’ll bury them side by side.
To few it’ll be grief,
to the law a relief
but it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.
A few weeks before Bonny Parker was killed by 26 bullets from the police, she wrote this poem which she sent to her mother.
Bonnie Parker poetry
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Bonnie and Clyde, Bonnie Parker, CRIME & PUNISHMENT, Western Fiction
Toneelgroep Maastricht speelt How to play Francesca Woodman, over het onvoltooide leven van een jonge fotografe met een onnavolgbaar talent.
Op zaterdag 15 maart 2014 speelt Toneelgroep Maastricht in de Bordenhal te Maastricht de première van How to play Francesca Woodman. Artistiek leider Arie de Mol maakt met vier jonge actrices een intieme en fysieke voorstelling met tekst, beweging, muziek en projectie, gebaseerd op het leven en werk van de Amerikaanse fotografe Francesca Woodman. Anne Vegter (Dichter des Vaderlands) en Erik-Ward Geerlings (o.a. Decamerone, Mephisto) schreven speciaal voor dit project samen een nieuwe toneeltekst.
Francesca Woodman (1958-1981) maakte tussen haar 13e en 22e levensjaar vele prachtige foto’s, die inmiddels tot cultstatus zijn verheven. Opgroeiend in een kunstenaarsgezin werd het creëren haar met de paplepel ingegoten. Het streven naar erkenning, succes en vernieuwing werd haar voornaamste levensdoel. Woodman schiep een geheel eigen universum, indringend, theatraal en vol magie. 
Maar op 22-jarige leeftijd maakte zij een einde aan haar leven. Ze liet vele honderden negatieven achter, een verscheurde familie en de vraag: waarom?
In How to play Francesca Woodman verdiepen vier actrices zich in de identiteit van deze jonge vrouw en kunstenares. Zelf levend in een tijd waarin veel jonge mensen opboksen tegen de hoge ver-wachtingen waaraan ze -denken te- moeten voldoen. Zowel van hun ouders, als van de samenleving, maar vooral van zichzelf.
tekst Anne Vegter en Erik-Ward Geerlings
regie Arie de Mol
spel Nadia Amin, Lore Dijkman, Nina Fokker en Jessie Wilms
vormgeving Catharina Scholten en Nina Spiering
dramaturgie Mart Jan Zegers
speelperiode woensdag 12, donderdag 13 en vrijdag 14 maart (try outs)
zaterdag 15 maart première
woensdag 19 t/m zondag 23 maart
woensdag 26 t/m zondag 30 maart
woensdag 2 t/m zondag 6 april
nagesprekken op vrijdag 21 & 28 maart en 4 april en op vrijdag en zaterdag (behalve 14 en 15 maart) zijn er nagesprekken met de actrices aanvang 20.30 uur, op zondag 16.00 uur, locatie Theater de Bordenhal, Plein 1992 nr.15, Maastricht, reserveren 043- 3503050 / kassa@toneelgroepmaastricht.nl / informatie www.toneelgroepmaastricht.nl 
How to play Francesca Woodman gaat in het voorjaar van 2015 op tournee langs de kleine zalen van Nederland en België.
Arie de Mol verbeeldt in zijn voorstellingen bij Toneelgroep Maastricht het tijdloze verhaal van de ploeterende mens en zijn verlangen naar houvast. Muzikaal en ontregelend. Hartstochtelijk gebracht.
fleursdumal.nl magazine for art & literature
More in: Art & Literature News, Francesca Woodman, Francesca Woodman, THEATRE
Maison de la Poésie Paris: 7 femmes – Lydie Salvayre
Anne Alvaro, Hélène Babu, Marie-Armelle Deguy, Marianne Denicourt, Irène Jacob, Mireille Perrier & Lydie Salvayre
Adaptation Nadine Eghels – Mise en espace Ivan Morane – Production Textes & Voix Lecture à 7 voix
Pour la Journée de la Femme, la Maison de la Poésie présente un texte de Lydie Salvayre sur sept figures emblématiques de la littérature qui ont marqué sa vie. Pour cet exercice de portraitiste, Lydie Salvayre a choisi sept femmes : Emily Brönte, Colette, Virginia Woolf, Djuna Barnes, Marina Tsvetaeva, Ingeborg Bachmann et Sylvia Plath. Elles ont un point commun : leur relation à l’écriture est passionnelle, et, pour certaines d’entre elles, les a conduit au suicide. Dans l’atmosphère du Paris d’avant-guerre, des Années folles ou de la Russie stalinienne, elles ont témoigné à leur façon du monde dont elles ont souffert et qu’elles ont contribué à façonner. Le texte est porté par les voix de six magnifiques actrices, rejointes par l’auteur elle-même, et une musicienne. Il fait revivre l’histoire, la beauté, la démesure et la rébellion de ces femmes écrivains.
À lire – Lydie Salvayre, 7 Femmes, Perrin, 2013
Samedi 8 mars 2014 – 20H00 – Maison de la Poésie Paris
Passage Molière – 157, rue Saint-Martin – 75003 Paris – M° Rambuteau – RER Les Halles
# website maison de la poésie paris
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Art & Literature News, Literary Events, Maison de la Poésie, Sylvia Plath
Tristan Corbière
(1845-1875)
A une camarade
Que me veux-tu donc, femme trois fois fille ?…
oi qui te croyais un si bon enfant !
– De l’amour?… – Allons : cherche, apporte, pille !
‘aimer aussi, toi ! .., moi qui t’aimais tant.
Oh ! je t’aimais comme.. un lézard qui pèle
Aime le rayon qui cuit son sommeil…
L’Amour entre nous vient battre de l’aile :
– Eh ! qu’il s’ôte de devant mon soleil !
on amour, à moi, n’aime pas qu’on l’aime ;
endiant, il a peur d’être écouté…
C’est un lazzarone enfin, un bohème,
Déjeunant de jeûne et de liberté.
– Curiosité, bibelot, bricole ?…
C’est possible : il est rare – et c’est son bien –
ais un bibelot cassé se recolle ;
Et lui, décollé, ne vaudra plus rien ! …
Va, n’enfonçons pas la porte entr’ouverte
Sur un paradis déjà trop rendu !
Et gardons à la pomme, jadis verte,
Sa peau, sous son fard de fruit défendu.
Que nous sommes-nous donc fait l’un à l’autre ?…
– Rien… – Peut-être alors que c’est pour cela ;
– Quel a commencé? – Pas moi, bon apôtre !
Après, quel dira : c’est donc tout – voilà !
– Tous les deux, sans doute… – Et toi, sois bien sûre
Que c’est encor moi le plus attrapé :
Car si, par erreur, ou par aventure,
Tu ne me trompais.., je serais trompé !
Appelons cela : l’amitié calmée ;
Puisque l’amour veut mettre son holà.
N’y croyons pas trop, chère mal-aimée…
– C’est toujours trop vrai ces mensonges-là ! –
Nous pourrons, au moins, ne pas nous maudire
– Si ça t’est égal – le quart-d’heure après.
Si nous en mourons – ce sera de rire…
oi qui l’aimais tant ton rire si frais !
Tristan Corbière poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *Archive Les Poètes Maudits, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive C-D, CLASSIC POETRY, Corbière, Tristan
Jules Laforgue
(1860-1887)
Hypertrophie
Astres lointains des soirs, musiques infinies,
Ce Coeur universel ruisselant de douceur
Est le coeur de la Terre et de ses insomnies.
En un pantoum sans fin, magique et guérisseur
Bercez la Terre, votre soeur.
Le doux sang de l’Hostie a filtré dans mes moelles,
J’asperge les couchants de tragiques rougeurs,
Je palpite d’exil dans le coeur des étoiles,
Mon spleen fouette les grands nuages voyageurs.
Je beugle dans les vents rageurs.
Aimez-moi. Bercez-moi. Le cœur de l’oeuvre immense
Vers qui l’Océan noir pleurait, c’est moi qui l’ai.
Je suis le coeur de tout, et je saigne en démence
Et déborde d’amour par l’azur constellé,
Enfin ! que tout soit consolé.
Pauvre petit coeur sur la main,
La vie n’est pas folle pour nous
De sourires, ni de festins,
Ni de fêtes : et, de gros sous ?
Elle ne nous a pas gâtés
Et ne nous fait pas bon visage
Comme on fait à ces Enfants sages
Que nous sommes, en vérité.
Si sages nous ! Et, si peu fière
Notre façon d’être avec elle ;
Francs aussi, comme la lumière
Nous voudrions la trouver belle
Autant que d’Autres – pourtant quels ?
Et pieux, charger ses autels
Des plus belles fleurs du parterre
Et des meilleurs fruits de la terre.
Mais d’ailleurs, nous ne lui devrons
Que du respect, tout juste assez,
Qu’il faut professer envers ces
Empêcheurs de danser en rond.
Jules Laforgue poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive K-L, CLASSIC POETRY
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