Fleurs du Mal Magazine
THE HOME-COMING OF ‘RASTUS SMITH
There was a great commotion in that part of town which was known as “Little Africa,” and the cause of it was not far to seek. Contrary to the usual thing, this cause was not an excursion down the river, nor a revival, baptising, nor an Emancipation Day celebration. None of these was it that had aroused the denizens of “Little Africa,” and kept them talking across the street from window to window, from door to door, through alley gates, over backyard fences, where they stood loud-mouthed and arms akimboed among laden clothes lines. No, the cause of it all was that Erastus Smith, Aunt Mandy Smith’s boy, who had gone away from home several years before, and who, rumour said, had become a great man, was coming back, and “Little Africa,” from Douglass Street to Cat Alley, was prepared to be dazzled. So few of those who had been born within the mile radius which was “Little Africa” went out into the great world and came into contact with the larger humanity that when one did he became a man set apart. And when, besides, he went into a great city and worked for a lawyer whose name was known the country over, the place of his birth had all the more reason to feel proud of her son.
So there was much talk across the dirty little streets, and Aunt Mandy’s small house found itself all of a sudden a very popular resort. The old women held Erastus up as an example to their sons. The old men told what they might have done had they had his chance. The young men cursed him, and the young girls giggled and waited.
It was about an hour before the time of the arrival of Erastus, and the neighbours had thinned out one by one with a delicacy rather surprising in them, in order that the old lady might be alone with her boy for the first few minutes. Only one remained to help put the finishing touches to the two little rooms which Mrs. Smith called home, and to the preparations for the great dinner. The old woman wiped her eyes as she said to her companion, “Hit do seem a speshul blessin’, Lizy, dat I been spaihed to see dat chile once mo’ in de flesh. He sholy was mighty nigh to my hea’t, an’ w’en he went erway, I thought it ‘ud kill me. But I kin see now dat hit uz all fu’ de bes’. Think o’ ‘Rastus comin’ home, er big man! Who’d evah ‘specked dat?”
“Law, Mis’ Smif, you sholy is got reason to be mighty thankful. Des’ look how many young men dere is in dis town what ain’t nevah been no ‘count to dey pa’ents, ner anybody else.”
“Well, it’s onexpected, Lizy, an’ hit’s ‘spected. ‘Rastus allus wuz a wonnerful chil’, an’ de way he tuk to work an’ study kin’ o’ promised something f’om de commencement, an’ I ‘lowed mebbe he tu’n out a preachah.”
“Tush! yo’ kin thank yo’ stahs he didn’t tu’n out no preachah. Preachahs ain’t no bettah den anybody else dese days. Dey des go roun’ tellin’ dey lies an’ eatin’ de whiders an’ orphins out o’ house an’ home.”
“Well, mebbe hit’s bes’ he didn’ tu’n out dat way. But f’om de way he used to stan’ on de chaih an’ ‘zort w’en he was a little boy, I thought hit was des what he ‘ud tu’n out. O’ co’se, being’ in a law office is des as pervidin’, but somehow hit do seem mo’ worl’y.”
“Didn’t I tell you de preachahs is ez worldly ez anybody else?”
“Yes, yes, dat’s right, but den ‘Rastus, he had de eddication, fo’ he had gone thoo de Third Readah.”
Just then the gate creaked, and a little brown-faced girl, with large, mild eyes, pushed open the door and came shyly in.
“Hyeah’s some flowahs, Mis’ Smif,” she said. “I thought mebbe you might like to decorate ‘Rastus’s room,” and she wiped the confusion from her face with her apron.
“La, chil’, thankee. Dese is mighty pu’tty posies.” These were the laurels which Sally Martin had brought to lay at the feet of her home-coming hero. No one in Cat Alley but that queer, quiet little girl would have thought of decorating anybody’s room with flowers, but she had peculiar notions.
In the old days, when they were children, and before Erastus had gone away to become great, they had gone up and down together along the byways of their locality, and had loved as children love. Later, when Erastus began keeping company, it was upon Sally that he bestowed his affections. No one, not even her mother, knew how she had waited for him all these years that he had been gone, few in reality, but so long and so many to her.
And now he was coming home. She scorched something in the ironing that day because tears of joy were blinding her eyes. Her thoughts were busy with the meeting that was to be. She had a brand new dress for the occasion—a lawn, with dark blue dots, and a blue sash—and there was a new hat, wonderful with the flowers of summer, and for both of them she had spent her hard-earned savings, because she wished to be radiant in the eyes of the man who loved her.
Of course, Erastus had not written her; but he must have been busy, and writing was hard work. She knew that herself, and realised it all the more as she penned the loving little scrawls which at first she used to send him. Now they would not have to do any writing any more; they could say what they wanted to each other. He was coming home at last, and she had waited long.
They paint angels with shining faces and halos, but for real radiance one should have looked into the dark eyes of Sally as she sped home after her contribution to her lover’s reception.
When the last one of the neighbours had gone Aunt Mandy sat down to rest herself and to await the great event. She had not sat there long before the gate creaked. She arose and hastened to the window. A young man was coming down the path. Was that ‘Rastus? Could that be her ‘Rastus, that gorgeous creature with the shiny shoes and the nobby suit and the carelessly-swung cane? But he was knocking at her door, and she opened it and took him into her arms.
“Why, howdy, honey, howdy; hit do beat all to see you agin, a great big, grown-up man. You’re lookin’ des’ lak one o’ de big folks up in town.”
Erastus submitted to her endearments with a somewhat condescending grace, as who should say, “Well, poor old fool, let her go on this time; she doesn’t know any better.” He smiled superiorly when the old woman wept glad tears, as mothers have a way of doing over returned sons, however great fools these sons may be. She set him down to the dinner which she had prepared for him, and with loving patience drew from his pompous and reluctant lips some of the story of his doings and some little word about the places he had seen.
“Oh, yes,” he said, crossing his legs, “as soon as Mr. Carrington saw that I was pretty bright, he took me right up and gave me a good job, and I have been working for him right straight along for seven years now. Of course, it don’t do to let white folks know all you’re thinking; but I have kept my ears and my eyes right open, and I guess I know just about as much about law as he does himself. When I save up a little more I’m going to put on the finishing touches and hang out my shingle.”
“Don’t you nevah think no mo’ ’bout bein’ a preachah, ‘Rastus?” his mother asked.
“Haw, haw! Preachah? Well, I guess not; no preaching in mine; there’s nothing in it. In law you always have a chance to get into politics and be the president of your ward club or something like that, and from that on it’s an easy matter to go on up. You can trust me to know the wires.” And so the tenor of his boastful talk ran on, his mother a little bit awed and not altogether satisfied with the new ‘Rastus that had returned to her.
He did not stay in long that evening, although his mother told him some of the neighbours were going to drop in. He said he wanted to go about and see something of the town. He paused just long enough to glance at the flowers in his room, and to his mother’s remark, “Sally Ma’tin brung dem in,” he returned answer, “Who on earth is Sally Martin?”
“Why, ‘Rastus,” exclaimed his mother, “does yo’ ‘tend lak yo’ don’t ‘member little Sally Ma’tin yo’ used to go wid almos’ f’om de time you was babies? W’y, I’m s’prised at you.”
“She has slipped my mind,” said the young man.
For a long while the neighbours who had come and Aunt Mandy sat up to wait for Erastus, but he did not come in until the last one was gone. In fact, he did not get in until nearly four o’clock in the morning, looking a little weak, but at least in the best of spirits, and he vouchsafed to his waiting mother the remark that “the little old town wasn’t so bad, after all.”
Aunt Mandy preferred the request that she had had in mind for some time, that he would go to church the next day, and he consented, because his trunk had come.
It was a glorious Sunday morning, and the old lady was very proud in her stiff gingham dress as she saw her son come into the room arrayed in his long coat, shiny hat, and shinier shoes. Well, if it was true that he was changed, he was still her ‘Rastus, and a great comfort to her. There was no vanity about the old woman, but she paused before the glass a longer time than usual, settling her bonnet strings, for she must look right, she told herself, to walk to church with that elegant son of hers. When he was all ready, with cane in hand, and she was pausing with the key in the door, he said, “Just walk on, mother, I’ll catch you in a minute or two.” She went on and left him.
He did not catch her that morning on her way to church, and it was a sore disappointment, but it was somewhat compensated for when she saw him stalking into the chapel in all his glory, and every head in the house turned to behold him.
There was one other woman in “Little Africa” that morning who stopped for a longer time than usual before her looking-glass and who had never found her bonnet strings quite so refractory before. In spite of the vexation of flowers that wouldn’t settle and ribbons that wouldn’t tie, a very glad face looked back at Sally Martin from her little mirror. She was going to see ‘Rastus, ‘Rastus of the old days in which they used to walk hand in hand. He had told her when he went away that some day he would come back and marry her. Her heart fluttered hotly under her dotted lawn, and it took another application of the chamois to take the perspiration from her face. People had laughed at her, but that morning she would be vindicated. He would walk home with her before the whole church. Already she saw him bowing before her, hat in hand, and heard the set phrase, “May I have the pleasure of your company home?” and she saw herself sailing away upon his arm.
She was very happy as she sat in church that morning, as happy as Mrs. Smith herself, and as proud when she saw the object of her affections swinging up the aisle to the collection table, and from the ring she knew that it could not be less than a half dollar that he put in.
There was a special note of praise in her voice as she joined in singing the doxology that morning, and her heart kept quivering and fluttering like a frightened bird as the people gathered in groups, chattering and shaking hands, and he drew nearer to her. Now they were almost together; in a moment their eyes would meet. Her breath came quickly; he had looked at her, surely he must have seen her. His mother was just behind him, and he did not speak. Maybe she had changed, maybe he had forgotten her. An unaccustomed boldness took possession of her, and she determined that she would not be overlooked. She pressed forward. She saw his mother take his arm and heard her whisper, “Dere’s Sally Ma’tin” this time, and she knew that he looked at her. He bowed as if to a stranger, and was past her the next minute. When she saw him again he was swinging out of the door between two admiring lines of church-goers who separated on the pavement. There was a brazen yellow girl on his arm.
She felt weak and sick as she hid behind the crowd as well as she could, and for that morning she thanked God that she was small.
Aunt Mandy trudged home alone, and when the street was cleared and the sexton was about to lock up, the girl slipped out of the church and down to her own little house. In the friendly shelter of her room she took off her gay attire and laid it away, and then sat down at the window and looked dully out. For her, the light of day had gone out.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
(1872 – 1906)
The Home-Coming Of ‘Rastus Smith
From The Heart Of Happy Hollow, a collection of short stories reprinted in 1904 by Dodd, Mead and Company, New York. Short Story
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Dunbar, Paul Laurence, Dunbar, Paul Laurence, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Paul Laurence Dunbar
LocHal
(naar Majakovski)
planten druipen
gordijnen vallen
gewoven in vislijn
zilveren ringen
zilveren haken
vissen mensen van het beton
vangen ze op uit het café à la kroeg
schrapen ze van de dansvloer af
hijsen ze langs de trappen op
mens! ga toch lezen
zoek een woord op
luister naar een lezing
door een oververhit brein
blaas een kubus van glas
kennis is zacht als hout
kennis is hard als staal
BARST
door je eigen glazen plafond
Carina van der Walt
Gedicht: LocHal (naar Majakovski)
# new poetry
Carina van der Walt is a South-African born
poet and writer. Since many years she
lives and works in Tilburg NL.
LocHal is a historical Locomotive Shelter in Tilburg
that has been rebuild into a public library.
photo: cvdw2019
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Art & Literature News, Carina van der Walt, Majakovsky, Vladimir, Photography, Walt, Carina van der
Mina Loy (1882-1966) formed part of the new generation of poets who revolutionised writing in the early twentieth century.
She had personal and artistic links to Italian Futurism and Parisian Surrealism, as well as to individuals such as James Joyce, Ezra Pound, Wyndham Lewis, Djuna Barnes and Gertrude Stein. Working with reference to, but also often against the ideas of these fellow writers, her experimental, witty and inconoclastic poems were both distinctive and arresting.
Since the republication of her poems in 1996-7, Loy has gained in stature and importance both in the UK and the US: her writing is now seen as central to literary innovations in the 1910s and 1920s, and she is often a set author on undergraduate and MA courses. Apart from the collection of essays Mina Loy: Woman and Poet published twelve years ago, there is currently no single book on Loy’s work in print. The Companion will be an invaluable new resource for students and readers of modernism. It provides new perspectives and cutting-edge research on Loy’s work and is distinctive in its consideration of her prosodic and linguistic experiments alongside a discussion of the literary and historical contexts in which she worked.
The contributors include influential and emerging experts in modernist studies. They are Peter Nicholls, Tim Armstrong, Geoff Gilbert, David Ayers, Andrew Robertson, John Wilkinson, Suzanne Hobson, Rachel Potter, Alan Marshall, Rowan Harris and Sandeep Parmar.
The Salt Companion to Mina Loy
Edited by Dr Rachel Potter ,
Associate editor Suzanne Hobson
The Salt Companion to Mina Loy comprises ten essays by leading scholars and writers on the work of modernist poet Mina Loy.
Format Paperback
Language English
288 pages
228 x 152mm
Publication date 17 May 2010
Publisher Salt Publishing
Publication City/Country Applecross, WA, Australia |
ISBN10 1876857722
ISBN13 9781876857721
£19.99
# More books
The Salt Companion to Mina Loy
Literary studies
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book Lovers, - Book Stories, Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Futurism, Loy, Mina
Zwart gat
Dag stad ik maak nog één keer
een foto van je die ik voor eeuwig
in mijn geheugen prent situatie
zoals zij nu is jij bent nog mijn
stad nog net mijn stad en ik ben
nog jouw dichter er zal een tijd
komen dat je hunkert naar mij
dan zal ik er niet zijn ik neem
mijn hoed af buig en groet je nog
een laatste keer ademloze stad
kamer in mijn hart dwaallicht in
mijn denken laat me nog één foto
van je maken zodat ik me herinner
hoe het was hoe jij was hoe wij
samen en dan zal ik je bedanken
zeggen dat ik weliswaar op meer
hoopte we bleven vreemden voor
elkaar maar dat het zo goed is en
ik ook niet kan ontkennen dit
afscheid valt me zwaar daarna
doe ik een stap terug draai me
om kijk nog je één keer aan loop
weg richting het grote zwarte gat
deemoedig en vol overtuiging
waag ik de sprong.
Martin Beversluis
Stadsdichter Tilburg 2015 – 2017
Uit de bundel: Stadsgedichten (2017)
Gedicht bij gelegenheid van de overdracht van zijn functie als stadsdichter
aan zijn opvolger Onias Landveld op 27 augustus 2017
Portret: Ivo van Leeuwen
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Beversluis, Martin, Ivo van Leeuwen, Performing arts
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, poet and founder of City Lights Books (San Francisco), author of A Coney Island of the Mind and Pictures of the Gone World, among numerous other books, has been drawing from life since his student days in Paris where he frequented the Academie Julien and where he did his first oil painting.
Little Boy
A Novel
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
In this unapologetically unclassifiable work Lawrence Ferlinghetti lets loose an exhilarating rush of language to craft what might be termed a closing statement about his highly significant and productive 99 years on this planet.
The “Little Boy” of the title is Ferlinghetti himself as a child, shuffled from his overburdened mother to his French aunt to foster childhood with a rich Bronxville family. Service in World War Two (including the D-Day landing), graduate work, and a scholar gypsy’s vagabond life in Paris followed.
These biographical reminiscences are interweaved with Allen Ginsberg-esque high energy bursts of raw emotion, rumination, reflection, reminiscence and prognostication on what we may face as a species on Planet Earth in the future. Little Boy is a magical font of literary lore with allusions galore, a final repository of hard-earned and durable wisdom, a compositional high wire act without a net (or all that much punctuation) and just a gas and an inspiration to read.
“Publisher-poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s next book, due out less than a week before his 100th birthday, has been dubbed a ‘closing statement’ on an almost impossibly fecund life, and an energetic take on what the near future might hold in store for the rest of us… He was and continues to be a reticent cultural gatekeeper, an unassuming curator.”—Lit Hub, “Most Anticipated Books of 2019”
Title Little Boy
Subtitle A Novel
Author Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Publisher Doubleday
Format Hardcover
ISBN-10 0385544782
ISBN-13 9780385544788
Publication Date 19 March 2019
192 pages
$24.00
LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI was born in Yonkers, New York in 1919. Founder of the famed City Lights Booksellers and Publishers, he is an activist, painter, and author of numerous works of poetry, prose, and drama. His A Coney Island of the Mind is one of the bestselling poetry books of all time. Among his many honors are the Los Angeles Times‘ Robert Kirsch Award, the NBCC’s Ivan Sandrof Award, and the ACLU’s Earl Warren Civil Liberties Award. He is also a Commander of the French Order of Arts and Letters. He lives in San Francisco, close by to the bookstore he founded.
# new books
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Little Boy. A Novel
Lawrence Ferlinghetti 100 years
on March 24, 2019
more on: #Ferlinghetti100
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Beat Generation Archives, - Book News, - Book Stories, - Bookstores, Archive E-F, Art & Literature News
Vaak koopt Mels een boeketje bloemen, voor op het graf van Tijger. Soms gaan er weken voorbij zonder dat hij aan hem denkt, maar er zijn dagen dat hij juist heel vaak aan hem denkt, vooral nu de gemeente bekend heeft gemaakt dat het kerkhof zal worden verplaatst.
Als hij die plek niet meer kan bezoeken, raakt hij een groot deel van zichzelf kwijt. En wie zal de graven van zijn dierbaren op het nieuwe kerkhof verzorgen? Alle graven die jonger zijn dan veertig jaar worden verplaatst naar het nieuwe kerkhof, een paar kilometer buiten het dorp, waar de nieuwe overledenen al een jaar of tien worden begraven. De overige graven zullen worden geruimd. Tijger en grootvader Bernhard zullen worden weggewist.
Het nieuwe kerkhof is ver weg. Te ver voor een rolstoel. Hij zou moeten protesteren tegen de ruiming, maar hij beseft dat hij te weinig medestanders heeft. De mensen op het oude kerkhof zijn grotendeels vergeten. De meeste mensen in het dorp zijn nieuw. Mensen uit de stad die op het platteland willen wonen, maar door hun komst de stad naar het dorp hebben gehaald.
Hoelang zal hij zijn doden nog kunnen bezoeken?
Ton van Reen: Het diepste blauw (092)
wordt vervolgd
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book News, - Het diepste blauw, Archive Q-R, Reen, Ton van
Dans un village proche de la ville côtière de Putian, en Chine méridionale, au début du vingtième siècle, Yong Sheng est le fils d’un menuisier-charpentier qui fabrique des sifflets pour colombes réputés.
Les habitants raffolent de ces sifflets qui, accrochés aux rémiges des oiseaux, font entendre de merveilleuses symphonies en tournant au-dessus des maisons. Placé en pension chez un pasteur américain, le jeune Yong Sheng va suivre l’enseignement de sa fille Mary, institutrice de l’école chrétienne. C’est elle qui fait naître la vocation du garçon : Yong Sheng, tout en fabriquant des sifflets comme son père, décide de devenir le premier pasteur chinois de la ville.
Marié de force pour obéir à de vieilles superstitions, Yong Sheng fera des études de théologie à Nankin et, après bien des péripéties, le jeune pasteur reviendra à Putian pour une brève période de bonheur. Mais tout bascule en 1949 avec l’avènement de la République populaire, début pour lui comme pour tant d’autres Chinois d’une ère de tourments – qui culmineront lors de la Révolution culturelle.
Dai Sijie, dans ce nouveau roman, renoue avec la veine autobiographique de son premier livre, Balzac et la petite tailleuse chinoise. Avec son exceptionnel talent de conteur, il retrace l’histoire surprenante de son propre grand-père, l’un des premiers pasteurs chrétiens en Chine.
Dai Sijie
L’Évangile selon Yong Sheng
Collection Blanche, Gallimard
448 pages
140 x 205 mm
Littérature étrangère
Pays : Chine
Époque : XXIe siècle
ISBN : 9782072836381
Gencode : 9782072836381
Code distributeur : G02707
Prix € 22,00
Parution : 07-02-2019
# New books
Dai Sijie
L’Évangile selon Yong Sheng
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive S-T, Art & Literature News
An die Freiheit
Goldne Freiheit, kehre wieder
In mein wundes Herz zurück,
Weck’ mir neue, heit’re Lieder
Und entwölke Geist und Blick.
Komm und trockne meine Thränen
Mit der rosig-zarten Hand,
Stille meines Busens Sehnen,
Löse, was die Liebe band.
Liebe schafft Olympos-Freuden,
Und wer ehrte sie wie ich? –
Tiefer doch sind ihre Leiden,
Und allein sie trafen mich.
Ach! mit Jahren voller Qualen,
Mit des halben Lebens Glück
Mußt’ ich ihre Wonne zahlen,
Flüchtig, wie ein Augenblick.
Ohne Freuden stieg der Morgen
Für mich arme Schwärmerin,
Und der Liebe bleiche Sorgen
Welkten meinen Frühling hin.
Wonne hat sie mir versprochen,
Treue war mein Gegenschwur,
Unsern Bund hat sie gebrochen,
Schmerz und Tränen gab sie nur. –
Nimm für deine Palmenkrone
Was die Liebe mir verspricht,
Hier in dieser Männer-Zone
Grünt für mich die Myrte nicht.
Goldne Freiheit, kehre wieder,
Stimme meiner Harfe Ton;
Jubelt lauter, meine Lieder,
Ihr Umarmen fühl’ ich schon!
Sophie Albrecht
(1757-1840)
Gedicht
An die Freiheit
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, CLASSIC POETRY, Galerie Deutschland
Handen thuis!
Ik las iets…
Moeder wordt op de billen geslagen door jochie van 14.
In de Bisschop Zwijsenstraat, in het bijzijn van haar kinderen,
kon een verse puber zich blijkbaar niet beheersen.
“Ach”, zullen sommigen zeggen, “doe rustig het zijn kwajongens streken”.
Maar kwajongens worden mannen, met diezelfde onbegrip dat dit meer is dan een aanraking.
En als dat onbegrip ook volwassen wordt, dan krijg je een ergere vorm van aanranding.
Want dat is wat dit was, aanranding, geen misplaats puberaal gedrag.
Voor de eerbaarheid van die vrouw was dit een aanslag.
De schaamte dat je in het bijzijn van je kinderen wordt gedegradeerd.
Blijkbaar ben je publiek eigendom dat zelfs door een tienertje mag worden “gehanteerd”.
Tilburg, onze spiegel is hoe wij mensen behandelen.
Vaders, dit is niet de wijsheid die wij op deze wereld moeten achterlaten.
In deze tijd van genderloosheid, zijn sommigen op zoek naar de definitie van man zijn. Maar in ieder geval is het niet dit.
En nu de hamvraag: “Onias, overdrijf je niet?” “Een tik op de billen een aanslag?”
Wel nu mijn wedervraag: Hoe zou jij reageren? Als dit je moeder, dochter, zus, tante, nicht, buurvrouw of collega was?
Want dat was die vrouw en als je dat niet beseft, ligt ergens het probleem ook bij jou.
Was getekend jullie stadsdichter.
Onias Landveld
Stadsdichter Tilburg (2015 – 2017)
Handen thuis! (gedicht)
Portret: Ivo van Leeuwen
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Ivo van Leeuwen, Landveld, Onias, Performing arts
Les fusillés
… Partout la mort. Eh bien, pas une plainte.
Ô blé que le destin fauche avant qu’il soit mûr !
Ô peuple !
On les amène au pied de l’affreux mur.
C’est bien. Ils ont été battus du vent contraire.
L’homme dit au soldat qui l’ajuste : Adieu, frère.
La femme dit : – Mon homme est tué. C’est assez.
Je ne sais s’il eut tort ou raison, mais je sais
Que nous avons traîné le malheur côte à côte ;
Il fut mon compagnon de chaîne ; si l’on m’ôte
Cet homme, je n’ai plus besoin de vivre. Ainsi
Puisqu’il est mort, il faut que je meure. Merci. –
Et dans les carrefours les cadavres s’entassent.
Dans un noir peloton vingt jeunes filles passent ;
Elles chantent ; leur grâce et leur calme innocent
Inquiètent la foule effarée ; un passant
Tremble. – Où donc allez-vous ? dit-il à la plus belle.
Parlez. – Je crois qu’on va nous fusiller, dit-elle.
Un bruit lugubre emplit la caserne Lobau ;
C’est le tonnerre ouvrant et fermant le tombeau.
Là des tas d’hommes sont mitraillés ; nul ne pleure ;
Il semble que leur mort à peine les effleure,
Qu’ils ont hâte de fuir un monde âpre, incomplet,
Triste, et que cette mise en liberté leur plaît.
Nul ne bronche. On adosse à la même muraille
Le petit-fils avec l’aïeul, et l’aïeul raille,
Et l’enfant blond et frais s’écrie en riant : Feu ! […]
Victor Hugo
(1802-1885)
Les fusillés
(Poème)
L’année terrible
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Hugo, Victor, Victor Hugo
Mina Loy (1882 – 1966)—poet, artist, exile, and luminary—was a prominent and admired figure in the art and literary circles of Paris, Florence, and New York in the early years of the twentieth century.
But over time, she gradually receded from public consciousness and her poetry went out of print.
As part of the movement to introduce the work of this cryptic poet to modern audiences, Poetic Salvage: Reading Mina Loy provides new and detailed explications of Loy’s most redolent poems.
This book helps readers gain a better understanding of the body of Loy’s work as a whole by offering compelling close readings that uncover the source materials that inspired Loy’s poetry, including modern artwork, Baedeker travel guides, and even long-forgotten cultural venues.
Helpfully keyed to the contents of Loy’s Lost Lunar Baedeker, edited by Roger Conover, this book is an essential aid for new readers and scholars alike. Mina Loy forged a legacy worthy of serious consideration—through a practice best understood as salvage work, of reclaiming what has been so long obscured.
Poetic Salvage: Reading Mina Loy dives deep to bring hidden treasures to the surface.
Tara Prescott is a lecturer in writing programs at the University of California, Los Angeles.
Poetic Salvage.
Reading Mina Loy
by Tara Prescott
Hardcover
292 pages
Publisher: Bucknell University Press
Language: English
Literature & Fiction
ISBN-10: 1611488125
ISBN-13: 978-1611488128
2016
$76.80
# New books
Poetic Salvage
Reading Mina Loy
Tara Prescott
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book Lovers, - Book Stories, Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Futurism, Loy, Mina
Kijk maar door me heen
Zie maar dat ik echt ben. Dat ik niet schuil
voor antwoorden die altijd ergens vandaan
kunnen komen, midscheeps. Dat ik niet bang
ben om het zwaaigat te verlaten. Omdat ik
weet dat over water vele verhalen de ronde
doen. Over hoe het was toen schepen nog pal
in het midden voeren, er werd gefluisterd
dat er vogels vlogen naar daar waar licht
ontstoken werd met andere vlammen. Kijk
hoe ik hier eigenlijk stilletjes wil huilen, maar
me ferm houd aan de reling en peins over oude
tijden waarin brave mensen oprecht wuifden
naar mannen omdat die kleren van bevrijders
droegen. Zie gewoon maar door me heen.
Bert Bevers
Gedicht: Kijk maar door me heen
Verschenen in Watermerk, Middelburg, 2014
Bert Bevers is a poet and writer who lives and works in Antwerp (Be)
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bevers, Bert
Thank you for reading Fleurs du Mal - magazine for art & literature