Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
(1828 – 1882)
Insomnia
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, *The Pre-Raphaelites Archive, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Rossetti, Dante Gabriel
Départ
Assez vu. La vision s’est rencontrée à tous les airs.
Assez eu. Rumeurs des villes, le soir, et au soleil, et toujours.
Assez connu. Les arrêts de la vie. – Ô Rumeurs et Visions !
Départ dans l’affection et le bruit neufs !
Arthur Rimbaud
(1854 – 1891)
Départ
Illuminations
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Arthur Rimbaud, Rimbaud, Arthur, Rimbaud, Arthur
Founded in 2013, Nahmad Contemporary is dedicated to the presentation of innovative, historically focused exhibitions. The gallery specializes in leading Contemporary artists who rose to prominence during the 1980s, and a selection of Modern masters from the 20th century. The scope of Nahmad Contemporary’s program includes exhibitions that historicize Contemporary artists by illuminating a distinct series, medium, or focus within their oeuvre. Additionally, the gallery features Modern masters to inspire contemporary perspectives on particular works from their canon.
https://www.nahmadcontemporary.com/
Yours Truly
Curated by Eleanor Cayre
July 10-September 14, 2024
Rita Ackermann, Chino Amobi, Hope Atherton, Ed Atkins, Darren Bader, Jonathan Lyndon Chase, Kye Christensen-Knowles, Louis Eisner, Hamishi Farah, Isa Genzken, Sasha Gordon, Mark Grotjahn, Wade Guyton, Abul Hisham, Tishan Hsu, Arthur Jafa, G. Peter Jemison, Cheyenne Julien, Ali Kazim, John Kelsey, Eli Keszler, Zak Kitnick, Carolyn Lazard, Maggie Lee, Lynn Hershman Leeson, Nate Lowman, Mathieu Malouf, Irene Mamiye, Danny McDonald, Danielle Mckinney, Joel Mesler, Stuart Middleton, Jeanette Mundt, Gladys Nilsson, EVA HELENE PADE, Walter Price, Enzo Shalom, Heji Shin, Marianna Simnett, Jaune Quick-to-See Smith, Tobias Spichtig, Frances Stark, Emily Sundblad, Jamie Sutton, Martine Syms, Henry Taylor, Wolfgang Tillmans, Salman Toor, Michelle Uckotter, Evelyn Taocheng Wang, Jordan Wolfson, Issy Wood, Jonas Wood, and Arisa Yoshioka.
‘Yours Truly’ in Nahmad Contemporary New York
NAHMAD CONTEMPORARY
980 Madison Avenue, Third Floor
New York, NY 10075
Hours:
Monday – Friday 10AM – 6PM
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Art & Literature News, Exhibition Archive, FDM in New York
The Toys
My little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey’d,
I struck him, and dismiss’d
With hard words and unkiss’d,
His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken’d eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein’d stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray’d
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
“I will be sorry for their childishness.”
Coventry Patmore
(1823–1896)
The Toys
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Children's Poetry
‘Keen, fitful gusts…’
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring here and there
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home’s pleasant lair:
For I am brimful of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair’d Milton’s eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown’d;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crowned.
John Keats
(1795 – 1821)
‘Keen, fitful gusts…’
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive K-L, Archive K-L, John Keats, Keats, John
LUSTWARANDE
2024
07.07 – 06.10.2024
A R B O S
hout in hedendaagse sculptuur
Park De Oude Warande Tilburg
14de editie Lustwarande over het gebruik van hout in de hedendaagse sculptuur. Hoe is het gesteld met hout in de hedendaagse sculptuur?
Er is sprake van een opmars van kunstenaars die hout toepassen in hun werk. Naast traditionele methodes, onderzoeken sommige kunstenaars computergestuurde wijzen van houtbewerking.
Deelnemende kunstenaars: Gerbrand Burger (NL) – Gesine Grundmann (DE) – Roman Gysin (CH) – Abul Hisham (IN) – Milda Lembertaitė (LT) – Bart Lunenburg (NL) – Henrique Oliveira (BR) – Maria Roosen (NL) – Elmo Vermijs (NL) – Tatiana Wolska (PL)
Lustwarande – Platform for Contemporary Sculpture
park De Oude Warande
Bredaseweg 441
Tilburg
T +31 (0)13 545 7573
info@lustwarande.org
https://www.lustwarande.org/
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Art & Literature News, Exhibition Archive, FDM Art Gallery, Fundament - Lustwarande, Natural history, Sculpture
Dante
Strong forms were those of the New Life, that stood
Around thy cradle,
O Master of the song that looks above!
A brave young giantess,
Unknown before to Greek or Latin shores,
Daring in love and hate, and fair withal,
Came Tuscan Libertade, and the child
Already with bounteous breast did comfort thee.
And all a-glowing with her spheral rays,
Mild and austere in one,
Came Faith: and she, across a shore
Obscure with crowds of visions and of shades,
Opened for thee the Gate of the Infinite.
Sighing and pensive, yet with locks aglow
With rosy splendour from another air,
Love made long stay.
And such the gentle things
He talked to thee with bashful lips, so sweetly
He entered all the chambers of thy heart,
That no one ever knew to love like thee.
But soon away from lonely meditating,
O youthful recluse,
Wild clamour and fierce tumult tore thee, and
The fury of brothers seeking brothers’ blood.
Thou heard’st the hissing flames of civil war
On neighbour’s walls; thou heardest women shriek
To heaven that altars and the marriage bed,
The dear hearth-stone and the infant’s cradle,—
All that made fair the marital abode,
Were swept away in one great gulf of flame.
Their men had rushed from their embrace to arms;
The youth breathed only anger and destruction.
Thou sawest the raging of swords
Seeking the breast-plunge;
Thou heardest the dying warrior
Blaspheme and curse:
Before thee, streaming with gore,
Gold locks and grey;
And the Furies offering
To Liberty the execrated host
Of human victims;
And Death, the cruel arbiter of fates,
Crumbling the mighty towers and opening
The long-barred gates.
Amid wild scenes
So grew thy Italian soul,
And prayed that the long civil hate might end.
Meanwhile he saw
Of love such pure revealings and so strange,
The which depicted in the shade
Of a young myrtle-tree,
Each one who saw must bow the head in reverence.
But o’er this gentle dream
There came the voice of weeping,
Bitterly sounding from the maternal source.
Alas! broken by the whirlwind,
Lies the fair myrtle,
And with wide-spread wings
The dove of sweet affection is flown forth
To seek a purer aura for its flight.
He, driven here and there
In the thick darkness of the turbulent age,
Sought refuge with the famous shades of old;
So learned to hate himself and present things.
And in the twilight came he forth a giant,
Seeming a shade himself—an angry shade
Who through the desert went from tomb to tomb,
Now questioning and now embracing them:
Until before him rose across the ruin
And dust of these barbaric ages gone,
Like a cloudy pillar, the ancient Latin valour.
Then all that such a ruin tells did burst
Upon the silent air in one great cry.
In the exalted vision
Arose the poet divine; and now, disdaining
His stricken land and time that only wasted
In petty aimless strife the ancient strength,
He, in the seeing of his heart’s desire,
Saluted thee, O modern Italy,—
One, in thy valiant arms, thy laws, thy speech.
And then, to truly tell
What such a vision meant, he sought to know
The life that rolls through all the sea of being.
From beneath the dust of buried centuries
He made things good and ill to tell their tale
Through him the fatal prophet: till his voice
Resounded through the world, and made the ages
Turn and behold themselves. Judge and lord,
He placed them where they could themselves behold,
Admired and wept, disdained and laughed at them;
Then shut them up in his eternal song,
Well pleased that he had power to do this much.
And meanwhile this poor tangle
Where the weeping and the wailing still goes on,
This endless fraud and shadow
Which has the name of life and is so base,—
All this didst thou despise! Thy sacred muse
Explored the depths of all the universe.
Following the good gentile Philosopher
Who placed thee in the midst of secret things,
Thou didst desire to see as angels see
There where there is no intervening veil;
And thou wouldst love as they do love in heaven.
Up through the ways of love
The humble creature
Pushing his way to the Creator’s presence,
Wished to find rest in that eternal Truth
Which taught thee the great love and the great thought.
Here Virgil failed thee,
And thou, deserted,
A lonely human spirit as if drowned
Within the abyss of thy immense desire,
Didst vanish overwhelmed in doubt,—
When as on wings
Angelical there came unto thy grief
She who is love and light and vision
Between the understanding and the True.
No mortal tongue like mine may give her name,
But thou who lovedst didst call her Beatrice.
And so from sphere to sphere
‘T was naught but melody that thou didst hear,
‘T was naught but one great light that thou didst see,
And every single sense thou hadst was love,
And verse and spirit made one harmony
Like unto her who there revealed herself.
Alas! what caredst thou then
For thy poor country and the endless strife
That rent its cities like, alas! even those
That make forever dark the vales of hell!
From heaven descending thou didst thrice bring down
The Hymn Supreme, and all the while there shone
Upon thy brow a radiance divine
Like his who spake with God in Sinai.
Before thee shining
In all the splendour of the holy Kingdom
Flashed in its crimson light the mortal field
Of Montaperto, and along the wastes
Deserted and malignant came the sound,
Dreary and dull, of dying warriors’ sighs:
To which far off responded
With a great cry of mingled human woe
The cursed battle-field of Campaldino.
And thou, Rea Meloria,
Didst rise from the Tuscan sea
To tell the glory of this horrid slaughter,
And of the Thyrrenian shores made desolate
With this our madness, and the sea’s great bosom
All stained with blood, and far Liguria’s strand
Filled with the moan of lonely Pisan exiles
And children born for fratricidal war.
Giosuè Carducci
(1835 – 1907)
Dante
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Dante Alighieri
Low Barometer
The south-wind strengthens to a gale,
Across the moon the clouds fly fast,
The house is smitten as with a flail,
The chimney shudders to the blast.
On such a night, when Air has loosed
Its guardian grasp on blood and brain,
Old terrors then of god or ghost
Creep from their caves to life again;
And Reason kens he herits in
A haunted house. Tenants unknown
Assert their squalid lease of sin
With earlier title than his own.
Unbodied presences, the pack’d
Pollution and remorse of Time,
Slipp’d from oblivion reënact
The horrors of unhouseld crime.
Some men would quell the thing with prayer
Whose sightless footsteps pad the floor,
Whose fearful trespass mounts the stair
Or burts the lock’d forbidden door.
Some have seen corpses long interr’d
Escape from hallowing control,
Pale charnel forms—nay ev’n have heard
The shrilling of a troubled soul,
That wanders till the dawn hath cross’d
The dolorous dark, or Earth hath wound
Closer her storm-spredd cloke, and thrust
The baleful phantoms underground.
Robert Bridges
(1844-1930)
Low Barometer
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bridges, Robert
Het plezier van de liplezer
Hij heeft in schijnbewegingen geen trek,
verduidelijkt weifelen slechts met tegenzin.
Dat je uit de letters van liplezer plezier kunt
halen en dan zelfs nog een l overhoudt. Van
zulke kleine dingen kan hij waarlijk oprecht
genieten. Vreugde is zelden een vergissing.
Bert Bevers
Het plezier van de liplezer
Uit Bedekte termen, Stabilitas loci, Antwerpen, 2023
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bedekte-termen-gedichten-Bert-Bevers/dp/B0C8QW1G9N
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bedekte Termen
La Chambrée de nuit
Rêve
On a faim dans la chambrée –
C’est vrai…
Émanations, explosions. Un génie :
« Je suis le gruère ! » –
Lefêbvre « Keller ! »
Le génie « Je suis le Brie ! » –
Les soldats coupent sur leur pain :
« C’est la vie ! »
Le génie. – « Je suis le Roquefort ! »
– « Ça s’ra not’ mort !… »
Je suis le gruère
Et le Brie !… etc.
Valse
On nous a joints, Lefèbvre et moi, etc.
Arthur Rimbaud
(1854 – 1891)
La Chambrée de nuit
Rêve
Derniers vers
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Arthur Rimbaud, Rimbaud, Arthur
Italiaanse roman over een schooljuf en de zelfmoord van een leerlinge.
1970, een stadje aan de voet van de Alpen in Piëmont. Een juf op een basisschool vertrekt van huis, maar in plaats van naar school gaat ze het bos in. In de krant leest ze dat een van haar leerlingen uit een raam in de beek is gesprongen en is overleden. De juf verdwijnt en dagenlang volgt men de zoektocht met ingehouden adem.
Degene die haar vindt is een eenzaam kind, Martino: de vrouw hallucineert, heeft honger en wordt overmand door schuldgevoelens. Martino voelt aan dat ze nog niet klaar is om terug te keren naar de wereld en bezoekt haar in het geheim, brengt haar eten en praat met haar. En toch is hij verscheurd, omdat hij weet dat de familie van de lerares wanhopig naar haar op zoek is…
Ballade van het bos is gebaseerd op een waargebeurd verhaal, gedocumenteerd door krantenartikelen en familieherinneringen. De roman stond op de longlist voor de Premio Strega 2023, een eer die slechts zeer weinig debuutromans ten deel valt.
Maddalena Vaglio Tanet studeerde literatuurwetenschap aan de Universiteit van Pisa en verhuisde daarna naar New York voor een PhD aan Columbia University. Ze werkt als literair scout. Ballade van het bos is haar debuutroman, de vertaalrechten zijn nog vóór publicatie in Italië verkocht aan het Verenigd Koninkrijk, de Verenigde Staten, Duitsland, Griekenland en Portugal. Ze woont met haar gezin in Maastricht.
Ballade van het bos
Door: Maddalena Vaglio Tanet
Paperback met flappen
Formaat: 12,5 x 20,5 cm
280 pagina’s
Meridiaan Uitgevers
Verschijningsdatum:25 april 2024
Vertaler(s): Manon Smits
EAN: 9789493305090
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive S-T, Suicide, Tales of Mystery & Imagination
Petrarca
If far from turbid thoughts and gloomy mood
Some smiling day should see my wish fulfilled
Where breathe the vales with gentle brooks enrilled
The soft air of my Tuscan neighbourhood,
There, where is heard no more the garrulous brood
Of thoughtless minds, in deep oblivion stilled,
Would I to thee my heart’s pure altar build
In the green blackness of the tangled wood.
There with the dying splendours of the sun
Thy song should glow amid the flowers springing
On breezy banks where whispering streams do run;
As if, still sweeter sounds and odours flinging
Upward to heaven when the day is done,
A nightingale from bough to bough were singing.
Giosuè Carducci
(1835 – 1907)
Petrarca
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Archive O-P, Petrarca, Francesco
Thank you for reading Fleurs du Mal - magazine for art & literature