Fleurs du Mal Magazine
Sorrows of Werther
WERTHER had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And for all the wealth of Indies
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sigh’d and pin’d and ogled,
And his passion boil’d and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.
William Makepeace Thackeray
(1811–63)
Sorrows of Werther
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A Woman’s Game explores the history of women’s football from the Victorian era – with players in high-heeled boots – to the present day. It is the story of a rise, fall, and rise again: from the game’s first appearance in England in the late nineteenth century; through the incredible teams which at their height in 1920 drew 53,000 spectators to Goodison Park; to its 50-year ban in the UK and the aftershocks when that ban was lifted.
Now, as the women’s game is once again on an unstoppable upward trend, with internationally renowned players and a record 11.7m viewers for England’s semi-final match against the USA in the 2019 World Cup, Suzanne Wrack considers what the next chapter of this incredible story might be. From its relationship to the worldwide fight against oppression, to its ability to inspire change in the wider world, this is both a history of football as played by women, and a manifesto for a better game.
Suzanne Wrack is the women’s football correspondent for the Guardian and Observer. Her work has also been published in FourFourTwo, and she is a regular contributor to the Guardian’s Football Weekly podcast. In 2020, her investigation on abuse at the Afghanistan Football Federation won an AIPS Sport Media Award. A Woman’s Game is her first book.
A Woman’s Game
by Suzanne Wrack
The astonishing history of the rise, fall, and rise again of women’s football, from the late 19th century to the present day.
Format Paperback
Faber Publisher
ISBN 9781783352159
Date Published 16.06.2022
£14.99
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Day And Night
In Warsaw in Poland
Half the world away,
The one I love best of all
Thought of me to-day;
I know, for I went
Winged as a bird,
In the wide flowing wind
His own voice I heard;
His arms were round me
In a ferny place,
I looked in the pool
And there was his face
But now it is night
And the cold stars say:
“Warsaw in Poland
Is half the world away.”
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
Day And Night
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Datum zondag 26 juni, 2022 van 13:00 tot 17:00
Locatie De Nieuwe Gang, Kloosterstraat 7 in Beuningen
Twaalf dichters op vier podia
Dichters in de tuin is op zondag 26 juni van 13.00 tot 17.00 bij De Nieuwe Gang, Kloosterstraat 7 in Beuningen. Kaarten koop je via https://shop.ikbenaanwezig.nl/tickets/event/dichters-in-de-tuin-2022 voor €10,00 per persoon. De laatste kaarten worden aan de poort verkocht voor € 12,50.
Meer informatie over het programma, de dichters en de kaartverkoop: https://www.poeziecentrumnederland.nl/activiteiten/agenda/
Vanaf 2021 is het festival Dichters in de Tuin een samenwerking tussen De Nieuwe Gang en Poëziecentrum Nederland.
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A noiseless patient spider
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself.
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detatched, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them.
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Poem: A noiseless patient spider
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Come away, come away,
death
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown.
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there!
William Shakespeare
(1564 – 1616)
Song: “Come away, come away, death”
(from Twelfth Night)
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Summer-Like
Summer-like for an instant the autumn sun bursts out,
And the light through the turning elms is green and clear;
It slants down the path and ragged marigolds glow
Fiery again, last flames of the dying year.
A blue-tit darts with a flash of wings, to feed
Where the coconut hangs on the pear tree over the well;
He digs at the meat like a tiny pickaxe tapping
With his needle-sharp beak as he clings to the swinging shell.
Then he runs up the trunk, sure-footed and sleek like a mouse,
And perches to sun himself; all his body and brain
Exult in the sudden sunlight, gladly believing
That the cold is over and summer is here again.
But I see the umber clouds that drive for the sun,
And a sorrow no argument ever can make away
Goes through my heart as I think of the nearing winter,
And the transient light that gleams like the ghost of May;
And the bird unaware, blessing the summer eternal,
Joyfully labouring, proud in his strength, gay-plumed,
Unaware of the hawk and the snow and the frost-bound nights,
And of his death foredoomed.
George Orwell
(1903 – 1950)
Summer-Like
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Les fleurs rares
Entreprenant un long voyage
Ptit Lou hanté par l’histoire de Jussieu
Au lieu d’un petit cèdre prit… Quoi donc ?… Je gage
Qu’on de devinera pas ce que Dieu
Fit prendre à mon ptit Lou :… une fleur rare…
Dont elle ferait don aux serres de Paris…
La fleur étant sans prix
Et Dame Lou voyant qu’elle en valait la peine
Froissa pour la cueillir sa jupe de futaine.
Mais en passant dans la forêt
Allant prendre son train à la ville prochaine
Ptit Lou vit sous un chêne
Une autre fleur : « plus belle encore elle paraît !»
La première fleur tombe
Et la forêt devient sa tombe
Tandis que mon ptit Lou d’un air rêveur
A cueilli la seconde fleur
Et l’entoure de sa sollicitude
Arrivant à la station
Après une montée un peu rude
Pour s’y reposer de sa lassitude.
Avec satisfaction
Ptiti Lou s’assied dans le jardin du chef de gare.
« Tiens ! dit-elle, une fleur ! Elle est encor plus rare !»
Et sans précaution
Ma bergère
Abandonna la timide fleur bocagère
Et cueillit la troisième fleur…
Cheu ! Cheu ! Pheu ! Pheu ! Cheu ! Cheu ! Pheu ! Pheu ! Le train arrive
Et puis repart pour regagner l’Intérieur
Mais dans le train la fleur se fane et Lou pensive
S’en va chez la fleuriste en arrivant :
« Ces rares fleurs… j’en vais rêvant
Elles sont si rares, Madame
Que je n’en tiens plus, sur mon âme !»
La fleuriste s’exprime ainsi
Et Lou dut se contenter d’un souci
Que lui refuse
Sans lui donner d’excuse
Le directeur (un personnage réussi)
Des serres de la ville
de Paris
malgré tous les pleurs et les cris
De Lou qui dut jeter cette fleur inutile.
Et Lou du
Vilain personnage
Quittant le bureau, dut
Entreprendre à rebours l’horticole voyage.
Je crois qu’il est sage
De nous arrêter
À la morale suivante… sans insister !
Des Lous et des fleurs il ne faut discuter
Et je n’en dis pas davantage
Guillaume Apollinaire
(1880 – 1918)
Les fleurs rares
Poèmes à Lou
1915
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52nd Poetry International Festival Rotterdam
From Friday 10 to Sunday 12 June 2022
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More in: # Music Archive, # Punk poetry, #Modern Poetry Archive, - Audiobooks, - Book Lovers, AUDIO, CINEMA, RADIO & TV, Awards & Prizes, CONCRETE , VISUAL & SOUND POETRY, LIGHT VERSE, MUSEUM OF LOST CONCEPTS - invisible poetry, conceptual writing, spurensicherung, Poetry International, TRANSLATION ARCHIVE
En quelques pages, à la première personne, Annie Ernaux (1940) raconte une relation vécue avec un homme de trente ans de moins qu’elle.
Une expérience qui la fit redevenir, l’espace de plusieurs mois, la « fille scandaleuse » de sa jeunesse.
Un voyage dans le temps qui lui permit de franchir une étape décisive dans son écriture.
Ce texte est une clé pour lire l’œuvre d’Annie Ernaux — son rapport au temps et à l’écriture.
Annie Ernaux
Le jeune homme
Editions Gallimard
ISBN 9782072980090
Paru le 05 mai 2022
Collection Blanche, Gallimard
48 pages,
118 x 185 mm, sur Vélin pur fil
Genre : Romans et récits Époque : XXe-XXIe siècle
Prix : € 8,00
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The debut collection of poetry from a virtuosic, compassionate new voice.
Nidhi Zak/Aria Eipe is a poet, pacifist and fabulist.
Born in India, she grew up across the Middle East, Europe and North America before calling Ireland home.
Founder of the Play It Forward Fellowships, she serves as poetry editor at Skein Press and Fallow Media, contributing editor for The Stinging Fly and an advisory board member of Ledbury Poetry Critics Ireland.
She is the recipient of a Next Generation Artist Award in Literature from the Arts Council of Ireland and the inaugural Ireland Chair of Poetry Student Award.
Nidhi Zak/Aria Eipe’s spellbinding debut poetry collection explores love and the wounds it makes. Its first half is composed of five sections, corresponding to the five arrows of Kama, the Hindu God of Love, Desire and Memory. Each arrow has its own effect on some body – a very real, contemporary body – and its particular journey of love.
The second is a long narrative poem, ‘A is for [Arabs]’, which follows a different kind of journey: a family of refugees who have fled to the West from conflict in an unspecified Middle Eastern country. With an extraordinary structure, yoking abecedarian and Fibonacci sequences, it is a skillful and intimate account of migration and exile, of home and belonging.
Auguries of a Minor God
by Nidhi Zak/Aria Eipe
Publisher: Faber & Faber
September 7, 2021
Language: English
Paperback: 120 pages
ISBN-10 : 0571365566
ISBN-13: 978-0571365562
£10.99
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Love In A Mist
Beneath an Ilfracombe machine,
While thunderstorms were raging,
Strephon and Chloe found the scene
Exceedingly engaging;
Though Mother Earth reproached the skies
With flinging pailfuls at her,
When Strephon looked in Chloe’s eyes
The weather didn’t matter.
When ‘Arry up on ‘Ampstead ‘Eath
Performed a double shuffle,
The rain above, the mud beneath,
His spirits failed to ruffle;
For ‘Arriet was by his side
In maddened mazes whirling
And little cared his promised bride
To see her plumes uncurling.
For one resplendent Summer morn
Young Edwin fondly waited,
Till Angelina grew forlorn
And quite emaciated.
When Hampton Court was like a sponge,
With mists their way beguiling,
He seized her hand and took the plunge,
And came up wet and smiling.
Jessie Pope
(1868 – 1941)
Love In A Mist
From: War Poems
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