Fleurs du Mal Magazine
How to Kill
Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.
Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears
and look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being damned, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.
The weightless mosquito touches
her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches.
Keith Douglas
(1920 – 1944)
How to Kill
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Douglas, Keith, WAR & PEACE
Comme surpris
Comme surpris
Et entrepris
De vostre amour,
Je me rens pris
En vo pourpris,
Dame d’onnour.
Si ne mespris
Quant j’entrepris
Si haulte honnour
Comme surpris.
Mais en despris
Ne m’ait le pris
De vo valour;
Car j’ay apris
Les biens compris
En vo doulçour
Comme surpris.
Christine de Pisan
(1364/1365 – 1430)
Comme surpris
Rondeaux
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Pisan, Christine de, The Ideal Woman
In der Sistina
In der Sistine dämmerhohem Raum,
Das Bibelbuch in seiner nerv’gen Hand,
Sitzt Michelangelo in wachem Traum,
Umhellt von einer kleinen Ampel Brand.
Laut spricht hinein er in die Mitternacht,
Als lauscht’ ein Gast ihm gegenüber hier,
Bald wie mit einer allgewalt’gen Macht,
Bald wieder wie mit seinesgleichen schier:
»Umfaßt, umgrenzt hab ich dich, ewig Sein,
Mit meinen großen Linien fünfmal dort!
Ich hüllte dich in lichte Mäntel ein
Und gab dir Leib, wie dieses Bibelwort.
Mit wehnden Haaren stürmst du feurigwild
Von Sonnen immer neuen Sonnen zu,
Für deinen Menschen bist in meinem Bild
Entgegenschwebend und barmherzig du!
So schuf ich dich mit meiner nicht’gen Kraft:
Damit ich nicht der größre Künstler sei,
Schaff mich – ich bin ein Knecht der Leidenschaft –
Nach deinem Bilde schaff mich rein und frei!
Den ersten Menschen formtest du aus Ton,
Ich werde schon von härterm Stoffe sein,
Da, Meister, brauchst du deinen Hammer schon,
Bildhauer Gott, schlag zu! Ich bin der Stein.«
Conrad Ferdinand Meyer
(1825 – 1898)
In der Sistina
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive M-N, Archive M-N
Age and Death
Come closer, kind, white, long-familiar friend,
Embrace me, fold me to thy broad, soft breast.
Life has grown strange and cold, but thou dost bend
Mild eyes of blessing wooing to my rest.
So often hast thou come, and from my side
So many hast thou lured, I only bide
Thy beck, to follow glad thy steps divine.
Thy world is peopled for me; this world’s bare.
Through all these years my couch thou didst prepare.
Thou art supreme Love—kiss me—I am thine!
Emma Lazarus
(1849 – 1887)
Age and Death
From: Selected Poems
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More in: Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Lazarus, Emma
William Blake’s Universe
until 19 May 2024
Discover William Blake’s universe and a constellation of European artists seeking spirituality in their lives and art in response to war, revolution and political turbulence.
Sometimes seen as an eccentric figure or lone genius, William Blake’s Universe is the first exhibition to explore Blake’s boundless imagination in the context of wider trends and themes in European art including romanticism, mysticism and ideas of spiritual regeneration.
This timely new exhibition brings together the largest-ever display of works by the radical British artist, printmaker and poet from our own collection, alongside artworks by his European contemporaries such as the German romantic painters Philipp Otto Runge and Caspar David Friedrich – many of which have never been displayed publicly in the UK until now.
Though these artists never met or connected in their lifetimes, Blake, Runge and Friedrich shared a strong sense of individuality and an unwavering belief in the power of art to redeem a society in crisis.
William Blake’s Universe
until 19 May 2024
University of Cambridge Museums
The Fitzwilliam Museum
Trumpington Street
Cambridge
CB2 1RB
Tel: +44 (0)1223 333 230
Email: tickets@museums.cam.ac.uk
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Art & Literature News, Blake, William, Literary Events
En écho au mouvement « Femme, Vie, Liberté », 16 femmes iraniennes livrent ici leurs témoignages.
Ces voix s’élèvent parfois depuis l’exil, parfois depuis des cellules de prison. Elles parlent d’une vie sans droits contrôlée par la police des mœurs, d’humiliations, de mise sous tutelle et de détresse économique.
Mais aussi d’une nouvelle génération, d’une révolution que plus rien ne pourra arrêter, de libertés qui se gagnent pas à pas et de l’incroyable résilience du peuple iranien. Leurs textes sont bouleversants, remplis de larmes et porteurs d’espoir. Leur bravoure est une leçon d’humanité.
Avec les témoignages de : Golshifteh Farahani, Ghazal Abdollahi, Parastou Forouhar, Shohreh Bayat, Shila Behjat, Ani, Nargess Eskandari-Grünberg, Fariba Balouch, Rita Jahanforuz, Jasmin Shakeri, Shirin Ebadi, Masih Alinejad, Narges Mohammadi, Nazanin Boniadi, Nasrin Sotoudeh, Leily.
Traduit de l’allemand par Mathilde Ramadier, sauf pour le témoignage de Golshifteh Farahani, recueilli par Sophie Caillat.
Nous n’avons pas peur
Le courage des femmes iraniennes
Natalie Amiri & Düzen Tekkal
Avec le témoignage de Golshifteh Farahani
Traduction : Mathilde Ramadier
Editions du Faubourg
ISBN : 9782493594686
Publié le 1 mars 2024
208 pages
140 x 190 mm
Acheter le livre en librairie au prix de € 18,-
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, - Book News, - Book Stories, - Bookstores, Archive A-B, Archive S-T, Banned Books, Feminism, Persian Art, REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS
Much Madness is divinest Sense
Much Madness is divinest Sense
To a discerning Eye –
Much Sense – the starkest Madness –
’Tis the Majority
In this, as all, prevail –
Assent – and you are sane –
Demur – you’re straightway dangerous –
And handled with a Chain –
Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
Much Madness is divinest Sense
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Dickinson, Emily
Death
A spirit sped
Through spaces of night;
And as he sped, he called,
“God! God!”
He went through valleys
Of black death-slime,
Ever calling,
“God! God!”
Their echoes
From crevice and cavern
Mocked him:
“God! God! God!”
Fleetly into the plains of space
He went, ever calling,
“God! God!”
Eventually, then, he screamed,
Mad in denial,
“Ah, there is no God!”
A swift hand,
A sword from the sky,
Smote him,
And he was dead.
Stephen Crane
(1871 – 1900)
Death. A spirit sped
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More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Stephen Crane
Song:
Sweetest love, I do not go
Sweetest love, I do not go,
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter love for me;
But since that I
Must die at last, ’tis best
To use myself in jest
Thus by feign’d deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here today;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way:
Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.
O how feeble is man’s power,
That if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
Nor a lost hour recall!
But come bad chance,
And we join to’it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
Itself o’er us to’advance.
When thou sigh’st, thou sigh’st not wind,
But sigh’st my soul away;
When thou weep’st, unkindly kind,
My life’s blood doth decay.
It cannot be
That thou lov’st me, as thou say’st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
That art the best of me.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy fears fulfil;
But think that we
Are but turn’d aside to sleep;
They who one another keep
Alive, ne’er parted be.
John Donne
(1572–1631)
Song: Sweetest love, I do not go
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More in: Archive C-D, Archive C-D, Donne, John
Mijn dolk
Ik sloot jou in mijn hart, mijn maat, mijn dolk,
Sinds jaar en dag mijn onderkoelde kameraad,
Gesmeed werd jij door vrijgevochten ruitervolk,
Geslepen door een christenhart vervuld van haat.
Door lelieblanke hand wist jij jouw heft omvat,
Als aandenken aan wat – aan wíe – ik achterliet,
In plaats van bloed vergleed er langs jouw blad
Een opgewelde traan – een parel van verdriet.
Haar rokerige ogen vast op mijn persoon gericht,
Vervuld van onbenoembaar, onuitspreekbaar leed,
Verschoten, vlamden dan weer op, in haar gezicht,
Zoals jouw kling dat in het laaiend kampvuur deed.
Zij maakte jou mijn metgezel, haar liefdespand,
De vagebond in mij volgt steeds jouw wijze raad,
Ja, trouw ben ik haar, ik doe mijn woord gestand,
En jij, jij houdt mij bij de les, mijn kille kameraad!
Michail Lermontov,
Mijn dolk, Кинжал (1838)
(1814 – 1841)
Vertaling Paul Bezembinder
Paul Bezembinder studeerde theoretische natuurkunde in Nijmegen. In zijn poëzie zoekt hij vooral in klassieke versvormen en thema’s naar de balans tussen serieuze poëzie, pastiche en smartlap. Bij uitgeverij Leeuwenhof (Oostburg) verschenen de bundels Gedichten (2020), Parkzicht (2020) en Duizelingen (2022). Website: www.paulbezembinder.nl
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More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Bezembinder, Paul, Lermontov, Lermontov, Mikhail
To My Dear and Loving Husband
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompence.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever[e],
That when we live no more, we may live ever.
Anne Bradstreet
(1612 – 1672)
To My Dear and Loving Husband
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bradstreet, Anne
Ein Traum
Wir liegen in einem tiefem See
Und wissen nichts von Leid und Weh.
Wir halten uns umfangen
Und Wasserrosen rings um uns her.
Wir streben und wünschen und wollen nichts mehr.
Wir haben kein Verlangen.
Geliebter, etwas fehlt mir doch,
Einen Wunsch, den hab ich noch:
Die Sehnsucht nach der Sehnsucht.
Emmy Hennings
(1885 – 1948)
Ein Traum
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More in: Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Emmy Hennings, Hennings, Emmy, Performing arts
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