Download Belgian Women Poets: An Anthology (Belgian Francophone PDF
Designed to acquaint an English-speaking public with a massive point of Belgian literature, this bilingual anthology comprises poems and prose poems by way of twenty-eight girls, awarded in chronological order in keeping with their date of start. A biobibliographical precis introduces every one writer. a large choice of issues, types, moods, and poetic pursuits are represented. The foreword bargains a common survey of the Belgian poetic scene from a literary and sociological perspective.
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Extra info for Belgian Women Poets: An Anthology (Belgian Francophone Library)
The choice to write under a pseudonym reflects the poet’s desire for privacy, which may account for the relative lack of attention paid to her work. In fact, little is known about her personal life, with the exception of some autobiographical details revealed in two of her late prose publications. As a child, Marie was poor, of fragile health and apparently unloved, except by her father who died when she was still quite young. She graduated from a highly-respected private Teachers’ College in Brussels.
Summer As we wandered through fields that noontime sets aflame, We felt desire’s fevers coursing through our veins. We lay by a knoll, closely embracing, Under skies of blue, less blue than our souls, Under a blazing sun, less strong than the fire Of our senses consumed by love overwhelming. We then sought the cool ponds and the shade of willows; I placed my hands on your shoulders, like so, To more fully absorb your beautiful features . . And how can I express the height of my pleasure When, enraptured by love, I saw your eyes glimmer With a joy as immense as the joy of Summer?
In you there still remains the taste of his delight, Like rare perfume in a vial of ivory. Eyes of mine, I love you, for you are still dazzled By the wonderment he would bring everywhere; And still you reflect, as in two deep wells, The persistent image of the things that once were. Arms of mine, I love you, for you circled his neck In a supple embrace of languid tenderness. Fingers of mine, I love you for being so perfect In dispensing the slow pleasure of a caress. Brow of mine, I love you; you bring back the echo Of my thoughts with his closely entwined; Lips of mine—though now faded—I love you so, And even more for having bled under his bite.