Archive for February, 2012

What to take with me, going to Whitby, and what to leave behind

So we pack our stuff and leave behind
what makes us us, the things well-loved,
but not much needed for the journey.

My tired eyes, like them or not,
must come along, of course,
I can not change my sight.

Nor can I do without the nose
that I was given. It’s attached.

I do so feel the urge to take
my legs along, but should
I really?
Surely they will ache me.

My English pronunciation
I do not leave behind.
(I rather wish I could!)

We want to take
some more unneeded things
for just in case a heat wave starts
in the UK in February.

And left behind, awaiting our return
in shock and awe,
will be the persons that are us
when we are home. The house already hates us
for leaving it and thinks we are unkind.

What shall we see, whom will we find?
How will the light be over there
and will the gulls be everywhere again?

The fortuneteller and the museums’
human hand
will they be around to meet and greet?

The ferry blows its whistle.
All set we are, goodbye for now.
The journey can begin!


All set to go for a holiday πŸ™‚
We will travel via 4 harbours plus the one in Whitby! πŸ™‚ and I am looking forward to meeting Belfast David. David, see you soon!

In the mean time I hope everyone will be having a good time reading here or the blogs of my blogroll! πŸ™‚ I can recommend them all!

ps: While I am abroad, my book “Veritas” will be out for distribution on the 2nd of March. πŸ™‚ I shall schedule a posting for that event.

My poetry house

For building my thoughts
I have stumbled with bricks
too heavy for me to carry.

The words slip away
they are made of thick muck
not much concrete, more slurry.

On a rainy day
my poetry house
crumbles and falls in slow motion.

I shall not give up
till this language gives in
so I can construct with emotion.


Spring nights

Dark blue is staying for a little while
as grey has passed away in the last hour.
The light feels better now it β€˜s almost night
and geese are flying over our isle.

In nights like this there is no misery
but only gratefulness for being here.
My love is sleeping in my arms till dawn,
what he might dream, will stay a mystery.

And in the morning other birds will sing.
They flew from far to stay till Winter comes.
The morning light is waking up my love,
the room is golden now, the shade of Spring.


Cutting the tree (and why)

Accusingly the tree branch points
to where the sun should be
but only how we now don’t speak
will make a memory.

Alarmingly you speak no more
of what our love could be
but only how there is no point
in staying here with me.

If only now I cut that tree
would then the sunlight burn
and if so, will you speak to me,
would our sweet love return?


When I age

Let me dance bare feet
on the beach when I age.
When my hair is grey
let me be that way
as the sea remembers.

Wave by wave I’ll swim
from the shore when I age.
When my arms are thin
let me swim away
as I shall remember.

hear the wind hauling

hear the wind
when hauling
I always heard
your cry then

with me
in remembrance
if not in thought

it gets darker
now all is over
hope has no symbols
to matter or care
no more

be with me
here is our place
on the shore where
I wrote my last letter

hear the wind
when hauling
and maybe hear
my cry then

Why the bird sang

We know why the bird sang
but there is no need to tell others.
Can this be our secret
a key to the old lock,
(the bird sang just for us
did it not?)

Do you remember that wedding
when we walked around in that park,
all dressed in festive clothes?
We were in a bright sort of heaven,
meeting each other in sunlight with drinks.

This is not why the bird sang.
We might tell so to others
but it would not be true.

Still that wedding of others
where we walked in fine gardens
with a castle nearby
and we all wore white,
was a little like heaven.

If I ever do find you
again at some wedding
in sunlight, or attending
a funeral in the pouring rain
and the bird sings,
look at me again in that way.
We shall make a new secret
to add to the others.

I can keep a secret,
a little bird told me how
when it sang at that wedding.

The sailor bride in Spring/ De zeemansbruid in de lente

The birds are soon returning
and with them dreams of warmer times.
Still sticking on their feathers,
burning memories of colours they saw;
reflecting gloomingly in their eyes
shades much brighter than our greys.
Was it not nicer way back South?
They come back anyway, they always do.

Will you, my love, come back to me?
You do so every year in Spring,
when ice is gone and ships may sail again.
Recall last Summer and our love.
You left me in October when
our baby was not showing.
Was it better were you lived?
Or did you have another then?

The flowers are trying hard now
to grow, and blossom in spite of the snow.
Out of the earth new life emerges
in deeper colours than we know.
Their scent will perfume the streets again
with better smells than that of death.
Was it not better in the ground?
They come back anyway, they always do.

Will you then too come back to me,
the way you did before?
I shall be waiting on the quay.
Your son and me, we hope the best
and that your ship may hurry home.
Both him and me have lots to tell.
We made it through the Winter fine.
Now ship, please come, so he’ll be mine.

De vogels komen nu snel terug
en met hen dromen van warmere tijden.
Nog aan hun veren klevend,
brandende herinneringen aan kleuren die ze zagen;
glanzend weerkaatsend in hun ogen
tinten veel vrolijker dan onze grijzen.
Was het niet mooier in het zuiden?
Toch komen ze terug, dat doen ze altijd.

Zul jij, mijn lief, terugkomen bij mij?
Dat doe je iedere lente
als het ijs weg is en schepen weer varen.
Herinner je vorige zomer en onze liefde.
Je liet me hier in oktober toen
ons kindje nog niet toonde.
Was het beter waar je woonde?
Of had je een andere dan?

De bloemen proberen nu hard
te groeien, en bloeien ondanks de sneeuw.
Uit de aarde ontstaat nieuw leven
in diepere kleuren dan wij kennen.
Hun geur zal de straten parfumeren
met betere geuren dan die van de dood.
Was het niet beter in de grond?
Toch komen ze ieder jaar terug, dat doen ze altijd.

Zul jij dan ook bij me terugkeren,
zoals je eerder deed?
Ik zal staan wachten op de ka.
Je zoon en ik hopen het beste
en dat je schip naar huis zal haasten.
Hij en ik beiden hebben je zoveel te zeggen.
Wij hebben ons door de winter heengeslagen.
Nu, schip kom snel, opdat hij mij de hand kan vragen.


as if it had never been here before
the light after a lovemaking hour
was peeking through the curtains, kissed your face
but you slept on, breathing calmly, your pace.

You turned, while I went to take a shower
only to come back, sleep with you once more.

light slowly leaves us alone to rest.
Your arms around me, I hear your heart beat,
a reminder that all this will go too,
but it is hard thinking of losing you.

I have to forget mortality, need
to think of the now, and hope for the best.

is the word, and I was, I will be
your bride, in the morning, the night, the day
if you’ll have me, forever I shall be
your bride, and you will be lover to me.

Now sleep, I will wait, in my dreams anyway
till you come for more loving, gratefully.


Poetry images – 3 poems

Poetry images

I saw words
like little portraits
of noble people
or they were
ballerina’s dancing
and on their shoulders
always a good head
to go with it.

Some were arms
reaching out
for lines of perfection

hands, pointing fingers, angry fists

but only on good days
they became legs to stand on
for more than a sentence
in an overcrowded white sheet of paper.


Words are the keys to many a thought,
opening doors of the mind with their force.

They bring us to places we never sought,
entering spaces of night and remorse.

Words can be shared, stolen, borrowed and bought,
so that we may find the way to our source.

We are between walls

You walk towards and nearer
your feet not making haste
I know your eyebrows rise
opening the door
to let you in this wall.
Again and more so
until morning.

So naked can you be
and still not seen
and still not heard
and still alone
in a crowd
or a bed.

Behind the walls live other people.
Other lives walls leave behind.
Where are we when the door is closed?

Your entrance has amazed me.
Over and over again, it is
you entering me until morning
and still you don’t see me leave
towards, to be inside, the wall.

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