onderwater groeien bomen ondersteboven
de winter is een spin
die tussen takken haar witte web weeft
waarin het zonlicht blijft steken
de kou ruikt als poedersuiker
op smoutenbollen
de kou klinkt als de belletjes aan de halsband van de kat
aan de koelkast hangen
onder de verlopen waardebonnen
en het tijdsschema van lijn 86
foto’s van dode kinderen
bevestigd met een magneet in de vorm van een ananas
mijn man houdt van ananastaart
ik niet
ananas smaakt naar angst en mislukking
ik houd van bakken
ik klop het deeg met de hand
het geluid van de kerkklokken
wordt gedempt door het web van rijp
dof zoemend gebrom en heldere tonen wisselen
Eerst: ogen stijf toegeknepen, niet bewegen,
gedachten bij Engeland.
Dan: huid zout van zweet en tranen
onder de roodgloeiende straal - tot bloedens toe.
Later pas: verborgen in de statistieken.
En ook: het rationaliseren. Het verontschuldigen. Het goedpraten.
Nooit: het woord hardop uitspreken. Alsof de waarheid toegeven
een schuldbekentenis zou zijn.
SARAJEVO. I am watching a documentary in the Galleria 11 07. I see a girl, first she’s about thirteen, later sweet sixteen, maybe – because the siege of this city lasted for four years, the whole First World War in one spot. She and I are about the same age, but while she saw her home bombed and her friends die, my biggest worries were the upcoming math exam and whether that cute boy had noticed me.
We read a diary in middle school, written by another girl caught up in the siege. She wrote about what a rare feast it was to get some Coca-Cola, and I, sheltered and naïve, kept thinking we only got soft drinks on special occasi
The only thing we can learn from history is that we learn nothing from history.
Friedrich HEGEL
MECHELEN/DUBROVNIK. A temporary refugee camp opened up around my corner. All other places are beyond full – the news talks daily about the greatest refugee crisis since the Second World War.
I volunteer there sometimes. There are many young men from all over the world, some families, children, aged two, three, some pregnant women. A lot of voices are heard saying that we cannot shelter them all, but I see their faces and wonder how we can send them away.
A
Today is November: the heavy grey blanket
of mist and nearing ends hangs over the cold roofs
and steals our breath. We know:
summer is long over. We managed to deceive ourselves
all through fall – the sun still shines, we said,
while clinging ever closer together to mask our shivering.
But now the dark has fallen, and with it the curtain
over this path we shared.
You go your own way now, find another bar in another town,
and maybe, someday, remember fondly
the woman you once knew – a song on the jukebox, perhaps,
or a fleeting fragrance to trigger your memory,
but never enough to turn back on your steps
and come knocking on my doo
Now comes the slow and careful untangling
of what’s mine and what’s yours. It is all entwined –
this is my memory, that is your story, this limb is mine,
that emotion is yours, and these old scars – let’s split them evenly.
For a while your blood pumped through my heart
and my soul lodged in your chest as we shared
old wounds and fresh sheets.
Now comes the cold wind and the loneliness.
For some time still we will find pieces
that don’t belong to us under our skins,
but slowly they will all wash away, and with them the pain,
until we meet again, with other names,
in other lives.
We shared a bottle once, and words,
and love. But mostly words.
I lost you, or you lost me,
or we lost us – or nobody lost anything,
who cares. But your words still linger
and at the bottom of every bottle
is still your scarred version of love,
stitched together from the flesh of others
and a borrowed, barely beating heart.
I lost you, or you lost me,
or we lost us, and you have forgotten.
But I am less than I was.
You never offered me anything,
but it still was more than nothing.
I have known a thousand yous
and shared of myself with all.
A look. A fight. A seat on a sweltering, sweaty
overcrowded bus, when the world condenses
to your stop, unattainable as the stars.
A kiss, a poem, a cigarette, my soul.
My life.
Thousands of yous, with a bit of my life.
Held in trembling hands for a second.
Trashed years ago, trampled, lost in drunken
fits of rage, or in a moving box left behind,
locked up, hidden away, tossed on the request
of a new love. Or maybe cherished still,
if you still can cherish – like I wish I’d done
with every piece of you.
Grave
SREBRENICA. One of the questions that seem to govern my decisions, was asked to me by my French teacher at the end of the exam in senior year: “And how would you describe yourself, as an Antigone or an Ismene?”
Over the years, I have heard many people questioning the premise of Antigone’s story. Choosing the death penalty, just to bury your brother? Why would anybody do that? He is already dead, what does it matter whether he is buried or not?
Ask that to the families of the victims of traffic accidents, who put crosses and memorials and flowers and candles near the place where their loved one died. What does it mat
onderwater groeien bomen ondersteboven
de winter is een spin
die tussen takken haar witte web weeft
waarin het zonlicht blijft steken
de kou ruikt als poedersuiker
op smoutenbollen
de kou klinkt als de belletjes aan de halsband van de kat
aan de koelkast hangen
onder de verlopen waardebonnen
en het tijdsschema van lijn 86
foto’s van dode kinderen
bevestigd met een magneet in de vorm van een ananas
mijn man houdt van ananastaart
ik niet
ananas smaakt naar angst en mislukking
ik houd van bakken
ik klop het deeg met de hand
het geluid van de kerkklokken
wordt gedempt door het web van rijp
dof zoemend gebrom en heldere tonen wisselen
Eerst: ogen stijf toegeknepen, niet bewegen,
gedachten bij Engeland.
Dan: huid zout van zweet en tranen
onder de roodgloeiende straal - tot bloedens toe.
Later pas: verborgen in de statistieken.
En ook: het rationaliseren. Het verontschuldigen. Het goedpraten.
Nooit: het woord hardop uitspreken. Alsof de waarheid toegeven
een schuldbekentenis zou zijn.
SARAJEVO. I am watching a documentary in the Galleria 11 07. I see a girl, first she’s about thirteen, later sweet sixteen, maybe – because the siege of this city lasted for four years, the whole First World War in one spot. She and I are about the same age, but while she saw her home bombed and her friends die, my biggest worries were the upcoming math exam and whether that cute boy had noticed me.
We read a diary in middle school, written by another girl caught up in the siege. She wrote about what a rare feast it was to get some Coca-Cola, and I, sheltered and naïve, kept thinking we only got soft drinks on special occasi
The only thing we can learn from history is that we learn nothing from history.
Friedrich HEGEL
MECHELEN/DUBROVNIK. A temporary refugee camp opened up around my corner. All other places are beyond full – the news talks daily about the greatest refugee crisis since the Second World War.
I volunteer there sometimes. There are many young men from all over the world, some families, children, aged two, three, some pregnant women. A lot of voices are heard saying that we cannot shelter them all, but I see their faces and wonder how we can send them away.
A
Today is November: the heavy grey blanket
of mist and nearing ends hangs over the cold roofs
and steals our breath. We know:
summer is long over. We managed to deceive ourselves
all through fall – the sun still shines, we said,
while clinging ever closer together to mask our shivering.
But now the dark has fallen, and with it the curtain
over this path we shared.
You go your own way now, find another bar in another town,
and maybe, someday, remember fondly
the woman you once knew – a song on the jukebox, perhaps,
or a fleeting fragrance to trigger your memory,
but never enough to turn back on your steps
and come knocking on my doo
Now comes the slow and careful untangling
of what’s mine and what’s yours. It is all entwined –
this is my memory, that is your story, this limb is mine,
that emotion is yours, and these old scars – let’s split them evenly.
For a while your blood pumped through my heart
and my soul lodged in your chest as we shared
old wounds and fresh sheets.
Now comes the cold wind and the loneliness.
For some time still we will find pieces
that don’t belong to us under our skins,
but slowly they will all wash away, and with them the pain,
until we meet again, with other names,
in other lives.
We shared a bottle once, and words,
and love. But mostly words.
I lost you, or you lost me,
or we lost us – or nobody lost anything,
who cares. But your words still linger
and at the bottom of every bottle
is still your scarred version of love,
stitched together from the flesh of others
and a borrowed, barely beating heart.
I lost you, or you lost me,
or we lost us, and you have forgotten.
But I am less than I was.
You never offered me anything,
but it still was more than nothing.
I have known a thousand yous
and shared of myself with all.
A look. A fight. A seat on a sweltering, sweaty
overcrowded bus, when the world condenses
to your stop, unattainable as the stars.
A kiss, a poem, a cigarette, my soul.
My life.
Thousands of yous, with a bit of my life.
Held in trembling hands for a second.
Trashed years ago, trampled, lost in drunken
fits of rage, or in a moving box left behind,
locked up, hidden away, tossed on the request
of a new love. Or maybe cherished still,
if you still can cherish – like I wish I’d done
with every piece of you.
Grave
SREBRENICA. One of the questions that seem to govern my decisions, was asked to me by my French teacher at the end of the exam in senior year: “And how would you describe yourself, as an Antigone or an Ismene?”
Over the years, I have heard many people questioning the premise of Antigone’s story. Choosing the death penalty, just to bury your brother? Why would anybody do that? He is already dead, what does it matter whether he is buried or not?
Ask that to the families of the victims of traffic accidents, who put crosses and memorials and flowers and candles near the place where their loved one died. What does it mat
i am a grumbley, stubbly bear.
i must confess, i've litte care;
my grumpiness is self-aware.
tho it's to shield my sof-tee-ness,
i must confess my grumpiness.
so that my out won't in suborn,
my face is wont to go unshorn
(my wife to daunt and make forlorn).
until i shave she will me haunt;
my face is wont my wife to daunt.
Pause.
A deep breath and a sip of liquor
makes a manual that
tells you how to achieve
nothing.
A break to break down your thinking.
A chance to pick apart every
brick of ours
and inspect it so that we know
every one
is made of dust.
But Homes can be made of mud
so you spit
until your lips crack
and you stir everything together,
hoping you have enough in you
to maybe make
a doorway
that will lead somewhere else.
"Fuck your actions!"
She whispered
gazing down at the spot on the carpet
where a living room bonfire
had fused the threads together.
"I wanna hear your words..."
"what do you want me to say?"
"That's just the problem..."
I can hear the trace of a sob
as a cloud of smoke caresses her forehead
before drifting to the walls
to see how this will end.
"What is?"
"Do you remember when I told you
to pull over
so we could
look at the stars?..."
I remember a dry wind
and a sense of loss.
why haven't I done this before?
"...all that wonder
and nothing to say."
And she wants a response
but she's not waiting
and she growls to her feet
to keep from