It is hard to write someting beautiful
these days, when all my eyes can see
is madness, utter sadness, and vile glee
of people straying off of all that's meaningful
And yet, when my friend, in all this sadness
spoke of how elated he was, when seeing this
beauty, I couldn't help but smile and to wish, his
love to conquer all and foremost her, in all fairness
© 2023-12-30
Preface.
October 7 is a horror and a grave stain on the Palestinian struggle for freedom and I mourn the victims, the dead, the kidnapped, their families and friends have my sympathy.
And yet, there's no justification whatsoever for what Israel has done before and since to the Palestinian people. As there can never be a legitimisation of theft of land, of life, of oppression and torture and of such contempt of the other that a people, a nation, now commits genocide. In all that my sympathy, my heart, is with the Palestinian people, all of them, completely.
However, please do not ever make the mistake of thinking that this Israel equals all Jewish people. Without a doubt there are in (be they few) and outside (just a little more) this state of Israel those that still deserve the title Mensch.
They flee involuntarily
from Canaan to Egypt
twenty-eight incubators
yet three remain still
as do eight in Memoriam.
Thirty-one little Amaleks
fighting for life to-be
and eight infants covered
with soil and debris
their mother's heart torn.
Pharoa's carriages bear
this flight of innocence
not from God's plague
but of a nation's wrath
men, no longer mensch.
© 2023-11-20
Note.
The Yiddish definition of Mensh: A mensch is a person of integrity, morality, dignity, with a sense of what is right and responsible. Moreover, someone caring, kind and considerate.
I wake up
and feel her nestle
in my arm
Cold feet
paws retracted claws
and a wet nose
Silently she crawls
under the duvet
she senses so well
my need for gentleness
and silence
The world beneath my feet
it quivers
for so long already
yet I seem to be
the only one
to notice
So too the audible drone
the dark resonance
from the pit
The earth, the air
sigh and growl
and but few take in
These final days
and she, licks my skin
her tongue rough
still ever so tender
I see faces of the dead
- some distorted -
pass me by
- some at peace -
in the night, each night
A struggle without onset
sadly also with no end
And she, she turns
adjusts softly
against my chest
falls, falling asleep
And I follow
I follow in her fall
and do not wish to awaken
© 2023-11-07
Original Dutch / Oorspronkelijke Nederlandse tekst.
Nacht zonder ontwaken
Ik waak op
en voel haar zich nestelen
in mijn arm
Koude voetjes
pootjes ingetrokken klauwen
en natte neus
Stilletjes kruipt zij
onder het dek
ze begrijpt zo goed
mijn behoefte aan zachtheid
en stilte
De wereld onder mijn voeten
trilt al
reeds lang
maar ik schijn de enige te zijn
die voelt
Zo ook de diepe hoorbare brom
de donkere resonantie
vanuit de put
De aarde, de lucht
zuchten en grommen
en slechts weinigen horen
Deze laatste dagen
en zij, zij likt mijn huid
haar tong ruw
en toch zo teder
Ik zie de dode gezichten
sommige verwrongen
aan mij voorbij gaan
sommige in vrede
in de nacht, elke nacht
Een strijd zonder aanvang
helaas ook zonder einde
En zij, zij draait zich
schikt zich zacht
tegen mijn borstkas
valt, valt in slaap
En ik volg
volg in haar val
en wens niet te ontwaken
© 2023-10-31 / 2023-11-07
She has the gift
to bind me to this life
and sometimes that's a punishment
life, that is
not her, not ever her
© 2023-11-02
Original Dutch.
Onmeedogenloos barmhartig
Zij heeft de gave
mij aan dit leven te binden
en soms is dat een straf
het leven
niet zij, nimmer zij
© 2023-10-27 / 2023-11-02
There are days that I think I don't want to think
bury my head under fiery ashes, tear my clothes
cut the lively locks of hair that curl along my temple
There are nights I dream I don't want to dream
bury my moon under pillows, tear my torrent tears
cut the dead that haunt and dread inside my temple
There are lives I live I think I don't want to live
bury my faith under rubble, tear my hope all apart
cut the love that evaporates as smoke in my temple
There are deaths I've died I don't want to die
bury my throat under knives, tear my skinned soul
cut the heart sizzling on hottest flint out of my temple
There are faces I have seen I don't want to face
bury my truth under piles of lies, tear my sins from me
cut the beard every tongue that kills the truth in my temple
I think that there are days I think I think I don't want to think
I know that there are aeons I know of I know I don't want know
I want you to bury me, tear me, cut the life out of me I think
For what on earth are you people doing to one another?!
© 2023-10-18
Note.
And yet another ghetto - from victim to perpetrator - where fear and hatred have lead
On moral decay of (a) people, on hypocricy of nations the world over, on looking away from your brother's suffering and alas on '...of doing to others what you do not want others do to you...'.
Of utter disappointment in the state of Israel, turned into disgust, and of sincere and deep sympathy with all victims of terrorism and war crimes of whatever era on whichever side.
I hereby propose to submit this motion to the UN General Assembly: either the UN resolution 181 of November 29, 1947 will at once be brought into full effect or it becomes null and void.
And should the latter be chosen, by choice or abstain, may God have mercy on all innocent for what must follow.
My heart is with the people of Palestine, not Hamas, but with the Palestinian people. And with all the fine Jewish people that are still out there, silenced and in pain, I know you're out there.
© 2023-10-28
Ah - my Fernando
That delusion of which you wrote isn't new
It's been with us since Adam's fall
The passed on victimhood cuts in on the other - it
Wounds, denies and considers itself a rigtheous avenger
The past reversed in repetition, other city, same kind of people
Victim becomes perpetrator becomes victim - degenerates
Surrounded by cannons. Sadly, here love is just a word
And so for peace. Hate is our normal, our one consistency
And truth, aggrieved truth, it lies in pieces - on the battleground
My detached poet, you wrote a long time ago 'let others die'
But you meant so much more and so much else than that
Brilliant Pessoa your versed letters sparkle to me - on white paper
Yet we, delusioned and living in error, know no peaceful christmas
We continue to follow false leaders on both sides of the spectrum
Note.
And I, my multiple I's, Fernando Pessoa, grieve for innocense, mourn all innocent, on both sides of the border, on both sides of prevailing unbelief.
© 2023-10-10
Vert.
Genade vóór wraak
Ach - mijn Fernando
Die dwaling waarvan jij schreef is niet nieuw
Deze heeft bestaan sinds Adam's val
Het doorgegeven slachtofferschap hakt in op de ander - 't
Verwondt, ontkent en acht zich een gerechtvaardigde wreker
Het verleden omgekeerd in herhaling, andere stad, eenzelfde volk
Slachtoffer wordt dader wordt slachtoffer - verwordt
Omsingeld door kanonnen. Hier is liefde slechts een woord
En zo voor vrede. Haat is ons de maat, onze enige consistentie
En waarheid, de gewraakte waarheid, die ligt in brokken - op het slagveld
Mijn onthechte poët, jij schreef lang geleden 'laat anderen sterven'
Maar jij bedoelde zoveel meer en zoveel anders dan dat
Jouw gedichte letters schitteren mij toe - op het wit papier
Maar wij, misleid, levend in dwaling, kennen geen vredige kerst
Wij blijven valse leiders volgen aan beide zijden van het spectrum.
Noot.
En ik, mijn ikken, Fernando Pessoa, die treuren om de onschuld, die rouwen om alle onschuldigen, aan beide zijden van de grens, aan beide zijden van heersend ongeloof.
© 2023-10-10
*
Up in the blue skies
my eyes lure my immortal
for it never rests
*
My soul roams calmly
way down in the nebula
of cosmos unknown
*
His gaze penetrates
the mists of my well being
where spring is my source
*
In time as we meet
all opaque yet love so clear
there will be no if
*
Where there is no she
a he no longer exists
and we do not mind
*
When glim merges dark
you a bloom and I a haze
oneness becomes light
*
© 2023-10-07
Were I a mountain
I would defy all physics
Bow and come to you
© 2023-04-22
It's been a while
hasn't it
Not that I wasn't
interested
Just a bit preoccupied
with moving
Mountains crossing vales
before settling
But I did talk to you my dear one
argued with you
Gently in my mind like I talk
so very often
Speaking to and with my Beloved
yet wasn't she *
The one that taught me
in one simple line that
When I -as when we- speak
to fellow men
It's then -in that- that we
communicate
Directly to our beloved God
like he taught all
Of us -his children- to listen attentively
before we speak
or act
If nothing else
listen
For through you
I speak to God
Still what for these moments
that you're truly quiet
Silent even in the mind
as in the core
Peaceful and serene
tranquil like Momo on his mountain
as Yeshua in his desert
like Mo in his wicker basket
Why speak or think
when all you are
Is is being in unity
below, above and beyond
If nothing else
© 2023-08-27
* i.e. Anisa Mehdi. Note: I think I quote her here verbatim: "...I believe that peace in this world is possible. I believe in one God, I believe in the unity of his creation and I believe that God (only) expresses himself in the way we humans interact with each other..."; and this statement of hers, she mentioned as opening to an interview, triggered the twist in this poem.
While George sang of freedom of belonging to no one other than to himself
he confessed her he'd found his freedom in shackles freely shackled to her.
She smiled, that forever you're mine smile, and touched his hand so lightly
while he shifted gear and accelerated driving out of that green sloping trap.
They'd shared a lifetime of being excluded for they'd debarred all the others
by being such misfits so intertwined that only few could endure or penetrate.
Singing for crowds hiding his wings but not an angelic voice Michael chants
freely of a freedom the sort they'd conquered and owned together for years.
They'd crept out the backdoor of a society either denying or misrepresenting
their heavenly Father that so many prophets had known 'n spoken of before.
A multicoloured world of hearts hidden behind grayed out hair, wrinkled skin
covering a mind and soul as juvenile as the Lord's at his very first creations.
And they were driving speeding through the remainder of life out of a noose
of thin layered green pastures of brummagem democracy and foul traditions.
Giving up home and hearth just as easily as they'd gained any worldly asset
for all freedom was quietly declining in that central European oligarchic farce.
Heading to maybe nowhere but forever together as she offered her freedom
being bound to his submission to the All-Merciful, asking who's truly steering.
Well He was surely, truly, towards that endgame the one designed to cleanse
to rid and to hold, spite and holiness, to protect against evil, becoming family.
As little family they'd known they knew it was there, right from the start a few
spread out non-related yet they would meet and they would wage a holy war.
But that would all follow later, now they sang of freedom of shackled freedom
to a love to salvation to humanity united under His all-embracing rainbow sky.
© 2023-04-15
.
Well, my sleepy little angels, after the black*, grey and white bedtime stories,
it's time for something different, this one will be as bad as it possibly can.
It all started with Molly,
yes, a sheep,
well actually it started with a brilliant scientist,
but one that wanted to compete with G-D,
yes, sure, a megalomaniac
but even that brilliant mind was unprepared
for what's coming
next
Well a successor thought, as simple as he was,
" if I would clone myself, now that I'm still young enough,
I could raise and tutor with all that I've learned over the years
myself, I can teach my clone, myself, to be an even better me
with all this experience in my genes of all the years spent on earth
but, but, but what if,
what if I will not be a better transcript of myself, but everything I hate,
how would I cope with all that, how could I stop myself being me
no, no, not me, that cannot be,
I can only better myself, as bright as I am, I am smart after all
surely I can create myself to be even smarter, richer, mightier,
if only, if only I had the funds to do this experiment "
And yes, my Serafim, there's always a billionaire or an oligarch,
- can anyone tell me the difference between the two, is there one,
correct there.... both have too much political power.... and neither
have gained such riches in an honest way, unlimited thievery....
all true, but that's not really the point this story's trying to make -
so, a billionaire decided to fund the scientist in his cloning quest,
thinking " when I own the company that has all that intel, I will be
the biggest oligarch of all, I will have them clone me and become
immortal, all my endless life I will live in wealth, fame and glamour "
Yet what's such prospect if you cannot share your victory with someone,
so he spoke in the utmost secrecy with the ruler of the nation, the one
that he had financed into power, the one he thought of being his puppet,
but that confidant proved to be more than a jackstraw, as that dummy
dreamed of that one ignoble thought eventually all potential monarchs
come to dream of, that uncontrollable, unlimited, undisputed dominion,
that ruler thought " if I control this cloning, I can clone myself an army,
and clone myself as eternal emperor, a Nero, a worse Genghis Khan,
the best Qin Shi Huangdi, I will be all in one and all will bow and pay
homage, the United Nations will be me, mine and, and..yeahhhh."
The self proclaimed world leader in stature dreamed his orchastic dream
and then one day we all woke up from his nightmare, except we didn't,
wake up that is, for the nightmare had become daily life, we were as the
saying goes: living the dream; his dream, our nightmare, brought to life.
It had all started with Molly and we never objected and so we'd become
all a Molly, blind in pleasure, my Serafim, didn't the Upanishads say:
" And now I've become Molly, sheepish destroyer of worlds "
Well now, my sleepy angels, I do hope this wasn't too disturbing a bedtime story.
But you know, when you have trouble falling asleep, just start counting sheep....
© 2023-02-23
* The bedtime stories, episode Black (The last darkened days) is yet to be published.
We switched shirt that day
and I left mine in his tomb
somewhere to be found by
a convert who knows love
, that print it wore his face
as I had lost mine to him
in the shadow of my past
God and how I loved him
once dear like I cherished
her as she'd cleansed the
burdens of my soul yet his
'd being freed already long
before I'd decided to love
and switch shirt with him
in that grave where hurt
was exchanged between
our worlds and our faces
started to resemble the
outlines of this tortured
life for loving too much
God and fellow men so
in the end he could not
fight off the demons I'd
so carefully segregated
inside the vaults within
my heart on his sleeve
in hoc signo conquered
the I as human saviour
now to foot a shadowy
basilica in Turin centre
o how I miss my Lord
and Master's impress
so I asked Jake to tell
him that I loved him in
his shirt that I left as a
shrine for her to sense
and see a blurred face
that was once his and
now mine as I howled
while a rooster crowed
three times "I am lost"
as a string ensemble
reechoed my scream
pressed In His Shirt..
© 2023-03-04
Explanatory.
It started with an irrepressible song (in terms of lyrics, performance and atmosphere) that kept playing in my head. And then a few lines that came to mind and I wrote down e.g. "I'm wearing his shirt" and "a shadow of my past"; and the emotion these brought up in me. I thought of my love for the great master of the past and his death and let that thought merge with my love for my dearest (the "her" in the poem), then the thought of the shroud (of Turin) came up which I subsequently combined with a question to Jake ( a nickname for Jacob and here referring to the brother of Jesus) that Jude might have asked him. And the thought of Jude led me thinking of another kind of betrayal and a rooster crowing three times "I am lost" (a reference to Peter's denials and doesn't denial equal betrayal..) and throughout the poem there's the suggestion of this I as the immortal who lived in the era of Jesus and still lives among us presently (..you're welcome Khidr..). Then I switched from "wearing his shirt" to "In His Shirt" and from there to the other meanings of the letters IHS* and the echoed "I'm lost" brought me from the hurt of Jude to Edvard Munch's scream but then smothered in the fabric of a shirt. And back I was in Turin.... Et voila. Funny isn't it how a mind can jump from one to another and yet another and knits it all together.
* IHS:
In Hoc Signo (vinces) Latin for In This Sign (thou shalt conquer); and/or
Iesus Hominum Salvator - Jesus Saviour of Men
© 2023-03-04
It's time to leave
When the leader of the country walks up the stage
and a wall of national flags covers the background
If a people willingly squander their democratic vote
for subsidised flour, sugar and oil and child benefits
It's time to leave
When a democratically elected parliament's ignored
and accepts that the majority's wishes do not lead to
change of law and attitude of the ruling coalition and
most journalistic research is met with blackened lines
It's time to leave
When your neighbour's house is raided by secret police
because she posted on Instagram she believes in peace
and could not endorse her autocratic president's murders
and rape of innocent citizens in a land that she holds dear
It's time to leave
When your daughter's slain because of her hair and free will
that bearded men in uniforms following sermons from pulpits
out of hate and spite and fear as in fright of honest life teach
you no difference between one orthodox faith or just another
It's time to leave
When an entire world is focused on pleasure and ravishment
for themselves and kin at the expense of others not fortunate
and leisure and flying turns more important than wildlife dying
and earth literally shakes in terror of those that live to destroy
It's time to leave
© 2023-02-23
My booths gathered dust as I wondered the banks of the river Euphrates
The drops of sweat did not even come to existence in the scourging heat
This desert of love, the one that I never left or ever entered, mother-naked
Where winds erode these clay brick stones of palaces built by the haughty
Still even in its downfall the artistry of eastern craftsmen caresses your eye
At that remain of war and age there is one who made his gallery my temple
While roaming through palace halls holds dear these arts of stone and bone
A man, a keeper of antiques of shrines of sand and loam, grave and inornate
He is, this defender of beauty and riches you cannot pocket, cultured always
I owe him this pure love, my heart surrendered, for surely Allah must love him
This best of Islam, a Sufi unknown, spoke out of the depth of soul, I'm human
These deep words when asked if he were a believer, a man of faith, a Muslim
Said he, this human fane, humble, loving all souls equal, meeting respectfully
Every honest mild heart, be they Jew, Christian, Muslim or whatever a Gender.
A 'little song', a quatorzaine, a mere 14 lines as tribute to an Iraqi custodian of culture.
© 20230203
After having eaten the apple
she once wrote
'I could undress for you forever'
and that fueled
me both an image in the flesh
as it triggered
a spiritual picture so seductive
yes, sensual,
of how naked we lovers stand
every so often
before one that we truly love
every time again
before the One we truly love
she once spoke
this unclad, feral line in paradise
'I could undress for you for an eternity'
such sultry poetry, as she's, remarkably spiritual,
more than a woman to come up with a thought like that.
