Milla van der Have

Harlem Nocturne

2012-01-04T01:15:00.000-08:00

Part 5

She was engaged, of course. For Harlem, that just made things easier. Nothing to it, like playing a song he had rehearsed over and over. He knew what to do.
'Are you happy?' he asked, pushing another mint julep her way. 'With him?'
She chewed on that concept for a while. 'Happy?' she mused. 'James will give me everything I'll ever want. With him, I'll not wish for anything.'
'Sounds great,' said Harlem, voice warm with understanding. That did the trick. She fell silent, thinking. Like always, it was only a matter of time.
'What about you?' she said at last.
'Me? Oh, I still have plenty of wishing left in me.' He paused for effect. 'Feel like granting one?'

Harlem Nocturne

2011-11-20T02:01:00.000-08:00

Part 4

It was only the politest of knocks and yet, he had been expecting it. 'Excuse me for being a bit shy,' she said, leaning against the doorway, head cocked. 'I'm still working up the courage to talk to you.' Somewhere in the hallway, a door slammed. Bottles rankled, a girl laughed, high-pitched. It promised to be a wild night.
'Courage? I ain't gonna bite,' said Harlem, motioning her in.
'Don't you make any promise I may not let you keep,' she chided. Her eyes scanned the scarce belongings of his dressing room, resting finally upon his glass.
'Offer me a drink?'
'All I have is Scotch.'
'That'll do.' She smiled and he poured her half a glass. She took a sip and then another one, keeping her face composed, if only barely.
'Look, Mister....' she said, putting down the glass.
'Harlem Red will do.'
'Billie Barnett. Enchanté.' She stuck out her hand and as he hovered over it, his lips hardly touching skin, he was reminded of a world long gone.
'Well, then, Harlem Red, I'm sure your mama raised you well,' she said, considering him.
'What?'
'Didnt she tell you it is impolite to have a lady do the asking?'
'And what would the lady have me ask her?'
'Well, for her company for a night out on the town.'

Harlem Nocturne

2011-10-16T03:39:00.000-07:00

Part 3

Harlem Red wasn't much to look at. Not compared to the other members of the quartet, with their natural drive to be in the spotlight. Still, he wasn't short of female attention. He had this way about him. She knew it too. As soon as she walked in, her eyes were fixed on Harlem, and for good reason. For seeing Harlem Red play the bass sure was some kind of wonderful. But for her, it even got better. As she made her way through the crow, Harlem moved forward on his own accord, bass to the ready, wanting, no needing to be seen. All of this much to the surprise of the rest of the quartet. They fell silent. With ease, Harlem picked up on the tune, all the while keeping her in sight. The other band members, the audience, even the flappers at he bar, they all had turned into blurs. Amidst the smoke, only she stood out. Then the others joined in again. Slowly, a smile quavering on his face, Harlem stepped back into the shadows.

Empty Rooms poster book

2011-09-14T03:59:00.000-07:00

Inspired by an episode of Cold Case, which featured a book of poetry called 'Empty Rooms' I started working on a collection of poems with the same title. Every poem is a room and in a way, all the poems are cold cases.

The collection still grows, but you can sneak a peak at some of the finished rooms. Together with Armelle (photograpy) and Weifang (design), I made the Empty Rooms poster book. It's a unique combination of poems, images and a nifty design.

Want to get your hands on a copy?

The Netherlands: get your copy here (iDeal).
The World: get your copy here (paypal).

Harlem Nocturen

2011-09-14T01:49:00.000-07:00

Part 2

On his touch the lights over the mirror whizzed. It seemed the every other day one of them died, so that now only half of the bulbs were lighted. Harlem didn't much mind. Even with its perpetual darkness, the dressing room was his favorite haunt. Somehow, it put him at ease to linger between the left-overs: the rack of fur coats; the glitter that whirled up and clung to clothes and bodies; the bottle of scotch, a glow of gold in the dim light; and of course, in the corner, his bass, old and worn.
He sank down on his chair, drink within reach, playing a little with his watch chain, before drawing it out completely. It had stopped running years ago. He hadn't even tried to wind it. Still, he kept the thing close at all times, checking it ever so often, against his better judgment.

Harlem Nocturne

2011-09-07T06:16:00.000-07:00

Part 1

If you were looking for Harlem Red, you'd best try the Tresspass. Granted, it was a bit of a seedy place, a small-time bootleg bar only, no big deal. Full of smells that aged badly and yet kept lingering. Of course, when she walked in, Harlem had been playing the bass. You'd be hard pressed to find him doing anything else, anywhere else. Not just because the Tresspass was only one of few places to allow him in. No, despite its rancid ambiance and all, Harlem felt right at home there. When the booze was banned, there were girls, when the girls were banned, there was booze and all along there was music, sweet music and Harlem had been a part of all that. In fact, there had been times when him and his Sing-Sing quartet had downright smoked the place.

The captain's plan

2011-07-27T02:04:00.000-07:00

Part IX

His passage had been quite different. From the looks of him, he had done everything in his power to free himself of his bonds. His back, wrists, ankles were ripped open from chafing against both wood and rope. None of us knew how long the spell lasted, so we decided not to untie him just yet and wait until it wore off. At first he screamed at us like one possessed, demanding we turn tail, go back. Then he started frothing at the mouth, mumbling incoherent words, that sometimes sounded like names of women but mostly made no sense at all. Finally he sagged in the ropes, mortified. Ever since there was a gleam of madness in his eye.

- end -

< part VIII

The captain's plan

2011-07-20T02:44:00.000-07:00

Part VIII

When we started out the sun had just risen. When we finally laid down our oars, skins and hands aglow, it was way past its highest point. We picked our ears clean of wax. We stood up, awkwardly, stretching painful muscles. In the distance, apart from a few ducks, the island appeared empty. All around us the sea shone like a mirror, casting back our apparitions at us. Happy men. Men who lived. We cheered, slapping each others sunburnt backs. Only then did we turn to the captain.

< Part VII

The captain's plan

2011-07-13T00:59:00.000-07:00

Part VII

We didn't see much but in truth we weren't looking for anything. Rumour had it their song would kill, we just didn't want to take any chances. Too many had been lost already. Every time we made land, men died. And every time we returned to sea, men died. We were determined to survive, if only just this once.

It was hard to see how the captain fared. We dared not look at him, afraid somehow of what we would find. All we could do was go on. We fastened our eyes on the backs and shoulders in front of us and rowed forth in sweet oblivion.

Her face. Beautiful. The song. I'm home.

< part VI

The captain's plan

2011-07-03T01:11:00.000-07:00

Part VI

They call it an island, I call it a rock. A small piece of land, with water crashing down on it in every which way. Getting smaller each time you blink. A rock. Implacable. As fixed as the sea is fluid. I let them bind me, so I will be contained. As the men settle, I keep my eyes fixed on this little strip of faith, this land, this rock. We are nearing it. Gaining momentum. Moving. As fluid as the sea is fixed.

So here we go. I wonder.

< Part V

The captain's plan

2011-06-20T11:03:00.000-07:00

Part V

The straight and narrow, I never much cared for that. Unless there's a challenge ahead. I need a thrill, this I know. The sea may enthral many a man, to me it's just waves. Wind and water, is all. I don't think any of the crew really appreciate how utterly predictable the sea is. Worse, foreseeable. It's just charts and stars, currents and clever insights. There isn’t much to it. In fact, it is harder to keep them in the dark than to find my way home. They think we're cursed. Please. It's just a tale I spin them and then I direct the helm to where my whim next takes me.

< Part IV

Poëzie in de Jacobustuin

2011-06-11T02:19:00.000-07:00

Saturday June 18th I will read some poems at a special edition of Poëzie Podium Ongehoord. It's their yearly summer edition, which takes place in a hidden Rotterdam garden. To top it all off, we will be joined by 3 Poetry International poets, so needless to say I am definitely looking forward to this one!

The Essentials
Poëzie in de Jacobustuin: 18 juni, 13.45 uur
Entrance: free
More information: www.stichtingongehoord.com and www.poetry.nl

The captain's plan

2011-05-19T03:15:00.000-07:00

Part IV

In all my life, I pursued one woman only and her I chased twice, over land and over sea. And yes, it's true. That beauty is hard to pass by, impossible to forget. All the others just threw themselves at me. Maybe because I have this way about me. There's something about me, I'm sure, though none of them can explain. And then there's my wife. She's a prize, one her father was only too willing to pay, won at no great cost. She has made me a good house, strong and solid, with a son to go where I can not. And of course, I long to see her again. In all those years I have grown to love her nocturnal tricks. But then again, I find I wait for something more. I don't just need someone to support me in sleek old age, but someone to sing me my soul, love's old sweet song.

< Part III

The captain's plan

2011-05-11T01:00:00.000-07:00

Part III

After that we had to learn to row without the guidance of the flute. Instead, we tuned our movements to the ones in front of us, envisioning their next stroke and the next, until we knew what they were going to do before they even knew themselves. And all the while the captain stood on deck, staring ahead like a man haunted.

The hardest part was tying up the captain. We begged him not to go through with this or to at least be like us, waxed up. But he insisted someone needed to hear, to listen, to break the spell and the one chosen, that special someone was him. So we bound him, as tight as he would let us. With a sense of foreboding, we settled behind our oars and made for the island. For a while, we laboured in silence, wood splashing on water, wood and water, but soon, rhythm set in. We forgot our surroundings, ourselves even, until we were nothing more than a movement, a many muscled machine.

< Part II

The captain's plan

2011-05-04T01:04:00.000-07:00

part II

There were other things to be done. Old chores, new drills. For one, we needed beeswax. This of course was a job for us. We had used most of our stock on the ship, after yet another storm. So we resorted to what we had learned to do best: mooring some sparsely populated island and scavenging at will. Maybe not quite as heroic as the old pranks the captain pulled, but not without danger either.
One of us got stung to death. A young boy, who had joined our crew some islands ago, eager to get away from whatever future that awaited him there. He died, clutching at the empty air, as if the gods had yet to make good on some promises.

< part I part III >

The captain's plan

2011-04-26T01:05:00.000-07:00

None of us were happy with the captains plan. Not because we were afraid to sail past the birdies, mind you. We were more than willing to give them a taste of their own medicine. But somehow the captain always ended up the hero in each and every story. And not because he pulled rank on you either. He just had this way about him that no one, not even hardened oarsmen like ourselves, could withstand.

Like when we needed to appease the witch. He offered to charm his way into her bed before any of us could speak up and of course, it all worked out perfectly. The same with the monster. It was his idea to poke it with a stick and we all agreed to it, convinced the heroic way out trumped being shut in a lair every day. But were we saw group effort, he saw a chance to shine and the worst of it was, we didn't begrudge him. He was our captain and a war hero and he deserved some slack.

Leabharchams cabin

2011-04-24T01:49:00.000-07:00

Often she dreams of love and what's worse
she can't forget. There's this face, yet unfamiliar
ground and it's haunting her.

She's been told a lot. That she's beautiful, that
she'll change the ways of men. And now
there's no way around it but she will.

Oak and ash will not relent. On naked
earth a seed must grow. None of my words
can really match this spell.

Things are different here. What you see
is hardly what you get and what men call peace
is actually a slow delusion of the mind.

There's always teeth to mark the wound. Or
so I find. Sometimes it's easier not to hope,
let come whatever must.

What use is there in holding her. Either way
she'll be gone once morning calls, when everything
is wonder still.

Last night @ABC Treehut

2011-03-26T02:33:00.000-07:00

Friday March 11th I read some poems at the ABC Open Mike Night in The Hague. As it turned out, I was just in time, because there will be no more monthly open mike nights. Too bad, I enjoyed the laidback vibe.

Empty Rooms poster
There was also a first that night: we just finished our Empty Rooms poster book, so I got to read a poem of the actual poster book.

Make it yours
Order your copy of Empty Rooms

The summer house

2011-01-30T01:26:00.000-08:00

They call me Minnesota Blue. None of them
knows why. It may be for my pines or for the sage
that grows in the deep of the garden. As for me,

I don't care. These worn-out bones are weary
They feel the old tree calling me. None now
dwell upon the loves that once unhinged

me or the ills that all quick summers bring. They
keep me in shape. It used to be a long way to find
me, hidden as I stand. Now, all the paths are

clear and freshly cut. Not even the eager ones
will steal away.

Dichtersnachten in Nijmegen

2011-01-05T10:25:00.000-08:00

In Nijmegen they love their poetry. So they celebrate National Poetry Day with de Dichtersnachten, a festival of 4 nights of poetry. Catch a poetryreading every night from january 26 - 29 at De Poëziewinkel. And.... catch me reading the 27th.

The Essentials
DICHTERSNACHTEN: 26, 27, 28 en 29 januari
elke avond zes dichters van 21.30 uur tot 00.00 uur
entree: 10 euro
http://www.depoeziekoerier.nl/

For the Dutchies
In Nijmegen houden ze van poezie. Dus vieren ze de Landelijke Gedichtendag met maar liefst 4 dichtersnachten. Van 26 t/m 29 januari treden er iedere avond dichters op in de Poëziewinkel. Donderdagavond 27 januari lees ik voor uit eigen werk.

Round the apple tree

2010-10-31T04:29:00.000-07:00

Hades in love. They thought it
would be a sorry sight, awkward
at least. Something to laugh at
as the fire died.

What did they know, nymphs
and muses, wishes gone cold,
other than the stirrings of old and gentle
hearts. They never made the earth

shatter, horses tremble. What did they
know about high noon, as the world
holds its breath and prays for all
fairy tales to pass.

They were as gullible
as evening rain. No match
for his elegy or any true outspoken verse.

Even so, when he rose he thought
of apple trees and how one of those
would brighten his day.

Not about girls playing the field
singing songs. Childish games
to summon love.

Meer woorden, meer kleuren

2010-09-29T09:00:00.000-07:00

Zondag 26 september was ik te gast bij het podium Meer woorden, meer kleuren in de Kargadoor. Normaal gepresenteerd door Baban, maar omdat die afwezig was nam Monir Goran de eer waar.

De middag kende een hoge opkomst aan dichters: meer dan 12 dichters traden op. Alle genres (en meerdere Europese talen) kwamen voorbij. Daarnaast waren er optredens van Monir (ud) en Nariman Goran.

Voor mij was het een erg inspirerende middag, zowel op literair als op muzikaal gebied. Zeker voor herhaling vatbaar.

Foto: Armelle van Helden

Optreden bij de Literaire Salon

2010-09-13T10:05:00.000-07:00

Zaterdag 11 september trad ik op bij de Literaire Salon in Den Haag. Gehouden in het kleurrijke café Den Engel en gepresenteerd door Alice Verheij.

Na een inspirerend optreden van mondharpist Danibal was de beurt aan mij. Ik had zelfs een klein debuut en wel van een aantal Engelstalige gedichten uit de reeks Empty Rooms. Het was de eerste keer dat ik deze gedichten en plein public voorlas en dat beviel goed.

Hopelijk gaan de Empty Rooms op 26 september in herhaling, want naar alle waarschijnlijkheid treed ik dan in Utrecht voor het voetlicht, bij Babans Meer woorden, meer kleuren. To be continued dus.

Foto: Armelle van Helden

Empty Rooms, the preview

2010-08-28T05:49:00.000-07:00

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Weifang, Armelle and me, have been working on a Empty Room-preview. We hope it will be ready in September.

A what preview?
About two years ago, I started working on a collection of poems called 'Empty Rooms'. The title is inspired by an episode of Cold Case, which featured a book of poetry called Empty Rooms. In my collection each poems is a room and, in a way, a cold case as well.

So what's with this preview?
Weifang Fu has made a book of some of my Empty Rooms poems. We liked the idea of doing something with (nearly) all the poems I had at the time. It couldn't be the entire book yet, because not all rooms are finished. So we decided to do a (limited edition) preview, which would consist of poems by me and of accompanying photographs by Armelle. Weifang signed up for the design and came up with something pretty awesome.

When's this thing gonna be ready?
We're not sure yet, but we hope to have at least some copies for my reading in The Hague, September 11.

Ok, enough about you. Where can I find more info on Weifang and Armelle?
Weifang has her own blog on http://weifangfu.wordpress.com/.
Armelle posts some really cool pics on her flickr

Nieuws

2010-08-28T05:38:00.000-07:00

Optreden Literaire Salon
Zaterdag 11 september treed ik op bij de Literaire Salon in Den Haag. Op het programma staat oud en nieuw werk, Nederlands én Engels. Een echte primeur, dus.

Details:

11 september
Den Engel, Willem de Zwijgerlaan 50, Den Haag
Aanvang: 17.00u
Meer informatie over het volledige programma: www.literairesalon.net

Flying horses

2010-08-18T02:49:00.000-07:00

Dreams we carry, sirs, and all that lags behind.
We know of no tomorrow. Still, we stand.
Like all great horses we do not lack in faith.
We merely wait for one to keep us occupied.

We know of no tomorrow. Still, we stand.
A soft touch is enough to make us go and so
we merely wait for one to keep us occupied
when all the sky is calling. We'd like to take a plunge.

A soft touch is enough to make us go and so
like all great horses we do not lack in faith.
When all the sky is calling, we'd like to take a plunge.
Dreams we carry, sirs, and all that lags behind.

Kilmacduagh

2010-06-30T04:48:00.000-07:00

Toch niet verlaten. Tussen de muren
rust het hiernamaals. En bij het hek
weten zelfs de koeien meer dan jij.

Hier lijkt de lucht haast niet te bestaan. Op die
ene vingerwijzing na is er alleen welbespraakte aarde
en de eeuwigheid van koude steen.

En toch, wie zou niet proberen het lot te weerstaan
dat ons zacht de grond in dwingt?
Wie wil niet de spraakverwarring overstijgen
en een glimp zien van wat misschien niet wacht?

Wat er ook verborgen is, bestaat bij die gratie:
het is niet de dood die hier de dienst uitmaakt
het is niet de dood. We reiken hoger dan dat.

Birds-eye

2010-04-21T06:51:00.000-07:00

Birds-eye, pt. 15

I haven't seen her since. In fact, I don't go out into human territory at all. Quackajack Pond has regained its impertubality. I never go there anymore. Even the memory of its smell makes me sick.
Instead, I stay near the river's edge. Somehow, it sooths me. With it come smells and sounds unimaginable. I find I can enter an unfamiliar world without even having to leave my branche. The river takes it right to my doorstep. So, yes, in a way, I have learned my lesson.

The females have settled down on the other shore or so I've been told. I haven't gone out to see them. Somehow, I feel this tale of mine is not one to tell the gentler sex, let alone young hatchlings. I don't think I'll be building a nest this time. I try to avoid other birds best I can. Mostly, I camp up in this tree. It has grown to be right a giant. Best of all is sitting in the highest of its branches, so you can see both the grey of the river and the blue of the sky. One thing hasn't changed. I can't keep silent. It starts when the sun sets and life is quieting down. That's when I know I must sing out. 'Help me get rid of the body. Get rid of the body.' What can I say? I'm a mockingbird. It's in my nature, is all.

That's all folks.

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4
Birds-eye, part 5
Birds-eye, part 6
Birds-eye, part 7
Birds-eye, part 8
Birds-eye, part 9
Birds-eye, part 10
Birds-eye, part 11
Birds-eye, part 12
Birds-eye, part 13
Birds-eye, part 14

Birds-eye

2010-03-20T04:31:00.000-07:00

Birds-eye, pt 14

'What?' says Jason, voicing my thoughts exactly. After all I did for her, she wants me dead. O, I have me half a mind to fly into the back of her head right here, right now. Yes lady, if I go down, I'll take you with me. Or at least ruin you coiffure.
'Don't you think I have done enough killing on your account for today?' Both of them manage to avoid gazing at what is so overwhelmingly present in the room.
'On my account? Who told me to sleep with him in the first place? Whose idea was it to extort him for money?'
'What, you don't need money no more? You don't want to restore your Auntie Augusta's precious mansion house?'
'This is not on me!' she yells, pointing a finely manicured finger at the dead Pentecost.
'He called you a whore! He was looking to strangle you!'
'So you pokered him in the head? You should have left me to try and persuade him.'
'You'd done your part of persuading, darlin'. He wasn't buying no more. I had to dos omething before he'd betray us. And now, shut your piehole and help me get rid of this body! And clean this mess!'
She starts to climb down the chair carefully. 'If you just had let me put him in the trunk, there'd be a lot less mess,' she mopes. He sighs, but I know inside his anger his rising. 'In the trunk, they'd found the body when they find the car and know it wasn't no accident. Now, when they find the car, they'll think he drove in there himself and the body floated off. They'll think it bad luck and leave it at that. The way we want it.'
'And what about this body here? How we gonna take care of that?'
'There's other ways to get rid of a body.'
'You sure seem to know a lot about it.'
'I sure do.' With that, Jason walks up to the window and opens it. I know an opportunity when I see it. I am no more than a speck of white and grey as I dart out, breathing the sweet air of freedom once more.

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4
Birds-eye, part 5
Birds-eye, part 6
Birds-eye, part 7
Birds-eye, part 8
Birds-eye, part 9
Birds-eye, part 10
Birds-eye, part 11
Birds-eye, part 12
Birds-eye, part 13

Birds-eye

2010-03-07T08:23:00.000-08:00

Birds-eye, pt 13

She nods and I find myself staring in the face of destiny. It's an ugly face; a frayed scar has taken the spot of one eye. The other eye radiates icy fascination and the will to try. Softer than a shadow the cat glides in my direction. I am fixin' to have a fit. My nemesis has reached the mantelpiece. It's actually grinning up at me. I'm weighing my options as it calcultates its jump. Time jerks back on again, while I dive off the mantelpiece, scarcely evoiding the claws yearning for me. I gather momentum. The cat turns.The other wall is closing in on me. Must turn. It has been waiting for me to do so. In one smooth run it jumps on the table, while I try to make a u-turn.

'Get off!' roars Jason at the cat. Dumbfounded it makes a tactical retreat into the corner next to the fireplace. 'What the...' he shouts at Marguerite, who has turned pale. In no time, she is on the chair, which in my humble opinion is an unwise decision, cause now she's straight in my line of flight. She swats at me.
'A bird!'

I feel umcomfortable with this attention and yet, it may be my only route of escape.
'How did that come in here?' Jason asks.
'I don't care,' she shrieks. 'Just get rid of it.'
'Since when are you afraid of birds?'
'Since they start flying around in my house! Kill it! Kill it!'

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4
Birds-eye, part 5
Birds-eye, part 6
Birds-eye, part 7
Birds-eye, part 8
Birds-eye, part 9
Birds-eye, part 10
Birds-eye, part 11
Birds-eye, part 12

Birds-eye

2010-02-10T03:57:00.000-08:00

Birds-eye, pt 12

I feel an overwhelming whish to be out in the woodlands again. I can almost hear the soothing babble of the river calling me home. But things have to take a turn for the worse eventually and it looks like my number has come up at last. The humans I now know to be Marguerite and Jason King enter the scene once more. Inconspicous, the cat slips in with them, the ghost of future murder. This time, there's a stealy gleam in its eye. It has regained its composure. The same can be said for the humans, who silently walk up to the table and gather the pictures. Hastily, I perch on the mantelpiece, hoping to go unnoticed one more time.

'As long as no one finds these, we'll be allright,' says Jason. The soothing tone in his voice reminds me of the wind rustling through the leaves. Soft and breazy it may be, yet you know it can turn into a storm within the blink of an eye. She takes a stack of pictures from him, carefully avoiding to even glance down on them. The cat starts wreathing itself around her legs, turning and twisting in a widening gyre. 'I'll go and burn them.' I glance up at the window. I may have to take desperate measures. If only I could hop a little closer to it without attracting the attention of any killing machine happening by.

'No. Wait. Keep them safe. They may come in useful later. After the grief has died down. I am sure the family won't want any blemish on the memory of the reverend Pentecost Lee. We may yet strike gold.' There's only a hint of ireon in his voice, but she jumps to attention nonetheless.

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4
Birds-eye, part 5
Birds-eye, part 6
Birds-eye, part 7
Birds-eye, part 8
Birds-eye, part 9
Birds-eye, part 10
Birds-eye, part 11

Birds-eye

2010-02-03T03:21:00.000-08:00

Birds-eye, pt.11

There's no going back now. Sooner or later I have to face what's behind door number one. Sooner, as it turns out. The door opens, releasing the heavy stench of disruption. There's death in the air, but something else as well. Wilful disruption. It takes my breath away. I last smelled me some of this when I witnessed a duck getting shot out of the air. A crack and a screach and an empty space, that was it. It plummeted down to its death. No one ever came to get it. It just lay there to rot for days.
It seemed so useless.
'I dumped the car,' hisses a familiar voice. 'The rest is on you. This was your idea in the first place.'
O Lordie, I done got myself in some trouble now! I hardly noticed the humans storming out of the room,. It's her, all up in tatters again. The guy I saw hiding earlier is right behind her. They take no heed of me, however, even if I am right here in plain view. Humans! Too blind to see a bird on the banisters. If I am ignored one more time today, I 'll start wondering if I'm really here.
'What? You can't put this on me, Marguerite! How could I've known he'd put up a fight! For all I been told he was an easygoing sorta fella.'
They continue their conversation out of both eyesight and earshot, which grants me the once in a lifetime opportunity to sneak a peek in that room. After all, she don't looks like she needs my protection, so I am a free agent again. I can come and go as I please. Plus, they left the door of that mysterious room ajar, almost as an invitation for me to see how the land lies.

In the room time itself seems to have thickened. It has become a robust layer of impossibilities, trapping whoever enters. There's nothing much else to see here, 'cept for the sight that draws my eyes as soon as I set foot in this place. A man lies slumped forward over the table, face down in a pool of blood. He must've been here for right some time; the trickles of blood that made it over the edge of the table have all but dried up on the floor. Carefully, I wing in closer. His head is an indiscriminate mass, his facial expression frozen in a last gasp of incomprehension. To me, he could be anybody. Only by his telltale colors do I recognize him as the man called Pentecost. Fluttered around him on the table are pictures of him and her in flagrante.They have been captured in all kinds of poses. The only constants are the artificial light, casting a gloom of sickness over their bodies and his face being in full view in almost every shot. Looks like she managed to get him to a motel after all. For the rest, I cannot fathom what has been going on here. O, sure, I see the culprit. It's hard to miss the bloodied poker lying by his feet. But as to the how and the who and the why – I guess these questions are to big for a birdbrain like mine.

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4
Birds-eye, part 5
Birds-eye, part 6
Birds-eye, part 7
Birds-eye, part 8
Birds-eye, part 9
Birds-eye, part 10

In alles paard

2010-01-24T05:04:00.000-08:00

Een echt paard loopt niet harder dan een houten paard,
integendeel. Het deed wat het moest doen.
En alles leek mogelijk, zelfs snelheid.

Het bracht je wat je niet begreep
splinters, avonturen dicht bij huis en
een donker waar je niet meer bang van was.

Soms stond het maar en leek het dood, het maanlicht
spelend op het licht gebogen hoofd.

Toch begon het altijd daar, zelfs toen het weg was
of jij allang een ander. Als je opstond en het steigerde

spoorde het in een oud gebaar de wereld aan
om in alles, alles paard te zijn.

Birds-eye

2010-01-13T02:00:00.000-08:00

Birds-eye, pt 10

'We've been over this,' he answered, drawing up nearer to her. 'I will not risk my marriage. I take my vows seriously and will not break them.'
'I am not looking for that.'
'You sure? Cause all we ever gonna have is this, stolen afternoons down by the water. You sure you gonna be content with that?'
She cheered up, even if it did seem to take her some effort.
'Don't you worry. You know I got a beaux of my own.'
'A beaux? Surely, you're not talking about Jason King?'
'And what if I was? He's been living with me in my aunties mansion.
'That old ruin?'
'Hey, it's been in my family for ages. Jason is helping me fix it up.'
'Better watch that he don't fix you up. I don't like the look of that guy.'
'You don't have to like his look, I do!' she flared up. Almost immediately, she changed tacks. Her smell turned musky. 'Why, Pentecost, if I didn't know better, I'd say you was jealous.'
He gently pushed her down, rolling on top of her. 'I've got no reason to be jealous,' he smirked. With one smooth movement he took of his white ring, tossing it down in the nettles next to them and placed his mouth upon hers. 'It's just,' he said, as came up for air, 'you could do better than Jason King.' A cold spread over her face when he said that, but he didn't notice it. It was like he touched something real valuable and she wouldn't let him. So she hid it away quickly. When he looked at her, she wore a solid mask of pleasure. 'Let's talk no more of him,' she crooned. 'In fact, let's talk not at all.'

I watched them for a while, as they entangled themselves in twitchings, completely unaware of what was going on around and underneath them. She only found the snails, that were trailing up on her leg with their special kind of determination, when she was putting on her clothes. Her shriek shred through the pond. 'Pentecost Lee,' she said, accusingly, 'the next time you want to roll in the hay with me, you better take me to a decent cheap motel or you'll be rolling in the hay all by your lonesome!'

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4
Birds-eye, part 5
Birds-eye, part 6
Birds-eye, part 7
Birds-eye, part 8
Birds-eye, part 9

Birds-eye

2010-01-06T00:53:00.000-08:00

Birds-eye. pt 9

'It's eerie here,' was the first thing she said. 'Should we go here? There's no animals.' She was right. As soon as they arrived on the scene, everybody there was holding their breaths. The Pond had been such a wonderful refuge. The silence only lasted so long, because there's always a frog that'll let its hungry stomach prevail over everything else, even if it is complete and utter annihilation. When the frogs piped up, so did everything else. Next to her, the guy beamed a smile. 'See, darlin'? Ain't nothing to worry your pretty little head about.' He probably thought he got nature all figured out, but I knew he didn't. For one, he was immaculately dressed, the way I see humans parading around in their lairs sometimes. Hardly seemed like the right attire for Quackajack Pond. Second of all, how was he ever gonna impress her with the colors he choose to put on? He was almost completely dressed in black, save for a small white ring up on his throat, which looked downright suffocating to me. Can't get to a female without some variety. I know for a fact, that white, with some accents of grey and black, will get you the best results, provided you can work your feathers in the right way. I have to give him this, though. He had his songs down. He was right the smooth talker. Plus, there was a singsong quality to his voice, that could've lured me, if I didn't know better of course.

The man in black took out a cloth from the back of his car, found himself a spot with not too many weeds and put it down. She reluctantly trailed behind. 'I don't know,' she whined. 'I think it smells like death here.' That's when I took an interest in her; she's the only human I've ever known to see things so clearly. I'd almost wager she'd had animal sense of smell. Cause Quackjack Pond does smell like death. It's a place of eat and get eaten. There's no other way for it to smell.

Mister High 'n Mighty didn't see it like that, though. 'Come and sit down, Marguerite,' he said, with a hint of hastiness in his voice. 'You know why I can't have us meet anywhere closer.'
'Because we might be seen,' she moped. She sat down on one corner of the cloth, ostentatiously swatting at the mosquitoes, who were happy to try out a change in diet. In fact, they were all over her.

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4
Birds-eye, part 5
Birds-eye, part 6
Birds-eye, part 7
Birds-eye, part 8

Birds-eye

2010-01-03T02:46:00.000-08:00

Birds-eye, pt 8

She seemed different, however. Not like the others. I thought she at least had some sense of where she was and why. See, I first met her down near Quackajack Pond and that's a place not known to many animals, let alone humans. It's an outpost the river left behind, right some many hatchings ago. Of course, the trees and plants, who are like humans in ways but with more interest in their surroundings, were eager to cover it. The plants done growed, covering up all the ways toward the Pond, so that it is right hard to reach, 'cept when you have tiny pitter-patter feet. ..or wings. And the trees done growed, blocking out the light of the sun but not its heat, so that the Pond is as hot and soggy a place as you're like to encounter. Its water is dark and troubled. If it wasn't for the frogs, none of us'd ever know what went on below there. But you can leave it to the frogs to dive to murky depths for food or whatever else it is that's beckoning them down there. And when frogs find food... so do I. It ain't easy. You hear the frogs a-quacking plenty, but you're as like to see one of them as to catch them. Still, I find it's worth my while ever so often. Even if I don't get lucky frogwise, I can still dig in on what they're having.

Humans hardly ever go there. The one and only humans I ever saw up there was her and that high-falutin' fella of hers. Made right some ruckus when they managed to reach the pond. He had to drive that monsterlike car of his right through the weeds and the plants, before she'd step out.

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4
Birds-eye, part 5
Birds-eye, part 6
Birds-eye, part 7

Birds-eye

2009-12-09T02:38:00.000-08:00

Birds-eye, pt 7

Once outside, I find a stairs just asking to be swooped down over, so I oblige. There's some fun to be had in it, too. A short but fast way down, a sudden, urgent need for pulling up. A bird could spend right the afternoon here. Too bad the ladies can't see me working it here. I'm so excited with the stairs and all, I hardly take note of the voices rising from somewhere below. Only when there's cryings, when she's crying, I remember I am on a mission. I make a sharp cure, putting me right in the direction of the sound. It has changed into a sobbing, long hard sighs interfering with short and hasty sniffs. I settle down on the banisters, pondering my next move and that's when I notice it. It starts slowly, a shivering, like a cat's walking over my grave, but soon it turns into the sickly presence, enough to make me nauseous. The smell of blood.

I know what y'all thinking. I made my own nest, now I should lie in it. But I just can't help myself. I like humans. Somehow, they don't seem to really live in this world alltogether. They always appear to have a better place to go to. It makes one wonder what kinda place that would be. Where could be better than here, where they are lording it over everything? That's what I don't get about them. It sho takes a lot to satisfy them, more probably, than this world has to offer. Or perhaps what the world offers would content them if only they could take notice of it. But their own dreams got them so ensnared, they walk around with their eyes narrowed.

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4
Birds-eye, part 5
Birds-eye, part 6

Birds-eye

2009-11-25T05:54:00.000-08:00

Birds-eye, pt6

The cat disappears into the bushes, a slight shimmering of grey in the green. Apparently it lives by Atticus Finches' decree, otherwise I'd be one dead bird by now. It just shrank by. It hardly even noticed me, when by all means it should be fixin' to kill me. I gaze at the shrubs. I could've wished for a better omen. Cause, o boyo, something is truly, truly wrong up yonder. If the cat don't pay the birdie no more mind, you is better start saying your prayers. As far as I can tell, all that cat really wanted was to get away from the house as soon as it could. But you know what they say. Birds dare tread where cats dare not, or something of the sort, so off I go. Time for me to pay a visit to the big house. Specially now that I can trust it to be catfree. I've noticed an open window above the one where the man loitered. Everything seems to be waiting for me.

As soon as I'm in, the air has changed. It has taken on a sense of suffocation. I appear to have entered in an unused room, a collection of dust and dirt. I can't hardly make out the shapes of furnitere in the dark. Everything in me urges me to go back to the light, back to the window, now, before it's too late, but I can't. I'm looking after her. I flutter around in the dark for a bit, as clumsy as a young hatchling. It's a miracle I don't bump into more things than I do. After a while, steadily, I find my rhythm again, my wings beating eagerly. Navigating in a confined space isn't what I was born to do, but I'll manage. I'm sure I have done worse. At least there's one stroke of luck. It's a raggety old place and the woodworms have made my life a whole lot easier. Not only did they leave holes big enough for a bird to crawl through, they provided for some wayside snacks as well.

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4
Birds-eye, part 5

Birds-eye

2009-11-18T04:12:00.000-08:00

Birds-eye, pt 5

When she walked back to the car, it was with a quickened pace and something more lively to it. As if to copy her mood, the engine roared up in delight. She bent down and out of sight, rummaging with something inside. Then she got out, with the engine still revving. Now that was what really caught my eye. I don't know much about human means of transportation, 'cept that they are usually in it. She reached down through the window, pushed down at something making a cracky noise and then sprang aside. The car shot forward, a streak of black and thunder plunging down into the river. There was a mighty splash, that startled every animal within earshot. An eerie silence followed, while me and her watched the car sink to its watery end. She waited until the river had completely covered the car. Only a few bells of air rose up, shortlived reminders of what had gone down. 'I am sorry,' she said. She seemed to direct her words to the river – which is crazy, cause the river don't care. Not even when it's just got a car dumped in it. It's been here forever and ever and likely will be here when all of us has done gone on. It moves at its own pace.

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3
Birds-eye, part 4

Ragtime wint publieksprijs

2009-11-11T00:40:00.001-08:00

Mijn korte verhaal Ragtime heeft de publieksprijs gewonnen bij Savannah Bay's Spreken is Zilver?-wedstrijd.

Onverteld verhaal
Savannah Bay organiseerde de wedstrijd ter ere van haar 25-jarig bestaan. Het thema was 'het onvertelde verhaal'. Na het kiezen van de winnaar vond de jury dat een aantal verhalen niet onopgemerkt mochten blijven, waaronder Ragtime. Daarom hebben zij een publieksprijs ingesteld. Gedurende een 2 maanden stonden de verhalen op de site van Savannah Bay en konden mensen erop stemmen.

Bekendmaking
Zaterdagavond 7 november, tijdens de feestelijke jubileumavond, was ook de bekendmaking van de winnaar van de publieksprijs. Vrouwkje Tuinman en Joep Dohmen maakten bekend dat Ragtime gewonnen had. Een verslag van de avond staat op de blog van Anneke van Wolfswinkel.

Ragtime is oorspronkelijk in het Engels geschreven, maar is door Jules Schaper vertaald naar het Nederlands.

Birds-eye

2009-10-21T06:45:00.000-07:00

Birds-eye, part 4

The sound of her car was a familiar sound to me by now. Its deep and mighty roar would shake up the forest on more than one occasion. Whenever that roar was heard, mosquitoes would flare up in anticipation and I'd be sure to follow. This time, however, there was a strange squeak to the growl, as if the car was howling out defiance. It came swirling up towards the rivers crushing bushes and bugs and whatever else came up under its tyres. For a moment there I thought it would plunge into the river, but just before it reached the water, it let loose a gutwrenching pierce. The car stopped, as suddenly as it had appeared. I wasn't the only one to get nervous, but instead of turning tail, like the others did, I found myself hopping a few branches closer to the scene of the crime. My gut told me there was something going on down there. This wasn't her time and it sure wasn't her place. I only ever saw her down at Quackajack Pond, not out here near the river. But I only noted the strangest thing about her sudden appearance when she stumbled out of the vehicle: she was alone.

She looked like a real mess and no fancy clothes could hide that fact. Oh, I sure noticed that now she wasn't wearing any of that tacky much-revealing attire she'd normally put on – and take off pretty quick too. This time, she wore a simple black dress. It would've made her look classy, if it weren't for the rest of her. Her eyes were little swollen red slits and it seemed like a bunch of Carolina wrens had been nesting in her hair. The smell of fear surrounding her was thick enough to choke on. For once, there was no mosquito to beset her. After they smelled her, all of them remembered they had something better to do, somewhere way else.

She staggered up to the river and squated down unceremonously. She hid her head in her hands. I flew up to a bush right near the water's edge, but somehow, she was so lost in thought she didn't even see me. She shifted position, sinking down on the ground all together. 'Pentecost, you stubborn, stubborn man,' she said, scooping some water over her face. Red was spattered all over her arms and chest, but I wasn't close enough to make out its origin. Ever so careful I tried to wriggle my way closer to her. She sighed. 'It wasn't supposed to be like this.' She let the water caress her hand. I didn't find out if she said or did anything more, because on my way over I seemed to have located myself in hoppergrass-paradise and I was hardpressed to keep focussed on the situation at hand. If she'd up and left then, without much further ado, I'd have a different tale to tell. Probably one featuring more bugs and less car. But the thing is, she looked at me – actually saw me, while I was trying to swallow me a whole hoppergras. She'd picked up a rock. 'This will do, right?' she asked me. My beak fell open and one very happy hoppergras saw his prayes answered. She weighed the stone in her hand and nodded.

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2
Birds-eye, part 3

Birds-eye

2009-10-14T02:53:00.000-07:00

Birds-eye, part 3

I knew things weren't right as soon as she came up to the river earlier. First of all, it wasn't her usual time. Normally, she'd come in some while after the sun had reached its zenith, when the world slows down and everyhting's languid. But now, it wasn't too long past sunset. The heat hadn't yet left the land. To escape its lingering presence, I had gone down to the river, where there's always a gust of wind, with wondrous promises. Plus, there's usually bugs out there too and I was feeling a bit snackish.

From the other side of the water calls rose up. It was only echoes to reach me, but I don't need a lot to work with. I can spot a female from miles away, I can. I remember thinking to myself that when diner was done, I might try and fly out across the water. Be a gentlebird and go and introduce myself. Who knew, maybe the ladies needed someone to guide them through unfamiliar terrain.

A horrible deformation of a familiar sound suddenly ripped my plans apart. Out of nowhere appeared a car, one of these things humans use to forget their lacks of wings. Pity, that. I can't imagine having to go through life while being stuck on the ground. There's nothing that compares with the joy of soaring on a gentle air-current, the world a green-blue haze underneath. You go higher and higher, lifted up by a gust of wind, almost as if you're thrown up. Then there's a moment, only the tiniest moment, of standstill. Nothing moves. The wind is gone. You're left you hanging in sheer nothing. Suddenly the world and all you hold dear seems a long time away. You look down. Dizziness. But then, before you even know it, before you actually thought about it, your wings kick in. You flap and flap again, your feathers tugging against the cold. You move. No, you soar. No, you fly. Turning and diving, lifting, pivoueting, rising, dancing, speeding, slowing, descending, diving, diving, down, down, wings up and then, finally, your feet upon something firm, a branch, a rock, anything, waiting for the speed, the gusto, to leave your body. Quivering. Having to miss that... no wonder humans turned out the way they did.

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1
Birds-eye, part 2

Birds-eye

2009-10-07T01:30:00.000-07:00

Birds-eye, part 2

Now that I'm out here, I'm starting to regret my decision. I mean, there's nothing much I can do about things anyway, 'cept flutter around in a panicky manner, which she'll never pick up on, unless she is an ornithologist. So if I wanna alert her to the guy lurking near the window, I have to think of another way to do it. It's hard to spot him as it is. He's hiding well within the shadows and all I saw was the tiniest movement when he stepped a little further from the windows. She, on the other hand, remains complety oblivious of his presence. She is staggering through the shingle, as far as her stilleto-heels allow her. What can I do? I might throw myself up against the window just to create a diversion but in the end it probably just make matters worse. Moreover, the window looks likely to break before I would and then there'd be real trouble.

Finally, she has reached the door. I brace myself as she opens it, but she disappears into the dark. Maybe I should fly in after her? Oh no, there's an ominous smell in the air! She'd better not have taken me to a cat-infested place, cause if she did, this is the last she'll see of me!

Previous parts:
Birds-eye, part 1

Birds-eye

2009-10-02T05:22:00.000-07:00

Birds-eye, Part I

Okay, so I shouldn't be out here. Mind you, there's nothing wrong with this place. There's some fine perching to be done up here. It's right secluded; trees have surrounded it in every direction. Even I only saw it after I was real upclose. In fact, the trees seem to wage some special vendetta against the house, crowding it so close they're likely to take it out of sight entirely. Them roots find their way through wood or even stone as easy as they do through earth. And they'll keep at it until one day they have torn down the place, taken it out of thought alltogether. Trees are like that. I don't mind. I just sit in them and as far as I'm concerned they can cover up the earth all they want to. In front of the house, in the middle of the path, there's a dried-up old waterbasin. Looks like right the bathroom after there's been some rain. The musty smell emanating from it, no more than a whiff really, tells me it would be my kind of place. Too bad there's no more than a hint of stagnant water and rotting leaves. They probably cleaned it. Only humans don't understand the fine line separating decay from diner. Still, cleaned or no, the bath would suit me fine.

So sure, it's a nice enough place. It's just I got me a tendency to get involved in things. She's not the first one to have intrigued me, but before her I never went right as far. She's special in some way. She must be or else I wouldn't go hungry for her. See, the bugs today were right fat and flying around in abundance, almost like they was inviting me to diner. Specially them mosquito hawks, skimming over the river with sheer pleasure. That sure was a spectacle to make my stomach roar. If you didn't look quick, all you'd see was nothing but a bright color flashing in the setting sun. If you were fast though, fast enough to join the dance, you could've eaten more than your fill.

Anyway, I'm digressing. No need to dwell on what's lost. Truth be told, I oughta be minding my own business and now that I don't, there's no use crying about my business don't minding me. It's what you get for being of an inquisitive nature. Then again, what is a bird to do? I am only animal after all. Seeing her all disheveled and all and let her go off alone? That's not my style, no sirree. Besides, someone oughta look out after her, bless her heart. So, yes, I left the mosquito hawks a-dancing and followed her instead, flustered and teary-eyed as she was. All the way back here. Wasn't easy, cause she kept on getting entangled in wayside weeds and everytime she did, I had to hide on up in a tree, pretending to be part of the scenery.

Early fawn

2009-08-30T03:11:00.000-07:00

Morning. The green still silent on the leaves.
More than quiet this is the reason for quiet.

Something soft-spoken whistles through the trees.
Probably summer on the prowl
or anything else that is bound to happen.

I'm dressing slowly, unsure of the light,
of the story yet to come. Even though
old legends never stop telling their tales. Like people

they're always in need of what once was theirs.
And then she's there, some kind of urgent
blessing on her lips. And I can only grasp
at what reluctantly trails behind.

Pieces of Glendalough

2009-07-24T07:20:00.001-07:00

If Eccles Street is a special place and the Garden of Remembrance can lay claim to being a hallowed place, than it's hard to find words to describe Glendalough with. It is a sort of a mystical place, at least it once would have been, when Saint Kevin decided it was a well enough place to set up camp and forsake the world in – allthough I heard it mentioned today that the real reason for venturing out here was that Saint Kev had some trouble in the outside world.
You might find some remnants of that ancient mystique, if you are able to drown out the screaming of the Italians, the children climbing on the ruins, schoolclasses taking a dive in the nearby brook and the occasional whiny Dutch. The place is now flooded with tourist, trampling over graves. In a way, Kevin was likewise tested. The whole monastery site was probably erected by his followers, who didn't quite grasp the concept. While Kevin tried to be all holy and hermitlike, sleeping on stones and such, followers flocked to him. How can a man denounce the world if the world just won't leave him alone?
Ofcourse, Glendaloughs true mystique lurks a bit further down the road. Two lakes, enclosed by hills, their dark waters wrinkling every though right out of your mind. Kevin would've been proud.

sidenote: ofcourse, making St. Kevin proud is not a goal in itself, specially after learning the old Saint took a rather akward approach toward temptation by actually pushing a tempting woman of a ridge and thus killing her. Apparently, this only added to his saintlike apparel.

Pieces of Dublin

2009-07-19T12:10:00.001-07:00

This morning I saw Dublin as it's supposed to be seen: streets still wet with rain, the sky nothing but a grey veil. À Joycean morning if any, except for the tourists. I made my way up to Frederick Street and Dorset Street, to find a sudden charm and quiet in Eccles Street. I'd thought that the neighbourhood would be sort of unpleasant – not directly in the centre, so there were no tourists up and about and Dorset Street has a shabby feel over it. Eccles Street however put me instantly at ease. It was broad and peaceful, but moreover, it had the unexpected feel of a special place. Ofcourse, Eccles Street is special to me in the way that I try tro write about it, but actually being there and seeing it and feeling the feel of that place, made it truly special. It was no doubt different than I had imagined it: richer, broader, more colourful. I had been afraid I'd only take a few pictures and leave, but instead I felt so at ease I walked up and down the street and took a lot of pictures. There turned out to be church at the end of the street, with a nice mosscovered celtic cross in the yard, just next to something more modern: a tree turning into a globe, made out of hands, with a fire inside. It must've been meant to be enormously meaningful, however, I didn't quite get it. I guess old symbols just work better for me.

I then made my way to the Garden of Remembrance, which – in spite of hobo bums and tourist bums and an Indian-styled person chanting “harimen harimen harimen”- still manages to remain something of a, by lack of a better word, hallowed place. The leaders of the Easter Rising were held here, before being trnaported to jail and shot. Now, it's a place that commemorates Irish freedom fighter, or, as it's said in the plate near the statue, 'the generation of the vision'. There's a cross-shaped pond, with mosaics of ancients weapons: spears and swords and a shield with boars. I'd have to look it up, but I'll wager it was some grand Irish hero of old who bore boars on his shield. At the end, there's a statue of the Children of Lir, in the middle of there transformation from human to swan. Apart from Deirdre, so aptly named Deirdre of the Sorrows, the Children of Lir is the saddest tale Irish legends have to offer. So there you have it: utter heroism and utter grief; remembrance of heroes and deeds long gone to remember heroes and deeds not so long gone, but all the more shattering. Remembering, you can leave it to the Irish allright.

Helena, losgebroken

2009-07-01T09:54:00.000-07:00

Ze heeft de wolven in haar bloed en eindeloze bijen
die een hemel najagen van voordat zij begon
en zwart van regen zag.

Ze weet niet wat ze ziet, ze zegt alleen
van wat er is de naam. In haar bestaan
een duizendtal schepen op weg naar de storm.

Geen ruwe zee kan haar weerleggen, op haar wachten
Haar armen zijn rauw als een strijdkreet, ze is
te vaak bemind, het beeld gebroken.

Teruggaan is te ver. Ze wikkelt
de zonde als een schil van zich af.
En waar ook een mond is om haar de nacht in te fluisteren

daar is zij en zingt van zeus.

Sprookje

2009-06-10T09:16:00.000-07:00

Van een prinsesje en een roversdochter

Deel 7

Waarin het prinsesje een wandelingetje maken moet

en alles desondanks op zijn of haar pootjes terecht komt

Het prinsesje had al die tijd doorgebracht met het oude vrouwtje, dat nu haar giftige pijlen op de prinses had gericht. 'Dankzij jou is mijn dochter weg, ondankbaar wicht!' zei de oude vrouw dagelijks. Het prinsesje antwoordde dan: 'Dat heb je zelf gedaan, rimpelige gemenerik!' Zo sleten het prinsesje en het oude vrouwtje hun dagen met verwijten, tot op een dag zes soldaten zesmaal op de deur klopten en het prinsesje de aller-aller-allermooiste jurk overhandigden. Toen het prinsesje de jurk zag, wist ze meteen van wie die afkomstig was, en ze besefte dat ze zich onuitstaanbaar had gedragen, juist tegen die ene persoon die het goed met haar voorhad. Berouwvol trok de prinses de jurk aan en de zes soldaten hielpen haar niet, want dat waren de orders van de koningin geweest. Met jurk en al strompelde de prinses op weg en ze deed er zes weken over naar het paleis, zo zwaar woog de jurk. En al die tijd liepen de soldaten naast haar en riepen: 'Maak plaats, maak plaats voor de prinses!' maar ze hielpen haar niet, want dat waren de orders van de koningin geweest.

Uiteindelijk wist het prinsesje met haar laatste krachten het paleis te bereiken en daar viel ze in de armen van de roverkoningin, die haar vergaf en stevig vasthield. En de roverdochter was blij omdat ze haar geliefde prinses had en de prinses was blij omdat ze haar geliefde roverdochter had. En het volk was blij dat ze nu twee koninginnen hadden, één die goed en rechtvaardig was, om over hun te regeren en één arrogante met een mooie glimmende jurk, waar ze over konden roddelen. En de oude vrouw was blij, omdat ze veel geld verdiende als consultant, want rijke mensen hebben nu eenmaal meer advies nodig dan arme en dankzij de roverdochter was iedereen nu rijk. En zo leefden ze, gelukkig en zonder te klagen, tot aan het eind van hun dagen.

Recensie

2009-04-29T05:42:00.000-07:00

In de Knack van vorige week schreef dichter en recensent Philip Hoorne over het nieuwste nummer van literair tijdschrift Het Liegend Konijn. In dit nummer staan ook 3 van mijn gedichten: Te zeggen dat ze naar seringen ruikt, In alles paard en Killmacduagh.

Lees de recensie: In hun blote verzen.

Sprookje

2009-04-22T02:04:00.000-07:00

Van een prinsesje en een roversdochter

Deel 6

Waarin rechtvaardigheid toch ook maar gaat vervelen en de

roversdochter een belasting bedenkt voor het goede doel.

Maar aan alles komt een einde, ook aan het geluk van een rechtvaardige roverkoningin en al snel zat de roversdochter zich in haar paleis te vervelen, terwijl haar onderdanen haar vertelden hoe goed en rechtvaardig ze was. 'Wat heb ik eraan om goed en rechtvaardig te zijn, als ik mijn prinsesje niet bij me heb?' dacht de roverkoningin. 'En voor mijn onderdanen zou het ook goed zijn iemand te hebben die niet goed en rechtvaardig is, al was het maar om het verschil te zien. Alle rechtvaardigheid gaat immers ook snel vervelen.' Meteen wist de roverkoningin wat haar te doen stond.

Ze riep haar onderdanen bij elkaar op de grote binnenplaats van het paleis en vroeg ze allemaal om iets te geven: één gift, maar dan wel iets moois, liefst iets wat blonk in de zon. Omdat de onderdanen zo van hun roverkoningin hielden, deden ze dat graag. Sommige mensen gaven het goudstuk terug dat ze van de koningin gekregen hadden. Anderen gaven spiegels en kraaltjes, sommigen gaven lampjes of fijn bewerkte beeldjes. Een enkeling doneerde een muziekinstrument of een zandloper. Toen ze alle giften had, toog de roverkoningin aan het werk. Dagen en nachten werkte ze door en van alle giften van haar volk maakte ze de aller-aller-allermooiste jurk die ooit gemaakt was. Toen de jurk bijna af was, haalde ze tenslotte de parelmoeren oorbel uit haar oor en maakte ook die er op vast. Zo zwaar was de jurk door alles wat er in verwerkt zat, dat ze door zes soldaten gedragen moest worden. De koningin zei de soldaten dat ze de jurk naar het hutje in het donkere, donkere bos moesten brengen. Toen wachtte ze af.

Pantoens

2009-04-15T09:11:00.000-07:00

Bij De Recensent is een heuse comeback aan de gang: die van de pantoen, een Maleisische dichtvorm. Na de herontdekking van de pantoen, hebben een aantal dichters zich aan een pantoen gewaagd.. Daarbij geven zij tekst en uitleg

Ook ik heb mijn hand gewaagd aan een pantoen, aan 2 pantoens zelfs, 1 in het Nederlands en 1 in het Engels.

Sprookje

2009-04-11T11:38:00.000-07:00

Van een prinsesje en een roversdochter

Deel 5

Waarin de roversdochter korte metten maakt en

zich vervolgens tot socialiste ontpopt.

Ze hief haar staf en sloeg de koning éénmaal, tweemaal, driemaal, tot de oude gierigaard buiten westen van zijn stapel goud afrolde. De roverdochter riep een lakei. 'Ruim de rommel op!' gebood zij. Toen ging ze op de stapel goud zitten en binnen vijf minuten was ze tot op het bot verveeld. 'Wat moet ik met al dat goud als ik mijn prinsesje niet heb?' dacht ze. Ze bedacht dat ze het goud naar het bos zou kunnen sturen en dat haar moeder en het prinsesje trots op haar zouden zijn. Maar toen herinnerde ze zich de schamele huisjes van de mensen die bij het paleis woonden en hoe die mensen haar hadden toegejuicht. En ze bedacht dat haar moeder en het prinsesje nooit blij zouden zijn met één stapel goud. Na een dag zouden ze zeuren dat er geen twee stapels waren en als de roverdochter dan een tweede stapel zou roven, dan wilden ze vast een derde en een vierde stapel. Of ze zouden vinden dat het goud niet hard genoeg glom en vragen waarom de roverdochter geen betere kwaliteit had kunnen veroveren, had ze soms helemaal geen ogen in haar hoofd? 'Bah,' dacht de roverdochter en ze wist wat haar te doen stond. Ze riep de lakei weer bij zich en beval hem het goud onder de onderdanen te verdelen. Zo geschiedde en de onderdanen waren blij en dankbaar en maakten de roverdochter tot roverkoningin. Ze schonken haar een oorbel van parelmoer en voor het eerst in haar leven voelde de roverdochter, die nu roverkoningin was, zich gelukkig en gewaardeerd.

Ithaka

2009-03-25T08:24:00.000-07:00

Waarom ging ze niet terug, op zijn minst
tot waar ze al geweest was.

De felbegroeide kuststrook
voetstappen nog halfnat in het zand
en de belofte van een landschap in de verte.

Iets leeft op. Een hond tussen de duinen
wacht een antwoord af.
Gevonden. Gekend.
Elke schelp lijkt in het zand verloren.

Als ze gaat, zal ze daar dan vrijers treffen?
Of alleen rotsen, een zomer waarvan niemand weet.

Ithaka laat zich niet halen.
Het vormt zich, als de hond
voor wie de vrijheid lokt en kluiten zwarte aarde.

Zelfs nu nog breekt het als wit schuim tussen de golven door.

Maar alleen zij kent
de weg die een druppel langs haar lichaam maakt
En alleen zij hoort
het azuren net-wel net-niet van de zee.

Sprookje

2009-03-22T02:58:00.000-07:00

Van een prinsesje en een roversdochter

Deel 4
Waarin iedereen in oude gewoontes vervalt en de
roversdochter het heft in eigen hand neemt.

Aan alles komt echter een eind, ook aan geluk en nieuwe jurken. De koning weigerde losgeld te sturen en als snel begon de oude vrouw weer te zeuren dat haar dochter zo nutteloos was. 'Nu hebben we nog een extra mond te voeden ook!' Erger nog, het prinsesje begon mee te zeuren. In haar nieuwe jurkje waren al snel weer gaten gekomenen aangespoord door de oude vrouw verweet het prinsesje de roverdochter alles wat maar los en vast zat. 'In mijn oude jurkje zaten tenminste parels! Had ik mijn paleis maar nooit verlaten,' sneerde het prinsesje. 'Nu woon ik hier met jou in een krot! En je kunt niet eens je oude moeder goed verzorgen.Bah!' De roverdochter vond dit allemaal heel oneerlijk.
Op een nacht, toen de oude vrouw en het prinsesje zo lang gezeurd hadden dat ze uiteindelijk al zeurend in slaap waren gevallen, sloop de roverdochter verdrietig het hutje uit. Ze liep naar de rand van het donkere bos en keek naar het paleis in de verte en de vervallen huisjes van de mensen die er in de buurt woonden. Er hing een bijna tastbare stilte. De roverdochter wist wat haar te doen stond. Ze greep een dikke boomtak en marcheerde vastberaden naar het paleis. Alle mensen die haar zagen lopen, wisten direct dat hier iemand liep met een doel en mensen met een doel mag je niets in de weg leggen. Daarom liet iedereen haar doorlopen. Sommige mensen juichten haar zelfs toe, maar de roverdochter hoorde dat niet. Het enige wat ze wist, was dat ze naar het paleis moest. Toen ze bij de poort kwam, lieten de wachters haar zo verdergaan, geschrokken als ze waren van de vastberaden blik in haar ogen. Zonder al te veel moeite kwam de roverdochter in de troonzaal, waar de koning nog steeds op zijn stapel goud zijn zegeningen telde en maar niet uitgeteld raakte. 'Zo, nu is het tussen jou en mij,' gromde de roverdochter strijdlustig.

Sprookje

2009-03-08T07:48:00.000-07:00

Van een prinsesje en een roversdochter

Deel 3

Waarin de moeder van de roversdochter aan

omscholing heeft moeten doen en de roversdochter

ook in handwerk bedreven blijkt.

De oude vrouw was namelijk de moeder van de roverdochter. Iedere dag moest de roverdochter horen wat voor slechte dochter ze was. Nu de koning, die oude gierigaard, al het geld van zijn onderdanen had afgepakt, viel er niets meer te roven. Zo arm waren de vrouw en de roverdochter geworden, dat de oude vrouw als consultant moest gaan werken om aan geld te komen en ze liet niet na om haar roverdochter dat elke dag te verwijten. Maar nu de roverdochter zomaar als bij toeval een prinsesje in de schoot kreeg geworpen, wist ze wat haar te doen stond: ze zou het prinsesje meenemen naar haar moeder en dan konden ze bij haar vader de koning een grote som losgeld loskloppen, zodat ze voor de rest van hun levensdagen geen geldzorgen meer zouden hebben. Haar moeder zou eindelijk trots zijn op haar.
'Kom,' zei de roverdochter tegen het prinsesje, 'ik neem je wel mee. Het oude vrouwtje is mijn moeder.'

Toen de roverdochter en de prinses aankwamen bij het oude vrouwtje, legde de dochter vlug haar hele plan uit, terwijl het prinsesje met een opgetrokken neusje om zich heen keek. Als haar moeder iets te zeuren had, dan hield ze zich in. Het oude vrouwtje keek alleen maar met een schuin oog naar de prinses en zei: 'Ze mot een nieuwe jurk.' Toen wees ze naar een stapel stof en duwde de roverdochter erheen. 'Jij hebt haar meegenomen, zorg jij dr maar voor.'

De roverdochter ging aan het werk, om voor haar prinsesje een echte prinsessejurk te maken. Dagenlang was ze ermee bezig en de jurk werd zo mooi als een jurk gemaakt van oude stof maar kan worden. In ieder geval zaten er geen gaten in. Het prinsesje danste in het rond toen ze haar nieuwe jurk kreeg en gaf de roverdochter een zoen op haar wang. Als de roverdochter al iets dacht, dan hield ze haar gedachte goed verborgen, maar ze kon niet verbergen dat ze blij was om het prinsesje zo gelukkig te zien.

Echo

2009-03-01T10:28:00.000-08:00

De kunst van tegen het licht tikken
Is een beetje zoals zij, ongrijpbaar.
En toch.

Narcissus staart verloren in zijn vijver.
Wat hij zoekt ziet hij niet
Al is er iets van evenbeeld.

Vroeger klinkt als psalmen op. Tussen
De bomen hing ze nog, een raakvlak
Van twee tonen lang.

Ze valt als licht tussen de dagen door.
Waar je ook kijkt, ontgaat ze je en toch
Blijft ze niet onbewogen.

Sprookje

2009-02-22T01:13:00.000-08:00

Van een prinsesje en een roversdochter

Deel 2

Waarin de roversdochter haar entree maakt

en over waardevolle skills blijkt te beschikken

Net toen de prinses een gierende uithaal deed – een onderdeel van prinsessig zijn waarin zij heel bedreven was- verscheen er een ander meisje ten tonele en ging naast haar zitten. Dit meisje was een roverdochter, dat kon iedereen zien aan haar kleren, de talloze gouden oorbellen in haar oor en de zakdoek om haar nek, maar het prinsesje lette nooit op andere mensen en zag dus niets.

'Waarom huil je, meisje?' vroeg de roverdochter.
'Omdat het licht niet doet wat ik wil!' snotterde de prinses.
Als de roverdochter al iets dacht, dan hield ze haar gedachte goed verborgen.
'Waarom denk je dat het licht moet doen wat jij wilt?'
'Omdat ik het prinsesje ben natuurlijk!'
Als de roverdochter al iets dacht, dan hield ze haar gedachte goed verborgen, net als de verbazing die haar beving. Ze had helemaal niet gedacht dat dat wichtje in haar van de ratten aangevreten jurkje een prinsesje zou zijn.
De roverdochter, die zeer bedreven was in het woudlopen en pionieren en dat soort dingen, haalde een glazen potje tevoorschijn en voor het prinsesje nog een keer gierend kon uithalen, had ze tientallen vuurvliegjes in het potje gevangen.
'Hier heb je licht,' zei ze, 'maar waarvoor wil je het gebruiken?'
'Om naar de oude vrouw in het donkere, donkere bos te gaan,' zei het prinsesje, terwijl ze een verdwaalde traan van haar wang afveegde.
Als de roverdochter al iets dacht, dan hield ze haar gedachte goed verborgen, net als het sluwe plan dat zich in haar hoofd begon te vormen.

Genomineerd!

2009-02-18T00:20:00.000-08:00

Er is een gedicht van mij genomineerd voor de poëziewedstrijd van het Arnhemse Lezersbal. Het thema van de wedstrijd is "Tjielp tjielp - De literaire zoo". In totaal zijn 20 gedichten genomineerd.

De prijsuitreiking vindt plaats op 7 maart, tijdens het Lezersbal in Café Dudok. Er is ook een publieksprijs, dus wie wil kan online zijn of haar stem uitbrengen op een van de genomineerde gedichten.

Sprookje

2009-02-15T05:52:00.000-08:00

Van een prinsesje en een roversdochter

Deel 1

Waarin ons prinsesje het met een

afdankertje moet stellen en tot overmaat

van ramp in een kredietcrisis geraakt

Er was eens een prinsesje met een heel armetierig jurkje. Ooit was het een stralende baljurk geweest, bezaaid met parels die glinsterden in de zon en zelfs de maan konden verblinden. Maar toen het prinsesje de jurk kreeg -van haar zus, die 'm weer van een nicht had- was het al een flets geval, waar hoegenaamd geen spoor van parels op te ontdekken viel. Sterker nog, de laatste tijd hadden de ratten er al verscheidene gaten in aangevreten. Dat gaf natuurlijk geen pas. Prinsessen dragen tenslotte altijd mooie jurkjes, van kant en met rozen, of doddige japonnetjes met brokaten patronen, zodat prinsen weten om wiens hand ze moeten vragen. Nee, dit jurkje was geen gezicht en vormde bovendien een groot obstakel voor het happy ever after waar een prinsesje nu eenmaal recht op heeft. Daarom ging het prinsesje op een goede dag naar een oud vrouwtje om raad te vragen.

Het oude vrouwtje woonde, zo wilde het verhaal, in een groot en donker bos, waar je simpelweg geen hand voor ogen zag, ook al was het midden op de dag. Het prinsesje nu was bang voor het donker, daarom was het zaak een lamp te vinden. Maar dat was nog niet zo makkelijk. Het prinsesje had geen geld. Haar vader, de koning, was namelijk een oude gierigaard en verzon steeds nieuwe redenen om het prinsesje geen geld te geven, zelfs geen zakgeld. Ze kon ook niemand om geld vragen, want niemand wilde geloven dat zij een prinsesje was, in dat van de ratten aangevreten jurkje en zelfs al zouden de mensen het willen geloven, dan nog zouden ze haar geen geld geven. Haar vader, de koning, die oude gierigaard, had het hele land leeggeroofd en zat nu tevreden op een stapel goud zijn zegeningen te tellen. De mensen hadden wel wat beters te doen dan de zoektocht naar nieuwe jurkjes te financieren.

Er zat voor het prinsesje niets anders op dan zelf een lamp te fabriceren, wat een hele toer was, want ze had als prinsesje geen ander vak geleerd dan prinsessig te zijn en daarmee kom je niet ver buiten het kasteel. In haar armetierig jurkjes, waar de straffe wind doorheen blies, toog het prinsesje echter naar de waterkant, nabij het kasteel en zette haar meest arrogante gezichtje op.

“Licht!” gebood zij, maar er gebeurde niets.
“Licht!” gilde het prinsesje, maar er gebeurde niets.
“Licht!!!” jammerde het prinsesje en daarbij stampvoette ze met een roodaangelopen hoofd. Het was een indrukwekkend gezicht. Het werd iets donkerder aan de waterkant. Het prinsesje besloot dat de natuur stom was en ging een potje zitten grienen omdat het licht niet naar haar luisterde. Zo werd het langzaam helemaal donker om haar heen.

De laatste kat

2009-02-15T04:32:00.000-08:00

voor Moksi, schootkat par excellence

Het is winter en ze is er niet;
niets weegt zwaarder dan een minnaar in de storm,
die zich liever door de wind lokken laat.

Haar vorm wordt sneeuw; haar gedachten parels,
die je zwijgend door je vingers glippen laat.
Een kleine wereld en zo ongrijpbaar is ze.

Je keek haar na hoe ze verdween
hoe ze de tekens om zich smeedde

buiten waar zij is; het is winter
tijd van sterren en van lange adem.
Een laatste kat springt op je schoot, blaast
zijn simpel spinnen uit.