Ruthless self-portrait

I am visiting
myself tonight,
not so inspiring
at first sight,
an empty glass
and little light. 

I secretly check
my watch to see, 
whether I stayed
long enough 
to flee.

Longing

On the border 

between sea 

and sand, it is
hard to make 
a choice.

Always longing 
for the other side. 
While I'm dreaming,

I want to wake up,

when I'm awake,

I try to sleep.

Sand in September 

Sand, nothing but sand 

and water, your steps 

are drowning, like my
reluctant thoughts. 
Sea comes and goes. 

The hem of your calf-length 

dress colors dark pink, 
due to the foam of waves 

washing your feet, before 
they withdraw, as enamored, 

nevertheless shy adolescents. 

A secret garden

Sometimes, before the evening 

falls, we walk on also fallen leaves

and thoughtless winding paths

under the old wood of a secret 

garden. Nobody knows how to 

get there, you don't either.

It's a questionable garden, 
not carefully planted in advance.

There are bushes without leaves,

but that is the season’s fault.

Coincidence is gardener there 
and visitors are not expected. 
Whoever strolls around on a 
late and darkening evening, 
becomes inevitably part of 
that ongoing mystery.

Watering words

Planted a hawthorn hedge,

moved some rhododendrons,

put a boxwood in a jar, tied

up the roses.

Intervened here and there,

in the small order of this life.

Made dirty hands, deleted

weeds, bundled thoughts,

watered words.

Stripes and scratches

Between stripes 

and scratches, colors

lighten up, forms are 
flying away, images 
adrift.

I fight what I capture, 

I don’t want to give up 
what I let go.

A lot needs to be added,

to make clear, what I 
leave out.

Impromptu

White paint like 

fresh snow, spilled 

on flattened grass,

on apostate leaves 

on bare stone,

or simply lost in a 

puddle of water,

in smoldering fire:

underground.

An unprecedented

pattern, disorderly 

moments developing 

improvisational - from 

the moment itself – 

habitable thoughts

with a tender structure:

upperground.

Drawing

Wandering between

appearances and

considerations, I 

choose long, thin 

and short lines, stripes 

and planes. No point

at all.

Getting lost in flat 

paper landscapes,

I am creating space 

and other falsifications, 

sometimes jumping,

often in a slow way, 

step by step.

I sprinkle food for 

trackers and meaning 

hiding scratches for

handwriting explainers.

Much needs to be

added to make clear

what I leave out.

Yesterday's snow 

In yesterday's snow,

when thaw sets in, 

you can find fragments

of presumed lost thoughts.

Verities

If it is true,

for how long, 

or how much 

and for whom?

If it is true, 

it is mostly 

too beautiful

to be true, or 

only holding for 

one or two still 

unbiased moments, 

then it is already 

different again,

is it not true?

Incongruous

Not a word

put on paper,

no thought 

organized.

Left the void.

Just some gloss 

at not yet written

phrases. Meaning 

does not always 

fits and is often 

incongruous.

Nothing is easy

Inventing a word 

for an incongruous 

poem, articulate 

the sentence and 

representing  a 

concept, taking 

a picture today 

of what  doesn't 

happen until 

tomorrow, remind 

you of something 

that has not yet 

been, or: rid luck

from coincidence.

Nothing is easy.

Ease does not 

serve man. Giving 

up doesn't pay.

Much is worth it.

Too complicated

How far away can 

you be, if you're close?

Can you imagine a 

distance, how long 

does a game last?

What is the plural

of singular? When

is something finished,

or will it only then 

begin?

Simplicity cannot be

dictated, such as: too 

complicated, Mr. Schubert,

we don't like complexity.

Where are you now?

I can't play you, I can’t

follow your traveling, 

I'd rather have you 

around me, especially 

when you're gone,

yes then, especially

when you're gone,

with all these notes

on your score.

Inspiration

A brief sparking,

insanity for a while. 

A heart on the run. 

Eyes, lost in each 

other, frivolously 

cheated. Happiness 

to hell.

Short moments, 

so attractive for 

poetry.

Moments

Cherish your

moments of 

happiness.

Insure yourself

of warmth for 

chilly hours.

A bird flies

beyond. The 

phone rings.

The newspaper 

is coming.Tea 

water boils.

I love you

today, not 

more special 

as tomorrow, 

I suppose, 

but more than 

yesterday, or

as I can tell 

you now.

Period rooms

Those who go for a walk 

in the evening in old Dutch 

inner cities, see in passing 

sometimes, in the twilight 

of shaded lamps, due to 

unclosed windows and

among the greenery of 

houseplants, in decent 

flowerpots, still glimpses 

of long-lost period rooms.

Domestic intimacy, actually 

hidden, but at the same time 

so open, is guarded casually

through stylish doors, canal 

green, nearly black and with 

a copper button. Hand-painted 

- at eye level - a name or number 

in a jaunty, but chic font.

The walker passes respectfully,

slowing down the steps for a 

moment. His gaze enters the 

room: looking, accidentally,

longing? He doesn't see me.

The walker has already passed.

I can still hear his steps. They 

sound as in an impromptu 

by Schubert.

Quay

A black-tinted, salt-weathered 

pole, clamped at the quay, 

in addition to an iron ladder, 

no further than half-way down,

with bows to help the reaching 

hands. An edge of concrete,

painted bright orange: this is 

where the land ends, the sea 

begins.

How high should the tide be,

for a wandering skipper? 

Does he know the hour, the 

right time? What moves him 

to lay here, leave his vessel to 

scrape the paint on the land 

with his boots?

How low can ebb be, 

to leave the land from the 

last step to take the plunge 

to the wood of the boat?

Does he know the moment, 

or does he trust coincidence,

like the lines in the sand,

seemingly without ground?

Sea at Sylt

Sea, only sea,

no wave dares

to raise a head.

Expectant I am,

like a swarm of gulls

behind a fishing cutter.

What are you thinking, 

you ask, what am I 

thinking, I think, high 

on the dune between

Kampen and List.

If you ask me,

I don't know, 

if you don't ask me, 

I know.

Talking movements

I see you talking,

from a distance,

with here and there

interruptions, that 

means: I see the 

dislocation of talking 

movements, they 

come and go, blowing,

pulsating, sometimes 

salty, tolerable from 

time to time, shooting 

too, nevertheless, finally 

slowly absconding in a

pointless sea.

Shutter speed

What has been

is not gone,

even if you 

cannot touch 

it anymore,

it touches 

you always.

Memories

become more 

beautiful in the 

long run, after 

the closing

of time.

Lost

As long as you 

don't know

where to go to,

you haven’t lost 

the way yet.

If you know where 

to go to, but not

exactly how to come 

there, well, then 

you’re lost.

Like a leaf falls

More or less dancing,

swaying actually -

or better: hesitating.

Wanted to tell you 

about it, but I didn't 

know precisely where

or when it has begun.

I only looked then 

how inescapable 

even a dancing leaf

yet falls.

As though

As if it wasn’t

always like this,

we've read and 

laughed,

I remember 

what you did 

not told me, 

I forgot what 

you said to me.

Through the 

window-pane 

we looked at

each other and 

to the things that

vain and tumbling

mirrored in the 

glass,

as if it was not

always so, but 

it wasn’t.

Aging

Less knowing,

more assuming,

no longer believing,

maybe hoping, 

doubting actually,

and much more 

intuitive than ever

before.

The older the more

impatient, there is

not so much time 

left.

Alibi for flying a kite

We used to make kites,

in former days, well, my 

dad made kites for me, that 

means: I wasn't supposed 

to touch anything, only when 

the kite was launched, what 

is quite a process. At first 

the rope had to be attached, 

not knotted, but with two 

matches through the loop of 

the rig. Then running, my father, 

I mean. Often the tail was too 

heavy, or too light, then we 

had to take paper off, or adding 

more. Then running again. If he 

stood, the kite, I could hold the 

rope for a while. Well, my father 

was holding the bobbin, a piece 

of wood with two sticks making 

it easier to wind and to unwind

the rope. So, I was allowed to

touch the line for a while, feeling 

the tension, the kite fighting

against the wind, the rope in a 

long bow, from our hands to the 

air. Sometimes we’d send 

messages, well, my father did, 

pieces of paper, torn till the 

middle, slid around the wire, 

as high as possible, until the 

wind took over.

After a while, the kite was 

taken down, meter by meter, 

rolling up the rope. Sometimes 

a kite got lost, due to a gust of 

wind, a decline carried out too 

sharply, or a rope break. 

Unfortunately, of course, but 

also beautiful, then we could 

make a new kite, well, my father
of course,  I mean, for me, as 
an alibi.

Building a boat

Four years I was, or 

something like that, 

just in kindergarten. 

I built with blocks a 

boat, together with

 - I forgot his name - 

and those nuns there, 
they understood at 
least that we could not 
break down the thing 

at the late afternoon.

My grandfather is a 

plumber, I said to

- I forgot his name -

he can make everything,

he will make a rudder for 

us, then we sail tomorrow. 

I really believed that we 

could sail, I was very 

convinced of that. So much 

faith I have lost in later 

life, but that we could sail 

with this self-built ship, I 

do believe that till today.

The last Indian

There were still horses 

grazing in the ‘Horse Meadow’. 

My grandfather walked with

big steps through the wet grass,

with double steps I went next 

to him.

He cut branches from a tree 

and from his pocket he took 

a rope. The largest branch 

was bent into a bow, others

where pointed to arrows.

Suddenly I was an Indian and 

Grandpa became chief, with 

a ‘Court Jester’ in his head, 

I mean his favorite brand cigars. 

The remaining rope was tied around 

my hair, with a duck feather in it.

Now there are houses in the 

‘Horse Meadow’, you don’t see 

horses anymore. Once I was happy 

there and the last Indian.

Equestrian statues

The overbearing attitude 

of people to be on the 

back of a horse. Proud 

animal with fragile legs. 

The graceful line is now

disrupted by the rider’s

counterform, laying 

weights on the bridge,

that most vulnerable 

place.

I like most sculpture of

Marino Marini, especially 

his riders. Unintentionally

I suppose, he shows us

how misplaced a human

looks like on a horse’s back.

Even clumsy. It’s not going 

well for long too. His later 

horses throw off their riders, 

at least, they try very hard

to do so. It may be called a 

"Miracolo" that the riders can 

cling to the opposing horse

for so long.

Beyond doubt

If you tell me

that you don't know,

it doesn't mean that

you don't know it.

Probably you know,

but not sufficient 

enough to decide 

already that it is 

worthwhile enough

to hold it in words.

Collateral damage

Maybe something like 

that, or something else? 

That's how it is. I'm sure. 

Say something too, you, 

crawling through mud, 

bigoting with mown 

feathers and a godforsaken

password, paralyzed hands, 

grabbing magician, slipping

king's daughter, I liked you 

more than you liked me,

I thought, but that was 

after the storm and the 

screeching  of chainsaws
in fallen trees. I suspect 
the fear of birds. They 
don’t care at all.

Bad company

You don't know them, 

they on the other hand, 

know you, and on a day

so black as a piano, 

nevertheless still with

some music in it, it is

Swodderstocking who

collects the Havelar, 

while the unreliable 

Labberlot ruins in the

meantime the faded 

residues of unnecessary 

allure, under the biased 

eye of freaky Onevar, 

that useless leak field.

Streetdogs, cherubim,

thieves, factotums,

chicaning companions

in a taunting life.

Immeasurable

Immeasurable:

the highest 

step of happiness.

Penny counters,

barterers, failed

magicians, ruthless 

crooks, 

hurry, but don't 

stumble already 
on the first sport, 
against all odds, 
or knowing 

better.

Postcard

I have sent

you something,

it's a postcard:

a square with

trees, a church 

with tower, a
monument with
forgotten names.
The air is so bright 
blue that it must be 
colored afterwards, 
or it is deep in France 
and always summer.

I have written

something on the 

backside, I suppose

it's about love, 

like: I am here now,

you are there, if 

you were here, 

I am sure I would 

stay there.

Far, far away

I didn't believe you,

as you said: I leave you,

thought it was only

your mood for a moment

of time.

I had no idea

that it could be more

than a fancy and fleeting

announcement, between

a biscuit and maybe a cup

of your usual tea.

Far, far away,

far, far away,

far, far away.

She is far, far away,

leaving me here now

with maximal thoughts 

in my head and with

minimal words 

in my mouth.

Far, far away,

far, far away,

far far away.

I didn't believe you,

as you said: I leave you,

thought it was only

your mood for a moment

of time.

Far, far away,

far, far away,

far far away.

Decembersong 

The wariness of snow,

it falls, but it cannot be 

taken for granted, 

hesitantly, more or less 

restrained, as a white

flaky particle decelerator

for a new still-life,

fragile and perishable.

Prospects are blurry,

the insight still open,

questions have been 

lost in the multitude 

of answers.

It is December again 

and inside vulnerable 

enchanted glass birds 

are singing exuberant

inaudible, a nostalgic 

song - for those who 

can or want to hear it -

about wonder, connexion 

and desire.

Outside swirls snow:

some slight wingbeats.

Maybe a dove, a sparrow,

or a black crow? What 

else could it be in this 

late month? Although:

on lower bushes there

are hanging just spun 

swirling mists of moon-

white tinsel, and from 

the cheeks of wind the 

same melody is blowing 

gently but unmistakable, 

that old Decembersong.

Glowing backlight

December again, and 
anew the final day of this 
damp cold month, with 
timidly, reserved 

airy colors.

A touch of glassy blue,

a wipe of pigeon-grey,

wilted whites, windswept 

blacks, against an early 

evening twilight, and if it 

– royal error – does not 

snow again, but raining 
cats and dogs, you will see

in the glimmer of old 
fashioned streetlamps an 
uplighting pavement of 
hesitating soaking wet 
dutch gold.

There hasn’t to be said 
so much, but unsaid does 
not mean that it goes 
without saying, or self-evident.
Hidden inner city, between your 
walls we go through our finest 
dusky hours.Tomorrow morning 
everything is apparently the same, 
nevertheless undeniable too, 
in a different glowing backlight. 

Perspective

Decemberland, packed
in swirling mists, a glimpse
of afternoon light, colored
pigeon gray, much depth
too, as a painter would do,
with atmospheric perspective,
wings, or vanishing points for
imaginary lines, making
everything smaller on the way
to an uncertain horizon.

A raven is flying by,
messenger of lost gods: their
signs are not heard anymore,
not to mention understood.
There's much to hold tight
in future, but also to leave,
considering, as a photographer
would do, searching for light on
fragile fragments. Tomorrow
will be another day, with fresh
snow perhaps. Early birds will
be the first to write on it, or
you and me.

Palimpsest

The year almost
written to an end,
on old parchment,
waiting to be
scraped for a
new beginning
on residues of ink,
scratches and a
single crack, like
on ice, abraded
by sharp feet
of skaters, writing
their accidental
signs in a not yet
really understood
language, like on
photos, layered by
double exposure,
as a kind of 
memory, mixed up 
with prospect, and
where, what has 
already been,
prepares the way
for what is
coming yet,

but different.

Cautious 

The tree is older than 

we will be, knows time 

and people, we’ve never 

met, windlessness too, and 

rain, thunderclaps, bird nests, 

sunbeams, unleashed kites 

and carved names. 

The leaf is younger than we 

are, but so lived through in 

autumn, that it said goodbye 

already, slow-dancing 

and no longer knowing what is 

still to come, like: the smell of 

grass after the rain, a playing 

child, a guitarist maybe, or 

you and me. 

Now, here in the winter 

forest, everything is quiet, 

well, almost: a crow flies by 

with slow wingbeats. Once 

upon a time, crows have been 

white and messengers of 

gods, till one of them didn’t 

like the messages anymore. 

Then they were blackened. 

Immortal gods turned out 

to be mortal after all, land- 

scapes change their colors 

on their own: lead white on 

a lazy afternoon, on early 

evenings red sometimes. 

And tomorrow morning? 

White, perhaps. 

Then we cautiously walk 

through the snow, where we 

assume a path, making sure 

we don’t disturb what is still 

in buds: so quiet and unborn. 

Tiny things

Tiny things are dear 

to me: some chirping 

sparrows in december, 

or forest vine with fluffy 

winter plumage. Tiny 

things are dear to me: 

a new book, unread yet, 

promising however, as 

a sunray, on a day that

only just begun.

Tiny things are dear 

to me, they seem quite 

normal, do not impose

themselves with prots 

and pomp. I cherish 

what doesn’t need to 

prove itself. Tiny things 

are good for me.

Large-scale, no need 

to pursue it, because 

it destroys a lot. Tiny 

things are dear to me, 

nevertheless, in times 

like these, I increasingly 

hope for globalisation 

of a bit of happiness.

Paradoxical  

Always known it,

unconsciously,

but never 

understood it

that way.

Opinions, lies, 
 explanations, 
 wisdom, 
 justification, 
 hope, against 

expectation. 

Myths: 

carriers 

of fear and 

longing, 
 consistently
 contradictory, 
 paradoxical 

and tempting 
 the gods. 

Chaos

Complete 

emptiness - 

Chaos is her 

name - gave 

birth to Nyx, 

the night, and

hopeless Erebos,

darkness.

Their offspring

is still wandering  

among us.

Aether: enveloping 

sky; 

Hemera: the short 

or too long day;

Momos: our own 

or someone else’s 

tormenting fault;

Ponos: annoying 

efforts;

Moros: feared,

recurring calamity;

Thanatos: cruel,

inevitable killer;

Hypnos: invigorating

or tormenting sleep;

Nemesis: revenge;

Apate: cunning 

deception;

Philotes: outsider 

friendship;

Geras: irreversible

degenerating old age;

Eris: recurring

debilitating conflict.

Gods! Help us, 

or: rather not.

Reflection time

Time was 

not linear,

imagination still

a good friend. 

I was young, 

maybe a few 

hundred lives, 

to count with 

fingers of ten 

hands, or five 

feet and five 

hands, clear

in any case. 

I often had to 

think about 

that, before 

I was born. 

Reluctantly 

I remember 

the road still 

to go, beyond

chaos.

After the Ice Age

Until it stops, 

you don't think 
 about it earlier, 

much is forgotten 

in the long run.

No explanatory 
 reason, no remembered 

moment of what I could 

never resist, but no 

longer practice now: such 

as ice-skating on frozen 

lakes, as in a congealed 

still life, on a transit from 
 nowhere to nothing.

Long journey 

And when you go, 

just one more kiss, 

it's such a long trip and

I can't go with you. 

It's a journey you didn't 

choose yourself, you don't 
 even know where you are 
 going to and if you should 
 take something with you, 

a coat, a bag, a hat, 

or something else. 

Just one more kiss 

before you go, it's such 

a long trip. No god will

wait for you. You are 

about to leave your 

god right now.

With other eyes 

I wish your attention, 

your perception, so 

that I will know that 

I’ll be there, and that 

you perceive all what 

I do or don't, and that 

you hear what I will 

say to you. 

Who am I as no one 

notices that I'm there? 

If you really look at me, 

then you might see me 

- and maybe this time

with other eyes. 

Broken

What is left when

there is nothing left? 

Bottomless space 

maybe, remains of a 

membrane, vibration 

of broken connection

perhaps, or the lack of 

amazement.

Interface

Under masks 

other borrowed 

faces are hidden,

such as others

below. 

Appearing,  
 disappearing, 
 meanwhile  
 expressing 

in different 

languages 

they do not

speak.

Landing

Before landing 

eyes closed, still 

uncertain, expectant, 

hesitant: that kind of 

things.

There may be a 

rejection, without a 

reasonable explanation, 

like feathers bound on 

a stick, a bird's head, 

a dead sparrow or 

another totem 

for local initiates.

The morning doesn't 

seem to be habitable:

an abandoned paper

wasp nest, broken by 

searching crows. 

Water is offshore. 

Nothing indicates a 

happy ending. I arrived 

to get lost again.

Ancestors 

A child am I 

of many parents, 

stacking predecessors 

in and on my head,

carrying them along

as penates, fetish,
 burden sometimes, 

in hope of reluctant 
 blessing. 

Most of them are 
 strange and far to me. 
 In my memory I go back, 
 cherishing signs, crossing
 borders, asking birds, 
 defeating shadows, angry 

at elapsed time, raging  
 emptiness beyond to an 
 uncertain destination.

Laertes

You don't 

have to prove 

yourself

anymore.

Your prospects

are covered 

with a gossamer 

veil of humility 

- only your 

memories keep 

you going, and 

maybe a trace 

of hope.

Birds fly on

and off in

shadows on 

the wall: food 

for dreamers 

and eager 

prophets 

Priamos’ Lamento

 King am I of this rich city, 
 like my father Laomedon once, 
 and my grandfather Ilos, Tros 
 before that, Erichthonios, and 
 the founder Dardanos. I know 
 the people and they know 
 me. I know the wind, the smells 
 of the marketplace, the ships in 
 the harbour. It is often warm here, 
 but I’m cold most of the time. 
 My body stiffens, perhaps due
 to the passing of the years, 
 or as an omen of a time when
 nothing remains.
 
 My children, large in number, 
 are beautiful and lovingly. I cherish 
 them and call them by their names: 
 Kassandra I love the most of all, 
 though she is often inaccessible 
 to me; Hector, of course, the oldest, 
 strongest and intended monarch; 
 Polyxena, Troilos, all the others; 
 yes, even Paris, whom I put in a 
 shepherd's bag - I couldn't kill him -, 
 but was sure he was dead, until 
 recently. 
 
 I walk along Skamanders' shore, 
 listening to the murmur of the stream: 
 the threat of ancient divination. 
 A fleet is on its way to get Helena 
 back and to punish me, my city 
 and my people, for everything 
 I should have done, but did not do.
 I'll defy fate, against my better 
 judgment. Arrived at the Scaean 
 Gate I hold on for a while. Nobody 
 gets through here without my 
 consent.
 
 Ashes I sprinkle on my head 
 and in the evening by a fire, 
 I listen to singers and their lyre. 
 What will be sung about me later? 
 Again I feel cold, the coldest around 
 my heart.

Playing ball Menelaos

Envied by all suitors,

run off with the desirable

Helena. This might work 

well for a while, but it 

isn't easy to be Menelaos 

sometimes. That damned 

dominate brother, that Paris 

parasite, that adulterous 

wife, pretending to be a 

phantom or shadow of 

a cloud. 

Finally, 

Elysian fields, nectar 

and ambrosia for ever, 

and a lot of eternal
 boredom, of course. 

Trojan

First hack: lady
 kidnapped, not 
 entirely against 
 her will.
 
 Last hack: game 
 over, because of 
 a treacherous horse.
 
 

Meanwhile: a bunch
 of pawns wasted.
  
 Fingers of dawn, 
 groping the burnt 
 remains of a fortress 
 that seemed so
 impregnable.
 

Trojan woman
 

I could have

easily run into 

you, just around 

a corner, or at 

the marketplace, 
outside the city 

walls of Troy. Only 

coincidence got in 

our way, and a 
trifle like thirty 
centuries. You said 
goodbye before I 
could arrive.

Due to time, we 

have been separated 

from each other, your 

possible faces are 

anchored in my mind, 

they continuously
change, like stories 

I'm telling about you.

Possible faces

Multiple variety,

light, darkness, 

sculptors of your 

face, changing 

while I'm looking

at it.

I see you often, 

and I know your 

silhouette, your 

looks, all contours,

but not what you 

think, or how 

you feel.
 
 

Trojan woman, 

I never knew you, 

but that doesn't
 prevent me from 

describing your 

possible faces. 

Andromaches lament

Hector, elegant hero,
 you beat Patroclus,
 brother-in-arms of
 Achilles, who will
 never forgive you.
  
 Me, Andromache, 

your wife, and mother 

of a futureless son, 

laments and weeps 

in the face of our 

pernicious fate.
  
 Homer however
 - the diligent collector 

of atrocious stories – 

he rubs his hands, 

happily, looking back 

on all that sorrow.

Hektor’s last fight

Daylight has not yet 

completely disappeared 

on the fields in front of 

the closed gates of 

my exalted city. 

The beast is coming, 

I am his prey. The child 

cries: "Daddy, daddy!" 

and I curse my fate. 

People stare as petrified 

from high walls to a king 

foretold, who never will

be one. 
 

The ruthless hunter 
 drives me three times 
 round the ramparts, 
 until I face him in despair. 

If I then fall, last dreams

and hope will also die

for those I love and leave
 too early.

Prometheus

You – forward thinker – 

steal, with glow on your 

cheeks, the holy fire of

imagination from the gods, 

for the sake of civilization. 

Everything has its price,

and you know yours.

Zeus breaks with you,

and Hephaestus chains 

you on a rock, an eagle 

pecks your liver out, 

again and again, until 

Heracles frees you

from this tragic fate.

You're still warning your 

brother Epimetheus of the 

temptation of divine gifts. 

Nevertheless - the incorrigible 

hindsight thinker - marries the

beautiful Pandora, with her 

pernicious jar, that she

- Proto-Eva - cannot resist

for long, to misery of humanity.

Splendor and glory

Night gave birth to 

the brothers sleep 

and death.

My craddle is covered

with silk and tulle. 

I'm almost motionless, 

wrapped like a mummy 

on an early deathbed.

Waiting for a new morning. 

Twenty-five-thousand times 

went it well so far, and I 

served the day, saving 

silverware and wings in the 

meantime, illusions and 

ladies-in-waiting, and much 

moresplendor and glory. 

Against better judgment 

and endless-seeming time,

while nothing stays, neither 

thing nor dream. The blink 

of an eye, maybe, or a poem.

Well, a poem, perhaps, for 

a short moment, until one 

gets rid of it.

Ithaka delayed
 
 

I can hardly be further 

away, reaching with 

rigging and mast for

unmistakable signals 

from Ithaka, were 

I left you behind.

Trapped in the web

of fatal sisters. They 

torn - without 

compassion – the

fragile wires of my 

faded provenance.

In rags of mist and 

soft moonlight, my 

lament is hard to sing. 

I do not master fado, 

blues, or other elegies.

I must resist the

beckoning of tender 

feathered Sirens,

to finally sail home.

Alkinoos 

to Odysseus

I couldn’t find

your ship on 

my beaches
 where you

washed ashore,
 neighter wreckage

nor goods and 

chattels. Your past 
 exclusively consists
 of yourself. 

Your stories slowly

come up. They resemble 

those epic songs of 

passing singers, about 

love and war, passion 
 and suffering, recurring 

betrayal. I'll take you 

home, vagabond.

Penelope's considerations

Restless wanderer,

I can hardly see the 
 difference between
 my dreams, so dark,

and those of ivory. 

What do you want 

to tell me in this night, 

so long, struggling with 

your memories, trying 

to recast your past in
 order to handle an 
 obscure future? 
  
 Can you free yourself 
 from what you're chasing, 
 or does it remain the 
 everlasting burden you won‘t

get rid of anymore? And what 

will be our prospects, if there 

are any?

Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe 

I booked a flight to Ithaca, 

long time ago since I was there, 

I booked a flight to Ithaca, 

it took some time to dare. 

I booked a flight to Ithaca, 

wonder if she is still there, 

I booked a flight to Ithaca, 

hoping that you still care. 

Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe 

Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe 

Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe 

I am still remembering your tears, 

maybe that you remind my fears, 

fate was finally my destiny, 

I had to leave you in uncertainty. 

Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe 

Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe 

Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe 

Now I've booked a flight to Ithaca, 

long time ago since I was there, 

I've booked a flight to Ithaca, 

hoping that you still care. 

Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe 

Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe 

Pe - Ne - Lo - Pe 

Anodos - Kathodos

After months of 

meagreness, earth 

opens, timid and 

delicate, preparing

for divine resurrection.

But, cyclical fate,

from what begins the 

end is predicted. Slowly 

spring transforms in 

languid abundance.

Hidden from decadent

sun glow, autumn is

waiting already with 

capricious pranks, for 

the room that summer 

will leave to worn out 

again.

Inclement wind and heavy 

rain allocate the days, until 

winter pleases to descend 

again - like Persephone, 

Demeter’s daughter: obligated 

to Hades, year after year.

Noise

What's the noice 

that geese make?

Attentiongrabbing,

brutality, or just

sweet tenderness? 

I'm not a Tiresias, 

I don't understand 

birds, but I recognize 

language in the sound 

of geese, on a misty 

morning in early 

autumn, where they 

landed on a grey 

lake, for a while, 

of course.

Kalchas: 

questionable seer

I didn't understand

so much, maybe I didn't 

really want to see what’s

going on, or what will 

happen. I do not know 

the language of lost traces, 

and I see afterwards the

faded signs on flaking walls.

Wirelessly am I connected

with false notes in my score. 

A password, ever sent to me, 

is for my memory far too long. 

I’m sitting on outworn cushion 

of a rolling chair: my way to an 

abyss that I will reach foresight. 

I drop time as an useless 

instrument, embrace chaos, 

renounce duration, repeating 

doesn't exist. Finally, I recognize 

a glimpse of godless existence.

Don't trust them

We should have 

known it, Homer 

has told us clearly, 

in case you prefer to 

deny it, you must be 

blind like the Cyclops 

whose eye Odysseus 

had pierced: cruel, but 

necessary, of course.

Gods: villains they are,

nothing human is alien 

to them. Don't trust them, 

they are not worth the trust.

Iphigenia's dilemma
 
A fooled virgin am I, 

Achilles just an excuse, 

the man who waits for me:

my own father. The promised 

bridal bed a cold stone grave. 

Me, an atoning sacrifice, almost

still a child, but apparently good 

enough for lots of wind. The fleet 

must sail, with lock, stock and 

barrel. Troy is waiting. 
  
 The exasperated goddess 

finally agrees, but doesn't 

think my early death is a good 

idea. At the last moment she 

trades me for a deer. She says: 

It's not the place for long delays. 

Get out, don't cry, just “Kiss and 

ride”. Leave Aulis fast as you can 

in order to serve me.                                                
  
 Ten years have passed now, 

but nothing is forgotten. My 

mother killed my father, at the 

end of his long journey, my 

brother then killed our mother: 

truly a high price. And I, a piece 

of misfortune, condemned in the 

meantime - under heavy divine 

pressure – all unsolicited persons 

who ventured into Artemis' temple. 

As a priestess, I found that acceptable, 

until my younger brother suddenly 

showed up.
  
 Dilemma, but decisively tackled

by me: “Kiss and ride”. This is not 

an attractive stage for displaced 

people. Get out of here, back to 

Mycenae, the native land, where 

everything began.

Too many Troys

Boys and girls they were, with much to prove,
 a bit spoiled too, and fearful of the day,
 with grander dreams than any man could weigh,
 despite their fate and its unpredictable moves.

Young Odysseus feigned his madness, yet he failed,
 like great Achilles, masked in maiden’s lace;
 frail ruses born of losing sight of what they face,
 for which with years, or with their lives, they paid.

The city fell at last, fire consumed it raw.
 Winners who remained: deeply scarred and burned,
 no heroes now, they homeward finally turned.

Homer told of the suffering that every mortal saw.
 Had he, through stories, for lasting insights yearned?
 Each Troy since then showed that we have nothing learned.

Message from Paradise

Of course, it was not Pandora who was to blame,
 though she unbound that jar of grim disease and blight,
 a dark inheritance that wraps mankind in shame,
 and seeks to fade his true self to a shadow’s night.

Of course, it was not Eve who brought about our fall,
 who paid with banishment for tasting from the tree.
 For here, too, curiosity provoked the squall,
 yet proved a virtue, not a human frailty.

As stray guest of the mind, and daughter of design,
 our curiosity breeds visions and creation,
 at times a dreamy reverie, at times divine.

Yet it is gods who, in their ruthless jealousy -
 though they are nothing but our own imagination -
 chastise the souls they will not brook as equal fee.

Penates

That's enough, 
 I'd like to go to

my penates. 
 There's neither 

now nor then, at 

most a handful 

desire, melancholy, 

nostalgia, and more 

of that kind of 
 sentimental 
 things.

I didn’t invite 

anyone, but they 

all come by. We 

exchange volatile 

ideas.

George Braque

Around you

You have a lot 

around you:

thoughts fly in 

and out, words 

too. You pick up 

what you find,

as reminder, or 

a usable foretoken. 
So much around 
you, from all sides, 
as in a still life by

Braque.

Max Beckmann 

Triptych 

Departure 

Leaving to arrive 

somewhere, out of 

uneasiness or desire, 

even unwillingly. 

Transition 

Not here anymore, 

not yet there. Spaces 

in between: hotels, ships, 

trains, cars, stations, looking 

for Sirens to be able to 

resist them, all the while: 

collecting motives on postcards. 

Arrival 

Restless Odysseus, estranged 

passenger of modernity, is arriving 

what you want, or are you docking 

to prepare a new departure? 

George Hendrik Breitner

Japonism

Breitner, photographer

and painter, bought 

a folding screen and 

three kimonos with 

each a different color:

red – white – blue.

Dutch as those colours, 

is his kimono girl:

Geesje Kwak, languid

lying on a sofa, covered

with oriental carpets. 

Thirteen paintings:

on kimonos and a room 

divider the birds fly off 

and on, there are flowers 

too that you would like 

to pick, for a vase, or a 

loved one.

Paul Cézanne 

Significant 

Montagne Sainte Victoire, 

so often painted, outside, 

or on the basis of a previous 

canvas, as with Mrs. Cézanne 

in a red dress, after a painting 

of Mrs. Cézanne in a red dress. 

Impressions of impressions. 

Cezanne sometimes paints after 

photographs, like Beckmann 

and Breitner would do later, 

or just over it, like Richter, 

for example. 

An image is a thing in the 

world. It is touchable, as long 

it's not a thought. Picasso 

bought the Montagne, no, not 

the painting, but the mountain., 

It's almost impossible to get 

any closer to the painter. 

Painters, curious creatures they 

Are, their subjects even stranger. 

Cézanne paints the leg of a lamb, 

a severed leg I mean, and a crazy 

company at a picnic on the grass, 

even a killer in action, skulls, in 

addition to nice landscapes and 

beautiful portraits. He's a weird 

guy, Cézanne, iconographically 

in any case, scarred by life, of 

course, above all, however: 

significant. 

Laura Eckert 

Non Finito 

Layers of wood from 

old beams, planks, 

on top of and next to 

each other, glued, nailed, 

otherwise connected. 

Raw material found 

for imagined sculpture: 

heads. Growing or 

withdrawing, at random 

as it seems, but it's not 

like that. It is considered 

adding, or deliberately 

omitting, chopped 

imagination fromremains. 

New reality, not yet 

finished, like it seems, 

but it's not like that. 

What is not is very present. 

James Ensor

Flower Hat

Painter with your 

flower hat, you made 

masks and skeletons,

skulls with grimaces. 

Lots of still lifes, 

fusspots too, and 

flowers in a vase 

and on your hat.

You’ve brought Christ,

- fallen out of time -

to Brussels, for carnival

and a procession, but

you sat on that donkey, 
as guardian of animals, a 

painter without flower hat.

Growing up among shells

and fans, roses, parrots, 

a pissing monkey, chinoiserie 

and a dress-up grandmother, 

almost outside the world, but 

never further away than Flemish 

Ostend, where you cultivated

kitsch and satire in word and 

action. You, painter with your 

flower hat: nothing comes 

easy.

Leo Gestel 

Shape shifts 

The still life moves, 

inside and outside 

the edges, a flight 

colors: roses or fish. 

Eye-catching,  

challenging, as in 

the landscapes, where 

colors on canvas duel 

with movements of the 

eye, where shapes shift, 

Orpheus serving, or 

defying. 

Alberto Giacometti 

What's left 

A for hours 

motionless 

model fled 

the desperate 

sculptor, over and 

over again. That's 

probably why the 

feet become so 

heavy: Stay here! 

Some have stayed 

indeed: a woman 

on a car, or some 

bronze plates with 

heads and stretched 

figures, and small 

heads on heavy 

pedestals, like portable 

altars for cherished 

household gods, 

penates. 

Between being and 

nothingness is what 

is left after a long 

struggle. 

Erich Hartmann 

Limitless 

What something looks 

like: more conception 

than perception, mainly 

experience. Landscapes 

figures, still lifes, as 

pieces of a set: planes 

lying against surfaces. 

Essentially: no effects. 

Broken space as playing 

field - the painter: generous 

actor, imagination goes 

beyond the frame. 

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, 

someone could walk in, or 

passing by. 

Rebecca Horn 

Kinetic totems 

Quirky machines: 

scratching – stroking 

– shooting – hammering 

– sawing – cutting – 

dreaming – dancing, 

nervous, fragile, and in 

a merciless rhythm. 

Concert for anarchy, 

the sighing of city, 

the calling of peacocks: 

fear – despair –tenderness 

– coveting – bizarre 

alienation. 

Kinetic totems, caught in 

feathers, vulnerable as 

the egg of an ostrich, 

threatened by lightning, 

and strange as a 

unicorn. 

Horst Janssen 

Portraits 

as landscapes 

Addicted to pollard 

willow and meadow, 

Eiderland and mudflats, 

wetland along the Elbe, 

low and high skies, 

vistas. 

Landscapes as portraits, 

portraits as landscapes, 

registries of the land of 

imagination, to wander 

around and forget. 

Unapproachable 

draughtsman with vibrating 

hands, acid etched eyes, 

tormented lungs. I do not 

know you, I've never seen you. 

I know you very well, I have 

seen so much of you. 

Paul Klee

Poorly painted

A goldfish with seven

fish around it, made by

Paul Klee, seen for the 

first time in the Hague 

Municipality Museum,

called differently now. 

I was still young. Poorly

painted, I thought, so

incomparable with the 
photo in my book on art.

After years I saw it again, 

in Hamburg. So beautifully 

done, I thought, in color

and in composition.

Maybe I was the first time

still too close to my youth, 

expectantly for the assumed 

but unattainable quality of 

artistry, and later on I was 

perhaps too far removed 

from it, jeaulous of Klee

who kept some of it alive.

Oskar Kokoschka

Insistent

Series of self-portraits,

painted observations, 

penetrating, systematic 

investigations of the own 

face, memories too: 

anamnesis of an artist's life.

By looking at his facial

expressions in works he left 

behind, I may get to know

his ambition to paint what

one does not see at a first 

glance.

Wilhelm Lehmbruck

Light caresses shape

Women often:

fully depicted;

as torso; a portrait; 

or bust. Long neck, 

head slightly oblique, 

elongated.  

Attitudes:

bathing, standing, 

kneeling, sitting, 

crouching, thinking, 

mourning, falling, 

stride. 

Imagination: 

light caresses shape, 

and vice versa.

Marino Marini 

Equestrian statues 

Presumptuous to be 

on the back of a horse. 

Proud animal with fragile 

legs. The graceful line 

disturbed due to the 

contraform of a rider, 

weighing on the bridge, 

the most inappropriate 

place. 

I really like the work of 

Marino Marini, especially 

his riders. As unintentional 

as unmistakable he shows 

how out of place a person 

sits on a horse’s back, clumsy 

actually. It goes well for a while, 

but not for long. His last horses 

throw the horsemen off, at least, 

they try very hard to do so. 

It may be called a "Miracolo" 

that those riders can cling for 

a while to the opposing horse. 

Henri Matisse

Dancing with Matisse

Matisse was a neat 

painter, however, it

took some effort to 

understand him: "By 

the savage beasts!", 

they said, "A bungler 

and a charlatan!"

Matisse dances with 

colors, a round dance, 

a Farandole, dancers 

seek each other's hands,

speed almost swings them 

outside the edges of the 

canvas, it looks sacred, 

sometimes frivolous too.

A gloomy painter stares 

for hours to "The Red Studio", 

there is no perspective, 

nevertheless a lot of space.

Then he paints on a yellow field 

a smaller yellow field, an orange 

stripe and a blue field on green. 

Everything trembles and vibrates: 

Rothko dances with Matisse. 

He calls it a homage and it is.

Paula Modersohn-Becker

Not yet finished

Worpswede – Paris,

vice – versa, striking

portraits, masks almost, 

with rough, porous skin, 

scratches in the paint, 

scratches on your soul.

Back to where you don’t

belong anymore, because 

of a still unborn child, 

after which birth you died 

unexpectedly. With you

the promise ended of so 

much not yet started work,

as well as hope for appreciation

for all that is sacred to you.

Scratches on your soul.

If there is life after death, 

then it is in what you left 

behind: on canvasses, time

ahead, and highly coveted

now.

Amedeo Modigliani 

For eternity 

Last true bohemian, 

but reluctantly. Painter 

you didn't want to be, 

although much better 

than many around you. 

Your passion: a carved 

statue, but your body 

did not obey that desire. 

So, portraits, instead of 

Caryatids, yet you built 

the stone temple you had 

in mind, on canvases, but 

so strong that everyone 

still knows the maker and 

his striking work. 

Giorgio Morandi 

Still life 

Vases, pots, 

bottles, glasses, 

jugs, jars,dusty, fragile, 

side by side and mixed, 

together, looking for calm 

light, a precarious balance, 

shielded, attacked, reduced, 

upgraded. What remains: 

restless silence, fragile, 

touchable, apparent 

simplicity: 

alienation. 

Gabriele Münter 

Unravel 

Always your return 

to portraits, from 

yourself, others, 

alone, or in a group. 

An almost sacred 

act, unravelling a 

face, till the depth

of its character. 

It is a patiently 

acquired competence:

understanding what 

you really see, so close 

in front of you, further 
away however than you 

thought for possible. 

Charlotte van Pallandt 

Heads: Notes 

Research, thinking 

from within, construction, 

rod on wooden block, 

plaster plates for contours, 

sculpture in itself. Furthermore: 

sticks, bars and lumps of clay, 

or wax and plaster - 

outer face. 

Note (from Van P.): I want to 

express as much as possible 

with as few as possible resources. 

Essence of the form, 

Termote's head a sphere, 

with hooked nose, that anyway, 

and – of course - awake eyes. 

Note (from Van P.): Always 

checking that I don’t spoil the 

whole thing by finishing it. 

Carasso's head wasn’t finished 

when he died and has been left 

as it was. Immortal sculpture. 

Only such a head justifies 

a sculptor's life. 

Note (from Van P.): Check 

the ears to be sure that they 

are exactly on the right place. 

Place: a relative term. 

In Van Pallandt's sculpture 

nothing is on its place:

everything on hers. 

Pablo Picasso

Why not?

In all these years, 
never been so old 
as you became,
always asking, not  
for the explanating: 
why?, but for the
challenging: why not?

Not searching, but 
finding, accidentally. 
Nothing is ever finished, 
what is finished has 
lost its future. 

Gerhard Richter 

Miracle 

Abstracts, 

sent by chance, 

paint dripping, 

direction determined 

by gravity – so it 

seems – but it is 

different. 

The squeegee, a 

miraculous magic 

wand, leaves 

conscious marks: 

left - right – top - 

bottom - transverse. 

Rite of a painter. 

Backwarts doesn’t 

go, again yes, and 

so does derailing, 

and repeating 

coincedence. 

Jan Roeland 

High enough 

Roeland makes 

the world flat, 

with paint, rollers 

and brushes, Well 

yes, the world, that 

might be said a bit 

too much.  It's about 

an envelope, already 

flat in itself, a box, 

a table, or a beak. 

Roeland makes the 

world flat. Not wild 

and fierce, out of 

resentment or 

viciousness. Well, 

no, just with a lot of 

patience, and layers 

of paint, shapes 

meticulously taped 

for straight edges: 

a hammer, a bouquet, 

a duck or stork, 

for Roeland flat is 

high enough. 

Medardo Rosso 

Ecce homo 

Wax, yellow as 

honey, amber, 

black traces, 

light has a free 

scope and exploit 

that eagerly. 

Finger are shaping -

reticent - what you 

want to see, you have 

to imagine first. 

In the same way 

God must have been 

sculpting, or Prometheus, 

when they weren’t sure 

how the first human 

might look like. 

Mark Rothko 

Fields 

Rothko: light in 

paint, translated 

myths, exalted, 

also uplifting, 

transformative 

and detaching, 

levitating at times. 

I mean having 

seen Rothko's , 

before I saw them, 

I mean, trembling 

fields, stacked 

colors, from the 

window of a fast 

train for example, 

eyes half closed, 

or in a flash, just 

before awakening, 

a remarkable light, 

sizzling. I mean, 

when it's freezing 

inside of me, colours 

are cooler, distant. 

I mean having seen 

Rothko's, before 

I saw them. 

Egon Schiele 

Looking back 

So meaningful, 

that, what is not 

drawn; accurate: 

the reluctant, 

godforsaken 

paradisely 

temptations. 

What I see, 

looks back, 

undisguised. 

Eja Siepman van den Berg 

Itself enough 

Torso: 

usually a standing 

girl, no head, 

an outset of arms, 

shoulders actually, 

legs, cut off, down 

to the thighs. 

How light stone 

can be, or glossy 

plaster, bronze, 

so translucent too, 

images on their way 

to inviolability, to their 

completion. Finished 

is it when the torso 

removes itself from 

the sculptor, if there 

is nothing more to add, 

or to omit, when the 

sculpture is itself 

enough. 

Kore in stylized form, 

hushed, the Greeks 

never far away, at the 

same time so far ahead, 

depicting transcended 

imagination. 

Jan Sluijters 

Bright 

Documentation 

of transient 

life: colorful 

landscape; 

still life; green- 

eyed women, 

everything 

swirls and 

dances. 

Search for 

the highest, 

always back 

to a new 

beginning. 

Leaving nothing 

out, frivolously 

beyond the 

visible. 

Charley Toorop 

"Charley" 

Eyes wide open, 

look as a signal, 

is what you see, 

what is, or just 

what reveals 

itself? 

Inevitable 

moments, like 

Fayum portraits, 

insistent, tempting 

the gods, requesting: 

Don’t forget me. 

I'm Charley, 

born in Katwijk, 

died in Bergen, 

in between: painting, 

eyes wide open.