The sculptor is a material poet, the poet is a sculptor with words.
Sculpting and poetry are closely related artistic ways of expression. Both disciplines strive for the compaction of ideas, concepts, views, thoughts. In the end, the condensed form is different, but the intentions are similar. The sculptor is a material poet, the poet is a sculptor with words.
Collected Poems
by Jos Letschert
(English)
Including:
- Poems at the end of a year
- Mythological poems
- On artists (closer to artists)
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.
At the end of a year
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 as a matter
of course. 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.
Non finito
It's already
dark before
night falls,
the town is
dressed in
gray, fields
are glazed
and hazy is
the winterwood.
Few accents,
like birds
against
the sky.
No song to hear,
nothing sings
by itself.
There's a lot
you'd rather
forget, but also
things you never
want to lose,
like repressed or
dearly cherished
memories. They
follow you and
change as time
goes by. What’s
finished has lost
its future. Nothing
is final. Everything
moves.
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.
Happy 2025
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.
Mythological poems
Paradoxical
Always known it,
unconsciously,
but I 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 yet 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.
Not any explanatory
reason, no moment
remembered either
to what I could never
resist, but no longer
practice now, like ice
skating on frozen lakes,
as in a congealed
still life, 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,
like a coat, a bag, a hat,
or something else.
Just one more kiss
before you go, it's such
a long trip. No god is
waiting there for you,
you are about to leave
your god right now.
With other eyes
I wish your attention,
your perceptiveness,
so that you know that
I’ll be there, so that you
perceive all what I do
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
wonder.
Interface
Under masks
other borrowed
faces are hidden,
and some more
below.
Appearing,
disappearing,
meanwhile
speaking in many
languages which
they don't master.
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 or fetish
for initiates.
The morning doesn't
seem to be habitable,
like an abandoned paper
wasp's 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.
I am going back in mind,
cherishing signs, crossing
borders, asking birds,
defeating shadows, raging
emptiness beyond, to an
uncertain destination.
White crows
Wandering
in strange places,
neither knowing
future nor the past,
not looking forward
to both, messengers
of foolish gods, who
do what you better
leave. Nothing human
is strange to them.
White crows, they
only tell, without
knowledge. They
are blackened,
although guilty
to nothing.
Laertes
You don't
have to prove
yourself time
over time.
Your views
are covered
by a gossamer
veil of humility
- only your
memories keep
you going on -
and maybe
a small 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,
as my father Laomedon once,
and my grandfather Ilos, Tros
before that, Erichthonios, and
the founder Dardanus. I know
all the people here, and they
know me. I know about the wind,
the smells on the marketplace,
I know the ships by name in our
proud harbour. Often, it's really
warm here. Most of the time,
though, I'm cold, my body stiffens,
maybe by the passing of the years,
or as an omen of what is yet to
come, what can't be pushed back.
My children, great in number,
are beautiful and lovingly. I cherish
and I call them by their names:
Kassandra I love the most of all,
though she is often so 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've ordered to
bring him to the hills and to leave
him to his fate. I couldn't kill him,
but I was sure that he was dead,
until recently.
I walk along Skamanders' shore,
hear in the murmur of the stream
the threat of an ancient divination.
A fleet is on its way to get Helena
back and to punish me, my city,
and my people, for all I didn't do,
but maybe should have done.
I'll defy fate, against my better
judgement. Arrived at the Scaean
Gate I hold on for a while. No one
can get 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
by the bard? It’s cold around
my heart.
Playing ball Menelaos
Envied by all suitors,
run off with desirable
Helena. For a while it
goes well, but it is not
always easy to be
Menelaus. 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 lot
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 fourteen
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 and darkness,
sculptors of your face
- changing while I'm
watching - I see you
often, your silhouette,
your looks, not steady
enough to describe, yet
recognizable, occasionally.
Trojan woman, I never
knew you, but that doesn't
prevent me from seeing
your possible faces.
Andromache's complaint
Hektor, elegant hero,
you beat Patroclos,
brother-in-arms of
Achilles, who will
never forgive you.
Your wife and mother
of a futureless son,
weeps and laments
at the prospect of
their pernicious
fate.
Homer, however
- the industrious
collector of atrocious
stories – rubs his
hands, satisfied,
looking back at
all that trouble.
Hektor’s last fight
Daylight has not yet
completely disappeared
on the lower fields before
the closed gates of my
lofty town.
The beast is coming
soon, I am his prey.
The child cries: "Daddy,
daddy!" and I curse my
hubris. People stare as
petrified from high walls,
to a king foretold, who
will never become one.
The ruthless hunter
drives me three times
around the ramparts,
until I face him in despair.
If I will fall, hope and last
dreams do also die, of
those I love and leave
too soon.
Prometheus
You – forward thinker –
steal, with glow on your
cheeks, the holy fire
of the gods, for the sake
of civilization.
Everything has its price,
and you know yours.
Zeus breaks with you
and Hephaestos chains
you on a rock, where
an eagle picks out your
liver, again and again,
until Heracles frees you
from this sad fate.
You're still warning your
brother Epimetheus, for
temptation of divine gifts.
Nevertheless - the incorrigible
hindsight thinker - marries
beautiful Pandora, with her
pernicious jar, that she
– Proto-Eva – cannot resist
for long, to misery of people.
Shine and gloria
Night gave birth to
the brothers sleep
and death.
My crib is lined
with silk and hang
with tulle. I'm almost
immobile, wrapped like
a mummy on a too
early deathbed, waiting
for a new morning.
Twenty-five thousand
times it went well so
far and I served the day,
saving in the meantime
silverware and wings,
illusions and other ladies
in-court, and much more
shine and gloria.
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
Odysseus' lamentation
I can hardly be further
away, reaching with
rigging and mast to
unmistakable signals
from Ithaka, where
I left you.
Trapped in the web
of fatal sisters, they
torn - without
compassion – the
fragile wires of my
faded provenance.
In rags of mist and a
soft moon, my lamentation
seems really hard to sing,
I do not master fado,
blues, or other elegies.
I should resist the
beckoning of tender,
feathered Sirens,
to sail finally home.
Alkinoos
to Odysseus
I did not find
your ship on
my beaches
where you
washed ashore,
no wreckage,
no goods and
chattels, no ties
at all. Your past
consists exclusively
of yourself. Your
stories come slowly.
They resemble the
epic songs of passing
singers, about love
and war, passion
and suffering,
recurring betrayal.
I'll take you home,
vagabond.
Penelope's considerations
after Odysseus' return
Restless wanderer,
I can hardly see the
difference between
my dark dreams and
those of ivory. What
do you want to tell me
during this long night,
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 on your
shoulder that you will never
shed? And what will be our
prospect, if there is one?
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 up, timid
and early, preparing
for the divine.
But, cyclical fate,
of what begins the end
is already said ahead, slow
transforms the new spring
in languid excess.
Hidden from decadent
sun glow, autumn is
waiting - with freakish
shrill strokes - on the
room summer is leaving,
created to be worn out.
Inclement wind and rough
rain allocate the days now,
until it winter pleases to
descend - like Persephone,
Demeter’s daughter:
tributary to Hades,
year over year.
Noice
What's the noice
that geese are
making?
Attention-grabbing,
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
have landed on a gray
lake, for a while,
of course.
Kalchas: questionable seer
Maybe I didn't really want
to see what is, or what will
come. I do not know the
language of lost traces, and I
see only afterwards the faded
signs on flaking walls, omen
of translucent birds. They didn’t
prevent me from recommending
that atoning sacrifice. Poor
divination, Iphigeneia is always
on my mind.
I am wirelessly connected
to false notes on my staff:
a password, ever sent to me,
is for my memory too
long. I am sitting on the
worn cushion of a rolling
chair, on my way to an
abyss that I will achieve
foresight, laughing until
I choke.
I drop time as a useless
instrument, I embrace
chaos, I renounce duration,
repeating doesn't exist.
Finally I recognize a glimpse
of an ungodly existence.
Don't trust them
We should have know,
Homer already told us,
so clearly, that if you
want to deny it, you
must be blind, like the
Cyclops whose eye
Odysseus pierced,
cruel, but necessary,
of course.
Gods: villains they are,
nothing human is alien
to them, don't trust them,
they are not planning
anything good.
Iphigenia's quest
A fooled virgin am I,
Achilles just an excuse,
the man who is waiting
for me is my own father.
The promised bridal bed
only a cold stone bier. Me,
an atoning sacrifice, still
a child, but apparently good
enough for lots of wind.
The fleet must sail, with
lock, stock and barrel,
Troy awaits.
The exasperated goddess
finally agrees, but doesn't
think my early death is a very
good idea. At the last moment
she exchanges me for a deer.
She says: This is not a place
for long delays: get out, don't
cry, just kiss and ride, leave
Aulis quickly as you can
to serve me obedient and
devout in Tauris, dear.
Ten years have passed since
then, yet nothing has been
forgotten. My mother killed
my father then, at the end of
his long journey, my brother
killed our mother, truly a high
price. And I, sneaky orphan, I
condemned in the meantime
– under heavy divine pressure -
all unsolicited persons who
ventured into Artemis' temple.
As priestess, I found that more
or less 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. So, let’s get out, back to
Mycenae, the native land,
where everything began.
Penates
That's enough,
I'm going to my
penates now.
There's no now
and then, at most
a handful desire,
melancholy,
nostalgia,
and more of
that kind of
sentimental
things.
I invited no one,
but all they pass.
We exchange
volatile thoughts.
On artists
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.