Saturday, June 27, 2009

The coolness of a midsummernight ...

You can't sleep
though you're not down and out
The energy flows
Like a lightning in the sky
For this moment alone
No need to wonder why
Just take a deep breath
Listen to the birds' song
and enjoy.

And his name was ...

There was a blessing and then a curse
Noone knew what they meant
Till Murphy showed up and said:
If something can go wrong it will ...
The end.

Unfinished and drained by the other stuff, I will write you something good soon!

Friday, June 26, 2009

Death makes angels of us all

I'm really not in the mood to write a lot as I'm allready writing about two poems daily (the treasure is hidden in a blue velvet enveloppe, shh! It's a secret ... it might reach you some day, some time, some place ... but not now).

So let's just enjoy this evening in real life under a moonlit sky, some good blues in the background, a drink and above all good company.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Just bored.

There was this song
I couldn't remember
But the tune played in my head
since last december

Let's sing over the lost remembrance
of safety and security
Let's feast upon the bodies
of the unloving

Maybe there was
maybe there wasn't
But there was you and me
and me and you
The rest of the world?
I don't know anymore,
I thought I knew.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009


I would like to write you a thousand fairytales, but life is hardly a fairytale. I would like to write you a thousand myths though it must be said, life does resemble myths sometimes. I would like to write you a thousand comedies, but let's be honest: life is only a comedy for the highly gifted ironics among us. I would like to write you a thousand and one stories but stories tend to get so boring. I would like to write you a thousand drama's, but life is not always a drama. Maybe one day I will succeed in combining fairytales, mythology, comedy, storytelling and dramatology so I can present you a qualitative tale about life.

I don't write every day, how could I?

Let your imagination work.

Friday, June 12, 2009

On n'oublie jamais, on vie avec ...

Tell me why
- I never knew

Tell me why
- so I can understand

Tell me why
- so I can keep respecting you

Tell me why
- so I can live without ...

Sometimes there is just no why to be answered.

Sometimes you just have to learn to live without ...

Thursday, June 11, 2009

The song of the nightingale ...

There used to be an angel
There used to be a song
That guided the heavenly choir
to protect the right from wrong.

Now I don't know what happened
I don't know what went wrong
But the tales of the untold
Burnt deep in each of our songs.

Maybe Prometheus made a visit
Maybe G-d decided different
But today we still hear the tales
Of the nightingale's songs.

Blind me, conquer me
creature of the night
Sing for me, weep for me
untill the morninglight.

Something, not quite sure what ...

For all those waisted hours
For all those waisted trains
For all those waisted moments in life
For all those sleepless nights ...

I don't know what I'm writing
But it sure as hell releases some of the pain,
just to be born all over again ...

Mapplethorphe~~Flower~~Archer by Alex Bustillo

Mapplethorphe~~Flower~~Archer by Alex Bustillo

The poppy: a flower that symbolises so much for me ... maybe I can find that poem back in my confusing archives ... found!

The poppy

I was there
For everyone to see ...

It was there
For everyone to see ...

The crisping ashes of the past
Showed the remainders of the day ...
On the ruins of the last
A flower bloomed ...

A poppy
The only flower
that endures war.

(that blooms ...

on the graves of the past)

Born to lose …

Life is a tricky thing
Because in order to be happy
You don’t only receive small miracles
You also have to let them go

And in some cases
That’s just easier
Than in others

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Demeter in Search of Persephone by Alex Bustillo

With permission of Alex Bustillo from I present you Demeter in Search of Persephone (with butterfly! A huge one)

Memories of you.

Rolling through the blankets of insomnia's time
I can't help but think back to the days
Where the first blank nights were mine.

And then there was you
Fulfilled and by your side,
spooned up and curled inside
Softly whispering, your hand on my belly
You made it all disappear,
You made it all fade away.

I might have had lovers since
And they made me sleep as lovers do
But those crazy nights
I fell in love with you
Are burned on my memory
Like true lovers do.

You know who you are
the one with the velvet wings
who could carry me all night long
through the land where all was dream.

Catch the tiger by the toe ...

I don't know
I don't care
But if I didn't know
How can I know
whether I care or not
So I must care
Because I don't know.

My tower of song ...

I asked to Hank Williams
How lonely does it get,
Hank Williams hasn't answered yet
But I can still hear him coughing
One hundred floors above me
In the tower of song ...

Leonard Cohen.

Temporary People by Steven Gillis

Temporary People by Steven Gillis

Temporary People, Steven Gillis. Black Lawrence Press, 2008. $15.08 - $20.95, US.

Temporary People by Steven Gillis is one of the best fiction novels published over the past few years. The subtitle designating his work as a fable deserves credit. Departing from aspects of our reality and our literature heritage, the author creates a brand new society. Examples of real data are given in the book. In terms of literature, let us not ignore the major influence of books like 1984 by George Orwell. However, he succeeds in giving the story a whole new touch. Departing from a completely different point of view and voice of the author, he succeeds in bringing the reader questions, symbolism, cruelty and tenderness in the most unexpected situations.

A short context: Bamarita is an invented country with a tradition of rebellions. This land is governed by a dictator and situates itself in our perception of our world, events and political possibilities. Questioning by the author is separately discussed below. Symbolism will be illustrated with one example. Two towers are built by the main characters of the book, both with a dissident view on rebellion – dissident from the opinion of most Bamaritans. The towers symbolise the tower of Babel as no one really listens to each other but are mainly stuck in their own point of view. Hence understanding and effective communication on how a rebellion should be conducted, is hard to find. Certainly the point of view of the protagonist who built the first tower is questioned as he tries to turn to peacefull resistance. Perilious situations evoke emotions, cruelty and tenderness both know their extremes in this book and the author succeeds in making them more than human, touching and so intense on the least expected moments.

From an idealistic point of view this work of fiction could be viewed as a severe criticism on the modern society of America, this again by using the literary concept of a fable, avoiding censorship and political issues. Steven Gillis will certainly not be the first to use this medium and form to criticise and discuss some major aspects and evolutions of American society as it is and was under the government of Bush. Let us hope his work raises important questions in asking how a society could be run. The true beauty of the above perspective is found in his writing as one can find nowhere a ready made answer or a dictated view on how things should be run. Merely questioning and considering pros and cons of political organisation of a society and the different forms of rebellion are the issues offered to the reader. By feeding a critical mind and analysing options quite succesfully the talented author again succeeds in what almost seems impossible to obtain from a fable.

As political organisation and the use of different rebellionstrategies are questioned, ruled out and then ruled in, the story takes on the identity of a fable. If one subject leaves the reader pondering, it is certainly the consequences of rebellious acts. But let us not draw too much on the content: the story is there to be discovered! The reader gets fully caught up in the story, not in the least because the author often writes from an the perspective of an eye-witness, which engages the reader but remains a very hard task to accomplish in a completely imagined environment. Another consequence of this writerperspective lies in the fact that the reader finds himself in the middle of the story. The style of the author is fast, to the point and differs ever from the environment. These are some of the major points, but most importantly they all bring you an enticing, fascinating and excellent story. Once you start reading, you don't stop.

p.s. to keep my blog complete I will insert once in a while a piece from guestblogging. This review can be found too on

Tuesday, June 9, 2009


From now on I will write once in a while pieces for the blog of Alex Bustillo. You can find his work at various blogs ... interesting to say the least! Whenever something is posted I will let you know. For the moment you can find the reviews of Temporary People and The Paris Diaries there and a piece on poetry and music. You can find his link always in the sidebar ...

There used to be an angel ...

There used to be an angel that carried your name, far from above it would keep you sain ... You knew you would be protected, be immersed in it's light. For there was noone on earth who could keep you tight. For every negative fact, a new outcome arose. For every difficulty ahead, the slayers were allready reborn. So I ask, what has happened to you. You had all the luck in the world, did it finaly hear your refusal, your ultimate word?

Monday, June 8, 2009

The quest

I was on a quest for everything
but nothing appeared
So I turned around disappointed
to a quest for nothing
and everything appeared.

Just listen ...

Create ...

Let the Teacher speak
Let the magic do it's work
Let the muses play their song
And whisper lullabies so sweet

Let the Apprentice stay silent
For he needs to learn to listen
inside the Darkness around him
to the sound of magic, muses and lullabies.

Give me a butterfly before sunset
And happy I will be
Give me a rain-bow to dance
Under a sky covered in grey.

Dance barefoot
in grass of rain
Dance naked
To ease darkness' pain away.

Sunday, June 7, 2009


You can touch me
but still you can't feel my grip
You can love me
but still you can't feel my heart
You can kill me
but still you can't reach my soul

Maybe one day someone will
Maybe some day someone allready has.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

Il ├ętait une fois ...

Once upon a time …

Why am I here? Behind my desk … slowly opening the curtains after a long and needed silence. Why am I here? Writing to you while the sun shines … shines so marvelously. Because I have something to say, something to say about the marvel of life, the intensity of pain, the intensity of love. One can only attempt to strive for ideals in an imperfect world. But perfection doesn’t always imply perfection in your first goal, the road will change, diverge, show obstacles – sometimes impossible to surmount. This being part of life I will tell you a story …

Once upon a time there was a little girl that dreamed. Dreaming about the world, dreaming about time and history. Her life was to be relevant, to be meaningful, meaningful to the world. Hardly however she dared to dream the impossible: writing this story to you. The silence before the storm did serve her well … But for now we remain in the past, dreaming away, swaying the mind, body and soul. Time to purge the ancient enemies of love, death, abuse and absolute control in order to regain sight of the dream of once before.

Once upon a time there was a little girl that dreamed … aloud …


Dreaming away
of a far off place
a far off strand
of that special kind
where dreams could be born
where roses had no thorns
where life was long and exciting
in the clouded city of a mind
clouds that drift by so fast ...

Drifting ...

Drifting ...
Drifting along the tide
along the moon
along the side.
Where battlefields are born
where loved ones get torn
where life has new meaning
where flowers are worn
Drifting ...
Drifting along the tide
along the moon
along the side.

Clouds were her guide and to endless drifting she did abide.
Joy was to the world as the world was to joy. Life was a miracle that had to be lived.

Just a twist of faith

There was a time where time stood still,
There was a place where noone could go,
There was a song that only the nightingales could hear.

Some people believe in destiny
Others believe in fortune
Few believe in faith.

Just have faith.

Some people believe in honesty
Others believe they are honest,
Few are honest.

For some rain is water
Others believe it to be part of the circle of life
Few believe these are teardrops from angels above.

Friday, June 5, 2009

From Bitter Searching of the Heart (cfr. Frank Scott)

"From bitter searching of the heart": The Paris Diaries by Marilyn Campiz

When a book makes the heart weep one could say a masterpiece is born. When a book is written with blood, one could say a masterpiece is born. When a book is written from the heart ... one could say we witness the birth of a masterpiece, so few of those still written the present day.

The Paris Diaries tell us a story of love and friendship, in a world where love seems to has ceased to exist. This autobiographic report by Marilyn Campiz relates us her journey of love, her search for more in this world, life and passion. Let's not reveal too much of the content, the theme is enough to know how deep one can go and has gone. Honest and brutal, explicit and implicit, the author touches the core of a burden so well known. What makes her work innovating is the content, vision, ideas and writingstyle. I would love to give you a detailed report, but I must say this: this journey is a journey to discover, through her words, eyes and heart. A journey one has to make and feel by him or herself. I would love to praise this book with the dearest adjectives I know but for once believe what I say and let the journey surprise you as her words sway away with your heart. I have written reviews, clean, pure, the way they should be, so often ... often enough to know that a standard review can only diminish the value of this book. If I have made you curious, I have succeeded, if not believe me when I say you will be missing out on a discovery through the mind, soul, body and heart of what could be.

Just believe ...

The leaves of yesterday.

A new wind
Announced by my faithfull companion,
the butterfly.

Great plans ahead
Better left unsaid
But will it really 'be'
After so many times upset.

Take life by the horns
And see what comes of it
Better than waiting for bad news
That will come evidently,
To this particular homestead ...

Thursday, June 4, 2009


There used to be an elephant that walked me down the stairs
There used to be a sheppard who considered me his longlost child
There used to be a painter ...

In dreams and happiness I lost it all, maybe I'll get another chance.

On the road again ...

Ma chanson de rien du tout …

Where to start but here? At the center of the universe … closer, closer, closer … we will remain.

But how? Sheherazade would say: I tell a story every night to survive. I have to, that ex of his, has stuffed it up pretty nicely for me. She was unfaithful … not me! Because of his jealousy I have tell a story every night as proof of my loyalty towards him? Nice! There goes mutual confidence, emancipation and equal rights! But every night would be just a touch too much ... quantity is less relevant. If it would be a fairytale? That will point itself out, once upon a time there was ... like a meandering road full of bumps and holes... but I can tell you this: ce sera ma chanson de rien du tout ...

A song I will sing to thee letting the willow weep for you. My song as it envelops my views on the world, my experiences, my visions, … But then again what are these observations in the light of eternity? Nothing at all … That’s why I bring you my song about nothing at all, ma chanson de rien du tout.

A word of gratitude is in place for this would not have reached you if it weren’t for Marilyn Campiz. Her belief and motivating power were the constant catalyst for this writing and project. The decisive role of others will become clear in the story itself. The best expression of what they mean to me.