Terror by Lucebert

Lucebert [1924-1994]

Terror

finally the empty road

the endless empty road

the empty stones the thousand and one

white steps the split stones

the very long white road

the extremely stony road the extremely

split stones the endless

jog the glass the stones the white

recently dug legs of passers-by

right behind the brushwood

nothing conspicuous behind the hills

deserters are plugged

a general breaks wind

over the road moves a stinking cloud

the corpses find themselves between the white stones

remarkably well hidden

artistically inlayed between the split stones

every split is a surprised eye

and the hundreds the endless empty eyes

are from nobody from nobody are

also the storms of violence

at times they are disguised as closed cars

slowly over the empty white road

but then it is also certain that they will vanish
suddenly in the clear bloodstain right on the horizon

Three poems by Eddy van Vliet

La gare forestière (Paul Delvaux) The wood smells pause. Between the leaves darkness keeps asleep. The sky fills with light yellow defence. On the rural platform the waiting has started. The destinations do not run out for the girls who made up all the arrivals. The rails are carrying like parallel running servants their ponderous masters. For everybody waiting they bring an absentee.

Eddy van Vliet [1942-2002]

For Gert B. It is Easter Monday. The magnolia flowers. The garden wall seems to glow gently. Just for a moment I sense the winter when I take the garden chairs out of the cellar. What is in the bud, wants to open before nightfall. As in a race green holds the first place. Nothing is hesitating. The exception is my hand that touches the tree-bark. The branch that it breaks, contains no sap. It is clear: the pear tree is dead and from what I have heard this morning, so are you.

The synagogue on the Koornmarkt I have come to Delft, not for its blue or its tower. Because only what was lost, has the right of existence. Ornament that lives in a pencil sketch. Light spots on the eastern wall. Tolerance made evident from a speech Much was devoted to what had disappeared. A collection. The words of a poet from The Hague. Lotteries and the whole life of an unmarried engineer. The specification provided room for eighty Jews. In fear they threw themselves down. The occupiers registered a hundred and thirty eight. Twelve returned. Oh Eternal one, I love the throne of Your house that turned into a storage place for rusting barrels.

Original titles: La gare forestière, Voor Gerd B. and De synagoge aan de Koornmarkt  - From: De tweede ronde, Tijdschrift voor literatuur, Herfst 1989 - Vlaams nummer - Uitgeverij Bert Bakker BV, Amsterdam.

Departure by Hans van den Bos

Departure                       29th July, 2002 Along artificial landscapes made for unwitting creatures, the road leaves, in a tropical  heat, a long past behind.  In the mirror the skyline  of the city, proudly rebuild  after brutal assault from the east,  fades like a mirage. Endless lowlands rush past – an accelerated poem, until smoking and flaming pillars of capitalism become manifest in the low sun. Far beyond the last city, the last link to the coast, a sultry south-west wind, that often  fling waves against dunes and dykes, brings now the salty smell of the sea. A ship on which many forever left before, slips slowly between the jetties, away from the coast. A final look over the yellow dunes, then only sky and water remain.

Original Title: Vertrek

Mangan’s Bay Revisited by Hans van den Bos

Mangan’s Bay Revisited In the hidden white cottage monotone ticking of the meter. On the table before the window, with a view to the green lawn, pen and paper, surrounded by books, are waiting for words. The autumn wind whistles around the cottage; clouds skim along the sky. Two black dogs horse about on the grass, swept interchangeably by rain and sunlight. On the deserted beach the breakers rattle over coloured pebbles and bring in loads of kelp harvested, in bygone days, by farmers to fertilize their fields. Sea and clouds touch each other. An unexpected sharp cry of a great black-backed gull stiffens a lonely grey heron who then rises gracefully and disappears over the blanketed water. In the cottage in front of the fire the two black dogs are asleep and the pen fills the white paper.

Original Title: Terug naar Mangan's Bay

Bride by Ton van Reen

BRIDE A woman rests on the beach sitting on a bundle of brushwood cold jellyfish of blue-tinted glass spread around her like jewels Her hands lie on her lap playing with a brittle shell the pink mouth opened to the wind a shout in which the sea races around Motionless she looks out over the water her headscarf is blowing like a blue windvane towards the sea a silent greeting to the fisherman in his boat, small off the coast The tide rolls towards her a white fan of wet lace is spreading out over her foot With arms full of spume the sea dresses her as a bride

Ton van Reen (1941) [photo Internet]

Original Title: Bruid

Catherine Deneuve by Manuel Kneepkens

Catherine Deneuve

Catherine Deneuve
[photo Internet]

#Metoo is called in France #Balancetonporc

(blow the gaff on your pig!)

100 pretty French women are protesting

Catherine Deneuve belongs to them

'This is La Douce France, Nom de Dieu!

Gallantry we hold dear!'

A man's hand on a woman's thigh

is not Les liasons dangereuses!

A man's hand on a woman's bottom

is not L’Histoire d’ O!

Oh, good old Catherine Deneuve

once Buñuel's Belle de Jour

all Bad Men are grateful to you

Me too!

In the name of Marquis de Sade

I put you naked across my knee