Scars that have been there a long time

Fight against all that fights you

All the enemies in your head

All the things that harm you

All the things that hurt


And maybe sometime I’ll see the enemy within me.

The enemy that fights me, the enemy that hurts

The enemy that so quickly says:

They are fight your- they must be right

They are fighting you- they must be wrong and they must die.


Then the angel comes and saves me

And he opens up my eyes

He shows me there are no weapons

Although the wounds are real

And he shows me to the cross

And he put me in the light

And the wounds they heal – the

Wounds that came from scars

That have been there a long time.

The rocking chair


The mess of blury lines

Oh you rock us back and forth back and forth

Like one would to let the baby sleep, back and forth back and forth

But this ride on the rocking chair doesn’t allow sweet dreams to come

Rather it is nightmares and remembering that you are still awake.

What is the price for getting off walking away and

not be so affected any more?


write something-poem/proze

I wanted to write something,

Perhaps about 100 words, not write it under my own name. Or perhaps indeed under my own name. To create understanding, to create art in this craziness.

I’m not the only one who has seen someone they love in the midst of their delusions but I must say it has been a ride. The constant: what is real and wat is rigorously wrong?

The heighted senses when alone, the far-away-ness when together. The strange all compassing weight of it and at the same time knowing that I am all right. It is just someone else’s life spinning out of control, spinning mixing into mine. Not sure what to do with it. Oh, the tricks of the mind.


Who took the sun from your eyes. Translation


So here it comes, another bilingual post. I’ve been flirting with the idea of translation for some time. Living in Amsterdam and being in the community that I am I perhaps read/write speak/hear English and Dutch 50/50. That makes as well that although most of the Dutch people I know, know English, not all my friends or readers know Dutch. Yet sometimes you want to share something of beauty from a to other unknown language and that’s where translation comes in. In Dutch the word for translation is vertalen, however, we also sometimes especially with poetry use the word ‘hertalen’. Even though it is not an official word is it quite useful, it literally translated means re-language. Basically you rewrite in another language. One of the great examples of this in the Dutch language is Herman van Veen, a Dutch artist whose songs often have an original in another language. He for instance sings several Leonard Cohen songs in Dutch, (such as Susanne) but instead of translating it literally he will make the song his own, and in that way adding another layer. Today I came across one of his songs, ”wie heeft de zon uit jou gezicht gehaald” literally, who took the sun from out of your face? it’s a beautiful song about some of the ugliest things in life. I wanted to share it with you guys so I translated it from Dutch to English. the fun thing is that the ‘original’ song was a French song from Catherine Lara – La craie dans l’encrier. Interestingly enough only the music is the same, the lyrics bare no real resemblance. I took the Dutch lyrics from the web, translation is my own. Feel free to comment on whether or not you think it’s done justice!

Who took the sun from your eyes?

Who extinguished the light in you?

Who turned your red cheeks into white

Who chased the dreams far from your mind?

Who broke your tiny heart

Painted your eyes so black

Who did not live up to the promises he made


Who smothered the laughter in your throat?

Who clenched your hands into fists?

Who killed that child so frank and free?

That always stands up when it falls

Who bend your straight strong back

Stamped on your toys to crack

Who broke your wings in the highest of their flight?


Who passed you by so easily

Who betrays your faith in this?

Who kept silent even until

The third rooster crowed to show

Who is it that forgot, that

You held the future in your heart

Who was it that just like, me, did not love you enough

Who was it that just like, me, did not love you enough

Terrible at falling in love

Oh, how have you bewitched me. DSC01859

The thing is it is not you.

I’m a goldfish.



I have an inability to stay mad at a person no matter how much they have hurt me in the past. I can’t help to fall over and over when I once have fallen in love. And falling over and over doesn’t mean the person in question is the one.It just means that I had a very good reason to be insprired by them, and I cannot yet let go of the attraction to more information they hold.

DSC01853I want to ask this.

I want to ask that.

I want to take you anywhere to see what you’re made of.

I want to love hold and kiss you.

I want to be able to turn back and not be affected  by the fact you are in fact different.

So far my rant on love :).

If you doubt…

You are not in as much

Darkness as you see to be

Light is just behind you won’t you

Slowly together with me turn around

towards the light.


The sun is not some grand lamp you made up.

The lion not a big cat formed in your thoughts

The darkness you see is only clouds


There is time

There is space

There is real life


some world that is just a reflection @ la villette parc, paris

Bright new Things // Lying awake in New York City

I saw the clock swap


Poem Clock in central station//metro



Or better said

Three times

An hour passed

And sometimes

I don’t know why,


Ceiling at the MET

But i lie awake at night

And think about my life.

And now i write

A song while

It’s still half dark and I

Cannot write between the lines


Wooster Street

Makes me wonder

Why i even try
To sleep at al

Is there any more beautiful thing

Right now

Than watch and hear


NYC @ Night

Thoughts and days


Evolve to

Bright new things

Bright new things

procastination poem.


I have no idea what this is anymore.. looks like some kind of tent right? and very far way 🙂

Miles away I feel when I look into the

future and back into the past

all the things that haunt me forward

all the things that push me back.

it’s not too bad to be here.

in the sun – in the moment in between

I’ll suffer tomorrow for the things

I did not get done today.

what can I say?

procrastination has always been my talent.

All the things I could always tell but never share.

DSC01868Today on the blog.

I feel things.

Like everyone feels things.

I want to write things.

I want to tell things, like everyone wants to be listenend to at some point.

But perhaps mostly we just don’t want to be alone.

It is strange the things of the heart.

They seem easier to share with the world wide web than the person you want to share them with. But what happens if perhaps the people you want to keep these feelings from can read what you write? It makes that the big world wide web is also no longer safe. The spider has gotten to me.

So far for gloomy friday. I’m sure there will be happier times. Right now I’m just staying in the cocoon that was wrapped around me. Either I get eaten, or I’ll grow wings and fly, feed off the beauty of this world once again.

In het Nederlands

Ik voel me ergens toch gedwongen

Te schrijven in mijn taal.

De taal van Wilders en de koningin

En dan bedoel ik beatrix want ik ben nog steeds niet gewend

Aan willem-lex op de troon.

En het is waar dat nederlands mijn moedertaal is

En ik deze taal het minst beperkt beheers

En toch ik ben hardleers. Het engels helpt mij

Te zeggen en te voelen wat ik anders niet zo snel

Kwijt ben. En natuurlijk is er het publiek dat ik rijk ben

Omdat engels nou eenmaal door meer dan 20 miljoen word gesproken.

In het engels worden prachtige nederlandse woorden uiteengebroken

En in die zin en in alle anderen ben ik sneller klaar dan in die andere taal.

En toch het minder nodighebben van woorden is niet waarom

Ik mij van het engels naar het nederlands voel gedwongen.

Wie ben ik, als kaaskop, om mij op een engelstaligveld te storten.

Ik woon dan wel nu in een internationale wereldstad, mijn

Geboortegrond is plat platter dan plat.

Zou ik niet met aan mijn vingers de polderklei

Nederlandse poezie moeten schrijven?

Of heb ik toch meer dan die bodem, de aarde lief.