My poetry has finally been published and I’m thrilled to see my work on paper and bound in linen! Available now!
Many thanks in advance to all who buy the book, leave a good review and/or share the link!
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But Midwinter will come anyway;
the sun will turn black
and there will be no day,
only cold, till the sun comes back.
And after a white winter under a black sun,
it will all be gone.
All except the outlines, roots, and seeds
of that which truly belongs,
that which fulfills needs
and sings the old songs.
After a white winter under a black sun,
all else will be gone.
It is written in the snow,
outlined clear and stark
I’ll follow you wherever you go,
deep into the dark.
A white winter under a black sun
won’t seem long.
In every Paradise
you find traces of Wilderness;
you may close your eyes,
but you will learn there is beauty in this.
Reaching high and digging deep, there is a tree,
the essence of which no storm can defy;
there’s nowhere I would rather be,
knowing that only the rootless die.
And after a white winter under a black sun
it will be so strong.
The beauty of the blossom is not diminished
just because the breeze tears off the petals
what has started shall be finished
even if it takes a thousand lives, or battles.
The white winters under a black sun
will have made us strong.
© Eva Weggelaar
Art: Splendo Solis, 16th century
Blue neon light shatters on the floor
of a rented single room
where he’s knocking on the door
asking you to dispel the gloom
There’s a bed
a mirror, a photograph and snow
all things that he’ll forget
but you mustn’t let him see you know
Again he’ll turn on the stupid lamp
to see the floor is rough
the walls are damp
and say it’s a shame there’s no room for morning, love
Downstairs a crow flies off with a piece of bone
left in the narrow alley
next to the trash can of the so-called deli
and for a minute you’re glad to be alone
But they say that man’s got good stuff
you can find him at the mall
his hair is bleached and rough
and he won’t let you fall
The storage room’s hot
and much too light
and he says he knew you’d not
be one to put up a fight
He says you’ll feel better when you’ve had some more
but it’s too cold in the hothouse air
and your fingers trace a pattern on the dusty floor
in an attempt to tell him you don’t care
Photogravure: Harold Burkedin & John Morrison