Midwinter – Eva Weggelaar

Midwinter – Eva Weggelaar

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

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A Golden Ball – Eva Weggelaar

A Golden Ball – Eva Weggelaar

If it’s a fairy tale…
Then I shall play with a golden ball,
and roll it till the puppets fall
All their mirrors shall break in two
when the clocks start ticking as they used to do
I shall have the old light here
and their stage shall disappear
Oh, I shall wear a silken gown
as I watch them all go down, down, down

I’ll be your continental bride,
we’ll feast there side by side
Champagne, crystal and candlelight,
at the ball where we shall watch the puppets fall, tonight.
Toujours, le Vieux Monde sera notre amour’

If it’s a fairy tale…
Then I shall play with a red, red rose
till the puppets are strangled by their prose
It shall be the old moon that I greet
when the ground crumbles beneath their feet
All their shadows shall whither like lies
while I watch the old sun rise
Oh, I shall wear a silken gown
as I watch them all go down, down, down

I’ll be your continental bride,
we’ll feast there side by side
Champagne, crystal and candlelight,
at the ball where we shall watch the puppets fall, tonight
Toujours, le Vieux Monde sera notre amour
Recasser, retrouver, retourner
Toujours
We’ll cut the wire,
those whose limbs have turned to wood will stoke the fire
while the others call the puppeteer a liar
and each time we rise one step higher
Toujours
le Vieux Monde sera notre amour
Recasser, retrouver, retourner
Toujours…

© Eva Weggelaar

You’ll feel better then – Eva Weggelaar

You’ll feel better then – Eva Weggelaar

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

©Eva Weggelaar

Photogravure: Harold Burkedin & John Morrison

Wellspring – Eva Weggelaar

Wellspring – Eva Weggelaar

Late 19th century
marble floors, filtered light
high walls painted white
a background to memory

Like returning carries pigeons
wandering men land in a row
drink their drinks and let you know
about their fading visions

Coffee and cigarettes
we know the rest can wait
it’s home, we’ll stay till late
petting our stories and implied regrets

© Eva Weggelaar

Cut down to size – Eva Weggelaar

Cut down to size – Eva Weggelaar

The city looks like a maquette put together by a mad child
bathed in the neon glare of a modern sun
brand new buildings, demolition papers filed
and everyone pretending that it’s fun

A guy is screaming his private life into the air
a thread going down from his ear into his pocket
pulling up his sagging trousers and smoothing down his plastic hair
one might as well plug him straight into a socket

The coffee is served cold
the food is fake
a continuous wind has taken hold
there’s nothing left to break

All is made to measure
cut down to size
so fake your pleasure
love all lies

© Eva Weggelaar

White Mare – Eva Weggelaar

White Mare – Eva Weggelaar

Drown in my own mirage is something I’d love to do
cross the seas
consolidate my fantasies
find my castles still as good as new

Tired of being here, and oh so nice
shackled to another’s past
when it wasn’t I who cast
away the chances with the dice

It’s your refuge, I wish it could be mine
travel and never arrive
colour replacement for life
safety of movement, a way to make time

As it is, I’ll run across your mind’s sands
be your white mare
put my rein in your hands
follow your rippled footsteps there

© Eva Weggelaar

Premonition – Eva Weggelaar

Premonition – Eva Weggelaar

Hothouse flower air presses on my skin
there will be tennis for tea
I’ll be the mascot, and maybe
restrain the dog when they begin
You read, holding my summer in your hands
I hate sunglasses but wear them anyway
so I can see in your eyes what the words say
as they fall from the pages and dance
The horses rub their heads together
I press my face into the grass
watch the ice melt in my glass
and catch a small soft feather
I’ll go and get fresh water, change your book
the scent of roses hovers over crackling dry dirt
strokes a shiny new blackbird
and settles in an old hat, asleep on its hook
The stone kitchen floor is cold on bare feet
the slow treacly ticking of the clock
echoes the sound of the following dog
I pet him just to feel his warm body breathe
Through the glass I see your hazy form
next to the roses that shiver in the heat
knowing
 tonight the thunder will beat
as the heart of the longed-for storm
On the windowsill lands the little grey pigeon
that once sat sickly panting in a cardboard box
when I was frightened of the ticking of all clocks
and hoped I could trust in a good premonition
There were grand expectations
that sounded like a nervous finger playing pizzicato on a violin
as I waited for something to begin
with a hurried, breathless kind of patience

“No, don’t bark at the bird, just look!
Anyway, we ought to go and find that book”

© Eva Weggelaar