Between September and November – Eva Weggelaar

Between September and November – Eva Weggelaar
Between September and November,
the harvest and the blood,
my life the Twelfth Night’s glowing ember

Between the blossom and the fruit time,
the eternal sowing of new seeds,
my words all quotes and turned to rhyme
 

Between the images and the silence,
the apples and the fall,
is that charm still only in my hands?

There are different cities I want to make real to you
that belong to the land and the hearth like the roots of that yew
are they all wrong, the things I think are true?

‘Hige sceal þē heardra, heorte þē cēnre,
mōd sceal þ
ē māre, þē ure mægen lȳtlað –
to the North, she cast the strongest thread’

 

©Eva Weggelaar
Art: Paul Ranson

What the thunder said – Eva Weggelaar

What the thunder said – Eva Weggelaar

What the thunder said
as it trembled through the mighty oak
There’s victory to be had
if you see that it was just the branch that broke

You say that place is beautiful
and I know Walhalla is there
Harvest could be bountiful
and that place could be anywhere

You’re my Fensalir
my watery realm of reeds
The grey-cloaked howl, the black-cloaked caw here
in the water evil bleeds

Hear the raven call;
he has them all

Home is where the heart is
but the heart must have its roots
It’s only this
that gives the tree its shoots

The roots run deep
under the weird and windy tree
In the water lies the past to keep
its fruit our continuity

What the thunder said
as I changed the sandmen into horses
There’s victory to be had
if you ride them to defeat their mythless forces

© Eva Weggelaar

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

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

The same kind of pity as time – Eva Weggelaar

The same kind of pity as time – Eva Weggelaar

The clock is ticking,
the stage has been set
Was all that those years took
all that we had?

Do you like the flowers now?
Do you remember then?
It’s the same kind of pity as time
I regret

The incense is burning,
the candle has been lit
It’s all so different now,
it’s so strange, isn’t it?

Do you like the scent now?
Do you remember then?
It’s the same kind of pity as time
I regret

Still life is stylized,
it could have been last night
Look, another symbol;
the only, sad delight

Do you like the music now?
Do you remember then?
It’s the same kind of pity as time
I regret
The same kind of pity as time
Remember
Just the same kind of pity as time

©Eva Weggelaar

The Thief of Time – Eva Weggelaar

The Thief of Time – Eva Weggelaar

Procrastination is the thief of time
so in my imagination I’ve long since made you mine
The wind is your breath that brushes the nape of my neck
those chills down my spine are your fingers running over my back
All the sights I see
are really picture postcards that you sent to me
and in the mingled noise of a crowded room I hear
your voice that murmurs in my ear
Later in the rain stained window of the car, I see reflected
your face next to mine, a picture perfected
I use these images inside my head
the faded photographs I see at night in bed
But when morning comes along
I know that everything is wrong

©Eva Weggelaar