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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Between September and November,
the harvest and the blood,
my life the Twelfth Night’s glowing emberBetween the blossom and the fruit time,
the eternal sowing of new seeds,
my words all quotes and turned to rhymeBetween 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 þē māre, þē ure mægen lȳtlað –
to the North, she cast the strongest thread’
©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 brokeYou say that place is beautiful
and I know Walhalla is there
Harvest could be bountiful
and that place could be anywhereYou’re my Fensalir
my watery realm of reeds
The grey-cloaked howl, the black-cloaked caw here
in the water evil bleedsHear the raven call;
he has them allHome is where the heart is
but the heart must have its roots
It’s only this
that gives the tree its shootsThe roots run deep
under the weird and windy tree
In the water lies the past to keep
its fruit our continuityWhat 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
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
via The Swan Maiden of Adrichem | HubPages
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, downI’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, downI’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
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, loveDownstairs 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 aloneBut 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
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 visionsCoffee and cigarettes
we know the rest can wait
it’s home, we’ll stay till late
petting our stories and implied regrets© 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 funA 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 socketThe coffee is served cold
the food is fake
a continuous wind has taken hold
there’s nothing left to breakAll is made to measure
cut down to size
so fake your pleasure
love all lies© Eva Weggelaar
Paradise is this Way 