A Poem in the Queue 

April 24, 2016 § Leave a comment

I’ve been waiting here for months


You won’t touch my words

You won’t comb my letters

You’re hiding behind the shades of my semicolons

And you took that comma seriously

But I didn’t mean it so, baby

Come on!

Move my verses a little further

They might move you a bit, too

A stanza or two

Slowly. Lovingly. Tenderly.

And after all, who knows?

I might become a poem one day

…to be continued


April 2, 2016 § 1 Comment

One more piece from my latest work, a combination of photos and short texts, thoughts on film photography, but not only.


To need less. Less of everything. We are in need of reducing. Film photography helps regulating the abundance of images in my head.


If it gets a choice the camera always wants to focus on the more distant objects; like an animal coming out of the forest, checking the fields for dangers and adventures. We go out there every morning to find the world and let the world find us. Sometimes, though, we’re wrong about where this world is to found. These morning papers, much closer, might know more about it.


First you imagine it and then you see it.


Light is often the joint of things that otherwise wouldn’t have been connected. (Just like love.) When it fades away, each of them remains alone again, and waits, in darkness.


It’s sunny outside!

At the Botanical Gardens

March 17, 2016 § 3 Comments

I’ve been taking photos with my film cameras and regularly posting them on Instagram lately, sometimes accompanied by a note. I still prefer Twitter to Instagram for writing short notes, exchanging information or chatting on poetry and politics, but there are brilliant and inspiring photographers on Instagram and a lot of talk on photography is taking place there which of course interests me a lot.

Sometimes a few photos and notes come together to form a photo story such as “At the Botanical Gardens”. Their captions are my impressions and thoughts while taking a walk at the local Botanical Garden about a week ago.



The blackbirds are singing at almost every dawn and dusk now. Even though it is still cold, I trust their confident, robust blue-black presences. I believe them. Their song will bring back to life the summer gardens and warm evenings. It’s a miracle they’ve been performing every year, for as long as humans have longed for the Spring.17940025

The rainforests.


They mark the spot where plants -sometimes indigenous, more often migrants- are waiting for spring’s command to come. They are, they will be, winter’s little graveyard.


Idesia polycarpa. Japan. Korea. China. Taiwan.


The lovely Pinus mugo, fragrant, evergreen and always there, kind to wanderers and love couples.


The reader will give you his time. A serious reader, an unconventional reader might spend as much time in front of a tiny piece of paper with a Latin plant name on it as with a Tolstoyan novel in his hands. The best readers only read because they’re interested in the unwritten. They equally appreciate reading and not reading at all.


6CO2 + 12H2O + Light Energy → C6H12O6 + 6O2 + 6H2O

Photosynthesis: With the help of light the carbon dioxide produced by all breathing organisms is reintroduced to oxygen and released into the atmosphere. No other word, process, can fit photography better or how photography functions for photographers.


Respiration. We live inside and of the breaths of all beings that have ever lived on this planet.


In the beginning of Spring.

The Collected Tales of the Wind

January 29, 2016 § Leave a comment


Tales of the wind (Part 1)

Of course the wind comes from far away. That’s what winds do, what they’re paid for.

If a rain hasn’t been enough to clean up sinn and shame, you then call the wind, for a biblical showdown.


Tales of the wind (Part 2)

You must escape but you’re broke? No problem. You take an east wind and head west, where even the sun rests.

And if you fear you’ll miss someone you’ve left behind, send a few Autumn love leaves with the next wind heading east. They’ll come.


Tales of the wind (Part 3)

The ones betrayed, the ones deceived stand at the top of the rock against the wind and cry out the bitter names.

And some of them get carried away, in every single way.


Tales of the wind (Part 4)

If a wind returns the next night it’s always stronger. Our resistance is played and brief. We give in and fly.

There were people found in far away countries who could still name the winds in their mother tongues but had forgotten their mother’s name.


Tales of the wind (Part 5)

Winds don’t like meeting each other.

But no one who’s been at their meeting points has survived to tell us why.


Tale of the wind (Part 6)

A wind never really sleeps. It rests for a while in the trees, on the back of lazy rain clouds, or in deep lakes.

And waits.


Tales of the wind (Part 7)

Weak winds touch softly the earth to rest when light is low. But every stone touched hurts. Winds die down.

No one remembers a dead wind except one or two birds who learned to fly against it.



Last Night

January 24, 2016 § 4 Comments


I was already

sleeping. I saw you passing

the doorstep. A dream.


“I don’t know where I

had been before you called my

name. But I’m here now.”



through dreams is like the test card

of an old TV.


Spaces full of colour

but trembling and uncertain

before transmission.


Are you from my past

or am I in your future?

Lines are blurred in dreams.


Somewhere else the moon

is higher than in this room

where I write down dreams.


I better go back

to sleep before I forget

the channel you’re on.


January 11, 2016 § 4 Comments

Whom are we going to mourn my love this dawn?

I read about children starving or falling off a boat,
about a girl who’s lost her child, a child herself.
And of course there are earthquakes and wars,
torture and prosecutions, rapes and murders,
bombs, drones, beheadings and shootings.
And, soon enough, we are all going to lose
a parent or a spouse, or, even the worst,
our best friend, a daughter or a son.
So why do we write a poem or paint a wall?
And why, why my love, do we mourn a song?
Is it because this is the only chance we have

to mourn after ourselves?

David Bowie (8 January 1947 – 10 January 2016)

Let’s Start Talking About the Trees

December 5, 2015 § 1 Comment


(What Kind of Times Are These)

And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it’s necessary
to talk about trees.
–Adrienne Rich


There’s a tongue of water between three continents where the waves are low
and the old trade routes marked now by a chain of rubber boats
washed out on a shore next to the bodies of children
too young to take off their wet shoes.


I’ve swum there picking up shells and antique verses, but don’t be fooled
this is not about an ancient time, this is not their wars but ours too,
we are all killing someone somewhere and then run for our lives
from our own children who only know war and flight.


I won’t tell you what else we could do, it would take longer than
to close all the doors and roll down the blinds
or throw all the bombs on the evils we don’t understand:
I know already who will shout ‘coward’ or ‘fool’ or both.


And I won’t tell you either anything about the trees
because the trees, too, are drowned or burnt or cut or fake
but since we must talk, since it’s necessary,
let’s start talking about the trees.
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