In me is the silence
that is not there
in the middle of 50,000
Irish bees

that are a black cloak
over my pale skin
my body is their heart
it's beating faster

from their poison, I feel
connected, one
with life, one
with spring, the

loud buzzing
of love here on earth
upon me
within me

Before I can take

off my hat, I have to wait --


for a good moment.

Since that day I

old striped out tiger
in a young body

stand in another light
that undresses me, inexorably

untying the laces of my certainties
unbuttoning my habits and dreams

kissing open my eyes
to the beauty

of the abyss
and with a soft hand

taking off my immortality
The abyss isn't an abyss

if I fly and you
accept my hand: look at me

I'm looking at you
standing in another light

since that day when I was so happy
to be still alive - I am

after deep sighs, ready
to jump

Before the sunrise:

the gloaming greenish notlight –


of the dark blue sky.

Before they can speak

angels always have to wait --


for a listener.

Be generous, give

a like for a like, force it --


through the bad gateway.

Beginnings are small,

the big thing will come later --


I believed, I hoped.

Behind her: a man,

his head perched on her shoulder --


like a frightful hawk.

Behind man's success

there is a woman watching --


it in amazement!

Behind me: rulers

with a look at the future --


instead of a face.

Behind the curtain

of his music he dances:


the master flautist.

The door is never locked
The key is just in it
ready to use
and never lost

but if you are busy
with problems on your mind
you will go look for it

and not get the idea
that you can just move on
by pressing the latch

Meditation does not help either
with the worries
you forget what is there
behind the door

and you stay where you are
calm and resigned
you put life into perspective

and you fantasize
how different it could be
behind the door

of your mind

Behind the heater

crickets chirp at their loudest –


to put me to sleep.

Behind the rocks there

is something mysterious --


You'd better not look.

Behind the walls there's

a party, and the river --


still remains frozen.

Being a hero,

still thoroughly despised --


for some bad manners.

Being alone is

nice, my experiences --


resonate again.

Being an adult,

I just long for the longing –


to be an adult.

Being bored deeply

is a vague experience --


of all that exists.

Being civilized,

that is, friendly and polite –


no little white lies.

Being impatient

is just a matter of time:


having too much time.

Being in love, blind,

but don't be blind later on --


It would be the end.

Being intimate

with people means having to --


share in their secrets.

Being in your arms,

I haven't any doubt, I feel --


that I belong there.

Being just the way

I am, together with you –


in our messy love.

Being objective

is easy, less scary as --


being subjective.

Being so concerned

with the oppressed everywhere --


just not with colleagues...

Being there, content,

nobody's burden, that's it –


Saints do live that way.

Being there, that's it,

he smiles at me, gardens live –


and are never done.

Being together

for a lifetime: call it love –


if it has been love.

Being unhappy

seeks company, it thrives on --


many witnesses.

Being your allies

friends notice: we are needed --


as adversaries.

I keep your letter sealed
until it is too old
to wish to read

that it could have been otherwise:
pronounced what happened
in me

I don't think what you think
of me
I only think you are
in me

I don't see what you see
in me
I only see you
growing in me

but I keep that
to myself

I want to belong
just
laugh together
and keep talking

whisper in the warmth
of each other's blood
safe in the insecurity
of life

that hits friends and takes them away
from the chain dance -- to the last
we hold them
hand in hand

I don't lock me up
in guarantees and fear
I bump and dent me outside
in the storm, together

with warriors
who do not hide
from the fate of others
because they belong

Be no burden, dear

body, let me die calmly –


because I won't die.

Be responsible,

and legitimise nothing --


with a nice story.

Every morning after the reveille
we hold a bicycle race
from the camp to the Meuse

At full speed I take
the last turn, right into
brand new barbed wire

invisible in the light of the sun
As proficient torturers two others
are colliding with me immediately

Flat tire, torn clothes
In a comic strip, I would now
be hanging horizontally

But I fall, rips in my flesh
gaping and bleeding
Bandages at breakfast

and then I lead my patrol again, what else
after the mysterious providence
of a farmer who's going to pasture on the river?

Besides the ferry,

seagulls dive to our pleasure –


on pieces of bread.

Better not to count

on society or God --


Provide for supplies.

Between a problem

and my actual action --


lies a nowhereland.

Between some remains

and undigested houses:


underground parking.

Between star and night,

between black skin and white skin --


our fire is burning.

Between the farmlands

there is a low walled green field –


with the peasant graves.

Everything starts with it, language
(mama's face and sweet words)
turning, crawling, walking
(mama's hand and encouragement)
eating, playing, wanting
(mama's example and commentary)
sand, water, wind, wood and fire
(heaven and earth)
animals, cars, construction cranes
(the world)
school, listening, practising
(teachers and reading)
practising and practising
(expertise)
until my attention slides smoothly
(like a fish in water)
through the matter
(mastery)

With people, it is different
(they are like me)
they scatter my energy
(in changing rain)
from clouds of love

Between the words, I

write my anxiety: white –


that doesn't disappear.

Between you and me

sometimes drifts the melody --


of an old ditty.

I wandered through the village
in the woods of densely formed trunks
and I was told that it is not a forest

but a tree, I drank sweet tea
under the ******* aerial roots
and the thick foliage above it

The woman I spoke to, laughed
at my wonder and took my hand
She led me to the middle

where our surrender embraced the trunk
which was too thick for four outstretched arms
The red ribbons touched our head

Back on the terrace on the edge
where the young trunks in the lake
form a living canopy

we saw a flight of parrots
The birds were shouting at us
'No Hurry', they yelled every time

when they passed in the bright colours
of their message: 'No Hurry!
Be Wappy!'

Beware, he kisses

beside my cheek nowadays --


as if I am air.

Beware of people

who cheer you along the way –


like vanes in the wind.

Beware, your body

is a prey for the devil --


He makes you hungry.