"bruges" poems
I am not experienced.
I have not seen all of the world-
Other than the romance of Paris,
The ancient cobblestone of Bruges,
The rejuvenating air in Lausanne-
And I have only seen a handful of vast plains
In America-
Those which only made me want
More.
It is not that I am dissatisfied with this
Setting-
It is just so hard to be in this place,
The one I know so well,
When there is a whole world
To explore-
To implore-
To love and admire
With wide eyes,
And a racing mind.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
Petrichor lugten af eftertænksomhed.
De dage hvor du åbner dit vindue en lille anelse
minder dig om alle de store dele – såsom du er en lille del af en del.
Universets uendelighed som er uendeligt ubegribeligt og uhåndterligt.
Tid og tider, som kan betænkes i større uendeligheder en selve stjerners hjem.
De stjerner som minder dig om at almægtige ting findes uden at prale.
De lyser jo kun når alt andet sover.
Fortæller dig alt uden egentlig at fortælle dig noget.
Kun fra åben himmel mindes du om; at storme og solskin, ravmørke og blændende lys eksisterer under samme åbne tag.
Kun fra åben himmel mindes du om; at verden skal erfares ud fra din erfaring om at erindringer skaber erfaring om eksistensen.
Den smukke eksistens, som du kender men kun eftermæles når du åbner ud til og ser med mere en bare blå små nethinder.
Jeg byder CO2 og alverdens støj velkommen, så længe at reinkarneret regn og vild vind trænger gennem mit vindues sprække og stjerner fra tid til anden praler for mig i mørket, når man som jeg synes at natten bruges bedre med en Marlboro cigaret og halvkold kaffe i hånden, end dagen med stress i sindet.
Mit vindue står ihvertfald åbent, fordi eftertænksomheden skal erfares.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
If it is sunny in Europe
The Dutch caws of misunderstood will hallow my pestle and mortar skull to round tinnitus into song;
The French Fries will come with mayonnaise in a Bruges cafe,
Light lines tracing dust in cycled prose.
Light lines tracing medieval footsteps on a Roman road.
Bonjour, old world.
Mon nom est Kyran.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
We camped down
the first night
in some old
caravan
sleeping bags
everywhere
outside Bruges
next morning
we wake up
all cramped up
and annoyed
where are our
tents meant to
be set up?
Dalya asks
the guide says
got held up
just rang them
be here soon
he tells her
have breakfast
in the bar
and wait there
so we do
8 of us
4 young males
and females
have coffee
and pancakes
and a smoke
what a joke
Dalya says
we walk out
together
walk about
the camp site
you're Benny?
She asks me
yes that's right
what a crowd
for camping
a mother
and daughter
some teacher
from Southend
some Yorkshire
girl loud mouth
and Aussie
and the guide
Dalya says
do we share
two a tent?
I ask her
same sexes
she replies
so I'm with
Yorkshire lass
I suppose
Aussie's yours
she tells me
the teacher's
with the guide
at the next
base camp place
I like her
her spirit
her tight curls
and dark hair
and small bust
we walk back
to the old
caravan
for our bags
and our stuff
keep with me
Dalya says
and we'll see
how it goes
at the next
camping site
and maybe
she whispers
we can share
a whole night.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 2:28 AM UTC
Balancen er daglig mellem om vi efterlader et hul i den tid vi har fået os, eller om tidens dyne er lappet fra højre og venstre med oplevelser af træhuler med meterlange lyskæder og lidt for meget indomita vin en ydmyg tirsdag aften. Er der en ting jeg ved, så er det at vi ikke selv bestemmer start - og sluttidspunkter, og **** altså vi bestemmer nok heller ikke selv hvilke dage solen skal glo lidt på os, fordi den synes vi er smukke. Det er der en gud eller en tilfældighed eller en kærlighed eller måske min uvidenhed til at afgøre. Men jeg ved en ting, som forlyder således; din tid er til din disponering. Det er den gave tiden har givet dig, nu hvor den har dårlig samvittighed over at den er begrænset. Du vælger selv for fanden, og du vælger dagligt. Hver dag, hele tiden. Så vælg det som er godt for dig. Kys dem du vil, fordi du for helvede fik for meget vin og elsker dem en lille smule det øjeblik. Lav den opgave om moskusokse i nordnorge, fordi viljen til fuldførelse gavner mere end du overhovedet aner. Skriv det læserbrev, fordi der skal gøres noget ved det problem og du har lysten til udførelsen af initiativet. Du kender dig og jeg kender mig, og tiden kan sku godt bruges på en velunderrettet og skøn, skøn, skøn måde samtidig. Så brug din tid, så du gør godt for smukke du.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,
high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,
my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado
carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red
service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by stacked furniture and packing
crates arranged into the crooked lane
plat of medieval Bruges.
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,
the MacGuffin in my dreams,
as it was in my playing days
when you were my true opponent,
King of Center Court running me,
stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC
Brussels Bruges or Antwerp.
A slow-moving river
Streetlights
rain, but not anymore,
the concrete will shine.
Darkness, but not quite,
it'll smell like dusk
I will cross the street to where you are waiting,
then the rush:
I will have a wrinkle or two parenthesizing my mouth you will have bags under your eyes perhaps your hair will be going and a few whiskers will be gray and you will still be thin but no longer afraid,
every empty night and single meal will be forgotten and Peter Gabriel will play and I'll start to laugh and so will you because it is funny that we knew it all along,
you will be older and so will I but all those years years years years gone by is the time it took for the seeds to take,
the river will creep past us up and off into the great wide distance towards all the cities that we will live in,
the sun will rise every morning over you and then over me and we will get old old old old
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
Tourist in Bruges
I was in Bruges, in Flanders, once
Saw beautiful old buildings where the patrician class
The merchants and charlatans lived
Where the poor lived in the past has been erased
The poor now live in high rise flats.
We rented a carriage with a bored horse that did its round
On streets too clean to be true; animals peed on canvas.
We walked around took the pictures as did others.
We had lunch at a café too expensive for its food, but the beer
Was good and that is worth remembering.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 6:31 AM UTC
It’s too delicate to touch, but beautiful to behold.
An Illuminated prayer book, from Bruges, I’ve been told.
The unknown artist carbonized vellum taken from a sheep,
Into a thing of beauty that is not mine to keep.
The images are beautiful, a celebration of the Divine,
a testament of faith from another place and time.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,
high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,
my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado
carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red
service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by stacked furniture and packing
crates arranged into a crooked lane
plat of a miniature medieval
Bruges. Racquetball,
a game of angles gone
sadly out of fashion,
the MacGuffin in my dreams
and my playing days when you
were my true opponent. Never one
for racquet sports, you ran me
stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 9:00 AM UTC
Years after giving up the game
for good I dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
my chipped red racquet,
high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,
my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors, square
portholes slashing avocado
carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a white cube to toe the red
service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by a jumble of tables,
five drawer files and armoires,
packing crates, roll top desks and bureaus
arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges.
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,
is the MacGuffin in my dream
as it was in my playing days
when you were always the real opponent,
King of Center Court
running me, stroking passing shots
while I dove heedless, headlong into walls,
losing on points, nursing my trophy of bruises.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
Der er så meget mere i livet end at finde en der vil have dig eller være ked af det over en der ikke vil. Der er meget vidunderlig tid, der skal bruges på at finde dig selv, uden at håbe på at nogen vil forelske sig i dig på vejen, og det behøver ikke at være smertefuldt eller tomt. Du er nødt til at fylde dig selv op med kærlighed. Ikke alle andre. Bliv et helt væsen, på egen hånd. Tag på eventyr, fald i søvn i skoven med dine venner, tag bade uden for, gå rundt i byen om natten, sid på en café alene, skriv på toiletbåse, efterlad sedler i biblioteksbøger, pynt dig for din egen skyld, giv til andre, smil en masse. Gør alt med kærlighed, men du skal ikke romantisere livet, som kan du ikke leve uden det. Lev for dig selv og vær glad på egen hånd. Det er ikke mindre smukt, det lover jeg dig.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
The first night of the tour
was spent in a caravan
(the tents never
showed in time)
and there were 8 of us there
in a small space
cramped together on the floor
except for the Polish woman
who was older
and another dame
who was less fit
who slept on the two
narrow side beds
so we slept after an evening
in the base camp bar
and Dalya said
what a start
stuck in here cramped
and body near body
and out to the latrines
for the emptying of
and hey what did you
say your name was?
Benny
I said
well Benny
ain't this something?
yes not quite what
I had in mind
as the first night camping
but that's life I guess
it was early morning
and we'd woken
near each other
in the first crack of dawn
want to go out
for a smoke?
she asked
sure why not
so we crept over
sleeping bodies
and out the narrow door
and out into
the morning air
fresh and chilling
and lit up and smoked
looking at the base camp
at Bruges
and each other
I'm Dalya by the way
she said
good to meet you
I said
we walked
to the nearest shop
and bought bread rolls
and a couple of cokes
and began our day
sitting on a seat
waiting for the rest
of the group to wake
and begin the trip
and I looked at her
sitting there
dark haired
short of height
but pretty
and quite ****
but I didn't tell her so
just smoked
and exchanged a few tales
and rude jokes.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 4:00 AM UTC
We arrived
at Zeebrugge
then drove to
our first
base camp
at Bruges
only to find
our tents
were not there
so we slept
in a caravan
over night
in cramped conditions.
In the morning
I was up first
so walked
to the nearest shop
and bought a small loaf.
I nibbled it
on the way back.
I was the first one in
the cafe
had a coffee
and croissants.
The girl Dalya came in
and sat at my table
she had ordered
the same.
She complained
about the caravan
and overcrowding.
I listened
as she moaned
and lit her a cigarette.
We sat talking
and smoking
until the other members
of our group came in
each one was moaning
to our guide
and driver.
He explained
about the reason
said we'd get
a discount from
our overall charges.
Then our tents arrived
we loaded them up
on top of our mini bus
and set off
through Belgium.
I sat next to Dalya
and the Aussie guy
who said little
but gave her
the smile and the eye.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 2:33 AM UTC
Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,
high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,
my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado
carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red
service line once again
only to find my forehand
serve impeded by jumbled
tables, five drawer files, armoires, roll top desks and bureaus
arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges.
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,
the MacGuffin in my dreams,
as it was in my playing days
when you were my true opponent,
King of Center Court running me,
stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC