when love hurts, a poem

Author's note: Another one of my old poems, I'd say pre-17, maybe from my 18th, but I find that hard to believe. I really can't pinpoint the exact year for this one. And I didn't do drugs, but sometimes going through my older stuff makes me think I secretly did. Truth is I just go(/e)t carried away easily and went for the obvious. I'm cleaning out my virtual closet, so what the heck, I'm posting it anyway. It's there, I have to.

When love hurts

O treacherous heart,
so sweet,
so cruel,
torturing with desire.
Do not deceive my head,
do not betray my mind,
do not dare, to control,
do not force me to surrender.
Weakness, shall not overcome!

Fully Empty, another typographic poem from my early youth

This one is more or less the same style as 'The Gift's Curse' (my oldest poem in English from when I was 14), but I think it's the youngest of the two, but not by much difference. Can't be sure though, it's so long ago. My older work kind of makes me blush with embarassment, I wasn't sure I'd ever post these anywhere, but what the heck, they're part of process that led me to where I am and I vital one at that.



Fully Empty

Strange & thrilling feeling,

                                           so deep inside.

I feel…

            empty,

                        yet so full

                                  full of things

                                            things that are in fact

                                                                              the essence of nothing.

Can’t think

                  clearly,

Can’t see,

          hear,

          speak,

   only sense.              

I want to express,

   want to explode,

                              but everything I want to throw out,

                                                     becomes an implosion.

So much to do,

so much to achieve,

                               but this bitter,

                                                     scorching,

                                                                       crawling,

                                                                                      scratching

                                                                                                          hollowness

claws at my heart,

fills my chest…

Like a warlord surrounding a stronghold.

I want to cry,

  want to scream,

but it just doesn’t

                                   go

                                               away.

'The Gift's Curse', a typographic poem from my early days

As far as I know, this is my oldest poem in English. It's from all the way back when I was fourteen. As you may be able to tell from the ordering, I was heavily into experimenting with form and typography, as is even more apparent from my Dutch poetry at the time, which according to my teachers shared resemblance to that of the famous Flemish expressionist poet Paul van Ostaijen, who I had never even heard of at the time. Without further ado...



The Gift’s Curse

burning

scorching

                                                on the inside

                                                     the inside of me

crawling up,

                                                   up,

                                                   back down again

                                                                                   filling with fire and flame

searching, striving

                                                                for a way out

                                                                               out of the cage of my body

                                                                                         the gate of my lips

                                                                                                           my hands

                                                                                          it stirs in my mind

                                                                                            flows out of my pen

out, out!

                                                somewhere, somehow

                                                                                   it shall not be stopped

                                                                                   for it does not obey,

                                                                                             does not hold back

                                                                                       … never gives up

                                   no rest,

                                               no sleep,

                                                              no more sanity

                                   the Muse’s fire and flame

                                                      their painful caress

                                   pushing, forcing…

                                                                 to their will

                                                                                   I must comply

no choice,

                                                    no power,

                                                                     it is a part of me,

                                                                                              O rebellious flames

                                                                                  Tortured,

                                                                                                 giving, taking

                                                                                                 offered to a price

                                                                     the fire in me,

                                                                                                  controlling

        steering me.

                                                                     I am the fire!