Let me sing of broken-down dogs, they wander alone in the twisted ravines of huge cities; or those dogs who have said to reject man, blinking intelligent eyes ‘Let me be with you, perhaps from our two wretchednesses we can make a kind of happiness’. Then all kind of needing dogs: the mud-stained dog, the poor dog, the homeless dog, the idling dog, the street acrobat’s dog; their instincts, like that of the poor man, the gypsy, the actor an, they wake early and seek their livelihood or run after their pleasures. I saw some of them sleep in a ruined building in the outskirts and come every day at a set hour to claim their dole at the kitchen door of always the same kind restaurant. A band of six strong well-fed strays shares the meal prepared for them by the charity of certain sexagenarian virgins, whose unclaimed hearts have given themselves to animals since men in their stupidity no longer want them. Then there are of course the runaway slaves, maddened by love; they gambol for an hour around a beautiful bitch, not very well presented, but proud and grateful for their attention. Perhaps somewhere (who knows, after all) there is a reward for the courage, the patience and the hard work of these adorable dogs. A paradise for these good dogs, dirty, muddy, sad and sorry dogs where they can finally laugh and bark their head off about the silly, ridiculously shaven, pampered yorkshire terrier with the pink satin ribbon waved through the few remaining gleamingly washed hairs on top of her disdainful little head. Even the dirty dog has its pride, so it is good to sing their praise. You are never quite sure, maybe Circe once enchanted you.
Tag Archives: Marjon Van Bruggen
Street Death by Marjon Van Bruggen
The car roars off
falling down
all dimensions change
an ant marches in front of my nose
he is HUGE; stops, looks at me
tries to tell me of his burdens.
He speaks Ant, a language I do not understand
rising behind the gesticulating insect
the nose of a shining shoe
a round and moving mountain
the face, belonging to the owner of the shoe
is blurred in a high distance.
The mouth moves, a sound rumbles out
“What is your name”?
how would I know?
reality is different down here
my name probably changed
my head feels light and wet and red.
Someone drags at my arm; it hurts
let go. I am comfortable on the asphalt
can you get the grit out of my mouth?
I know, some teeth are knocked out
it must be an ugly sight
now let me close my eyes.
I cannot stand the ant looking at me much longer
his message….I wish I understood
he seems so serious
the red flows slowly by; a small river
there is a wail in the air and in my ear
it can’t be her; my Mom is dead for years.
There she is. I told you things are different
down here and I feel so content
she will cradle me, rock me to sleep
let me finally come in the world of peace
where she lives now
I try to smile a bit in anticipation.
Oh, by the way, now that I know I tell you
angels have no wings
they only can fly ’cause they are weightless
having no earthly body
all colors slowly disappear
the light gets brighter and brighter.
Scars by Marjon van Bruggen
Seventeen flat sceen plasma Tvs
(rock bottom, this week only!)
change their happy program.
I see images of the earthquake
that root me to the spot, while
people push and mingle around
and hurry, ´cause Australian wine
and English bisquits also fly
because of the rock bottom prices
you cannot let that go, be honest…
but my eyes are fixed on crumbling
houses, churches, fountains, falling
trees, and aimless running in
everpresent dust. Old men seem
to shrivel, clinging to their last
posession, a blanket, a mirror…
a dishevelled dog whines to rumble
The earth shook and left a wide scar.
Suddenly rock bottom
has another significance.
Do What You Can by Marjon van Bruggen
Go little poem, go. The problems
of this world breed like flies
and expand like rising bread.
When your home comes
raining down on you,
you drag yourself up out
of the dust, you find the city
lying at your feet, and you
cannot find your children
you know why you have to go
so GO.
Just appear on recycled paper
in a small magazine and
do what you can, because
the world needs help.
Nadia by Marjon Van Bruggen
Nadia is a girl
She is a Yazidi girl
She is a very brave Yazidi girl
She is a very brave victimized Yazidi girl
She is a very brave victimized and orphaned Yazidi girl
She became enslaved
She was (legally !!!!) raped
She managed to escape and was a refugee
She had to endure all this, because she is an innocent Yazidi girl.
She now has an advocate
who is ashamed
and says so in an assembly of the UN
she is proud to present Nadia
as a survivor,
a Yazidi leader
a Nobel Peace Prize nominee
a Goodwill Ambassador of the United Nations.
Her name is Nadia Murad.
What a Little Boy should never See by Marjon Van Bruggen
The poor city bathed in blood
each drop in the name of one god or another
aftermath of a violent, destructive
and inhuman storm.
His mum, his dad, both are gone.
Are they dead? He does not know.
Home, he seizes the small statues,
once a cherished gift from them,
now they enrage him; they stand
so placid and silent on bookshelves
and table tops they seem out of place.
Decapitated heads, amputated arms
and severed legs crash in all directions
in splashes of marble, stone and porcelain.
Explosive red flares before his eyes
equalising the street scenes.
This is what he sees the rest of his life.
Survivor by Marjon Van Bruggan
Screams like lava hisssssed the sea
frantically I searched my son
he bobbed by….but dead
just like my wife, I saw
how her eyes drowned last
the devil pulled her down to hell
the panic, the cold waves
the hand of a friend going under
like a dripping bird I hung in air
a long strong rope, an umbellic cord
a helicopter and voices: you are safe
how can I be safe with my loved ones dead?
Illegitimate by Marjon Van Bruggen
Standing at the corner, shoulders down
looking for work, meester, looking for work
I speak the Inglisch, meester,
give me the toil, give me the work___
Stuff needs to be done, so you and you
load up the truck
get on the ladder
work on your knees
don´t smell the glop
wash all the dishes
lay on the brick
smooth the cement
pick the ripe fruit
you mind the babies
empty the waste.
The luggers, haulers, pushers, pullers,
grunters and heavers
shoulders down
caps furled tight above the ears
swarm at the approach.
Give me the work, meester,
please.
What Happens by Marjon van Bruggen
´It has happened
and it goes on happening
it will happen again
if nothing happens to stop it´
sofar Erich Fried.
But what happens when
all false excuses are exhausted?
The innocent know nothing
because they are too innocent
and the guilty know nothing
because they are too guilty.
NOT VALID
The poor do not notice
because they are too poor
and the rich do not notice
because they are too rich.
NOT VALID
The stupid shrug their shoulders
because they are too stupid
and the clever shrug their shoulders
because they are too clever
NOT VALID
The young do not care
because they are too young
and the old do not care
because they are too old.
NOT VALID
So…what is a valid excuse?
There is none.
What bad is happening should
be universily condemned and
stop happening as of…
NOW.
Alarm – Dismissed by Marjon Van Bruggen
Here in the valley, desire is magnified
the wind blows dry as bones.
Abandoned trees are bare and dead
starved
not loved
no water.
The few oranges
shrunken little balls
feral
green with regret
and bitterness.
We are unconcerned.
The world is not yet dangerous.
A summer dress
bare legs
over there are some figs
we amble thoughtless and blind
red dust talcums our feet
Paradise lost.
Exile by Marjon Van Bruggen
Just another piece expelled from this planet.
On this island night comes
at mid-day.
Time is a train,
as usual running late along
a golden rail which
crosses the clock´s face
East to West.
He who makes it here
wonders for the rest of his days
why he is now blind,
seeing only in dreams and nightmares.
He gropes around, hopes
to find a treasure
hidden in the hole where Alice
plunged after her rabbit.
His name is not Alice.
Survivor by Marjon van Bruggen
I know no one is interested
but sometimes, when I feel rescued
the hot sand on the foreign beach
invites to imagine myself
being a fish, choking out of the sea.
I wonder if I were better off drowned
like the rest of my family.
Forty-five thousand made it to Italy
six thousand drowned, because
they tried to live.
Mahmoud´s Impressions 1977 or Later? by Marjon Van Bruggen
Living with the horror of horrors
each day
how many murderers…it could be an army
too many victims for small groups.
Cutting throats
of a hundred people a day is conjecture.
An abattoir
visit comes to mind
I saw
how they cut throats of sheep on a conveyor belt
pandemonium in red
imagine human beings…..no, don´t imagine it
it is insane.
A Never-Ending Story by Marjon Van Bruggen
I nightmared many hours
until I call days nights as well.
The story never ends.
A widower,
a little boy
drowning in his blood.
He keeps on telling me
the loss of his son.
He sits quietly,digging the earth
with his sad eyes,
searching for his lost treasure.
I am not a silent poet 