Moon writes: i only said i love you…

i only said i love you
at the end of us
but to me, it was the start
for i had not admitted
how i felt in my heart.

all the time we had together
i fought against falling for you
it was a scary thing to do
and i feared it’d
scare you away too.

now i’m looking
for a fresh new love
but every face i see
i’m hoping it’ll be
your own.

so i give up,
i can’t fight against love.
we both know that
you love me too

every time i find someone 
else, i feel as if
i was betraying us,
going behind your back,
yet you say it’s alright…

but then you get jealous
and gulp the nerves of loosing
me back, never show your fear 
or the hint of a tear,
you’re brave like that.

we play ping pong
never saying what we really mean
trying to live in-between
a hidden life from the rest of the world
that’s only for you and i.

but this can’t go on
for ever and without end
we’ll grow old, get bored
someone will love us more
or at least,  they won’t deny
the feeling is there.

A poem for an infatuation and desperation or annoyance, or maybe a mix of both. But I like the fact that it points to a lost opportunity by the undecisive person rather by the one that moved on and got tired of being on a “yes then no then yes” mode.

Moon Writes: careful with the match

gunpowder issue is at nine,
a reenactor knows that,
I can be Bob, James,
or if I’m happy trodding on
my skirts, I can be Ann.
(neither is my real name)

but you, palpitating vessel,
tell me, who you are.

is your passion fueled,
by those gray particles that
explode when caressed by
a playful spark?

worn by use bandoliers,
made of wood for safety,
wait for it to be inside the musket,
set it off with the match lock,
pull the trigger, watch it burn,
here comes the B A N G.

are there clouds inside of you,
trying to peek out from your eyes?
Or maybe the rain waters your soul,
helping those seeds of words grow?

did you know that the sound
of the gunshot is not as loud,
when you’re the one behind it?

smile, explosions of delight,
coming from deep inside,
don’t be afraid,
it’s just life…

Wrote this for a friend that was (we fizzled each to our own world just because life happens).

Moon Writes: Four walls

He’s coming,
frantically look for a way out,
but this room only has four walls,
and no door or windows in it.
(don’t ask me how he came in,
he’s a magician,
killing me is his best trick)

He’s here,
and there’s no escaping,
back then, there was numbness,
now, manage to struggle,
but screams fall on deaf ears.
(don’t walls have ears? can’t they hear?
but they lack mouths and can’t speak out for me.)

Open your eyes,
transposed with the darkness of
your room, is the nightmare,
can’t shake it away.
(be rational, dear brain,
your reality is safety.)

Deep breaths,
call on your to-go, knowing
the reply will come after dawn,
but you’ll be reassured, you’ll be heard.
(hey, hi, a reply!
heaven heard your silent plea)

“I’m here for you,
tired and sleepy.
it’s not real, your mind is just
sorting things, you’re just feeling
the effects.
(you know things will get
better, my love, you can do it)

I think this one poem talks by itself. But it was written during times of distress and feeling trapped. Thankfulyl things are better, but I still like the words that came out of it.

Moon Writes: Indoctrination

I wrote this poem three years ago. I can’t remember what made me write it, but I was annoyed at people insisting that being x religion or born in y country meant you were less human or didn’t know your own mind, so I ende up trying to sort through those feelings in this poem.

you who shout “indoctrination”
at others people’s beliefs,
beliefs you don’t like or agree with,
beliefs you don’t even understand or know about.

we don’t choose which country we’re born into,
nor how rich or poor our family is,
we don’t choose what religion,
culture and customs will reign the home we’re brought up into.

We don’t decide how much love or hate will surround us
and define who we are from the day we’re brought into this world.

You shout “indoctrination”,
but tell me…
if you were exactly in their situation,
wouldn’t you be who they are?

It is easy to say “no I wouldn’t”,
when you haven’t experienced anything like it.
And in a way, you are indoctrinated too.

the habits of your parents help define yours,
and maybe it wasn’t a conscious decision,
but you are shaped by the rules and beliefs 
that defined your family and your life.

Most countries define themselves by rules and “values”,
religions do too, culture does too (even inside countries).
Isn’t that in it’s own way, being indoctrinated?

Weren’t you brought up to love your country,
to feel proud of it and the achievements?
Weren’t you brought up to believe in good and bad
(regardless of what you define as good or bad)?

So don’t shout indoctrination,
just because you don’t like someone.
Because you might be John,
but if you had been born in a different setting,
could be Juan or Ian or maybe Yahya. 

Moon Writes: letters

as the sun comes (or goes),
on a journey that marks the passing of time,
sitting on a train or as i roam
this big city that never stops;
something tugs at my heart
and brings tears to my eyes.
barely there,
at first i can’t
make heads or tails of it,
but still
i try.
carefully i prod inside my mind,
what is this that shakes me
and menaces to break me?
can i give it name, or
shall it remain undefined?
don’t ask,
please, don’t ask…
[enough questions shoot my mind from the inside]
for i don’t know how to reply,
as i try to unravel this feeling that
crushes my chest
and nestles in my breast.
gather round,
for i have found
the name for what bothers me,
problem is
the solution is unnamed.
the lack of a place to call my own,
where i can find refuge,
for me to create or destroy,
where i can be myself without
having to hide anything away.
i have always
been someone small,
but deep roots grow
from my heart and soul
to the place i can call home.
just let me say,
in my defense,
that your
the care you have for who i am,
despite my being lost
and the circles i talk around your head,
trying to make sense of all the events
that brought me to where i am.
looks deceive,
words may be empty,
but what you do,
that is matters in the end.
many places have
at some point in time and space
been a home to me.
next to you,
is the nearest “place” i can think of
that may be called home in this today.
open arms that hold me close,
confrontation or sweet words,
how did this come to be?
how can you know what i need?
protecting my broken heart,
i find comfort at your side,
peace that calms my fears
and takes away my tears.
run and rush
towards you
and find my home
stay with me,
for we both know what this is worth,
let the world crash, let it burn,
but don’t give up on who we are,
for if you do,
it might all come to an end.
take me as I am,
let’s build a new life,
a secret we’ll hold close
to your hearts,
don’t say the words,
let’s keep them inside.
under the stars
inside a tent;
or maybe just in our bed,
the place is not what defines
where my home is.
valleys or mountains,
rivers or the sea,
nature calls us to be free.
o wait for me,
for you’re the key
for this locked world
inside of me…
x x x
kisses blown to the wind,
may they reach your lips,
and whisper those thoughts
i wasn’t brave enough
to word out loud
you are the cure to my sickness,
the home that is nowhere else,
my refuge and my calm throughout the storm,
you, you are the one.
you’ve struck my heart,
the tears and fears have left,
i am at peace,
at i am alive…

A poem written to have a verse/line starting with each letter of the alphabet, in order. Because the order and the challenge sounded like a fun idea. It is also one of those poems where I was exploring playing with not just the words, but the visual display of them.

Free love, creativity and monsters


Monsters: The Passion and Loss that Created Frankenstein by Sharon Dogar

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin is only a young teenager when Sir Bysshe Shelley first enters her home, where she lives with her father, her step-mom, and her sisters Jane and Fanny. Like almost everyone else, Bysshe is soon infatuated with Mary’s impressive but sorrowful heritage, her intellect, her determination and progressive values about women’s right to freedom and equality. Mary herself, as well as her sisters, falls in love with Bysshe, a handsome and troubled poet, and maybe more than the person himself, his ideas about and attempt to form a new world, where class and gender is secondary, and equality and free love shall prosper. This becomes the start of a remarkable journey, where the strive for a different world, and the consequences thereof, pushes Mary deeper and deeper into a spiral of psychological, emotional, artistic and physical monstrosity and loss, that eventually leads up to her writing the famous novel Frankenstein.

Rating: 🐖🐖🐖🐖🐖

Honestly, I was a bit put off when I received this book in January’s Bookbox Club-box. Historical fiction really isn’t my cup of tea, and even though I’ve been interested in Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley ever since I studied literature, Monsters is a massive book, and it’s set in the early 1800’s, so that did get me a bit sceptical.

However, while historical fiction isn’t my favourite genre, two of my absolute favourite subjects quickly appeared to be in the center of this story: feminism and tragic love. That kept me reading, even though I initially found it a bit tricky, since the story is told by an all-knowing narrator, and shifts perspective between the (quite many) characters all the time. The language though was quite easy, fast paced and flowing, and not at all old and dusty (there’s my prejudice towards historical fiction again … ). And even though I struggled for the first couple of pages, I’m so happy that I kept reading. Because suddenly, I couldn’t stop.

This is a story about a remarkable person, author and destiny, but it is also so much more than that. It is a story about social and societal boundaries, about women’s rights, about sorrow, about love, and about the norms we’ve set for how certain emotions and situations are supposed to be felt and handled. It is not the first book written about free love and the will to change the world, but the fact that it is about a teenage girl with high expectations lying heavily on her shoulders, sets it apart. Because usually, these types of idealistic attempts about how to live are often expressed through someone like Bysshe. Someone (male and white) that can afford to try on different life styles without being particularly affected. For Mary though, the consequences of practicing free love soon becomes a question of life and death. That brings on a pragmatic aspect, that is so much-needed when discussing what boundaries societal norms set for our lives, and for our practicing of artistic creativity. And it makes us think about who’s really the monster.

Monsters is a well needed and fresh breeze, taking on a new perspective on subjects that’s been literary praised, but honestly has gotten a bit old and well too mansplained. Read this book. It’s gonna be one of the best you’ve read this year.

Dr. Bea approves

For further reading, I of course recommend Mary Shelley’s own Frankenstein. And if you’re into more fictional/factual biographies on writing women, Oranges are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson and the diaries of Virgina Woolf should be your next reads!


Moon Writes: Cat II

She was white.
Innocence was her perfume, mixed with the spice of kindness. As he watched and took her smell in (white tea with a hint of berries, a mild sweetness), some of the children noticed her and made her part of their game. She seemed to fit in perfectly, as if she was one of them; barefoot, running around in bliss, happiness glowing from her.
They said she was much too young, and there was someone who she answered to already, someone that cared for and about her. Yet the more he saw her, the more something inside stirred and told him he had to try to reach her, be part of her life.
She was red.
There was always a hint of it in her hair that made you wonder if fire ran through her veins. But that day, the red was all over her, showing the world what she hadn’t been able to say. They said the shock of it made her freeze, she couldn’t react and was numb. It wasn’t surprising, for who was to know that the someone that “cared” for her would also try to destroy her?
Even when she washed, the red stayed all over her for a long time, as did her numbness. She was not entirely herself anymore.
He was grey.
The day the red permeated her, he stayed in contact. She was taken back to someone else’s house after measures were taken to ensure her safety. Temporary arrangements that meant “home” would be a foreign word to her for a while.
He cursed to the night that he had not been there to take her “home”, so he offered her a new home and a chance to heal. He wasn’t expecting anything in return, for he knew how broken she had been left.
Worry, in so many tinges of grey, filled his eyes for her.
She was black.
Ghosts of the past would creep into her eyes and dance away, taking her into places deep in her mind where he couldn’t follow. If only there was a manual as to how to deal with those that are permeated by red, he would have read it.
Some nights he’d wake up to her cries, when the red ghosts filled her with panic or terrors. At times, she wouldn’t even recognise him.
Eyes full of fright would look up at him, as he whispered “Hey, hey, it’s me, it’s alright, it’s me, you’re safe”, and once they found his face in the dark and recognised his voice they’d close and let her relax. Some times things were easier and just stroking her would ease the darkness inside.
She was brown.
Little by little, the darkness started to give way to light. The nights would be easier, as would the days. She dared to go out once again and explore the world. He would come back home to find her curled up in the couch, waiting for him. Her brown eyes would glint and hint of the adventures lived, even if they were just taking a few steps into the garden or daring to explore beyond the neighbourhood.
And he smiled, for he could see how good earth and replanting were helping her grow again and be confident with herself; what had been destroyed was being rebuilt.
She was beautiful.
Cigarette in one hand, a string in the other, he teased her with it in the garden. She was in a playful mood and would try to grab it in her paws. But the song of birds would distract her from their game, and then he would lovingly admire her.
White fur with hints of red, her soft “fox” tail swaying in the air, now short on her 9 lives…,
but still very much alive.

Second one of the series. A little less of a happy story, and the idea of the series was to play with wording and storytelling.