to thank the heart
that pumps her blood
but is also capricious
to thank her skin
for its fine senses
but not its itches
to thank her tongue
that tastes the wine
though its craving is costly
to thank her stomach
for its friendly moans
but not for its revolts
to thank her nose
for the aroma of coffee
but not for the allergies
to thank the sun
that cheers her day
but she flee its scorching heat
to thank the twilight
for its mystery
though it holds melancholy
to thank the moon
for its splendour
though it upsets her moods
to thank the poets
for their insight
be they opaque
to thank her ancestors
for their endowments
though some are dire
to thank her parents
for the gift of life
though they clipped her wings
to thank her child
for its joyous arrival
though sacrifices were made
to thank her friends
for their kindness
though losing them hurts
to thank her foes
for her trials
though forgiving them is hard
to thank the imperfections
that altered her path
be they often self-destructive
to thank the devices
that ease her days
but not when they malfunction
to thank her ears
for music, wind and rain
though not for the shrill sounds
to thank her eyes
for the world’s colours
though they can overwhelm
to thank her dreams
that bring treasures
but also anxieties
to thank her naivety
for avoiding disputes
though it inhibits her actions
to thank her angel
custodian of her soul
though vital messages are missed …
she thanks readers
for appreciating her books
though she longs for reviews …
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Exciting … If you type … Ashen Venema, Shapers … into google, you’ll find several platforms that allow you to pre-order #shapers. The e-book link will follow once the paperback is released.
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The image above is a painting by Cynthia Holt, inspired by some of my poems. I lost contact. Can’t find her now
One book of poems I have always at my bedside, for when I need to shift my thoughts, is Wislawa Szymborka’s New and Collected poems 1957 -1997, translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavenagh, published by Faber and Faber 1999
through the poems like a clear spring.
Always keen to bridge and connect seemingly unrelated intellectual territories, I tend to dip into essays of poet-philosophers and cultural theorists stacked near my bed.
‘The light is also weird. Since there’s no atmosphere, the phenomenon of refraction disappears, so much so that you go directly from total shadow into sunlight, without any transition. When I hold my hand out to stick it in the light, you’d think I was crossing the barrier to another dimension.’
… that’s me, a dreamer. Dreams re-appear, like a déjà vu. A trick of light will superimpose an image on a scene gleaned in passing. Or a sound, a name, a number, a movement, colour or scent may link up to a dream’s mood. Similarly, memories of seemingly unrelated events from years ago can pop up while doing mundane tasks. This reminiscing improves for me as I grow wiser (older,) a subtle re-organising of events.
With little chance of publication, giving this sequel once more editing time seems irrational; then again, I’m the weirdest person I know. The irrational has always impelled me forward from deep states of being, in search of wholeness. Like some writers, I juggle for rhythm and balance with a multitude inside, until a character, a theme, or a poem persists and generates engagement.
How to reconcile moments of pure beauty and light our restless world offers, with the heavy darkness of human ignorance? How is it the guiding spirit that is shining through everything so often escapes the unseeing eye? Is it our wounded hearts, or our anxious busy thoughts that prevent spontaneous being? Many of us like twilight, the dawn, the dusk, mist, where darkness and light do not negate but enhance each other. They mingle. As friends do, or lovers. Twilight is poetry in motion.
like tiny cherubs
When there is no other near to share such paradoxical quickening with, I may call on those who enriched my life but are no longer present. I adore the moon, the ancient chunk of earth, reflecting and making tolerable the blinding beams of the sun, granting us poetry and symbolic language.
We must see things fresh, not through tired ideas our establishments bank on, that destroy nature’s homeostasis and spill imbalances into cultures too poor to afford resistance. I say – let our children and young people decide what’s worth living for?
as this wet August
This time of year I like reading in the garden. Last week I forgot to take a book inside – ‘The Hand of Poetry,’ collected poems from Sanai, Attar, Rumi, Saadi and Hafiz, translated by Coleman/Barks, with introductions taken from talks by Inayat Khan. During a short but heavy shower that night, the book greedily feasted on rain. I found it blown up, like a balloon, to double its size.
and three times over. On the third day I hung the book by its spine on the washing line. Once dry, I managed to press the volume with a heavy vintage iron into reasonable shape again. The ordeal required my undivided attention. The re-read pages during those hours lodged themselves with refreshed presence in my heart. 
Meanwhile I enjoy some treasures close by …
let sleep do its work
Course of Mirrors 