My room is calmness. Here, in the haze of morning
contours take shape, in this gray year that slowly
lets go. My short fingers caress the frayed hems
of worn-out days.
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Ripple
Asphalt shortlisted on the Poetry Lighthouse Prize
Earlier this month, my poem "Ripple" was shortlisted for the 4th Anniversary Contest by Canadian publication DarkWinter Lit. Now, my poem "Asphalt" is on the short list for a British contest, by The Poetry Lighthouse, an online and print magazine and publishing house, that will also publish my bilingual collection Drijfhout/Driftwood.
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Turbid
I never speak ill of the dead
it’s those who are alive
I worry about.
The sun, giving too much warmth
for the time of the year
and how we never seem
to fully enjoy it.
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Cambium in Belladonna’s Garden
Yet another one to be proud of. My poem Cambium appeared in the spring issue of Belladonna's Garden, a cozy little magazine featuring poetry, stories and artwork.
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The maker
From me nothing is born
My hands solely create
what already exists
waiting for a shape or form.
A hero, I am not. Side character
at most. Bit-player in my own work
soulless gateway.
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Why my poem has the same title as a hundred-year-old blues song
Today, one of my poems was published in the online edition of Amsterdam Quarterly. It has also been selected for the annual print anthology, set for publication in December 2026. This marks the magazine’s 45th edition. The theme “climate overshoot” was a perfect fit for a little poem I’d had sitting on the shelf for years: “When the Levee Breaks.”
Yes, like the Led Zeppelin song. Although, as every blues lover knows, that’s not the original version. This blues classic was written in 1927 by Memphis Minnie, a singer and guitarist who composed over 200 songs, many of which are part of the collective blues memory.
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Grief is a mountain
Grief is a mountain. They say I have to
get over it. So I climb.
Breathing is nearly impossible. Dust fills my lungs
the air is hot and lifeless.
I dig with broken fingernails
in the darkness surrounding me.
Thick like gravel.
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Ice Days
Flakes seem to soften everything
but I don't feel it. Hide my pain
behind scarves. Cold seeps
through my skin like memories.
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Bilingual poetry collection in the making
I used that strange period between the holidays to give my poetry collection "Driftwood – Drijfhout" the finishing touch. In this bilingual collection, every poem is in both English and Dutch. I did all the translations myself, but I did pay a professional, native-speaking translator to proofread the English versions.
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In the dead of winter
The earth is now too hard to bury corpses. Water cracks
in the pond, birds peck thirstily at the ice. A wafer-thin
layer of city dirt falls like snow from a red sky.
The deceptive beauty of the apocalypse.
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Leen writes 