Prose and poetry by Leen Raats
The unfulfilled expectations of the people
who still tolerate my presence or are willing
to pretend for the sake of mutual friends or family.
Losing battles. Bottomless glasses and nights.
Rampant prejudices that feed on nitrogen
and generalization. The inflation of compassion.
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What do tangerines and windmills have in common? I wrote about them in two poems that got published in DarkWinter Literary Magazine, a Canadian magazine. My virtual world tour is really coming together. 😉
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What an evening! Yesterday, I had the privilege of reading during a magical event, organized by local nature organization Natuurpunt at Kiewit (Hasselt, Belgium). Surrounded by ancient creatures unfurling their almost bare crowns above me. The rain provided a fitting background concert.
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I followed the factory spills, the fumes
of Diesel cars banned from the city center
that gathered in carpool parking lots
like civil servants at a fire drill.
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I'm thrilled to share that my poem, 'Fatherland,' is featured in a special issue of Homeland, a magazine published by Livina Press (Louisiana, USA). This beautiful piece of art contains poetry, creative non-fiction, and essays from writers from all around the world, reflecting on the topic of homeland. All profits go to Palestine refugees.
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My poem ‘What the universe wanted’ is part of issue 41 of The Pointed Circle, a magazine run by students and faculty members at Portland Community College.
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The universe wanted it that way
he claims, and everything happens for a reason
as we’re all made up of pieces of a primordial planet
overwhelmed with nostalgia for the cosmos.
He talks about black holes, the Big Bang
and the evolution from single-celled creature
to fish to mammal to man.
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Cab drivers who know about five English words
but refuse to use them, are speeding in dilapidated Volvos
through a city where amongst thousand-year-old buildings
tourists take pictures of themselves.
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This morning I woke up in the dark.
With pain in my stomach and the voice of the radio newsreader.
Yet the day felt clean. Birds sang along the railway track.
At Brussels Central Station I saw a beggar with a bloodstained face
who no one seemed to see. I asked if I could help. I couldn’t.
Even though I know all about being invisible.
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Deep inland we soon
forget the infinity of the sea.
Today I follow rivers
ruthlessly heading for their end
as I carry sorrow like an old backpack
that shaped itself to the curve of my back
and a smile that is not mine.
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Leen writes 