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What Joop feels about his poems--
"Most of my poetry somehow writes itself.
I sit down and start writing. So yes, if you want to call that
subconscious or using my 'id' that is fine, but I do not sit
there and examine my feelings or thoughts. I don't like to get
involved in theoretical discussions about the subconscious,
rules of poetry etc, I don't like talking shop. That has never
interested me. I stay away from all theory as much as possible.
I do not write by examining my id. A lot of what I do write
about comes about because I read or see something on the news or
in my community that touches me deeply. I suppose you can say it
is my way of dealing with what happens around me. As far as the
lack of sexual connotations in my poetry - again that is not a
conscious decision on my part. A lot of my poetry deals with
Life & Death, but readers take other meanings out of it -
politics etc, that I never intended when I wrote the poem - but
if the reader is touched, encouraged or challenged by a poem by
what they read into it then that is fine by me. Poetry is an art
form and just with abstract paintings the viewer can see
different things in a painting, in poetry the reader may
understand different things in the words. That is alright by
me." ( Taken from-
http://www.thanalonline.com)
Readers can read him in-----http://www.geocities.com/joopbersee/joop1.html
He is editor of -
http://www.southernrainpoetry.com
Mountain -1
A soutane.
A bullfight
hanging from a rope.
Rain channelled.
Castanet leaf
whirring
on its branch,
detesting
our faces.
12 Jan. 2006
Mountain 2
A steady trickle of water,
words seeping through a filter of
moss, old paths, guitars, lanterns,
tents dragged to this camp,
bit of wind varnish, synthetic click
of camera's, battery, red light.
The view, sky on top is a roaring,
moulded lion of eternal clay, what
to make of it? How to look, what
to think, the campfire still warm
and not wanting us to return.
The empty tins, prints in the sand.
12 Jan. 2006
Mountain 3
The pine trees are covered by
by a large hand of soft skin,
a voice and a world covering.
The ground is white coffins,
white coffins of pine-needles,
as a river flows beneath
calm cloud and September,
taking its wooden pedestals,
feeding them to open fires
13 Jan. 2006
Mountain 4
The mountain never swam to a clock;
it has drops of rain,
people on its back, pretending they belong.
Day dream of their work,
hours spent prattling behind pc,
the railing to time "it's time."
What do they pretend on this back?
Again: wooden beams of their houses.
A sturdy roof. Here they wear shorts,
use candles, or torches and batteries.
Busses crawl clouds of smoke into streets
of cities, London, rain like paint.
15 Jan. 2006
Mountain 5
Certain parts of the mountain
look like a bald head, no skin,
tenderly touched by crafty
ants, millions of small movements,
removing layer after
layer, antennae touching,
jaws polishing, sanding down
the ghastly and finest parts
the earth has to give, to all
those mouths to feed, to survive.
17 Jan. 2006
Mountain 6
A mountain is not its birds.
And it is not the lizards.
Nor the wind licking dry grass.
Nor me sitting on my bones.
A mountain is becoming.
And somehow it never ends.
20 Jan. 2006
The Call
There is the call.
Is it the call?
It is the call,
but not ours, not mine.
Someone was called
as he/she walked
outside/inside, slept,
baking, drinking, good health.
Someone was taken, removed,
leaving the earth behind,
hut, house, human beings
lapping words, towns.
Humans dancing in the light of the moon,
singing their deaths,
celebrating the call,
another, and another-
You won't hear yours.
15 Jan. 2006
Sun
The sun circles the earth
like a fiery necklace
the sun sun sun
The earth is a poor man
begging for the sun's rays
poor earth poor
The earth is a beggar
here in this universe
beg now beg
Sun shines like a mountain
like a large ship of flames
shine ship shine
The earth's moon is a girl
and her hands are ashes
shine sun shine
Shine and circle the earth
the earth is a poor man
the sun circles the earth
Portrait
She is holding on to her hair,
wringing, then uncoiling the strands,
slowly wiping her charcoal life
off the perilous page. Soot falls
through the floorboard cracks where one day
outlandish voices will ring, unknown
mouths, tongues and jaws. The growing of
children on doors, walls, the paved roads.
Where age stained hands mend or stop the
mending of what is unwanted.
New things impossible to bare.
30 Jan. 2006
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