On line bundel burning blood part 1 & 2 by Indigo-Wereld

b u r n i n g b l o o d

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Carola Eijsenring

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in honor of my grandmother Moeri

coverphoto ‘Red Landscape’ by Simon Brushfield

Alle rechten voorbehouden. Niets uit deze uitgave mag worden vermenigvuldigd en/of openbaar gemaakt worden door middel van druk, fotokopie, microfilm of op welke wijze dan ook zonder voorafgaande toestemming van de uitgever of auteur.

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ISBN 978-90-816-612-02 ÂŠ Indigo-Wereld 2014

Part 1 CRACKING GLASS

! ! ! LYING DOWN, SHE IS ! TRYING HARD TO CLING TO ! IN THE SHADOW OF ! THE MOMENT THE GLASS IS CRACKING ! 5 6 7 8

I LOOK IN THE MIRROR 10

LYING DOWN, SHE IS, in silence full of thoughts gently her arms next to her body

embraced by water plants, she ponders over her dreams behind closed eyes she sees images, she doesn’t want to look at

! unable to ease her mind, she lingers and listens !

there is weeping in her womb, sobs she doesn’t want to hear and she can’t ﬁgure out how to get rid of her silent tears

they are streaming over her cheeks in the rhythm of the rolling river under her Gght back

she is stretched out peacefully, but in her body she is struggling without a break

in the flow of the flood, she allows herself to let go anchored by stems of tough leaves, she is breathing the damp of the dark river, whispering olden tales, floaGng between the hanging roots of bushy plants on the shore

! soI ﬂushing ! one movement and she would fall down, right to the boJom ! sGll, she lies, without a move her arms next to her body thinking dreams listening to soundless tears sharing the wary world of long past souls around her

TRYING HARD TO CLING to what has become familiar to her, she doesn’t seem to be able to break free from the warmth of her nest

! She just doesn’t seem to be capable !

With every step to her independence, she drags herself closer to the appealing home sweet home, puts her nose in the familiar fur of daily rouGne, which all of a sudden appears to be undeniably pleasant, reassuring like a fluffy jumper that fits as a house, into every fold

Trying so hard to drive herself away from all that ﬁnally has become familiar to her, she doesn’t seem to be able to keep herself aJached to the anchors of her soul

! She just doesn’t seem to be capable !

With every aJempt to seJle down, she pushes herself away to the salty space of the world outside, which aJracts her magneGcally, tempGng like the widespread wings of the condor over the blue mountains of Bandung

Lost and lonely all over the place, she couldn’t think of anything else than walk away without a step, restless vicGm, pacing along with her Gger

UnGl in her heart the understanding has matured that there is no need to choose for one opGon only, and she becomes able to escape without losing her essence

IN THE SHADOW OF long gone memories, she is seeking

for sheltered protecGon. In the darkest corners of her mind, she shuts oﬀ the light. Yet, sharp bits of regret are shooGng out like bats out of their hiding places and show her untouchable thoughts like ‘I wish, I had’

No maJer how hard she tries to shrink, old chalky griefs are breaking down one by one and pierce ﬁerce fully into her shoulders like stalacGtes

Unwillingly, she steps out of the shade. The pinches between her shoulder blades keep hurGng her on her survey

Hesitant, she pushes herself forward, and then as if the sun is rising, a shimmer of sweet discoveries glooms gently in the deep caverns of her whimsical brain

! Warm blokes, late nights, eager bodies, untamed freedom !

In the swamps of her capricious past, she ﬁrmly puts down her feet and holds in one hand the bird of signiﬁcance, seriousness and the truth and in the other the bird of light, freshness and the truth

She is balancing for a bit unGl she ﬁnds solid soil and then she knows that the weight of loss is squeaking by shame, but will, in the end, gain by geWng discharged

THE MOMENT THE GLASS IS CRACKING to bits, I am smelling a slight perfume of a lost past

Years of survival are blowing themselves free, blend with the scent of the room in which I calmly dream back to places where I have never been before. Surely, it wasn’t me, but it was them, moving out from there and starGng new lives here, in rough pains of hard labor

-‐ Yet, one day, I shall return with in my arms my worn out soul. Rusty twilight shall be doubGng, Gnkling in the pits of overgrown tree tops. Abundant as they are, their leaves shall sGll reveal their secrets, swallowing their sadness. And I .. –

Gloomy is the earth from where we once have been uprooted. Ancient remainders darken deep down without any connecGon with the actual presence of today

! Nevertheless ! the same ﬁbers, the same genes, the same smells ! The connecGon became thin, taJy, damaged, even cut to pieces ! No, not all the way ! But no maJer of fact anymore ! -‐ There I shall creep around, afraid of the dancing sun, intensely burning into my eyes. Protected by dusk, I will be rotated in the perpetual turmoil of how it always has been. Pain and anger will crash like pebbles in my skull

While making the inevitable tour around, I shall ﬁnally ﬁnd the courage to caress my blessings, one aIer another, and let them dance in my hands like crystals, unGl they’ll catch some light and I won’t shut my eyes any longer

Somewhere beyond the whispering woods, a bird shall ﬂy up, out of her ﬂock –

Ground of birth we’ve been given, under our feet, in our memories, warm smothering steams from the deepness of our existence

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And I do realize, I’ve got to tear myself loose, make myself free from pitchy, punchy, sGcky strings, judgments and greedy Ge ups

Without a sGr, my navel cord re-‐establishes itself and in a modest way gets liberated again

! And I .. ! I gasp ! lightly !

a bit of breath

I LOOK IN THE MIRROR, spot my long dress, covering me like a second skin, weaved smoothly in undeﬁned mixed colors

with a glance I check shoulders, hips, ankles hamper for a moment

then close my eyes and drop down into my inner self

! wondering !

so many yarns carefully knoJed by paGent mothers into complicated paJerns

so many tears and silent secrets quietly hidden away in loose folds

how they watched the oﬀspring of their kin growing up in mysterious land

! how they fed them with ﬂavors of old naGve folks ! how they survived their yearning !

carefully my ﬁngers pull up the pliable cloth, revealing sharp scars, old wounds from a far and foreign past shivers shake my torso, explode into powerless rage

! in a whim, I throw the hindering coverage oﬀ me !

I tremble suddenly aware of my nakedness the rags of terra, ocher and faded indigo at my feet

shame is raving up and down in my chest !10

forcefully, I push myself to watch

biJer burdens beauGful bonds

from sole to top, signs are lighGng up, strap down, set free

then I straighten my spine and stride oﬀ

just being myself

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pero estarรกn el pรกjaro y la nube y el pino fragment from 'Otro cielo' (Mario Benedetti)

Part 2 HEART SMART 2

! ! ! ! TWISTING IS THE PATH ! CHOPPED DOWN TREE ! ONE OF THOSE DAYS ! IT’S AN ART !

16 17

FAR FROM HOME 19

TWISTING IS THE PATH that leads us

out of sight

twisGng and turning

that leads us through dark mines, where light only exists in remembrance, that shaJers us and brings us where we want to be, where we’re not allowed to hang on Gll dawn

is the path that splits us and yet unites us, stumbling

turning it is, full of unforeseen twists, that binds us when we are about to whine, that forces us to come to a standsGll, to ﬁnd out where we are

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WITHOUT ANY EMBARRASSMENT, the chopped down tree

reveals her days of existence. With the Gps of my ﬁngers I stroll over ﬁne, rough rims, traces of ripping violence, following lonely loops of her secret inner life. From the center, once green as emerald, to her ragged skin

In the sunlight liJle sGcky droplets sparkle. The wood smells strongly of fresh felled heart smart. Despite of surrender, the giant conveys pure authority

Years she sucked nourishment from earth and air, to become sturdy and steady and sGﬀ as well. From the deepest roots to the highest twigs, she fed herself with juices from drizzle damps and whirling winds

How long I have been standing near that tree, I honestly don’t know. Sunbeams already had sunk behind the peaks and shadows were stretched out on the muddy trail. But someGmes, it just hits you

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TODAY IS ONE OF THOSE DAYS, I could almost touch you. My lips reach to the delicate crystal. This is one of those days. Red smell of heavy wine driIs into me and makes me swallow

Yes, I could stand on my head, but you won’t be here. Might deeply breathe your skin, but it will sGll be a dream. One of those days, Gnkling yes for sure maybe almost certain, but then again, no for an answer. You seemed so near, almost real at the length of a greedy hand

From a distance, I wave signs to you, furiously waiGng. One of those days, blasGng like burning blood

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IT’S AN ART, don’t you think, an art to

withhold the approaching gloom, stay in the full ﬂush, as if it would never stop, not feel yet the coming cold, when it’s all over and done with, one’s ways parted again, the tender touch turned into a vague memory

melGng snow crystals

diminishing drops of dew

shrinking smell of buJerﬂy blossoms

life is almost ready to recapture her daily rouGne, as a sudden awareness awakes and hushes the light, slow down the Gme, yes for sure, slow down the Gme

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FAR FROM HOME, always far from home, even when you travel from West to East or from South to North, at all Gmes you will be far from home, when you can’t ﬁnd a place where somehow you could make yourself at home

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The poems of Part 1 (Cracking Glass) and Part 2 (Heart Smart) have been the inspiration for the Poetry & Music Performance 'Burning Blood', performed by

Carola Eijsenring (poems) Erik Deckert (didgeridoo) Lian van den Goorbergh (alto ﬂute) Arash Mahdavian (tar)

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Special thanks to Joseph Kakisina (design)

‘Red Landscape’ painting by Simon Brushfield

Carola Eijsenring is born out of Eurasian parents and grew up alternately in The Netherlands and Suriname. Because of the many wanderings in the family, there were always narratives. From this storytelling tradition, she started to write her own tales. In the nineties, she added poetry to her writing work. She contributed to some publications (among others ‘Puputan, Val van Bali’). Some of her short stories, as well as her poems have been awarded with several prices (Dunya International Poetry Award Rotterdam and three times the Eindhoven Literature Stimulation Award).

Erik Deckert (‘Didgerik’) plays the didgeridoo since September 1997. When he heard Ian Hakker play, the sound of the didgeridoo touched him deeply. Immediately, he decides to follow a course with Ian Hakker. Later he aJended several workshops with (among others) Steven Kent, Mark Atkins, Mike Jackson and Alan Dargin (+). Nowadays , he plays didgeridoo (and other percussion instruments) in the percussion band ‘ The BigBang’ from Eindhoven and environment.

For Lian van den Goorbergh making music is a lifelong search for liberaGon of the unique sound in everything and everyone. During her studies of classical music, in The Netherlands and Switzerland, she discovered the alto ﬂute. The special Gmbre pulls you deeply into yourself. Besides playing classical and world music, she likes to improvise directly from the heart. Lian has a pracGce for speakers and musicians who feel the desire to express themselves authenGcally.

Since 22 years, Arash Mahdavian plays the setar. He was 20 then. In Iran he learned about this music via his friend Reza Moosavizade, at that Gme the oldest setar player in Iran. AIer 10 years, Arash wanted to play another instrument, bigger than the setar and with a larger capacity. That became the tar. Three years ago, he moved to The Netherlands. Right from the start he started to take lessons with Hamid Motebassem, the tar docent at the music school SCHUNK in Heerlen, to bring his playing to an even higher level. Also Arash is involved in a training of old classical Iranian music.

‘Red Landscape’ painting by Simon Brushfield