Poetry from Tuur Verheyde : Whence & The Faceless Urge

Whence

I

A poet gropes
The lining of the veil, 
Snatching shivers from
Every throbbing strand. 
She wonders, she wonders: 
Whence do they come, 
These scenes that slide 
Between each drowsy blink, 
These phrases that ambush 
Her idle thoughts and throw 
Their uninvited mystery 
Into her lap?  

II 

A poet dies 
And swirls to see the eternal
Everything encased in Time
Unmoving like a crystal 
Kaleidoscopic coffin. 

A poet burns in the unseen 
Fabric of the Empty, 
Folded four times 
Into the swelling All. 
Her sparks drip into 
The time-trap to
Find her living self 
And set her mind alight 
With countless knowing 
Shivers. 

The Faceless Urge

I am enthralled 
By an unquenchable desire 
To exist as naught  
But a whisper; to be a draught 
That raises hairs and draws
Forth shadows from within;
To be a pebble that stirs 
The watchers of your mind-
Lake; to exist only as a body
Of work that plants its talons 
And never lets go. 


It is a fate that may await 
Those who die and leave work
Behind. Yet in this digital day, 
Our ethereal profiles may 
Forever encase us in faces 
That decay and obscure 
The multitudes that writhe 
Within. We are more 
Than the profile, more 
Than the persona, 
We are winnowing winds, 
We are winding ways, 
We are a shadow play 
Of countless acts. 

And yet if we are to reach
Anyone on this blasted plane, 
We must cram our coagulating 
Contours into a singular frame. 
I say: don a mercurial mask, 
Be an unceasing metamorphosis 
Brimming with inchoate contradictions 
And insolubles—brand be damned—
Be the bustling mass, 
Be the turning page, 
The Janus-mask;  Be true 
Like a shudder. 


Bio:

Tuur Verheyde is a twenty-five year old Belgian poet. His work endeavours to capture the weirdness of the 21st century; its globalised art, culture, politics and problems. Tuur’s poetry seeks to further cultural, spiritual, political and emotional connectivity on an international level. His work is personal and outward looking and seeks to accurately represent the blurred boundaries between the real, the surreal and the hyperreal, as well meshing the personal with the political and the spiritual. https://tuurverheyde.com

Poetry: Half-Sleep I & II by Tuur Verheyde

Half-Sleep I

Mercurial waters fall upon 
My lips, I feel the black beckon me
To drink like a drowning man 
And relish each burning gulp 
Of scuttling air.

The watery depths echo 
Like a world within a world, 
Boundless and unconquerable, 
They dare us to attempt to
Plant our plastic banners 
In their fathomless deep. 
We try and the surface 
Swells to brush its talons across 
Our brief bristles of civilisation,
To cover us in sweet 
Dreamless humility. 

Half-Sleep II

I

My eyes close 
And with a silent spell 
I seek to summon my captors
Of salvation. Come
And steal me from my immovable 
Self, come and shape me, melt 
Me, that I may flow into 
Better moulds. Come, 
Priestess of the higher truths, 
Come, sagely mentor, bearded
And robed, come you, band 
Of post-punk spiritual 
Subversives, come and take me, 
Make me whatever wades best 
Through this world of banality 
And hardship. 

II

For many years I have warmed 
My bed to sleep with such harbingers 
Of disappearance. To vanish
Not to hurt nor to worry, to escape
Not from people nor from life, 
But break the bustle that pushes 
Every ounce of respite, even sickness
In its chained hourglass neck.

Imagine a release from that
Tyranny, which ploughs our bloodstained
Growth and claims whatever we may 
Reap. Imagine an escape from mandated
Progress per second. Imagine a retreat
Into an unguided, unseen existence; 
Its playful wandering rewilding 
The laboured acres of the mind 
To deliver unto you the kind
Of priceless boon no market 
Could ever hope
To sell. 


Bio:

Tuur Verheyde is a twenty-four year old Belgian poet. His work endeavours to capture the weirdness of the 21st century; its globalised art, culture, politics and problems. Tuur’s poetry seeks to further cultural, spiritual, political and emotional connectivity on an international level. His work is personal and outward looking and seeks to accurately represent the blurred boundaries between the real, the surreal and the hyperreal, as well meshing the personal with the political and the spiritual. https://tuurverheyde.com

Anchor to the Flight I & II by Tuur Verheyde : poetry

Anchor to the Flight

Comfort presses
Into every idle sigh,
Anchor to the flight 
That dares to bring 
Your hearth some feral 
Sparks even when it 
Only welcomes homely 
Warmth. 

When the world unwound 
Many a hiss was heard 
Chanting anew a new 
A newness to the old 
Leisure lost in sickness’ 
Eager spread. And I 
Too howl under heavy 
Breath That we may 
Be remade free from  
Yesterday’s spiteful
Shame.

Transience tells us 
To take our fill with 
Every sip, for naught
Remains unmoved,
And yet every time
I rise and seek 
Different better days
I am irked to find
The past holding down 
The tattered hem grinning 
While I flail and fail 
To cut it loose. 

Its lesson like itself 
Stubborn to move 
An inch from where 
Last it stood: You will 
Change only when the
Webbed Wyrd deigns 
To let you take a careful 
Step or else hurl you 
By sudden blessing 
Or catastrophe
Into the dreadful 
New. 

Anchor to the Flight II

We walked past a fallow stretch; 
Spring’s timid prelude is like that
Sometimes: cold wind and warm
Light, a whiff of something 
Shifting in the air. This is 
The transit season. Mood and mind
Find slight mutations. The weather
Brings all kinds currents to the fore. 
We get the ludicrous notion that this
Is it. The Return. The Hinge. 
The Time of Possibility, when 
Something comes to soak 
Everything in its entirety into 
A new coat, a new taste, 
A new meaning, a new song. 
In the drudgery and the news, 
We find the truth; that change, 
However sudden, rarely comes
Uncourted. 


Bio:

Tuur Verheyde is a twenty-four year old Belgian poet. His work endeavours to capture the weirdness of the 21st century; its globalised art, culture, politics and problems. Tuur’s poetry seeks to further cultural, spiritual, political and emotional connectivity on an international level. His work is personal and outward looking and seeks to accurately represent the blurred boundaries between the real, the surreal and the hyperreal, as well meshing the personal with the political and the spiritual. https://tuurverheyde.com

2 new poems by Tuur Verheyde

Snapshots

I am a constant picture 
Taker, not for sharing 
Or some showy social 
Media purpose, but to try
And capture the elusive 
Footsteps of Transience
Itself. 

Too many years went by 
Noticing the ephemeral 
Beauty of seasons and
Moments only as they fell 
Into the haze of detached 
Recollection; too many 
Memories were merely 
Scribbled in the mind’s 
Fading sketches. 

To ensnare impermanence 
In timeless frames is not 
Only to challenge Time’s 
Unremitting grasp, but 
To imprint upon the mind, 
Which seeks above all comfort 
In things that seem to last, 
The graceful dance of unborn
Beginnings and death
Without end, one picture 
At a time. 

A Death Abroad

In the old days all witness 
Was from friend or foe. News 
Flew no further than love or spite 
Could stand to bear it out,
But now stories of your
Death are spread 
To places your imagination
Never even knew to draw, 
To strangers whom you 
Would not know how 
To name had you ever 
Learned of them. 

A small comfort; 
Our lives might reach 
Far beyond the sights  
Our mind had learned 
To see, even as they pass, 
Touching buildings and bodies 
That would confound 
Our understanding. And yet 
Today more swiftly are 
They swept away from  
The surface of most,
Embattled, minds. 


Bio:

Tuur Verheyde is a twenty-four year old Belgian poet. His work endeavours to capture the weirdness of the 21st century; its globalised art, culture, politics and problems. Tuur’s poetry seeks to further cultural, spiritual, political and emotional connectivity on an international level. His work is personal and outward looking and seeks to accurately represent the blurred boundaries between the real, the surreal and the hyperreal, as well meshing the personal with the political and the spiritual. https://tuurverheyde.com

3 poems by Tuur Verheyde : “April in Exile” “May Meandering” “March in Ending”

3 poems by Tuur Verheyde : “April in Exile” “May Meandering” “March in Ending”

April in Exile 

The Morrigan soars across emerald skies.
Devilry will only join in doom.
Madness mixes as much it can.
Harpies hover above my barren mount,
They shit tar and turpentine.
Depression and Delirium struggle to reign supreme.
Sloth, my deadliest sin, blasts them both.
It owns me now.


My cloven tongue licks its bloodied lips
An unshaven cheek peels away,
Its barren rotting skin.
This face may show decay,
For none who care shall look upon it.
My sluggish hands slowly get to work,
The cogs cough and moan, as dust rises
And cobwebs are torn by movement;
Black smoke rises from my nose.

Exile tastes of mouldy bread.
Envy projects scenes of joy,
I miss the play, the party-lights.
My nights glitter with the spectre of artillery fire.
I anger and confuse my former friends.
Forgive me, Jocasta. I am blinded by bitterness.
I am hollow.
I cannot join your merry nights
Without defiling them.
Forgive me, Medea, I will bleed for your craft.
Forgive me, Flowers. I will not disturb your bloom.
Forgive me, classicists, for leaving your velvet fold.
I am weak, but will return.

I am woken by battle cries.
The homestead shivering once again;
The ravings of an old Ogre,
Whose self-righteous mania
Makes even the dogs cringe with shame.
How cruel, for Dementia to curse this hold a second time.

Academia appears to me,
Her patience is running out.
Mild, she once was.
A golden Minerva for whom I knelt.
Sloth now stays my hand,
And she grows darker every empty day.
She is Nemesis, fuelled by the furies’ zest.
She will have my blood before summer.

May now crawls upon the stage,
A month before the horrid trial.
Academia and Sloth fight without an end.
Depression is a man-eater with crimson manes.
He tears my flesh,
Bit by bit.
In exile, I cannot bring pestilence upon the blissful.
In exile, I can diminish in desolate dreams.
As a beast peels off my skin with the utmost patience,
I await my doom.
The way is shut,
All paths will unravel soon.

May Meandering

I
This is the prologue to my obituary,
I write it while lashes ring in my ears.
No more scribbled shit will further burden
Your tired eyes, reader.
I stroll betwixt sand and storms,
Waiting for Damocles’ blade to be released.
Don’t worry, it won’t be long.

Maggots hollow out the flesh,
Carving caverns into bones,
Carving homes for bugs and beetles,
Rotted beneath the sun,
Rotted beneath the rain,
I lie slain in meadowsweet.
Destined to be a den
For crawling creatures of the night.
I slew myself for the greater good,
For shame, for honour and such toss.
Ajax-like I plunged a blade into my chest,
Oedipus-evoking I gouged out my eyes.
A hollow husk to house the gnawing ones
Is what became of me.
Blood spilled in idle crying,
Flows deep into the chasms of the earth.
Gaps and fissures open up to swallow me.
The black soil shows its teeth,
Its vampire-like grin.
‘Desde abajo te devora
Desde abajo te devora.’

And none around to bury me,
None to cover my bloody tears with gold.
None to take a scalp or a bone,
A token of death.
None to sprinkle lilies, to sprinkle blooming death,
None to mourn the eternal dead.
And I awake from a maddening dream,
To see death without a grave.
The earth vomits me back out,
And I rise in the moonlit night.
Claws and spikes grow from me,

And I remember how I passed.
I see faces I once loved,
Through the midnight hour
They glare, now unloving.
I sow the seeds of absence,
To reap hatred in return.

II

The miasmic mist mingles with humidity.
Mingled is our mind, our sense.
We close the soil and salt the earth.

War is waged on cyber fronts,
Digital domains raided again.
Chechnya drips into the mind,
Love is being murdered there,
Another silent genocide.
Eurovision slouches on the screen,
Gasp, laugh, gloat and applaud.
Trump whines and weeps,
The pustule always keep erupting.

We are walled in with cardboard boxes.
Wotan’s host crossed the border,
This time passing past the hills.
They tamed the salient and brought us rain;
Hooved stampedes and hissing iron.
The hammer falls,
And zealous floods spice the panting air.

The triple-faced Diane rises from the rain,
Hounds howling as she ascends.
Youngling’s blood flows as her libation.
She slides across a sleepless eve,
To show me white cliffs,
The Demeter landing on ravaged shores.
A beast disembarks,
Lashed limbs left in its wake.
Vapour crawls beneath your doors,
Lidless eyes pierce the skies,
They watch us as we sleep.
The worlds were poured
Through my waking hours.
In the night,
I am poured through them.

I return on the snake of steel,
The land is not what it was.
Sociability, a maze,
Crooked walls, cloaked in black,
Curling on the horizon’s hills,
Plunging in the valley’s depths.
The sky wears a scarf with violet tones.
Sighing in silence, I retreat.
This is no place for a pariah.
Forgiveness is a godly gift.
Unworthy fools must make way.

Forgive me, friends, for I have sinned.
I pay in unshed tears,
In absence and in cold.
In silent faces frowning.
In powerlessly texting first,
Against an ocean of silence.

My soul shows me deserts,
Earth cracked by drought,
Citrine skies blazing
With whirling clouds.
I see rusted metal ridding.
Rotting citadels of steel
Tower above ashen lands.
The furies pave our barren roads.
Skies are burning above our graves.
The killing of the world,
No future for the wicked.
Morpheus tells me to prepare,
Forsaken, I stand before an envoy of divinity.
The gods of godlessness have abandoned us,
The old alliances are fucked to bits.

The blade sways above me,
To fall
On Ascension Day.

March in Ending
I

March, in ending
Becomes the gravedigger of last year’s ambitions.
Spring is the true season of death.
For as Autumn and Winter peel away
The life in nature,
They do so gently.
The slowly balding head
Of Gaia
Does not provoke
A tear in time.

Spring, however, disrespectfully
Blasts its way through the gloom
We had become so familiar with.
The beauty of the blossom
Caresses the eye,
The explosion of colour shakes
The jaded soul into summer sentiment.
But in the tremors of rebirth
Lies the realisation of death.
How long since we gazed upon
March’s caressing sun.
How many things have died since then.
But unlike the flora,
Many of these things were not made for rebirth.

Time has passed, alas.
The sweet warmth of the sun,
Leaves the bitterness of loss
Upon our merry minds.
Thus March,
In its final days, covers
The lost with fertile earth,
And allows for new life
To grow upon them.
They disappear beneath
The carpet of colour
And sink in the soil
Of faded Memory.

II

March in ending,
Summons the hounds of hell.
Demons take a hold of me.
Not the paralysing
Not the self-loathing
No, Anarchy now inhabits me.
I cover Time with a cloth,
I turn of the power to the social leash,
I knowingly abstain from Duty’s emotional blackmail.
I answer to no one.
I renounced fancy and its tricks,
I renounced the grey pantomime of sociability,
I renounced it all.
Lectures on Woodrow Wilson’s great aunt’s aching toenail,
On anecdotes concerning curry and self-indulgent wank.
Seminars on the structuring of souls harvested from
Their now dreamless livestock.
Drunk on our blood, we are judged by the ivory towers
Of sycophantic sociability in the name of scholarship.

Academia,
I am Judas to thy Christ.
I am Brutus to thy Caesar.
I am The Confederation to thy Union.
I must the betrayer to thy cause,
Serving a cause before which even you
Should kneel.

I lie,
Loveless,
Bleeding,
With my thirty pieces of silver:
Buying books I have not the courage to read
Writing poems that will not be read,
Wasting my time with self-indulgence
That that sustains and destroys me.
Occasionally, I leave my row house cave.
I look at the world through coloured glasses—
Literally, not metaphorically—
March frees Persephone from Hades’ clutch,
March heralds Ostara of the Dawn,
And all those who resurrected by her.
March must be the season of war,
As old grievances bloom accompanied by flora,
As old hellish creatures screech next to songbirds.
All beasts do the dance of death
On blossoming meadows filled with life.
I dig the grave of my academic future,
And the guilt wains, day by day.
Day by day, a few hours of work
Undermine my self-sabotaging whims.

Cut the flesh and heal the wound,
Cut the flesh and heal the wound,
Not for pain,
Not for guilt,
But because we must.
If Sisyphus was happy,
Why not Tantalus?
Why not us?

In the end, it matters not.
Fulfilling duty or opposing it.
All seems equal.
All echoes with the same resonance,
The same fickle tremors.
Anarchy is master
When no one else is.

III

March in ending
May end me,
May end the me that was.
It tells me nothing,
Shows me nothing.
But the fickleness of time,
The treacherous nature
Of Nature.
Thus we end,
Like March
On a pointless
Sour confusing note,
As my anticipation of serendipity
Resembles a less brilliant
Less existential
Less poetic
Less humorous
Waiting for Godot.

Bio:

Tuur Verheyde is a twenty-four year old Belgian poet. His work endeavours to capture the weirdness of the 21st century; its globalised art, culture, politics and problems. Tuur’s poetry seeks to further cultural, spiritual, political and emotional connectivity on an international level. His work is personal and outward looking and seeks to accurately represent the blurred boundaries between the real, the surreal and the hyperreal, as well meshing the personal with the political and the spiritual. https://tuurverheyde.com