Health issues have kept me housebound, but I was determined to go and see this artwork at Museum Beelden aan Zee, Scheveningen before it goes back to Marseille. A sunny, breezy autumn day, a salty tang, quiet beach.
Khaled Dawwa (Maysaf, 1985) worked on it during 2018 – 2022. He was invited to show it at Beelden aan Zee in 2025 – when here in The Netherlands we celebrate 80 years of freedom.
Voici mon coeur!
The work (tr. Here is my heart!) is a 6 m long model. It’s made of vulnerable, unbaked clay. It represents a fictional street in Damascus. Outside, there are the remains of a car, benches, a swing seat. We see material damage. The setting is nighttime.
It was a disorienting experience walking into the small side gallery as it was almost dark. A volunteer gives visitors a small torch, so we can walk around and shine into the rooms: beds, tables, chairs, a poster on the wall, a book left on the table.
Dawwa and his family fled Syria shortly after the start of the civil war. After a year in Lebanon, they travelled to France where they now live in exile. Khaled now works in a studio just outside Paris.
Before leaving he took photos of the works he had made, then destroyed them – for security reasons, or because they were too large to travel.
Voici mon coeur!, a contemporary war memorial, is a personal and emotional representation, in contrast with the collective memory expressed by traditional war memorials. A powerful and timely reminder. I found it deeply moving.
Today I am voting twice: first for a political party, then for a tree.
In a busy city, there is little room for trees to become old. On average, a city tree lives for 50 years.
The Hague doesn’t have many old trees: during WWII a lot were cut down, their wood used for cooking and heating. Of the 120,000 city trees, only around 1300 have the ‘monumental’ tree status.
Such trees are over 50 years old and meet at least one of these criteria: it is irreplaceable, of rare type, shape, or size. It may have historical value, or provide a home for rare plants or animals.
Photo credit: Joost Gieskes
The veteran tree initiative comes from the UK. The first official veteran tree of The Hague – even of The Netherlands – is a lime or linden tree (Tilia x europea) on the Clingendael Estate. This was planted around 1733.
I came across it on my walks during the first 2020 lockdown: Clingendael is close to the camping where I had my caravan. I was intrigued to find a tree in a corner of a field with a fence round it.
A veteran tree is protected and allowed to remain in place forever. A ‘monumental’ tree may be cut down when it becomes dangerous or diseased.
Japanese flowering cherry, tree. 92, 13 m wide.
The Hague local authority has nominated 10 trees and invites people to vote for five of these to become a veteran tree. The five trees that don’t get veteran status will become monumental trees. All the nominated trees are between 70 and 220 years old.
This is much harder than choosing a political party!
Will I choose that Japanese cherry, or the ’12 Broers’, tree no. 73, a 220-year-old oak that had a tough life (cut down often) and now has 12 trunks (the brothers), or choose the 145-year-old Mourning beech that houses falcons. I will let you know.
This coming Wednesday are the elections for the ‘Tweede Kamer van de Staten Generaal’ – the lower house of parliament.
All over the country, boards have appeared with the 24 political parties. In large cities and towns each party has its own board. In small towns, like mine, the one shown.
On Friday, a pale grey sheet of A1-sized paper arrived by post: names of candidates for the 25 parties. So much detail: it’s essential to orient yourself beforehand. Otherwise, you’d spend too much time in your cubicle on the day, and there will be queues. When I voted in the last elections (November 2023), I couldn’t fold the paper back into its original roadmap shape…
The Dutch are famed for their tolerance. I find that puzzling, but then I spent most of my life outside The Netherlands.
A few months ago, a new political party ‘Vrede voor Dieren’ (Peace for Animals) was established. They split from the original ‘Partij van de Dieren’ (Party of the Animals) because the leader of the PvdD (initially pacifist) changed their views and now supports re-armament. The new VvD rejects re-armament in principle.
You don’t need to have read Animal Farm to think that an animal’s view of pacifism is probably Will I be eaten or not? (paraphrasing a Dutch novelist).
Confidence in politics and politicans
Confidence in politics is at an all-time low. In the August 2025 polls it ranged from 4% – 9%. Some 25% of those polled were floating voters. There are several reasons for that.
Photo credit: MabelAmber via Pixabay
Time lost in the polder…
The ‘polder’ model is the pragmatic recognition of pluriformity. Time is needed to achieve consensus: people will need to polder. However, this verb has a negative connotation in relation to politics. An election will be followed by months of sitting and talking, walking and talking. A ‘formateur’ will facilitate the process. Meanwhile, the previous coalition is just ‘care taking’ and keeps things ticking over.
It also takes several months to organise an election, typically four to five.
The coalition Rutte II was the first cabinet that completed its full four-year term since 1998. Its starting date was 5 November 2021. Since then, just over two years were spent on forming the next three coalitions.
Not lasting the course…
Rutte III – the full cabinet resigned over the child benefit scandal. A parliamentary enquiry had found that officials had knowingly and systematically deprived people who were legitimate claimants. Thousands of people have still not been compensated.
Rutte IV – resigned over fundamental disagreements regarding immigration measures.
Schoof – An unstable coalition from the start: two parties (the Boer Burger Beweging or BBB) and the NSC (Nieuw Sociaal Contract) both new to government and both struggling to get enough credible candidates for their seats. With Wilders of the PVV (Partij voor de Vrijheid) who’d walked out of an earlier coalition government. Seen as a ‘bunch of amateurs bickering amongst themselves.’
Not tackling the crucial issues
The Hague is a long way from the northern province of Groningen where thousands of people have been waiting for over a decade for compensation. (The subsidence caused to properties caused by fracking. Another parliamentary enquiry.) Just an example.
This time I’m a floating voter. So, I’ll go and have another coffee, inspect that grey form a little closer!
It is a pleasure and a privilege to share three poems from Wendy Klein’s new pamphlet Having Her Cake, published by Grey Hen Press. The pamphlet is dedicated to Barbara Cox (1943 – 2019). Several poems give us vivid details about their lifelong friendship. However, the focus is Barbara’s ‘physician assisted’ death. The opening poem starts: Barbara never knows what time it is in Britain. California calling ends: the kindly California law / on assisted dying / I tell her I’m coming.
Having her Cake
The chocolate cake, left over from her annual pre-Christmas do sits on a large white china plate, dwindling in size day by day, an unwashed fork lying next to it, a temptation to any passers-by, though no one ever sees anyone else eating it and it would have been sacrilege to open the cutlery drawer, select a clean fork, place the used one in the sink or the dishwasher, but someone on the third day I’m there removes the plate, crumb-covered and sticky, replaces it with a tidy paper version tucking the now over-large piece of cling-film around the edges clumsily, carelessly, as if it no longer mattered, as if at any moment it could be binned plate and all.
What you can’t wake
The dead. No, not even the dogs, grumbling at being shut in their crates, beside her bed peering through the grate, eyes full of reproach.
No, you can’t wake the dead, but the not-quite-dead are too awake, their eyes peeled until the last, their flesh jumpy, their muscles braced.
Beneficiary
Released from the need to worry for herself, she frets about the falling stock market on behalf of her beneficiary, a willowy young hairdresser, the daughter she never had, who will inherit everything: the rambling shambolic bungalow with its million and one flaws: the water pressure that shuts down the whole system when the shower is on, necessitating bouts of shouting, water, water if someone so much as turns on a tap to rinse a cup, brushes teeth, flushes the toilet in any other part of the house — a second-hand Honda Jazz, a rusting dishwasher, a dog run which looks like a concentration camp for canines, meant to be protection from ‘critters out there,’ and the stock market falling, falling, falling.
Biography
Widely published and the winner of many prizes, Wendy Klein is a retired psychotherapist, born in New York and brought up in California. Since leaving the U.S. in 1964, she has lived in Sweden, France, Germany, and England. Her writing has been influenced by early family upheaval resulting from her mother’s death when she was nine months old, her nomadic years as a young single mother and subsequent travel. She has published three collections: Cuba in the Blood (2009) and Anything in Turquoise (2013) from Cinnamon Press, and Mood Indigo (2016), from Oversteps Books., plus a new and selected, Out of the Blue (2019) from The High Window Press. Her first pamphlet Let Battle Commence (2020) from Dempsey & Windle, was based on her great grandfather’s letters home while serving as a Confederate Officer in the US Civil War. She shares her work on https://www.cronepoet.com.
Last year I wrote about the ‘Ongelezen Boeken Club’ (Unread Books Club), a new venture where libraries promoted books on the ‘null list’ – books that have never been taken out.
This year, the ‘Nationale Ongelezen Boekendag’ (National Day of Unread Books) coincides with another new initiative: De Week van het Verboden Boek(The Week of Forbidden Books). Bookshops and libraries throughout the country are showcasing books that have been or are still censored.
On Wikipedia, you can find an article on book censorship, a list of banned books and the main list of books banned by governments. This starts with the Bible and Albania and ends with Yugoslavia.
If I counted correctly: 66 countries. ‘Almost every country places some restrictions on what may be published, although the emphasis and the degree of control differ from country to country and at different periods.’
Wikipedia lists 66 books that have been or are currently banned in India. A small number, relatively speaking. The earliest is a Gujarati translation of Mahatma Gandhi’s book Hind Swaraj. This was banned by the British Authorities in 1909. In August 2025, the Indian Home Department banned 25 books for ‘propagating false narrative and secessionism in Jammu and Kashmir.’
Here in The Netherlands, there is only one book officially banned: Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf (1924). In 2014, a bookshop owner in Amsterdam was found to stock and sell the book. There was no prosecution.
However, training for new staff in bookshops routinely includes how to deal with aggressive customers. Library staff find returned books with pages torn out. A Dutch survey last year found that (1 in 7) authors had to deal with aggression, threats, intimidation – much of it online.
Here is the cover of Lale Gul’s debut published in 2021, when she was 23. It’s an autobiographical account of growing up in a strict Islamic family. It became a bestseller and was translated, but Lale has since been in hiding.
If Tallinn is on your bucket list, you can visit the Banned Books Museum while you’re there!
I’m delighted to share poems by Matthew Paul from his new collection with Crooked Spire Press. The poems demonstrate Matthew’s ‘unflinching clarity’, and his ‘fierce attention to detail’. His biography follows the poems and there you can also find a link to his own website.
Spent Matches
Mum lets only Granddad light up in our house. The second Thursday of every other month, she fetches Grandma and him over from Sutton. The chalkhill-blue elegance of the Wedgwood ashtray rhymes with unfiltered smoke rings pixilating like Ceefax in the living-room air.
Teatime doesn’t wait for Dad: Hovis, Primula, Shippam’s fish paste, allotment tomatoes, cress; mini rolls, Penguins, cremated fruitcake; pots of Brooke Bond PG Tips; Beryl Ware replaced by Royal Worcester, on Hay Wain place mats. Chit-chat wilts like Dad’s California poppies.
Mum fills space with monologues. My brothers’ progress; mine. WRVS activities. Her botched hysterectomy. We watch Grandma’s must-see, Crossroads, then ours: ‘Top of the Flops, I call it,’ says Granddad. The outfits, songs, presenters and Legs & Co. baffle him into silence; except
when Julio Iglesias butchers ‘Begin the Beguine’. ‘Artie Shaw!’ he cries; and his and Grandma’s memories spool back to bulletins on the wireless, to Chamberlain’s jubilant declaration of peace. Barely through the door, Dad re-buttons his coat to take them home. Granddad beams, ‘Abyssinia!’
Photo credit: Liam Wilkinson
A Common Hand
I don’t have to prove whether I did it or not; if they can’t see it, what kind of damned experts are they? [. . .] I’m not a crook; I’m just doing what people have always done in the history of the world: ever since art was invented, people have made imitations of it. Eric Hebborn, ‘Portrait of a Master Forger’, Omnibus, BBC TV, 1991
Eric pestles oak gall, gum Arabic, pinches of iron Sulphate and rain into ink with ‘a gorgeous patina’, To pen his line on slyly foxed paper, in the styles Of Pisanello, Poussin and sundry other old masters, Reshaping preparatory sketches to make pentimenti, Faking collectors’ monograms as cherries on top.
At junior school, Eric, aged eight, discovered that Burnt Swan and Vesta matchsticks’ charcoal tips Burnished imagination’s marks, incurring, firstly, Welts from a leathering for possessing matches, Then a three-year stretch in an Essex reformatory For wilfully setting cloakrooms on fire. A flair for Painting sees him into art schools, lastly the RA, Where, though he wins every prize, contemporaries Remember Eric only as ‘a silent creature’; ‘a joke’.
They would say that, since he’s brought their craft Into disrepute. ‘Dealers are not interested in art, but Money,’ he says. ‘The real criminal, if there is one, Is he who makes the false description; guiltier by far Than had he manipulated the nib himself. Ignore The fusspots. Enjoy art, without worrying whether Attributions are correct.’ Museums have everything To lose from uncovering Eric’s handiwork; queasily, They check their acquisitions back to the Sixties And issue, de haut en bas, highly selective denials.
‘No one is studying art with honesty,’ claims Eric, Upon the publication of The Art Forger’s Handbook In Italian. Out in Trastevere three icy nights later, He stumbles, soaked in Chianti Classico Riserva, Down a cobbled passage, to his blunt force demise.
In Which I Spend a Fortnight of my West Berlin Summer in 1987 Doing a Few Hours’ Cleaning Per Day in Some Multinational’s HQ
My Iraqi supervisor Zaynab and I enjoy, for our lingua franca, helpless amusement. Every day, precisely at knocking-off time, we point at the clock, chorus ‘Sechs!’, then cackle like siblings.
Dieter, fellow cleaner, never gets our jokes. Just like me, he’s twenty and nearing the end of a gap year; mandatory, before enrolment at Humboldt. Mine’s elective, for my mental health. He and I view the city’s halves from the roof: the Wall zigzags like the Western Front.
Afterwards, we take the U-Bahn —he buys a ticket; I don’t— to the agency’s office, at Nollendorfplatz. He translates the clerk: I won’t get paid until next week. ‘Scheisse,’ I say. Dieter deadpans: ‘She said, “Ah, so the English boy can speak German after all”’
Biography
Matthew Paul hails from South London and lives in South Yorkshire. His second collection, The Last Corinthians, was published by Crooked Spire Press in June 2025. He is also the author of two haiku collections – The Regulars (2006) and The Lammas Lands (2015) – and co-writer/editor (with John Barlow) of Wing Beats: British Birds in Haiku (2008), all published by Snapshot Press. His reviews regularly appear in The Friday Poem and elsewhere. He blogs here.
Recently, I had a short reunion with the friend I met 35 years ago during a holiday to China. Our reunion last year was in Ghent, Belgium. I was very pleased to discover a branch of De Slegte, second-hand bookshop, in the same street as our hotel. I’d come by train with a rucksack: spending was modest.
I lent Eleven Kinds of Loneliness by Richard Yates to my friend, so she had reading material for her journey back to the UK. I am a keen reader of short stories, glad to have the paperback returned to me. I enjoyed these: the mundane sadness of domestic life.
As the blurb says: ‘a haunting mosaic of the 1950s, the era when the American dream was finally coming true – and just beginning to ring a little hollow.’ Yes, it’s bleak, like Raymond Carver without the humour. Yates had a difficult childhood and suffered from TB which must have coloured his view of life.
Yates is probably best known for his first novel Revolutionary Road. It was published in 1961 and an instant success. The 2008 film with Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio was true to the book.
Bookshop De Slegte, Ghent, Belgium
Mary Ruefle’s My Private Property (2016) includes 11 short pieces about Sadness which are spread throughout the book. Here is an extract from Granta’s website: ‘Red sadness never appears sad . . . it appears in flashes of passion, anger, fear, inspiration and courage, in dark unsellable visions; it is an upside-down penny concealed beneath a tea cosy.’
Writing prompt
Go with loneliness or sadness if it appeals. Or choose another emotion/feeling you would like or not like to write about. Choose a few colours which you like and a few you don’t. What comes out of the melting pot? In her prose poems, Ruefle mixes the descriptions of concrete objects with some abstraction, and off-beat imagery: Grey sadness is the sadness of paper clips and rubber bands, of rain and squirrels and chewing gum,….
Yellow sadness is the surprise sadness. It {….} is the confusing sadness of the never-ending and the evanescent…
It’s an enormous pleasure to introduce this month’s guest poet Pam Thompson. Pam and I met 13 years ago on an extended writing course. You can find her biography below the poems. These are from Pam’s prize-winning pamphlet and show the range of her writing. The Paper Swans pamphlet competition was judged by John McCullough: ‘Sub/urban Legends gripped me because of the way it marries poignancy with a really bold imagination and stylistic flair’. The intriguing cover image is also by Pam.
Explorers, Antarctica, 1901
The leader sits on the sledge. He never does this. It’s against the rules of the expedition but now there are no rules.
Two huskies – the two remaining huskies, they ate the rest – sit either side like imperial lions.
The ship is stuck in frozen waves. The crew are starving or dead but this photo will be evidence that they reached their destination.
The photographer in the black hood. Stepping back. Pulling the cord. The flash.
Self Portrait as Fulang Chang
Freedom, chica, is all. I’ll wear the mandarin’s hat and silk waistcoat, eat all the honeyed grapes, to stay favoured, like a first-born.
I perch on her left shoulder, always on guard, never at ease. I bare my teeth and scream, at Diego and the village dogs.
I am the brush passer, ear for her secrets, but I am all chat, you know, teller of her tales though she isn’t one to keep schtum.
The bloody hearts we paint will drip onto the Blue House floor.
Fête Galante
Take the bus from outside the Water Margin Chinese restaurant—or from where it used to be in 1974—allow plenty of time. You’re at work in Lewis’s, folding up school shirts badly, cramming them back in their packaging; in a History of Art lecture looking at a slide of Fragonard’s ‘The Swing’. The bus will be full, people will be smoking on the top deck, so will you. This must be your stop. Is it everybody’s stop? You join the flow—you think of Tracy Emin’s tent with the names of all the people she ever slept with, or is it her messy bed you’re thinking of. All the beds you ever slept in. Lewis’s. All the shops you ever worked in. And the canteen in the factory where the men always patronised you. Here—you say to the tiny chef—you scrub the bloody burnt pans. All the patronising men you ever worked for—they all get off the bus. You watch them cross London Road. You haven’t moved very far. The Water Margin is the water’s margin and you wonder how this pond, this lake, this sea, arrived in the city. There are willows, and, over there, a fête galante, a woman on a swing, being pushed and pulled, higher and harder, by all the people she ever slept with.
Biography
Pam Thompson is a writer, educator and reviewer based in Leicester. She is a Hawthornden Fellow. Her works include The Japan Quiz (Redbeck Press, 2009) and Show Date and Time, (Smith|Doorstop, 2006). Her collection, Strange Fashion, was published by Pindrop Press in 2017. Pam was winner of the 2023 Paper Swans Pamphlet Competition and her winning pamphlet, Sub/urban Legends (Paper Swans Press) was published in March 2025.
The original wind phone, photo credit Matthew Komatsu
It’s a year ago today that my brother died. If grief is love with nowhere to go, the wind phone can be a place for those feelings to land, even momentarily.
The initiative was started in Japan by garden designer Itaru Sasaki in Otsuchi Prefecture in 2010. Sasaki said: ‘Because my thoughts couldn’t be relayed over a regular phone line, I wanted them to be carried on the wind.’ Hence the name Kaze no denwa’ – phone of the wind. The disconnected old-style rotary telephone allowed him to deal with grief after his cousin’s death of cancer.
Sasaki: ‘When your heart is filled with grief or some kind of burden, you aren’t in tune with your senses. You’re closed off like curtains have been pulled around you. After you empty your heart a little bit, you might be able to hear some birds singing again.’
The following year close to 20,000 people were killed by the earthquake and tsunami. In Tokohu 10% of the population died. Sasaki allowed local people to use the wind phone. Over 30,000 people have made the journey to this telephone since, and wind phones have been set up in other countries. The wind phone also provided inspiration for films and novels.
Amy Dawson (USA) lost her daughter Emily to terminal illness in 2020. She learned about wind phones and now devotes much of her time to maintaining a listing of wind phones worldwide, providing advice and resources. The current total is just over 400. Not all calls are to a deceased. People make calls about other losses. Go to her website for more information. There is also an article on Colossal
The first wind phone in The Netherlands was placed in 2019. There are now eight, with a further eight being planned. The locations include Haarlem – the town where my brother and sister-in-law lived before moving to the nearby village of Spaarndam.
I imagine a wind phone, the black cord snipped, in the dunes of Wijk aan Zee – where I’ll celebrate my special birthday this weekend, and where my brother and I spent much time as children during the summer vacation.
It’s my pleasure to introduce our May guest poet Jane McKie. We met many years ago on a writing workshop and are still part of an email group. You can find her biography at the end of this post. Cinnamon Press recently published her new poems and I’ve chosen some poems from Mine: vivid, clear embodied images with marvellous economy.
Mine
On nights when the wind drops, I hear it crooning softly, not like a real bomb. A toothless, barnacled silhouette, wittering to itself when the tide is low. My friends and I sometimes get close, daring each other to nudge its rust. But what happens when the music cuts out? Tonight, the mine’s a mute companion: whiff of brine, cryptic fist. As my eyelids close, that’s when it—
Kevlar
I am the tattoo of a spider’s web on a sixteen-year-old girl’s calf. Traced from a drawing of a photo, in time, I will thread up her thigh, over her whole torso, in a riot of silk that is stronger than Kevlar.
She will wear me like armour: my vest of ink, her toughest skin. Who wouldn’t fear a woman fluent in the language of spiders? Those twitches in cobwebs that throb like old wounds.
Dreaming in an age of austerity
Not a single one finished: all mark time until a rich developer completes the job. Here, stone knuckles. There, exposed metal rods stab at the sky like a mech-monster’s fingers.
Not vital or hungry, these resort Titans. But not quite dead either. Gulls like to roost in the pockets of them. Gulls dabble bills in puddles that form from the absence of roofs.
Even small children play in the undead bodies of imagined buildings, sneaking past tape to be mummies and daddies in beautiful houses that shelter insatiable, suckling doll-babies.
Polished malachite
on my desk, riven with almost-blue, a pool or algal cistern.
I touch it when I’m sad and its green eye blinks, rippling with souterrain light.
Biography
Jane McKie is a Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing at the University of Edinburgh. She has written several poetry collections, including Morocco Rococo (2007), Kitsune (2015), and Quiet Woman, Stay (2020) with Cinnamon. Her most recent full collection is Carnation Lily Lily Rose (Blue Diode, 2023). She lives in Scotland, but was originally from the Sussex coast, which inspired several poems in Mine.
Acacia Publications 