{"id":346,"date":"2026-06-05T19:40:27","date_gmt":"2026-06-05T19:40:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/anoukbrusse.com\/?page_id=346"},"modified":"2026-06-05T21:41:06","modified_gmt":"2026-06-05T21:41:06","slug":"poetry","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/anoukbrusse.com\/?page_id=346","title":{"rendered":"POETRY"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

POETRY<\/h1>\n\n\n\n

Poetry occupies a unique space within my work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Where painting explores presence through image and theatre through dialogue, poetry allows me to give form to experiences that often resist direct description. It is, for me, the most natural language for exploring the complexity of human emotion and the often intangible nature of memory, love, loss, perception and self-understanding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Although many of these poems originate in personal experience, they are not intended as autobiography. Rather, they seek to make visible something universal: the inner landscapes through which we navigate our lives and make sense of the world around us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The poems presented here are available in both English and Dutch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
The Deep<\/strong><\/em>

Meet me
at the bottom of the sea.
Where darkness
makes the scarcity
of light
so very radiant.

Where silence says much more
than all the beautiful words.
Where every movement
breaks the force of the water
in
slow
motion.

Where the seabed is soft
yet strong enough
to carry it all.

Meet me there.

For in the deep
I find my breath.

In that darkness
I find my light.<\/pre>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
Het Diep<\/em><\/strong>

Ontmoet mij
op de bodem van de zee.
Daar waar het donker
de schaarsheid
van het licht
zo mooi
laat stralen.

Waar de stilte meer vertelt
dan alle mooie woorden.
Waar elke beweging
in slowmotion
de kracht van het water breekt.

Waar de bodem zacht is,
maar hard genoeg
om het al te dragen.

Ontmoet mij daar.

Want in het diep
vind ik mijn adem.

In dat donker
vind ik mijn licht.<\/pre>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
Goodbye<\/em><\/strong>

Yesterday, I buried you.

No stone. No cross.
Your name inked
into the hidden side
of my skin.

When I was a child
I believed death was goodbye \u2014
the farthest distance imaginable.

I was wrong.

You are closer now
than ever.

I thought the parting
held the pain.

It doesn\u2019t.

The deepest wound
is hearing your footsteps,
knowing you\u2019re not there.

The pain is feeling you
beside me.
The hunger of my hand
to touch yours.

As a child
I thought heaven
was above the clouds.

No.

Your heaven
is my heart.

I thought grief
was the darkest thing there is.
And perhaps that\u2019s true.

But you are gone.

Which means 
I can never
lose you
again.
<\/pre>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
Afscheid<\/em><\/strong>

Gister heb ik je begraven.

Geen steen. Geen kruis.
Jouw naam getatoe\u00eberd
op de binnenkant 
van mijn huid.

Ik dacht als kind dat 
de dood het afscheid was.
Het verder dan ver.

Maar dat is niet zo.

Je bent dichterbij
dan ooit.

Ik dacht dat in
het afscheid
de grootste pijn
besloten lag.

Ook dat is niet waar.

De grootste pijn
is jouw voetstappen horen
terwijl je er niet meer bent.

De grootste pijn is
je naast me voelen.
Mijn hand hongerig
naar jouw hand.

Ik dacht als kind dat de hemel 
boven de wolkenstoeten lag.

Nee.

Jouw hemel
is mijn hart.

Ik dacht dat rouw
het donkerste donker was.
Dat is misschien waar.

Maar ik ben je kwijt.

Ik kan je dus 
nooit meer
verliezen.<\/pre>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
Stories<\/em><\/strong>

It was night.
I stepped outside.

My eyes
did not yet know
the dark.

They said
it was dangerous,
that I needed
a hand
to guide me,
that in the fall
that would follow
I would break
my bones.

That I
was not made
for
the dark.

The stories
we tell
ourselves.

My pupils
slowly
adjusted.

Black
became
a deep
dark blue.

The stars
lit my path,
the moon
whispered
there was nothing
to fear.

I sat down.

My ears
heard
the crushing
silence.

They were
no longer used
to listening
to the soft
ticking blood
in my veins,
to the rushing
of a thousand
thoughts
in my head.

If only
I could hear
myself.

The stories
we tell
ourselves.

The nothing
turned out
to be full
of sounds.

The rustling leaves,
the chirping crickets.

The calling
of birds\u2014
if only I knew
what they
longed for.

And in between
a truth
that I had
always known
whispered softly.

The stories
we tell
ourselves.

I closed my eyes.

The voices
of my ancestors
echoed
through my skull.

About life.
About everything
I knew
deep down,
but sometimes
could not hear.

A hundred stories
that they and I
made inside
to show
the world
outside.

Which story
do you choose
to tell?
<\/pre>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
Verhalen<\/em><\/strong>

Het was nacht.
Ik liep naar buiten.

Mijn ogen kenden
het donker nog niet.

Ze zeiden
dat het gevaarlijk was,
dat ik een hand nodig had
om me te leiden,
dat ik in de val
die zou volgen
mijn botten zou breken.

Dat ik
niet gemaakt was
voor het duister.

De verhalen
die wij onszelf
vertellen.

Mijn pupillen
pasten zich
langzaam aan.

Het zwart
werd
diep donkerblauw.

De sterren
verlichtten mijn pad,
de maan
fluisterde
dat er niets was
om bang voor te zijn.

Ik ging zitten.

Mijn oren
hoorden
de verpletterende stilte.

Ze waren
niet meer gewend
aan het luisteren
naar het zacht
klokkend bloed
in mijn aderen,
naar het ruizen
van duizend
gedachten
in mijn hoofd.

Hoorde ik
mezelf
maar.

De verhalen
die wij onszelf
vertellen.

Het niets
bleek te bestaan
uit vele geluiden.

Het ritselend blad,
de krakende krekels.

Het roepen
van de vogels \u2014
wist ik maar
waarnaar ze verlangden.

En daartussen
fluisterde zacht
een waarheid
die ik eigenlijk
al kende.

De verhalen
die wij onszelf
vertellen.

Ik sloot mijn ogen.

De stemmen
van mijn voorvaderen
echoden
in mijn schedel
heen en weer.

Over leven.
Over alles
wat ik diep van binnen wist
maar soms
niet kon horen.

Honderd verhalen
die zij en ik
van binnen maakten
om zo
de wereld buiten
te tonen.

Welk verhaal
vertel jij
het liefst?<\/pre>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
POETRY Poetry occupies a unique space within my work. Where painting explores presence through image and theatre through dialogue, poetry allows me to give form to experiences that often resist direct description. 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