The point is purple; the point is outside and we are rushing past it.
A prose poem from Amsterdam.
Everything is an edge: curbs, tea cup rims, tip of a pen, bricks, a fact, a fingertip, a bus door. I have been crossing too many edges. For two days I sleep in a train and at night I swear it rumbles although the weeds grow thick around its belly and in the morning it is unmoved. Joy is this fragile thing. When I tell last year in one word, I cry. And yet, I’m happy. This week I travel to three continents and the edges shake me so hard, I vomit at the feet of hundreds of strangers. At the end of the bus ride is endless tulips. Tulips are my story, the bulb and the death and the cream of them. Tulips are the story of the 8-year-old Italian boy pressed against the bus doors saying, “Sono tutti viola, Mama. Sono tutti belli!” A line is a point on the move, said Klara Maisch, and my brother used to insist draw lines. I’m bad at drawing lines; my hand shakes. The point doesn’t sit still. The point doesn’t know where to go. The tulip called “Strong Love” is already out of season, falling over, losing petals. The point is outside and we are rushing past it and there is a child, estatic, the point is all purple; all beautiful. The point is that when we arrived, a woman in a food truck double-cupped my English breakfast tea to curb my nausea. The point is a balloon in the shape of a 5 floating away above our heads. Five what? I still don’t know how to count kindness. Last night my friend asked me if I’ve been in love and I hesitated. Have you? The point is a vine climbing the brick of your house, scenting Spring in Amsterdam with light purple, clotted cream. •
I shared this prose poem a year ago, after spending a day at Keukenhof gardens in the Netherlands. Posts older than five months are accessible only to my paid subscribers; as a thank-you and also as a way to manage who has access to my archives. Once a month, I’ll resurface an old but good post for those of you who are reading for free — I appreciate you being here!
Clearly, I’m into tulips. You can read the story behind the name ‘A Broken Tulip’ here. Check the chat for a fun writing prompt!
Take me to Amsterdam immediately! I need the tulips! And purple!
“The point doesn’t sit still. The point doesn’t know where to go.” 💜 everything really is an edge isn’t it? Loved this so much Maaike.
Seriously, you’re one of my favorite poets I’ve found on Substack. Thank you!