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Poetry ROOTS - MAR/APR 2019 Sybrand Veeger

Expansion and Contraction

Written by Sybrand Veeger

Expansion and Contraction:

I wasn’t the first to observe:
Nature expands through light
And contracts through gravity.

If this is nature’s music, her chordal root,
I’d like to dig deeper,
To play further:

Time’s movement cannot be linear.
It must follow the reality of light and gravity.

Perhaps timelessness, infinity,
Could be thought to resemble contraction.
Maybe timeliness, finitude,
Could be thought to resemble expansion.

What lives, grows and dies, is that which expands,
That which swells reality.
What is and is perpetually, energy, for instance,
Bears upon the finite,
Forcing it to yield,
Like gravity does on light!

The Spirit and Matter of history,
As Hegel and Marx observed respectively,
Dance tango to a pulsing beat:
The rhythm of Time’s dialectical feet.

If we listen closely to the music of history,
We detect its movements:

The allegro of Antiquity,
An adagio in early christianity,
A lentando into the middle age,
And a renaissance crescendo into an enlightened revolution – Accelerando!

Then modernity produced industry,
Which in turn swelled inequality,
Poverty, crooked morality:
The total misery of humanity.

Although there’s some delight in science, technology, globality!
Thanks to which nationality has lost some gravity.

History, then, moves accordingly:
Like an atom, chord and strings,
Expansively and contractively.

There are some tunes left in the chord root of Nature:

The body, human or otherwise,
Follows the tempo of a pump:
The neck’s pulse, the heart’s thump,
Allows for breath to dance likewise.

Exhalations, inhalations,
The vibrations, my pulsations.
Expansions and contractions
At the core of all sensations.

All that’s left is the spirit, the mind,
I hope it tango’s á la divine.
Allen Caldeira MICRO CHANGES - JAN/FEB 2019 Poetry

Special Leftovers

Written by Allen Caldiera

They have constructed the cocoon,
sparkling, diamond-body, fecund
sac of mottled clay, congealing
in a formless flotilla, the dew pearl,
a stamen for the light of moon.

And the soul is ferried
across the channel, a future fortress
for the fire-brand ball balancing
against the stem of mast,
basking in the lake before the river
before the castle, whose towers
it will rest in, whose apses
it will hover above while soldiers
work alembics and furnaces, shelter
windsacks and retorts, who press the ashes
of a phoenix cooked in clay into
the form of a future body, the form,
homunculus, fed by the blood of seven kings
and left to flower in the strike of daylight.

And the body is breathed, astrologers
operate breathwork automatons by the stars,
which haul fireworks to the shoreline, which stoke
the ember of an endless flame formed
from sunlight in their stomachs,
the priestesses and virgins flock
against shores, against the weight
of their hope, their longing for new days,
for re-born kings, for the unfurling
of the sail of the sun.

And the king unfurls his fingers,
tendrils of day, and embarks
in the memory of chrysalis,
the reconfiguration, molding of his body
in a soup thick like sap, mutable
like marble-mirrored light beams, hot as
fire on a wrung-dry forest floor, cold as
the shelterless northern wanderers in night.
“And where had I been when I was
there? How to know the body
if it is reconfigured ceaselessly?
How can one be himself when there
are infinite one’s to become? Is there a spark
is there a core? Is there any inkling of
immutability anywhere in”

And then a jolt –

the merchants
and soldiers, handmaids and schoolboys,
priestesses and plum farmers,
flower-haired, confetti-formed,
waiting at the shore to ferry him home.
MICRO CHANGES - JAN/FEB 2019 Poetry Sybrand Veeger

Heraclitus and “I”

Written by Sybrand Veeger

To the skies he cried,

Nothing is but fire!

Observing thus that everything is change.

He knew that God-or-Nature had but one desire:

To stay in flux, to stay in flow, to re- and rearrange!

Nothing ever stands, for the cosmos eternally will dance:

Being’s moves are both random and necessary,

For the beat is chaotic yet perpetually voluntary.

One never steps into the same river twice,

Whispered our Greek identifying parallel streams:

The river flows and so do I,

Observing thus that “I” is something else than what it seems:

There is no meaningful, purposeful or essential “I,”

Or a “self” to be developed as a self-contained existence;

Rather life’s basic playfulness is unwise to deny!

If at every instant “I” returns as another

and as an other,

Self is a ceaseless repetition of different others to discover:

If this morphing game is a play of masks

Like an inwardly theatre with no future, with no past,

We should conclude that self’s a stream                                                                       or a perpetual come-and-go,

That there is no truthful state that will one day lead the show –


Unfold all masks!

Release all fire!

Let us play!

Let us dance! – to the cosmic beat’s desire.

Marten Bart Stork MICRO CHANGES - JAN/FEB 2019 Poetry

Creatio Ex Nihilo

Written by Marten Bart Stork

(A) Small change.
(B) A little different.

A little goes a long way.

Together all the bugs on this planet not only got us outnumbered, but they also got us outweighed.

What’s a little and what’s a lot?
What is big and what is not?

An amount only has meaning in comparison to something else.

The size of something only has meaning in comparison to something else.
What is a galaxy to us could be only the nucleus of a cell.

The cell of a body so big we could never even experience it as such.

What’s small change for you to someone else could mean so much.

Make (a) small change.
(B)e a little different.

What is change?
What is difference?

Change is everything.

Change is the difference between everything and nothing.
The conflict between everything and nothing.

Change is energy.

If an object or an event never change it’s impossible to experience them.

If there is no difference between things it’s impossible to observe the things.

Difference is information.

The difference between 0 and 1

Creation out of nothing.

Everything is the change from nothing into something.

Change is the difference between everything and nothing.

Jonas Guigonnat Poetry Sybrand Veeger TRANSFORMATIVE TECHNOCRATS - December 2018

What Would A Technecracy Look Like?

Written by Sybrand Veeger and Jonas Guigonnat


There is something romantic about an etymological voyage,
Something utopically revealing –
The feeling is akin to tracing back your genealogical roots:
Familiarizing yourself with familiarity,
Fathoming alternative familiarities:
Unearthing roots
To imagine trees.

Let me share a genealogical log with you:

This time Heidegger was my guide,
That German Virgil of meaning –
We sailed down into the etymological piths of technology,
That timeliest of concepts.

Currently, he said while descending,
Techno means something radically different from its Greek root:
Techne signifies something other than
Instrumental manipulation,
The obsession with means,
The encasing and concealment of nature.

Techne, rather, is not opposed to nature –
The craftsman, artisan, manufacturer,
Akin to the poet and the painter,
Brings forth a creation,
And, like nature’s disclosure of light,
The technecrat reveals,

From this root, I imagine a tree,
I utopize:
What would a technecracy look like?


What would it be?
A possibility
A rhetoric answer to the didactic –
What would hell look like?
A travel through the world of words,
Might not be worth the bet:

Forgotten corners
Of human abysses.

It is now my turn to share something with you:

This time is not different than any other,
Chaos shall be our only friend –
Time and words are no sea to be sailed on,
For near those places there are no grounds to be found.

Mistakingly, heading toward nowhere,
Techno means the same as any other word:
Techne suggests the dream of
Human’s manipulation,
The creation of means,
The enchaining and impairment of nature.

Techne, then, becoming an arm of nature –
The charlatan, conman, mindreader,
Attached to the same fear that drives the righteous one,
Brings forth an illusion,
And, similar to nature’s inexistent logic,
The technecrat steals,

From this abyss, I shall see no tree,
I temporize:
What could a technocracy look like?


Surely, from the hellish wells of history,
From the depths of human chaos,
At least one meaningful bucket can be drawn,
To pour upon ourselves,
To awaken us from present drowsiness?
To quench our thirst for hope?

Techne – that hellenic understanding of technology,
Reinvigorates our relationship with Gaia:

Re-embedded in the natural,
Technological production
Mutates into technelogical creation:

Re-embedded in the natural,
Productivity re-evolves into an essential craftsmanship,

Re-embedded in the natural,
Power as coercion becomes
Power as potential:
Common statecraft replaces
Distant democratic delegation,

Desperately in need of reinterpretation,
Let’s unearth the roots of our technological foundation,
To give birth to an earthlier sense of future procreation.