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Ingmar Heytze

Born 1970 in Utrecht. Poet. First house philosopher of the Centraal Museum (1999-2000) and first city poet of Utrecht (2009-2011). Wrote anti-sports columns for the Volkskrant for two years and columns for the (AD) Utrechts Nieuwsblad for twenty years. Currently works for Onze Taal. Wrote some fifteen books of poetry and is always working on new work. Won the C.C.S. Croneprijs in 2008 for his entire oeuvre and received the Maartenspenning of the city of Utrecht in 2016.

INTIMATE LETTERS

Today I must write about A.L. Snijders, the totally idiosyncratic inventor of the Very Short Story. I have admired his work ever since I discovered it through Vrijstaat Austerlitz (1997-1999), a literary magazine that ran for only four issues. Those are probably the best literary magazines, the fewer issues they cover the better. Arjan Witte and Tommy Wieringa, two of the founders... 

MYA

The other day I read how a millennial called cartoonist Peter de Wit (born 1958) a "dinosaur" because of a joke he didn't like. The joke goes like this: a woman happily enters psychiatrist Sigmund's office and tells him that she can translate the poem The hill we climb because she is a woman, black, young ánd a spoken word artist. Sigmund congratulates her and... 

TAKE ME TO THE RIVER

Big Mouth Billy Bass is een grootbekforelbaars van kunststof die aan een plank is bevestigd. Als er iemand in de buurt komt – of op een knopje drukt – barst de vis uit in een gruizige vertolking van een voorgeprogrammeerd liedje, meestal ‘Take me to the river’ van Al Green. Bij de refreinregel komt de kop los van het… 

TOP THREE

‘Het begint nu toch echt iets met mij te worden,’ dicht Vrouwkje Tuinman met gezonde zelfironie in de bundel Lijfrente. In haar geval kun je dat wel zeggen – Lijfrente won vorig jaar de Grote Poëzieprijs. Het is een mooie regel, zeer geschikt om te pas en te onpas voor je uit te prevelen. Te onpas is het leukst: je… 

JUST

It is stupid and pointless to start comparing suffering. There is always someone who had it shittier than you, usually even closer than you thought. But reinforcing the delusion that writers and poets can live off their royalties, when that is literally true for less than one per cent of professional literary authors, shows little empathy.

TWO FANTASTIC DAYS

Insayno was city poet for two days - you involuntarily think of that commercial in which a temp says at his grand farewell party, "It was two fantastic days" - and in doing so probably set a record as the shortest-serving city poet in history, with one city poem to his name ("sister of the capital"). What was the problem?

ik laat het zo

Als kind speelde ik jarenlang matig piano op een grote, afgeragde Kaps uit Dresden. Het instrument ontviel me toen ik ging studeren, want het bleek onmogelijk om het ding in mijn eerste zelfstandige woning, een van de HAT-eenheden in het pand Boekhoven aan de Breedstraat, de trap op te krijgen.

Jongelui

De 94-jarige Jan Hoek uit Rotterdam schreef een brief aan de jeugd die iedereen inmiddels wel zal hebben gelezen – sinds dat touwtje uit de brievenbus van Terlouw is er niet meer zoveel aandacht geweest voor een boodschap van een mens op leeftijd. Die boodschap is sympathiek en duidelijk: jongelui, hou het nou nog even vol, voor ons, dan kun… 

DBS

In the second half of the 1980s, when Wim Deetman was still a cheese soufflé and many Utrechters of my age wore kletter vests with broken rifles, it was very easy to know what you were against. This was because of a few clear principles: anyone on the right was bad. Christians were stupid, hypocritical and scary. Anyone who rented real estate... 

hugo's shoes

Over seven years ago, I started as house poet at Sven Ratzke's Late Night Show in Utrecht's Blue Hall. It was a special time. Not for Sven, who probably came into the world singing and wearing designer clothes through a curtain of peacock feathers and imitation ermine fur. For him, the sultry, permanently ramming sold-out nightclub performance was cut-and-dried. For... 

stone

A school friend was a mountain climber. He was good at it; he never did anything else in holidays. The school friend was tall and so strong that he could pull himself up by one finger. On the first day after the autumn holidays, he told me that another climber in his group had fallen to his death before his eyes. If I remember correctly, he was alive... 

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