Words on glass, poetry for passersby
The window catches the afternoon light, shimmering against the city center of Kortrijk. A poem by Siel Verhanneman, Roofvogel, now sprawls across its expanse, etched in careful strokes. Letters glide upward, bold and fragile, like wings mid-flight.
The library reached out to me with an idea: to transform their window into something more than glass. Facing a bustling street, it was an invitation for passersby to pause. To read.
On a ladder that swayed slightly, I stretched as far as I could. The window, a towering canvas of 5 meters loomed large. My brush made its way upward, reaching over 4 meters high—higher than I imagined. The city’s rhythm hummed below as I worked, balancing paint and perspective, careful not to disturb the poem’s weight.
Siel Verhanneman’s words poured into the street:
Grijp mij bij de schouders,
toon me de verwoeste stad
in vogelvlucht.
A city in fragments—anger and despair housed side by side. Grief made tangible. A suitcase unpacked, its contents left visible for all to see. For a moment, the canvas became a part of the poem, and a part of the city. Some pedestrians slowed, curious, some waved. The poem became theirs too, reflected back in glances and soft murmurs, their faces caught between wonder and recognition.
A passing car’s brakes sighed, the rhythm of tires on cobblestones quieted. Another day in Kortrijk, another poem in the window.
