Sat at my father’s bedside as he lay dying, I didn’t say to myself, ‘come, let’s write a bilingual elegy’, yet the words came to me, unbidden. 

clad in compassion death arrived
a nebulous presence patient
soft as the whispered autumn breeze
twirling through semi-sheer curtains

Clearly, I did not want to devote these precious last hours with my father to poetry, so I quickly jotted those lines down, knowing I’d come back to them later.

Now was the time to simply be fully present—even as my father was already drifting away. 

Writing Through Grief

Grief, if we should believe Hollywood, is a piercing scream, followed by loud, unstoppable wailing, artfully smeared mascara and—rather strangely—no ugly crying.

But grief is no cliché. It has many different faces.

For me, grief is a private, silent affair. I may confide in a few trusted people, but for the most part I withdraw from society and turn inwards.

At home, in the company of my cats, I pick up my pen and start writing.

Still, I don’t intend to write a bilingual elegy. At this point, writing through grief is simply the only way I know to process my emotions.

And, as my father’s only son, I see it as my duty to deliver a eulogy at his funeral.

Yet, while words are my craft and my calling, I’m anything but a brilliant public speaker. So, I write the entire eulogy down. In Dutch, my native language.

As I’m writing through grief, the eulogy comes to life on paper. A simple narrative about my father’s last days, or rather my memories of this precious time with him.

It’s only when I finish the last sentence, that I realise something is still missing. A poem. It needs to end with a poem.

Unwilling to write a poem in Dutch myself—I don’t feel ready, and besides, I haven’t written any Dutch in ages—I grab the only Dutch poetry book I have.

Nothing.

I scour the internet.

Still nothing.

At this point, I understand I have to write the poem myself, ready or not. It’s the only way.

Reluctantly, I grab my notebook and re-read those hastily scrawled lines. What can I do with these? How can I turn them into something at least half-decent?

Again, I turn back to those last days with my father. Relive my last moments with him. What did I see, hear, sense, and smell?

Slowly, the words come. Fragmented sentences with no particular pattern. I jot them down until my notepad is filled with scribblings, crossings-out, circled words, arrows, and stray marks. The Muse has found me and is helping me work through my creative process in loss.

That’s what grief really looks like.

From Dutch Roots to English Resonance

Many hours later, I have a finished elegy. In Dutch. It may not be my best work ever, but it’s honest, well-crafted, and restrained. I won’t be embarrassed to read it at my father’s funeral. 

But this poem is not done with me yet. 

In the days following the funeral, the elegy keeps tugging at my mind. It wants something from me, and I know exactly what—and I balk at the idea. 

I suck at translating. When I write Dutch, I think in Dutch. When I write English, I think in English. That’s how my mind works. I could never translate my own poem. No matter how hard I tried.

The Muse, however, is adamant and keeps pestering me. Tugging at my sleeve. Whispering in my ear. Nagging me.

So I return to the elegy. To those first scribbled lines. Go back in time one more time, to my father’s room, with the late afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. I feel its warmth on my skin. Hear my father’s fast, shallow breathing.

Feel my own… well, whatever feelings they are. I still can’t name them. 

It doesn’t matter. The words flow once more. From heart to brain to fingertips. And when, hours later, I’m done, I have yet another elegy. In English, this time.

It’s different from the Dutch one. More lyrical. Was it the language or the timing that allowed me to add more sensory detail? I don’t think I’ll ever know, and honestly? It’s not important.

What matters is the result. A bilingual elegy, born from unfathomable grief and a demanding Muse. 

And now, I can finally share both with you: the English Vigil, and the original Dutch Schaduwspel.

The English Elegy: Vigil

Listen to the reading below, or read the poem in full.

vigil

on slippered feet
alzheimer stole into our lives
and took the man who
taught us how to live

yet even when the stroke 
broke his smooth tenor
and turned it rough 
and raspy 

a song 
lingered on his lips
and touched 
hearts

now as I sit beside him
his breath shallow
shoulder frail
beneath my hand

I sense her 
waiting
clad 
in compassion

a nebulous presence
soft as the whispered
autumn wind twirling
through semi-sheer curtains

gently she takes him
with her and restores
to us 
our father

the clean-shaven gentleman
in tuxedo and bow tie
ready to kiss
his queen

The Original Dutch Elegy: Schaduwspel

The Dutch version of this bilingual elegy. Listen to the recording below or download the full text.

Note: Schaduwspel is not a translation of Vigil, but a companion poem, and the first to be written. Two poems born of the same moments of farewell.

Creative Process in Loss: Death’s Gift

In the end,Vigil and Schaduwspel are about what death gives, rather than what it takes. Both poems focus on death’s release and the solace it provides.

Poetry gave me what nothing else could. A meaningful way to express grief. Perhaps that’s why we write: to remember, and to let go.

Below, I’ve included a brief FAQ to answer questions you might have about this bilingual elegy, the creative process behind it, and the ways poetry can help navigate loss.

FAQ