This is a little teaser of what’s to come…
In early February a new spoken word piece will hit your ears. And let me tell you, out of everything that ever had my voice, this is the best. Working on this was very rewarding and enlightening, that much I can say.
And maybe, if things go as planned there will be more poetry for your ears in the coming weeks.
Exciting times ahead.
Have a great Wednesday
This is a space for writing, listening, and noticing.
For words that arrive slowly and stay.
For poems, reflections, and the quiet connections between them.
For thoughts that do not always fit into neat categories, but find their place here.
My name is Catherine (Cathy).
I am a writer and poet based in Luxembourg. I have been keeping this space since 2012, slowly building an archive of language, memory, and attention. What began as a place to put words has become a library of them.
I write every day. Not always to publish, but always to understand.
Much of what you’ll find here is prose and poetry, often shaped by music, by listening, by small moments that open into something larger. I write about music as a way of thinking, not reviewing — about how sound connects to memory, language, and feeling. Listening is part of my writing practice.
I am fluent in Luxembourgish, French, and German, and I write primarily in English, the language where my inner voice feels most precise.
Occasionally, poems and fragments appear in other languages when English cannot hold them. This, too, is part of the work.
This is not a feed.
It’s a collection.
You can start anywhere:
Reading here is meant to be slow.
When I am not writing, I work in early childhood education. I spend my days with small humans, and that way of looking at the world has a way of slipping into the writing, whether I intend it or not.
Some of my words have found their way into books. You can find them here.
This blog is where most of my writing lives.
Occasionally, words travel further:
I collaborate with musicians and visual artists, working where language meets sound and image.
If you think my writing could be part of something you are making, you can reach me at:
All words on this site are mine, unless stated otherwise.
Stories are fictional, even when they feel close to the bone.
Poems are truth, even when they are not mine alone.
Please do not copy, repost, or republish without permission.
© 2012–2026 micqu.org
It’s Sunday. Dreary outside. And I noticed that I haven’t written or posted in a while.
I am not in the mood to write. Not in this geopolitical climate.
I never considered myself a very political person, but I am opinionated. Always have been. One of my rules was that religion and politics should stay mostly off the blog. But should we stay silent when the world is collapsing around us? When someone declares himself more important and more powerful than all the rest of the world? When a bully sits at the top of the once most respected country in the world?
When a move straight out of kindergarten threatens to turn into a trade war?
What if World War 3 is not fought with guns but with money?
“I bully you until you give in.”
“We won’t give in, but we will retaliate with the same tariffs.”
And who will suffer from all of this?
Not presidents. Not prime ministers. Not kings or queens.
Farmers will be hurt first. Ordinary citizens. The poor but essential workers of society.
We could clap for them each night for ten minutes.
We tried that before. It didn’t raise wages or lighten workloads. But hey, we clapped.
Usually, I am not easily scared. I live in a safe country that probably doesn’t even exist as sovereign on many intellectual maps. We are not powerless. But it feels like it. I don’t want to watch or read the news anymore. Not with him in every headline, sowing chaos and taking whatever he wants. At least that’s what it looks like.
And yet I do.
To stay informed.
To know what’s happening.
Where is Congress in all of this? Where is the opposition telling him to stop this madness?
Ah yes. They are silenced, fired, gaslit, called liars. Fake news.
The world has gone mad.
We are sitting in the flames, feeling the heat, and yet no one seems able to put the fire out. And if everything burned to the ground? “We didn’t start the fire.”
Right now, the world feels like a playground run by bullies and no teachers on duty.
I am the king of the world, everyone bow to me. I will get you anyway. Your diamonds and your pearls. You can’t stop me only my morality and my mind can. But I am the king of the world and you better kneel before me.
They are the same as me but they are evil devils from the east. Me, I am the saviour. Of the north and the green. Of the south and the dark.
Give me your riches and I’ll leave in peace. If you don’t abide I will make everything freeze.
I am the king of the world. I will get what I want, either way.
Gimme gimme gimme. I want it all. I need it. I will take it. I will have it. It is mine. It is mine. All of it is mine. I am the king of the world.
###
I wish this wasn’t based on true events.
If you push me off the edge
I will grow like a weed from ash
The sun beckons:
spread your petals, be free
I was broken. Now I’m not.
I am me again, ready or not
I step onto wet sand
and everything makes sense
The breeze knows my skin;
caresses past and future sins
I bloom in ash and sand
No need to run, I deserve to land.
A glimpse, a fragment of something unedited I am writing. Typos included. Written on an app called Jotterpad.
Tell me about the rain
and about weightless feathers.
Tell me about bullets
and crimson earth.
Bridges are burnt
with the tears of our future,
but we are told
that we don’t understand.
What is right.
Who is good.
Who is evil.
What is wrong.
We don’t understand
because we are young.
They sprinkle sand in our eyes.
Until we weep like willows
But we refuse to be blind.
They keep telling me
about the rain,
about the weight
of invisible feathers,
while the earth
is robbed bare
beneath our feet.
Funny how people don’t change and yet change a lot. And I don’t mean the hair. Naturally curly but when I want to dress up I straighten it. It’s inside.
I still can’t hear the outside world on my left ear. It makes the inside louder, doesn’t it? Anyway… I like my last selfie of the year.
By the way, this was the first post of 2025:
Have a good 2026. Be less hard on yourselves. You are doing better than you think.
Lots of love from me to you
It’s December 29th. The sun is out but it is freezing cold. I am inside. Trapped. Not trapped inside but trapped in my head. Not mentally. But physically. On the morning of Christmas day, I lost my voice. It’s not back yet. Being silent or near silent for 4 days, that’s not like me. A couple of days ago, my ears got infected too. And although I was in a lot of pain during one particular night, there is no pain now. Just stuffed. I hear, but not well. It’s as if my head is filled with cotton. At least this morning my sense of smell is back.
I haven’t listened to any music. It makes me nervous not hearing it right and also if there are other sounds or noises, I cannot distinguish them and it all turns into an uncomfortable blur.
Four weeks ago I had the flu. Apparently,this is a flare-up after the adrenaline of work fell away. Two weeks of Christmas holidays and I have been sick for most of it.
It weighs heavy on me to be put on hold by my own body. And of course it is also a constant source of joy and jokes for my loved ones. They don’t mean any harm. But I think, for once I need to be held instead of being the one who holds.
I feel trapped without my voice. And I feel trapped not really hearing what is going on around me. I know it will get better. Of course it will, but right now, I am in the audience of my own life. Quietly trying to understand what the ones around me are whispering.
This felt better said out loud than written down.
✨🎄✨
My year was essentially a good year. Not many extraordinary things happened, but I feel settled, serene and mostly content with where I am and with who I am. I have a beautiful family with amazing young people to share their world views with me. I have a husband who I love. And I have friends. Not many, two or three, but I cherish them. I love my job and I got to listen to a lot of amazing music this year. And I wrote. A lot. It was one of my most productive years ever. And that’s what this post will be about. Writing and my publications. You see, this year I published my tenth book. It’s a milestone. And although it may sound conceited not many independent poets reach that milestone. What will follow is a small recap of the books I wrote and published since 2018. That’s right, I have been publishing my own poems for 7 years now. Not because I think it is the best poetry out there, but because I needed it for myself. I wanted and needed to hold my poetry in a printed book. And in doing so, it became available for everyone else too.
Once I let go of the poems and put them into books, they become yours to read, to hold, to experience.
They never need my explanation or interpretation, because we all live and read poetry with different eyes, with a different heart.
My only hope is that some of my words reach the people who need to read them.
There is another post on my blog where I wrote about these books from a different angle and shared some of the feedback I received. It’s worth taking a look, I think. I don’t receive much feedback. My poetry isn’t loud. It asks for silence and for room to breathe. But when people do share their thoughts, it matters. A lot. Or, as someone recently said to me when I praised their work: “It means the world. You never know how these things are going to land.”
If you ever consider buying a copy of one of my books, you can purchase them through me
http://paypal.me/micqu. Right now they are all pay what you want. And they will be sent out in January 2026. They are also available on Amazon for those who don’t want to wait.
I would also mention again that a couple of my poems can be heard on SoundCloud. Either narrated by me or by Daniel Cavanagh (founder, singer/songwriter and multi-instrumentiste in Weather Systems).
I don’t know exactly what the new year will bring, but I know I will keep writing. And 11th book is taking form and the 12th too.
All these words were mine for a long time. Now they are yours.
I came across this poem per chance today. It was written almost 10 years ago. I noticed that my writing is a lot more contained, restraint even than it was all those years ago. Maybe it is age, maybe it is circumstances. I don’t think I will analyse it deeply. And yet… It is an unusually strong poem for that time. In French and English, something that was unique and never reproduced.
Here it is, Broken Promises:
J’ai fait une promesse (I made a promise)
And I broke it
Ton coeur fragile (your fragile heart)
I couldn’t keep it together.
J’ai fait une promesse (I made a promise)
But I never stood a chance
Ton dernier sourire (your last smile)
Forever in my soul.
J’ai fait une promesse (I made a promise)
I wasn’t there
Tes yeux pâles (your pale eyes)
Haunting my dreams.
J’ai fait une promesse (I made a promise)
Bitter tears of goodbye
Ton âme disparu (your soul disappeared)
Forever alone.
I am not even sure if this memory is entirely accurate, but it is the one that stayed with me. I was watching German daytime TV sometime in 2012, half-distracted, not looking for anything in particular. Then an episode of Brothers and Sisters came on. I stayed on it at first because I recognised Sally Field. I had always liked her. And Balthazar Getty was in the scene too. Familiar names. Familiar faces. So I kept watching.
Only later did I learn that German television had not even aired the full show. Apparently only a couple of seasons made it onto daytime programming. What I saw that day was just a fragment, a small section of a larger story. Yet somehow that incomplete broadcast was enough to pull me in. By the end of the episode I was curious in a way I rarely am. I wanted more. I ordered the entire box set before I even understood why.
Something about the tone of the show lingered. And something about the way Matthew Rhys played Kevin Walker caught me by surprise. Sharp. Funny. Open. A little lost. A little too honest for his own good. He made me pay attention without trying. That is where the real shift began.
Back then IMDb still had discussion boards. It feels ancient now, like early internet archaeology. Tangled threads. Strange usernames. People gathering in messy little corners to talk about characters they cared about. In one of those corners someone had posted a link to a Kevin and Scotty fanfiction. I clicked it without expecting anything. I read it. And something inside me reacted, softly but unmistakably.
I realised that people were expanding stories that spoke to them. They were writing into emotional gaps. They were giving characters more space than television ever could. I had never seen anything like it so up close. And somehow, almost without intention, I slipped into that community. I commented. I read. I showed up. They welcomed me as if I had always been part of the group.
I read everything the writers there created. Every missing scene. Every imagined moment. Every alternative storyline. Their talent humbled me. It also inspired me. One night I had an idea for a story and wrote a short summary. I posted it, hoping someone else would turn it into something real. I was too unsure of myself to even imagine writing it.
The community had other plans.
They told me to do it myself.
If the idea had come to me, then I should be the one to develop it.
So I wrote it. Clumsily. Hesitantly. Nothing great. But it existed. That was the important part. That was the real beginning. Once I wrote the first piece, something inside me opened. The early 2010s were full of creative energy and I was suddenly part of it. LiveJournal became my home for a while, a place where writing was natural and constant and shared without fear.
Later I moved to Wattpad and shifted to original stories. I built new friendships there. One of them became my best friend. There were dramas of course because online communities are never simple. But there was also belonging. Meaningful conversations. Encouragement. When my best friend died in 2015 something in that world dimmed. I no longer felt the same connection to the platform. I slowly drifted away from it.
Eventually the blog became my only creative home. Quiet. Steady. Entirely mine. A place without noise or performance. A place where I could write because writing was part of my daily rhythm, not because anyone expected it.
Sometimes I hesitate to admit that I started with fanfiction. There is still a strange stigma attached to it. People assume it is not real writing. They are wrong. Some of the most powerful, emotional, well-crafted pieces I have ever read came from anonymous writers in those communities. That is where I learned voice, rhythm, confidence and the ability to write for the sake of creation itself.
And the truth is simple. My writing life began with one random episode on German TV. I stayed because of Sally Field and Balthazar Getty. I kept watching because something in the show hooked me. I ordered the box set because Matthew Rhys’s Kevin Walker felt too real to ignore. I found a community because I clicked on a single link in an old IMDb forum. I wrote my first story because kind strangers told me I could.
Everything since then grew from that quiet, accidental moment in 2012.
Bittersweet. Unexpected. Entirely mine. And thanks to Matthew Rhys.
Gather around
See the clown weeping
A willow of sorrows
Windows filled with tomorrows
Gather around
Taste the silence in their kisses
A well to drown in
Eternal love grows within
Gather around
Judge and stare at the unknown
Could it be that we are blind?
Could it be there’s more for us to find?
Gather around
Witness the old, witness the new
Be the one to take care
Be the one who is there
Gather around
Hear the soft night breathing
Of stories untold
Of hearts left out in the cold
Gather around
Let the veil shine like stars
Feel the breaking and the mending
Feel the beginning and the ending
Gather around
And see it all
Rich is the one who can hold
All the truths and nothingness
For they carry the keys
That open the path to peace.
reflections of an unquiet mind 