It was already evident in her debut collection that she was a thinker, but in The First Letter compulsive thoughts and delusions seem to lead a life of their own. A fear of everything and more plays an important role and can even get in the way of the poetry:

‘Today/ poetry seems to me a country/ to which I have not/ been given a ticket (…)/ a far-off island/ full of penguins.’

On paper it sounds more or less as it would sound in a hyper-aware and cogitating head. Talking is going on the whole time, the tone muttering at times, at other times as if she is having a row with (ex-) boyfriends and then suddenly realising: ‘who is it I’m actually talking to?’

The poems represent an attempt to recover language and poetry, and to find peace of mind. She writes aphoristically at some point:

‘The loveliest person/ is the one who doesn’t reflect on things; who has enough self-trust not to need/ any words inside the head when putting on a cup/ of tea’,

That this never turns into something sombre or heavy is due to the fact that Marsman’s sometimes panic-stricken fears are served with a generous dose of absurdity. She manages to lend even the most painful moments – a girl that is beaten black and blue by her boyfriend – a certain laconic charm, although behind such burly lines one dimly senses vulnerability.

The First Letter concludes with a tender lullaby. The tempest of thoughts has died down, and the poetry has returned. For good, let us hope, for Lieke Marsman is a valuable asset to Dutch poetry.