Poem
Menno Wigman
THE GLOVES OFF
We felt no ounce of pity for what died.A slow procession, one last session:
it left us cold. For we were young
and mocked the clamouring of flowers
and dressed-up sparrows, we walked on
and lived our time to pieces.
The sensations, not the obligations, and the world
a mattress. Amidst the blissful kisses, though,
a quiet sense that this was it: revelling,
here and now, the wisdom of an animal.
We felt no ounce of pity for what died.
And when we jerked awake in some white ward
- far from the streets and the processions -
a half-starved man paid us a visit
and pointed. We scarcely raised our eyes,
stayed calm and made the image fade.
© Translation: 2002, John Irons
HARD TEGEN HARD
HARD TEGEN HARD
We waren niet begaan met wat er stierf.Een trage stoet, een laatste groet:
het deed ons niets. We waren jong
en hoonden het misbaar van bloemen
en verklede mussen, we liepen door
en leefden onze tijd aan stukken.
De lusten, niet de lasten, en de wereld
een matras. En tussen alle kussen door
een stil besef dat dit het was: het zwelgen,
nu en hier, de wijsheid van het dier.
We waren niet begaan met wat er stierf.
En toen we wakker schrokken in een witte zaal
- ver van de straten en de stoeten -
kwam ons een ondervoede man bezoeken
en wees. We hebben amper opgekeken,
bleven kalm en deden hem verbleken.
© 1997, Menno Wigman
From: \'s Zomers stinken alle steden
Publisher: Prometheus/Bert Bakker, Amsterdam
From: \'s Zomers stinken alle steden
Publisher: Prometheus/Bert Bakker, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Menno Wigman
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THE GLOVES OFF
We felt no ounce of pity for what died.A slow procession, one last session:
it left us cold. For we were young
and mocked the clamouring of flowers
and dressed-up sparrows, we walked on
and lived our time to pieces.
The sensations, not the obligations, and the world
a mattress. Amidst the blissful kisses, though,
a quiet sense that this was it: revelling,
here and now, the wisdom of an animal.
We felt no ounce of pity for what died.
And when we jerked awake in some white ward
- far from the streets and the processions -
a half-starved man paid us a visit
and pointed. We scarcely raised our eyes,
stayed calm and made the image fade.
© 2002, John Irons
From: \'s Zomers stinken alle steden
From: \'s Zomers stinken alle steden
THE GLOVES OFF
We felt no ounce of pity for what died.A slow procession, one last session:
it left us cold. For we were young
and mocked the clamouring of flowers
and dressed-up sparrows, we walked on
and lived our time to pieces.
The sensations, not the obligations, and the world
a mattress. Amidst the blissful kisses, though,
a quiet sense that this was it: revelling,
here and now, the wisdom of an animal.
We felt no ounce of pity for what died.
And when we jerked awake in some white ward
- far from the streets and the processions -
a half-starved man paid us a visit
and pointed. We scarcely raised our eyes,
stayed calm and made the image fade.
© 2002, John Irons
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