Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Menno Wigman

THIS IS MY DAY

This morning I woke up inside a dream
of someone living in a skin of flesh.

And I had no escape, I was no Chwang Tse
who’d dreamt he was a butterfly

and asked himself when dawn came whether he,
Chwang Tse, had dreamt he was a butterfly

or that the butterfly dreamt of waking
as Chwang Tse, no, I was human,

a sturdy skeleton with thirty-two teeth,
two hands and a tragic intellect

cursed with a fear of clocks.
Slowly, though, reverently almost, I

gave my face a hand and zipped my
thoughts up tight. This is my day, I knew.

Here a mirror peers at astonished light.
There a butterfly breaks out. And that is me.

DIT IS MIJN DAG

DIT IS MIJN DAG

Vanochtend werd ik wakker in een droom
van iemand die een huid van vlees bewoont.

Ik kon niet vluchten, ik was geen Tsjwang Tse
die had gedroomd dat hij een vlinder was

en zich bij ochtendlicht afvroeg of hij,
Tsjwang Tse, gedroomd had een vlinder te zijn

of dat de vlinder droomde als Tsjwang Tse
te ontwaken, nee, ik was een mens,

een taai skelet met tweeëndertig tanden,
twee handen en een tragisch intellect

dat met een angst voor klokken was behept.
Maar langzaam, bijna heilig, stond ik op,

gaf mijn gezicht een hand en ritste mijn
gedachten dicht. Dit is mijn dag, wist ik.

Hier lonkt een spiegel naar verwonderd licht.
Daar breekt een vlinder uit. En dat ben ik.
Close

THIS IS MY DAY

This morning I woke up inside a dream
of someone living in a skin of flesh.

And I had no escape, I was no Chwang Tse
who’d dreamt he was a butterfly

and asked himself when dawn came whether he,
Chwang Tse, had dreamt he was a butterfly

or that the butterfly dreamt of waking
as Chwang Tse, no, I was human,

a sturdy skeleton with thirty-two teeth,
two hands and a tragic intellect

cursed with a fear of clocks.
Slowly, though, reverently almost, I

gave my face a hand and zipped my
thoughts up tight. This is my day, I knew.

Here a mirror peers at astonished light.
There a butterfly breaks out. And that is me.

THIS IS MY DAY

This morning I woke up inside a dream
of someone living in a skin of flesh.

And I had no escape, I was no Chwang Tse
who’d dreamt he was a butterfly

and asked himself when dawn came whether he,
Chwang Tse, had dreamt he was a butterfly

or that the butterfly dreamt of waking
as Chwang Tse, no, I was human,

a sturdy skeleton with thirty-two teeth,
two hands and a tragic intellect

cursed with a fear of clocks.
Slowly, though, reverently almost, I

gave my face a hand and zipped my
thoughts up tight. This is my day, I knew.

Here a mirror peers at astonished light.
There a butterfly breaks out. And that is me.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
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