Poem
Menno Wigman
COURSE OF LIFE
Of almost everything I’ve been ashamed.My neck, my hair, my writing and my name,
the satchel from my mother that I’d don,
the blazer that my father would heave on,
the house where offered friendship was refused.
Now that my father though hangs from five tubes,
talks of goodbyes while heaving more for breath,
my shame now crouches out of sight. He died
the way he drove his Opel: quite composed,
correct, his eyes fixed firmly on the road.
No wish to wrestle senselessly with death.
How everything I still had left to say
beneath the wheels of time was blown away.
© Translation: 2007, John Irons
LEVENSLOOP
LEVENSLOOP
Voor bijna alles heb ik mij geschaamd.Mijn nek, mijn haar, mijn handschrift en mijn naam,
de schooltas die ik van mijn moeder kreeg,
mijn vader die zich in een blazer hees,
het huis waar ik voor vriendschap heb bedankt.
Maar nu mijn vader aan vijf slangen hangt,
zijn mond steeds heser over afscheid spreekt,
nu hurkt mijn schaamte in een hoek. Hij stierf
zoals hij in zijn Opel reed: beheerst,
correct, zijn ogen dapper op de weg.
Geen zin in dom geworstel met de dood.
Hoe alles wat ik nog te zeggen had
onder de wielen van de tijd wegstoof.
© 2004, Menno Wigman
From: Dit is mijn dag
Publisher: Prometheus, Amsterdam
From: Dit is mijn dag
Publisher: Prometheus, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Menno Wigman
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COURSE OF LIFE
Of almost everything I’ve been ashamed.My neck, my hair, my writing and my name,
the satchel from my mother that I’d don,
the blazer that my father would heave on,
the house where offered friendship was refused.
Now that my father though hangs from five tubes,
talks of goodbyes while heaving more for breath,
my shame now crouches out of sight. He died
the way he drove his Opel: quite composed,
correct, his eyes fixed firmly on the road.
No wish to wrestle senselessly with death.
How everything I still had left to say
beneath the wheels of time was blown away.
© 2007, John Irons
From: Dit is mijn dag
From: Dit is mijn dag
COURSE OF LIFE
Of almost everything I’ve been ashamed.My neck, my hair, my writing and my name,
the satchel from my mother that I’d don,
the blazer that my father would heave on,
the house where offered friendship was refused.
Now that my father though hangs from five tubes,
talks of goodbyes while heaving more for breath,
my shame now crouches out of sight. He died
the way he drove his Opel: quite composed,
correct, his eyes fixed firmly on the road.
No wish to wrestle senselessly with death.
How everything I still had left to say
beneath the wheels of time was blown away.
© 2007, John Irons
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