Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Bernard Dewulf

Moi Bonnard

This is my wife. She is my thousand-and-one.
Broader men have similar by the thousands,
in her alone I’ve seen the thousand others.
She was the closest, the furthest among the things.
I did nothing wrong besides approach her.
The paint was as close as I got. The paint
became her flesh. Her flesh was difficult
as is all grass. I wanted it to visibly sing.
Every lament it broke into changed to my colour.
In my thousand colours I looked for the same.
To always look more closely, as myopically as I could
to completely cover the horizon of her skin.

Moi Bonnard

Moi Bonnard

Dit is mijn vrouw. Zij is mijn duizend-en-één.
Bredere mannen hebben in duizenden hetzelfde,
in haar alleen heb ik de duizend andere gezien.
Zij was het dichtste, het verste onder de dingen.
Ik heb niets anders misdaan dan haar benaderd.
Verder dan de verf ben ik niet geraakt. De verf
is haar vlees geworden. Haar vlees was moeilijk
zoals alle gras. Ik wilde dat het zienderogen zong.
Ieder treurlied dat het aanhief kreeg mijn kleur.
In mijn duizend kleuren heb ik hetzelfde gezocht.
Altijd dichterbij te kijken, zo bijziend als ik kon
de einder van haar huid volledig te bestrijken.
Close

Moi Bonnard

This is my wife. She is my thousand-and-one.
Broader men have similar by the thousands,
in her alone I’ve seen the thousand others.
She was the closest, the furthest among the things.
I did nothing wrong besides approach her.
The paint was as close as I got. The paint
became her flesh. Her flesh was difficult
as is all grass. I wanted it to visibly sing.
Every lament it broke into changed to my colour.
In my thousand colours I looked for the same.
To always look more closely, as myopically as I could
to completely cover the horizon of her skin.

Moi Bonnard

This is my wife. She is my thousand-and-one.
Broader men have similar by the thousands,
in her alone I’ve seen the thousand others.
She was the closest, the furthest among the things.
I did nothing wrong besides approach her.
The paint was as close as I got. The paint
became her flesh. Her flesh was difficult
as is all grass. I wanted it to visibly sing.
Every lament it broke into changed to my colour.
In my thousand colours I looked for the same.
To always look more closely, as myopically as I could
to completely cover the horizon of her skin.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère