Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Mimi Khalvati

Night Sounds

Night Sounds

Night Sounds

I can hear myself moving around
                            in the dark. My footsteps
               lagging up the stairs. Now
I am quiet, listening to the light
                               that strikes the plant in
              leaves of light at the turn.

An animal in the brush, large
                              enough to encompass a shuffle
               here, a footfall there. Ooh.
I am lovely in my sounds.
                             I am moonlight and darkness,
               death and habitation.

I thrill to the sounds my memory hears.
                              Sounds I have made in my life
               through all my life – a child’s hand reaching
for water, chink of the glass
                             replaced. They moon about
              the house, free to help themselves.

They do. How bright it is
                             in the fridge! You can hardly
              bear such brightness. But where am I
between this soft thud
                             and the next? I am in all rooms,
               on all stairs, lumbering and animal,

enough to make you worry
                              when a door clicks and I, on this side
              or on that, forget myself. Hear that?
What? Nothing, I hear nothing.
                              Only the pillow crackling,
               a rasp, a whistle of breath.
Close

Night Sounds

I can hear myself moving around
                            in the dark. My footsteps
               lagging up the stairs. Now
I am quiet, listening to the light
                               that strikes the plant in
              leaves of light at the turn.

An animal in the brush, large
                              enough to encompass a shuffle
               here, a footfall there. Ooh.
I am lovely in my sounds.
                             I am moonlight and darkness,
               death and habitation.

I thrill to the sounds my memory hears.
                              Sounds I have made in my life
               through all my life – a child’s hand reaching
for water, chink of the glass
                             replaced. They moon about
              the house, free to help themselves.

They do. How bright it is
                             in the fridge! You can hardly
              bear such brightness. But where am I
between this soft thud
                             and the next? I am in all rooms,
               on all stairs, lumbering and animal,

enough to make you worry
                              when a door clicks and I, on this side
              or on that, forget myself. Hear that?
What? Nothing, I hear nothing.
                              Only the pillow crackling,
               a rasp, a whistle of breath.

Night Sounds

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