Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Menno Wigman

night rest

Evening. Two gardens further up spring is raging
   and hijackers are stealing through the dark.
Somewhere nails are scrabbling for fur. Screechings
   for crumbs of love. Badly mangled ears.
The randy hostilities of a spring night.

Almost forgotten how I with the selfsame rage
   once hunted through the dark, how you still meaner
than a cat sunk your nails into three hearts.
   How long ago that is and how lovely you still are.

I’ve counted the days one by one
   and with the best words that I have:
I love you. In you I find a bed.

And it is spring and we are sharing here
   the same night with all that that entails.

nachtrust

nachtrust

Avond. Twee tuinen verder woedt het voorjaar 
    en sluipen kapers door het donker.
Ergens vechten nagels om een vacht. Gekrijs 
    om kruimels liefde. Stukgebeten oren.
De krolse oorlog van een voorjaarsnacht.

Bijna vergeten hoe ik met dezelfde woede 
    door het donker joeg, hoe jij nog valser
dan een kat je nagels in drie harten sloeg. 
    Wat is het lang geleden en wat blijf je mooi.

Ik heb de dagen één voor één geteld 
    en met de beste woorden die ik heb:
ik hou van je. In jou vind ik een bed.

En het is lente en we delen hier 
    dezelfde nacht met alles wat dat zegt.
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night rest

Evening. Two gardens further up spring is raging
   and hijackers are stealing through the dark.
Somewhere nails are scrabbling for fur. Screechings
   for crumbs of love. Badly mangled ears.
The randy hostilities of a spring night.

Almost forgotten how I with the selfsame rage
   once hunted through the dark, how you still meaner
than a cat sunk your nails into three hearts.
   How long ago that is and how lovely you still are.

I’ve counted the days one by one
   and with the best words that I have:
I love you. In you I find a bed.

And it is spring and we are sharing here
   the same night with all that that entails.

night rest

Evening. Two gardens further up spring is raging
   and hijackers are stealing through the dark.
Somewhere nails are scrabbling for fur. Screechings
   for crumbs of love. Badly mangled ears.
The randy hostilities of a spring night.

Almost forgotten how I with the selfsame rage
   once hunted through the dark, how you still meaner
than a cat sunk your nails into three hearts.
   How long ago that is and how lovely you still are.

I’ve counted the days one by one
   and with the best words that I have:
I love you. In you I find a bed.

And it is spring and we are sharing here
   the same night with all that that entails.
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