Poem
Alfred Schaffer
Going, going, gone
V‘What’s the hurry?’ Someone’s been too clever for us, someone
who knows this route like the back of his hand. There’s music in this –
helicopters above the motorway, people panicking, flashing lights,
the cold-blooded score-settling in broad daylight, the blood-stained back seat.
Gnashing of teeth, think about anything just to stay awake.
The many taillights twirl a wheel before your eyes,
who belonged to who, which of us has won? Your bare back
this morning, the blankets kicked aside. Outside the grass was being mown.
Sure you’re alright, you ought to ask me now, soothingly,
with a well-meant smile that makes me long for a bed,
for a goodnight story. Turn those glaring searchlights off,
shut the door. Your jaws agape. No hand before your eyes.
© Translation: 2004, John Irons
Eenmaal andermaal
Eenmaal andermaal
VVanwaar deze haast? Iemand is ons te slim af geweest,
iemand die deze route op zijn duimpje kent. Hier zit muziek in –
helikopters boven de snelweg, mensen in paniek, zwaailichten,
de koelbloedige afrekening op klaarlichte dag, de besmeurde achterbank.
Tandenknarsen, van alles bedenken om maar wakker te blijven.
De vele achterlichten draaien een rad voor ogen,
Wie hoorde bij wie, wie van ons heeft gewonnen? Je blote rug
vanochtend, de dekens weggeschopt. Buiten werd het gras gemaaid.
Gaat het nog, zou je mij nu moeten vragen, sussend,
met een welgemeende glimlach die me doet verlangen naar een bed,
naar een verhaaltje voor het slapen gaan. Doe uit die schelle zoeklichten,
sluit de deur. Je kaken opengesperd. Geen hand voor ogen.
© 2004, Alfred Schaffer
From: Geen hand voor ogen
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
From: Geen hand voor ogen
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of Alfred Schaffer
Close
Going, going, gone
V‘What’s the hurry?’ Someone’s been too clever for us, someone
who knows this route like the back of his hand. There’s music in this –
helicopters above the motorway, people panicking, flashing lights,
the cold-blooded score-settling in broad daylight, the blood-stained back seat.
Gnashing of teeth, think about anything just to stay awake.
The many taillights twirl a wheel before your eyes,
who belonged to who, which of us has won? Your bare back
this morning, the blankets kicked aside. Outside the grass was being mown.
Sure you’re alright, you ought to ask me now, soothingly,
with a well-meant smile that makes me long for a bed,
for a goodnight story. Turn those glaring searchlights off,
shut the door. Your jaws agape. No hand before your eyes.
© 2004, John Irons
From: Geen hand voor ogen
From: Geen hand voor ogen
Going, going, gone
V‘What’s the hurry?’ Someone’s been too clever for us, someone
who knows this route like the back of his hand. There’s music in this –
helicopters above the motorway, people panicking, flashing lights,
the cold-blooded score-settling in broad daylight, the blood-stained back seat.
Gnashing of teeth, think about anything just to stay awake.
The many taillights twirl a wheel before your eyes,
who belonged to who, which of us has won? Your bare back
this morning, the blankets kicked aside. Outside the grass was being mown.
Sure you’re alright, you ought to ask me now, soothingly,
with a well-meant smile that makes me long for a bed,
for a goodnight story. Turn those glaring searchlights off,
shut the door. Your jaws agape. No hand before your eyes.
© 2004, John Irons
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