Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Togara Muzanenhamo

ON SUNDAY MORNINGS

OP ZONDAGOCHTEND

wandel en ga de geschiedenis in,
rookwitte bries over deukhoed-
schaduw, warme septemberwind.
Golfplaten daken scheren over
ijzeren spijlen, binden zonlicht
winkel aan winkel. Er lopen wegen
als rivieren breed en recht
gestreken door wind, regen
en zon. Zo in die gloor
haast een gedateerde foto uit
1922, stijf, grijs stratenspoor,
de groeiende stad gefnuikt
door de gedachte aan ’t omboordend
land, en ver in het noorden
de heuvelrand. Nu ligt een dikke band
van bitumen waar donker zand
zonlicht opslorpte, schaduwgevels
stilaan tot hitte ingeteerd,
oude kolonienamen – geschreven
in beton en toen verweerd –
spreken als woorden op graven,
en geen auto in zicht, noch
eenzaam zoemen, maar ruisend blad
verwaaiend tot gekras in koor
van kraaien, en de hele stad
slaapt diep, de mensen zijn in dromen
gevangen, die ze nog amper kennen
als ze ’s middags tot leven komen –
de droge nevels van september
die door het kleine stadje stromen.

ON SUNDAY MORNINGS

walk down and enter history,
smoke white breeze over trilby
shadow, warm September air.
Corrugated roofs skirt over
iron railings, linking sunlight
store to store. Avenues run
wide as riverbeds cut straight,
ironed flat by the wind, sun
and rain. With the glare it’s
almost a dated photograph
from 1922, stiff grey streets,
the growing town dwarfed
by the thought of surrounding
land, distant hills bounding
north. Now bitumen stands
thick where dark grit sands
absorbed sunlight, shaded
gables shrinking into heat,
old colonial names – faded
but blocked out in concrete –
speak like scripts on graves,
and not one car in sight, nor
a lone hum, but rustling leaves
scuttling by to a chorus caw
of crows, the town deep in
slumber, its people locked in
dreams they hardly remember
when they wake past noon –
the dry mists of September
turning through the small town.
Close

ON SUNDAY MORNINGS

walk down and enter history,
smoke white breeze over trilby
shadow, warm September air.
Corrugated roofs skirt over
iron railings, linking sunlight
store to store. Avenues run
wide as riverbeds cut straight,
ironed flat by the wind, sun
and rain. With the glare it’s
almost a dated photograph
from 1922, stiff grey streets,
the growing town dwarfed
by the thought of surrounding
land, distant hills bounding
north. Now bitumen stands
thick where dark grit sands
absorbed sunlight, shaded
gables shrinking into heat,
old colonial names – faded
but blocked out in concrete –
speak like scripts on graves,
and not one car in sight, nor
a lone hum, but rustling leaves
scuttling by to a chorus caw
of crows, the town deep in
slumber, its people locked in
dreams they hardly remember
when they wake past noon –
the dry mists of September
turning through the small town.

ON SUNDAY MORNINGS

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