Poem
C.B. Vaandrager
A FOGGY DAY IN ROTTERDAM
You know the feeling: waiting some afternoonfor the fog to come down. Waiting
for the dusk to fall. Or becoming evening. He
(I’m talking about him) looks,
sees empty buses
starting doggedly, going to the city - in search of more fog?
Peoples voices. Rioting? Rooting?
He recognizes them, the voices. The people
He doesn’t know - never has.
You know the feeling: embarrassingly precise
he can tell you (but he doesn’t):
‘Now the telephone rings.’
And then the telephone does ring. The fear
of sensing this. And the fear (even worse)
of being mistaken after ten, eleven correct forecasts.
The fog’s inside.
Already the radiators have chilled.
He pulls his legs up. Waits.
It’s getting dark. Evening.
Shivering, he pulls a hair out of his wrist.
A FOGGY DAY IN ROTTERDAM
A FOGGY DAY IN ROTTERDAM
Je kent het wel: een middag wachtentot het gaat misten. Wachten
tot het donker wordt. Of avond wordt. Hij
(ik heb het over hem) kijkt,
ziet lege bussen
die koppig starten, de stad in – op zoek naar meer mist?
Stemmen van mensen. Oproer? Bijval?
Hij herkent ze, de stemmen. De mensen
kent hij niet – nooit gekend.
Je kent het wel: pijnlijk nauwkeurig
kan hij je zeggen (maar hij doet het niet):
‘Nu gaat de telefoon.’
En dan gaat de telefoon. De angst
dit aan te voelen. En de angst (nog groter)
zich na tien, elf juiste voorspellingen te vergissen.
De mist is binnen.
Reeds zijn de radiatoren verkild.
Hij trekt zijn benen op. Wacht.
Het wordt donker. Of avond.
Hij trekt huiverend een haar uit zijn pols.
From: Made in Rotterdam - Verzamelde Gedichten
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Publisher: De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam
Poems
Poems of C.B. Vaandrager
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A FOGGY DAY IN ROTTERDAM
You know the feeling: waiting some afternoonfor the fog to come down. Waiting
for the dusk to fall. Or becoming evening. He
(I’m talking about him) looks,
sees empty buses
starting doggedly, going to the city - in search of more fog?
Peoples voices. Rioting? Rooting?
He recognizes them, the voices. The people
He doesn’t know - never has.
You know the feeling: embarrassingly precise
he can tell you (but he doesn’t):
‘Now the telephone rings.’
And then the telephone does ring. The fear
of sensing this. And the fear (even worse)
of being mistaken after ten, eleven correct forecasts.
The fog’s inside.
Already the radiators have chilled.
He pulls his legs up. Waits.
It’s getting dark. Evening.
Shivering, he pulls a hair out of his wrist.
From: Made in Rotterdam - Verzamelde Gedichten
A FOGGY DAY IN ROTTERDAM
You know the feeling: waiting some afternoonfor the fog to come down. Waiting
for the dusk to fall. Or becoming evening. He
(I’m talking about him) looks,
sees empty buses
starting doggedly, going to the city - in search of more fog?
Peoples voices. Rioting? Rooting?
He recognizes them, the voices. The people
He doesn’t know - never has.
You know the feeling: embarrassingly precise
he can tell you (but he doesn’t):
‘Now the telephone rings.’
And then the telephone does ring. The fear
of sensing this. And the fear (even worse)
of being mistaken after ten, eleven correct forecasts.
The fog’s inside.
Already the radiators have chilled.
He pulls his legs up. Waits.
It’s getting dark. Evening.
Shivering, he pulls a hair out of his wrist.
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