Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Cees Nooteboom

Mail

But then, are your ideas so clear
the mailman asked. Just at that moment
the sky darkened,
but that was another matter,
things around here happen that way,
from one moment to the next.


That means rain, he said, and it did.
Big drops. Behind him I could see the bay,
a plane leaden in the clouds,
slow. It landed.


Where do such seconds go?
How much rustling can be missed?
Which conversations cannot be
pulverized against the time-wall, in a lapse
of memory, somewhere at the bottom
of a dream?


Fiction, a house on a hill,
the psalm of rain, page six,
mailman, descent, downward path
into oblivion,
his, mine,
the fat of time


as someone might turn a page
without having read,


all written for nothing.

Maar hoe helder zijn je ideeën dan,

Maar hoe helder zijn je ideeën dan,
vroeg de postman. Op dat ogenblik
verduisterde de hemel,
maar dat had er niets mee te maken,
dat gaat hier altijd zo,
van het ene ogenblik op het andere.


Dat wordt regen, zei hij, en zo was het.
Dikke druppels. Achter hem zag ik de baai,
een vliegtuig loodzwaar in wolken,
langzaam. Het landde.


Waar blijven zulke secondes?
Hoeveel geruis kan worden gemist?
Welke gesprekken kunnen niet worden
verpulverd tegen de tijdmuur, in een gebrek
aan geheugen, ergens onderaan
in een droom?


Fictie, een huis op een heuvel,
de psalm van de regen, pagina zes,
postbode, afdaling, heuvelpad,
de vergetelheid in,
de zijne, de mijne,
het spek van de tijd,


zoals iemand een bladzij omslaat
zonder te hebben gelezen,


alles geschreven voor niets.
Close

Mail

But then, are your ideas so clear
the mailman asked. Just at that moment
the sky darkened,
but that was another matter,
things around here happen that way,
from one moment to the next.


That means rain, he said, and it did.
Big drops. Behind him I could see the bay,
a plane leaden in the clouds,
slow. It landed.


Where do such seconds go?
How much rustling can be missed?
Which conversations cannot be
pulverized against the time-wall, in a lapse
of memory, somewhere at the bottom
of a dream?


Fiction, a house on a hill,
the psalm of rain, page six,
mailman, descent, downward path
into oblivion,
his, mine,
the fat of time


as someone might turn a page
without having read,


all written for nothing.

Mail

But then, are your ideas so clear
the mailman asked. Just at that moment
the sky darkened,
but that was another matter,
things around here happen that way,
from one moment to the next.


That means rain, he said, and it did.
Big drops. Behind him I could see the bay,
a plane leaden in the clouds,
slow. It landed.


Where do such seconds go?
How much rustling can be missed?
Which conversations cannot be
pulverized against the time-wall, in a lapse
of memory, somewhere at the bottom
of a dream?


Fiction, a house on a hill,
the psalm of rain, page six,
mailman, descent, downward path
into oblivion,
his, mine,
the fat of time


as someone might turn a page
without having read,


all written for nothing.
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
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