Poem
Willem van Toorn
December
Where the plan was madethat predicted how
this half-light, horizontal and grey,
would reach just in time
the waiting roofs it’s touching now
above the city that precisely fits
into this year: the sluttish,
jaded but still sublime
bend of the gracht, the sooty
pride of gilded facades. What of all this
still filters into the slow-
ly tilting head of the man below
you in the street
with his cap of matted hair,
three coats, a supermarket trolley full
of plastic, as he stands for an age
beyond endurance on one leg, like a gull,
in the first hesitant snow.
How, according to plan,
this too is already past, now that your hand
is turning the last calendar page.
December
December
Waar het plan is gemaaktdat al voorzag hoe dit grijze
liggende halflicht juist op tijd de
wachtende daken zou bereiken
die het nu aanraakt
van de exact in dit jaar
passende stad: de vermoeide,
zo hoerige doch volmaakte
bocht van de gracht, de beroete
gouden hovaardij van gevels. Wat daar-
van doordringt nog in het traag
kantelende hoofd van de man
beneden je in de straat
met zijn muts van vervilte haren,
drie jassen, een winkelwagen
vol plastic, die ondraaglijk lang
als een waadvogel op één been staat
in de aarzelende eerste sneeuw.
Hoe ook dit volgens plan
al verleden is nu je hand
het laatste kalenderblad omslaat.
© 1997, Querido
From: Tegen de tijd
Publisher: Querido,
From: Tegen de tijd
Publisher: Querido,
Poems
Poems of Willem van Toorn
Close
December
Where the plan was madethat predicted how
this half-light, horizontal and grey,
would reach just in time
the waiting roofs it’s touching now
above the city that precisely fits
into this year: the sluttish,
jaded but still sublime
bend of the gracht, the sooty
pride of gilded facades. What of all this
still filters into the slow-
ly tilting head of the man below
you in the street
with his cap of matted hair,
three coats, a supermarket trolley full
of plastic, as he stands for an age
beyond endurance on one leg, like a gull,
in the first hesitant snow.
How, according to plan,
this too is already past, now that your hand
is turning the last calendar page.
From: Tegen de tijd
December
Where the plan was madethat predicted how
this half-light, horizontal and grey,
would reach just in time
the waiting roofs it’s touching now
above the city that precisely fits
into this year: the sluttish,
jaded but still sublime
bend of the gracht, the sooty
pride of gilded facades. What of all this
still filters into the slow-
ly tilting head of the man below
you in the street
with his cap of matted hair,
three coats, a supermarket trolley full
of plastic, as he stands for an age
beyond endurance on one leg, like a gull,
in the first hesitant snow.
How, according to plan,
this too is already past, now that your hand
is turning the last calendar page.
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