Featured Poet: March 1999

The Fragrance of Mignonette

"Until I smelled the fragrance
of the cut grass, I didn't believe
I was home again." said the young soldier
back stricken from the battle on the Canal.
And I, who was stricken after him, fifteen years
after him, did not believe I had risen
from my bed: drunk as then climbing
to the clay hilltop, flattening myself
on its grass. And reviving in its
good warmth: like a child coming back
wrapped in the sweet fragrance of Mignonette.

translated from the Hebrew by Vivian Eden, 1999.

A SHORT FAREWELL LETTER

To my Hebrew, my own sundered, grated Hebrew:
There, in my forgotten, distant childhood
You were placed inside my ear, imprinted
In my finger, poured upon my neck.
Now, goodbye: I am sinking, forgotten
You go on, not turning your head.
Fare you well, my bell-wether.
Now lock on, my distant one, to
The neck of a tender boy, weigh heavily
On the heart of my successor.

translated from the hebrew by Asher Harris, 1999.

The lost Son

He came back, but he came like a stranger
He came back, looked about and did not
Recall, for to him, all appeared estranged:
The house, the yard, the narrow lane.
Their memory sliced through his heart,
Cut, and he who survived and was favoured
Came back; and he who had sworn back there
That nothing would he forget, estranged though it be:
A dirt path, and the barren field and the ditch
At the edge, and the Lemon tree with its bitter fruit.
He felt that his absence was almost ordained:
To come back at last, to come like a stranger
With a shadowy memory that was not estranged,
And an unravelled thread of burning desire
That will never more be made whole.

Translated from the Hebrew by Asher
Harris, 1998.

AND SOMETIMES

And sometimes I crouch to the floor
looking for red Benny, strong=legged,
and for stocky Eddy, so spectacularly
packed in his uniform.
My hands wander across the cold tiles,
crumbling memories of image=as=dreams,
and in my head lines upon lines
dig and burrow, words that in vain
I strain to recapture.

translated from the Hebrew by Tsipi Keler.

EXILE

In the quite nursing home in Jerusalem
in the old neighborhood of "Beit Yosef"
my good readers wait for me:
old men weaned of joy
shuffle their feet on tiled floors,
and the women, parched and withered,
resemble the rusty pails
once used to draw water from wells.
Once a week they come out
to the terrace to observe my weakness,
as I totter on the pavement below:
"Come join us,"
they call with compassion,
"We`ve been long exiled from our lives,
but you, where are you rushing to?"

translated from the Hebrew by Tsipi Keler.

THREE COLORS

On Memorial Day I make my way up
to the small military cemetery.
In the northwestern corner
we've placed a gray basalt rock
and facing the southern corner -
a blanching chunk chalk.
And between under the loose sand
our red loam
spreads itself all round.

And when the loudspeaker booms out
the memorial prayer
I close my eyes
and see those three colors
descend before me and disappear
into the encroaching shadow of the stones.

translated from the Hebrew by Seymour Mayne.

WITHOUT A EULOGY

What he wanted was
to hide among the simple
or among the small
whose greatness
he had always craved.
To be at rest with friends
cloaked in the pride of the meek without words,
and without even a eulogy.
And after that, only this:
To lie below tender shoots
sheltered in the shade of thorns
and to hear nothing
but Blackbirds singing.

translated from the Hebrew by Alan Sacks.

RETIREMENT

Poets do not retire
On reaching their time to be silent, Praising the
beauty of Jerusalem
They are pushed slowly eastward
Thrust aside forgotten to the desert.
And there, suddenly in absolute secrecy Drop mutely
from the cliff,
And the bone of their poetry, drying Bleaching and
gathering dust
Descends to the cave opening.
Sinks slowly, gathered
In the dust cloud of the scrolls.

translated from the Hebrew by Aura Hammer.

I SAW A MAN

I saw a man stooped and
drinking brackish water
lying with his woman
drawing from his ribs
with tender dream hands
a glinting splinter dulled
by the dust of the fire smell
eating his bread with brimstone
waving his legs in farewell
to all who remembered him:
not shouting but
smiling at his punishment
that comes unsurprising, dreamily,
if foreseen.

translated from the Hebrew by Riva Rubin.