Poetry Magazine, Returning Poet : Elisha Porat , Autumn 2005

Poetry Magazine

Elisha Porat

A Tourist, Passing Time
To Tikva and Amos Efroni

"Pardes Huri" was uprooted long ago,
the communications channel bordering it
has been covered for years.  And in the ruins of
the hill that was then called "Tlel"
rain, wind and war have erased 
the impression made by a 
crooked old steel pole 
against which I leaned, exhausted,
to doze in the intervals between shellings.

"A tourist, passing time", I say
to the beautiful proprietress and 
so sign in her guest book.  My fingers
betray me and my heart is burning,
and once again I am seized by that 
forgotten tremor, in the ambush that revealed
itself, under the thicket, between
the columns of the bridge forever seared
into my memory.  I erase and correct my entry:
"A tourist, whose time is passing."  And as she
secretly watches I am baptized
once again:  in a scalding baptismal
font, filled with the sweat of paralyzing
fear, immersed in the memory
of my first baptism by fire.
 
Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner

Eternal Servant

Women never come to terms 
with the constant widening of 
their hips;  in their wiliness
they try to cheat the nature of woman:
cutting on the bias, camouflaging, 
lengthening, in denial of the natural
law of the flesh.  But I am 
an eternal servant of your body,
I am happy when it thickens
and happy too when it narrows:
a beloved place, a sad source,
from whence I came, and to which,
alas, I will never return.
 
Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner

A Biblical Experience

Yesterday I saw the Prophet Jonah
emerge from behind the filthy garage
near the stadium, in the Jaffa mud: 
I stood peeing on the wide scorched
leaves of a castor-oil plant; all around me lay
a once-pure dune defeated by the effluent
of burnt oil, and foul fumes masked
the gleam of the water.  A tremor went through me
as I shook myself dry; a tremor that came 
to me straight from the sea, like the flash of 
a fin, opposite the entrance to the port, under
the unwatchful eye of a darkened lighthouse, 
and the Prophet Jonah, melting into the sand. 
 
Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner]

The Andalusian Ideal of Beauty

One:  here is a palm tree, green, tall, 
a provider of shade.  Two:  here is a lemon tree, 
sweet smelling, wild, heavy with white flowers.
Three:  and here we have the red rose.  Which is the blood
that nests in the garden, above the flowing creek.
On its thorns even the hardest hearts 
are caught and sliced in two, the better to nourish
the twin soils:  which are the warm golden
soft silk that rests above a silvery
hillside.  Dark and damp, a leafy threesome.  
Here is a final sum:  in which is included an erect 
palm, the lemony scent pouring like juice, 
and the thick thorny blood of the rose running
into the culvert, washed in the heat of the afternoon, then
clotting, soaking the dusk, to percolate slowly up the wall. 
 
Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner

Ibid

"Ibid", "ibid", and again "ibid".
In my youth I was sent to 
the footnotes buried deep in obscure tomes.
But I found no destination
there, beneath the papers
among which I squandered my days.
Today I am no longer surprised:
I know that there is no destination
that will divert me from the dark pit
that awaits me in the end.  My last "ibid"
has been placed:  it awaits me 
there, at the end of the race.
 
Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner

Soil and Love

As I lean over the foundations of the new house, 
I scoop some soil into a loving hand, and bring it
to my mouth.  I taste its texture as if I am tasting
creation, inhale its aroma into quivering
nostrils; like in that photograph, of days 
gone by.  And like my father, I close my eyes
and whisper words, repeat them like an ancient
mantra:  clay, loam, sand; names, names, 
and earth swallowed by treacherous ground water. 
And then I hesitate, afraid to open my eyes:
I know the gaping hole will never 
be filled, it will stay forever in my heart, 
will not close, cannot be filled by one man alone. 
 
Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner

On the Beach                 
To my Grandson Alon

On the beach, on a Saturday afternoon, 
my tanned grandson sinks himself 
into a crumbling padded basin in the sand.
I observe him from the height of my maturity:
see my body circling back on me,
sticky and warm, the image of a boy peeing in the sand.
Time flows between us, bubbling golden
and stinging my lips with its saltiness. 
>From the sunken mold of the sandy mask 
the boy that I once was returns, playing
idly in the luxurious shade of the umbrellas.
A passing cloud darkens the light, 
my face takes on the rigidity of grey plaster:
the short bliss, a forgotten scene of childhood, 
all is washed away, flowing through my fingers
with the rhythmic beat of the retreating waves.

Translated from the Hebrew by Cindy Eisner