Month: July 2012

_In This There Is Autumn_

She sheds her dress like an old skin
and draws on the lake’s flesh,
(darkness, chuckling softly,
quenches her
in his hand,)
her movement is the first
bare breath of storm
shivering against the water

she moves
opaque and unmade–
her body assimilating
the season;
becoming
the black of branches engraved,
the raw indigo of
circling water

she becomes the vivid scent of rain
clutching the roots
of summer grass,
her body
consumed by water
she becomes
the inauguration
of motion
the secret awareness
of autumn
she becomes
***

In Netanya, above the cliff
Elisha Porat
In Netanya, above the cliff, on one
of those sweet Friday afternoons, I
sit on a stone that marks the border
between the garden, the promenade
and the street. A warm sun ploughs
furrows that shiver across my back,
echoing the foam above the waves below,
of a wintry sea that retains the chill.
The town around me already
slowly removes the bandages
from terrorist attacks that hurt, grinding down
without mercy. Suddenly I am pounced upon
by this vision I have had before: my whole being
beholds the grim advance, the realization
of day-to-day Zionism.
The first German tourists run up and down
the paths, and the entrance to the gallery throngs
with holidaymakers: the town is coming round;
on warm Friday afternoons; at the end
of spring, two thousand and four.
As before, I am cast aside. Your turn
has not yet come. Someone else
will pledge his heart on your behalf.
With the grim advance, the realization
of day-to-day Zionism, the salt of my
life, and the single breath of spirit
from the fibers closing slowly
around my aging heart.

Translated from the Hebrew by Eddie Levenston
© All Rights Reserved.

Elisha Porat
In Netanyah, on the Cliff
In Netanyah, on the cliff, on this sweet
Friday midday, I
sit on the low wall
that runs between garden, promenade
and street. On my back the pleasant sun
ploughs rippling furrows
just like the foaming waves
down below of the winter sea
that hasn’t yet warmed up.
The town around me is already
slowly peeling off the bandages from the
searing attacks that so mercilessly
smashed through it. And suddenly
there swooped upon me
that vision that I have already seen:
my whole being looks upon the dreadfully
nondescript path to
Zionism achieved.
The first German tourists
hurry there and back along the paths,
and at the entrance to the gallery a leisurely
crowd murmurs: the town is coming back to itself;
on the warm Friday midday; at the end
of spring in the year two thousand and four.
I am held over just like then: your
turn hasn’t come yet. And someone or other
will surely give his heart for you.
In the dreadfully nondescript path to
this Zionism achieved, the salt
of my life, and the only soul
of the fibres that are slowly blocking up
around my aging heart.
Translated from the Hebrew by Asher Harris
© All Rights Reserved

August Rain

I remember an August once
When I could talk to him
But didn’t and each word unspoken
Rested like a brick on the silence
That lay thick as a layer of mortar
And grew into hardness between us

These day’s I think of him
Mostly when rain falls in gray sheets
With a soft hiss as droplets
Paint the pavement with color
Of an overcast sky and collects
On the road in pools in brought to full boil

In summer storms with the
Sound of thunder on my skin
I recall in the air’s smell and
The wind cool in my hair
An August once when rain fell
In mortar gray hardness on our silence

The Thought Machine

Assemble line of empty fools.
Active thoughts decline.
Save the kids and burn the schools.
Before they fall in line.

Conveyer belts of normalcy.
Proper minds installed.
Guaranteed complacency.
Defective thought recalled.

The happy social thought machine.
Drop the match and run.
Save a little gasoline.
You’ve only just begun.
***