"I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..."   POETRYrepairs v07.09:119

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ELISHA PORAT 2 Versions of a poem on Netanya : #1 In Netanya, above the cliff 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.

"Poetry endangers the established order in the soul."   poetryREpairs v07.09:119

BACK | HOME SUBSCRIBE PS : Sponsor Poetry visit Poetry Sponsors from vMM.10:115 JANET I. BUCK Lacerated Innocence I shouldn't, I knew, have left my bed, but nurses seemed preoccupied with passing out those paper cups of little missile bible strokes, assuaging ways pain's plate had cracked. Hope and curiosity grow faster than summer weeds in tender grass of moistened youth. I was bored with my dolls and missed my friends, wandered off as children do. I wondered if the rain was falling where I lived. If my brothers were cutting off the orange hair of my favorite trolls. Who got corners on the birthday cake. Home was a gift I wanted to open with hearty arms no matter what sensible seasons said. The burn ward--etching carved in stone. Lapis chunks of sky-blue eyes would gain their sense of history. Forty years have passed and still I see its haunting walls so well. Spiders of flesh in rotted strands. Bubbles of white in chalk disease. A boiled tryst of discontent. Piercing screams of infancy where justice has no slot to fill. My lacerated innocence was fighting to regain its parts. Doctors seemed like ministers that stood between the pews and death. They galvanized humanity-- held magic canes of stethoscopes and charts which they could open, close like windows when a storm moves in. Leaving prayer and paradigm behind in scents of lavender. poetryREpairs.com invites your essay on poetry, or on a poet or poets, and, also, essays on all things related to poetry, its theory and its practice. Or, simply comment on the poems here at poetryrepairs.com

"Repair Your Mind...Read More Poetry!"   poetryrePAIRs v07.09:119

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ELISHA PORAT 2 Versions of a poem on Netanya : #2 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

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