LIKE COUPLES IN THE MOVIES............................................................................... 2

DEFECTION.................................................................................................................. 3

MAGDALA.................................................................................................................... 4

IF ITS TRUE THAT LAKES ALSO AGE...................................................................... 5

ZIONISM....................................................................................................................... 6

BEFORE LIFE STARTS TO QUIVER........................................................................... 8

HOLY TOPOGRAPHY.................................................................................................. 9

And the sea.................................................................................................................... 10

RACHELS GARDEN................................................................................................... 11

FROM A CERTAIN POINT OF VIEW........................................................................ 12

FISHERWOMAN......................................................................................................... 13

KINNERET, SPRING................................................................................................... 14

THE MOUNTAINS FINEST HOUR........................................................................... 15

BOUGINVILLEA.......................................................................................................... 16

THE LAND OF FIRES AND RILLS............................................................................. 17

PROMENADE.............................................................................................................. 18

GOOD FRIDAY............................................................................................................ 19

AGI................................................................................................................................ 22

MARY'S WELL............................................................................................................ 24

EIN KEREM................................................................................................................. 26


LIKE COUPLES IN THE MOVIES

 

Like couples in the movies, who suddenly begin—

after first love-making—to tell the tales

of their childhood

as a hint to the viewers

            that here begins their love story—

 

this land tells me of its youth;

shares with me dreams and nightmares, facts and myths,

reveals who she had

before me.

 

And I am just a feral child

(who stayed in the third grade of Dov Hoz School

when everyone else went to Yale)

who still enters everything into the illustrated notebook

(very good in Botany)

where I still learn “Homeland;”

press spring flowers,

glue in summer thorns,

write in waves in the tongue of the sea

 

all the folded blue

all the shaded translucence,

the voice of the breadth of inclusive silence

the murmurings of the heart.


DEFECTION

 

My father died during this war—

I wasn’t there.

My city escaped death in this war—

I wasn’t there.

 

Dark hours that occur once in a lifetime

drifted away

like clouds devoid of rain

 

I haven’t mourned my father yet

nor done my share

in the war effort—

 

On banks of misty pools

I lie in wait

to see the fish rise from

half-meter depths

 

and thus everything becomes softened

beyond care,

 

and the heart does not conceive.

 

 

 


MAGDALA

 

From here all of Gennesaret is just a housing-project—

not the paradise of an excited pilgrim:

“The garden of the World”—Rudolf de Haas.

But in the plain from Migdal to the sea,

for those who cannot do without enchantment

—each palm tree is a flag!  Each Eucalyptus a face!

And almost always some miraculous purple

of royal bouganvillea or of some unknown tree

adds a dimension to the cultivated land,

conceals the superfluous,

slips the hand of the future into that of the past.

 

I see burdened Brenner

after living here

leaving lighthearted

to his death

in Jaffa

 

And Rachel

on a visit

having walked all the way from her farm school

(so they say)

sitting on a well

nineteen, intense, with all her friends around

dreaming and drinking in the sea

like a camel, desert bound.


IF ITS TRUE THAT LAKES ALSO AGE

 

If it’s true that lakes also age

it doesn’t show on you

low skies of mine, my little infinity,

bright eye of the other side of the world,

black mud where the bourri-fish sleep

 

If it’s true that lakes also age—

and you are “a relatively young phenomenon

with an accelerated process of deterioration”

as I read in The Land of Naphtali,

 

Then I’ll re-dig for you the Hula sea

(to kidney-sift your waters once again).

I’ll stop up the outer pipes

un-cork the inner springs!

 

Give the salt back to the water!


 

ZIONISM

 

When I was a child, I used to practice against fear

by night-runs home from scouts’ headquarters.

Passing the Christian  (or was it Moslem?) graveyard

I talked to myself—

the words carrying me away

to a distant place

where no stone angel trembled behind the wall

where no grave gaped on a crumbling cliff

trying to have its say.

 

When I was a Bat Mitzvah, on the kibbutz,

the hills of Hamadia

disclosed the pattern of my life

sending me

back to Jaffa.

Though here, among the fish ponds,

dressed in a skirt of colored raffia,

perched on a tin boat,

I was the Queen of Africa;

The world unfolded.

 

When I was a girl, the Youth Movement

took me on a trip

from sea to sea.

I still haven’t returned.

I’m still crossing the water

from the steep lawn of the Jewish Agency school

to the Arab ovens of Tabha.

On the Mount of Beatitude I climb on and on.

I sing the old Hebrew folk songs with the crowd;

I hobnob with both Jesus and Arthur Rupin.

 

Brenner and Gordon are still fighting over me

(I lean toward the older man)

An Arab is murdering me;

I go to a local ruin as to a previous life.

I’m born again!

To the cemetery on the sea

I go on pilgrimage,

and wizard-wise, with “Open Sesame,”

produce from Rachel’s gravestead

a damp, white book,

from which I read aloud to my children

(before they are too big to care)

about “the lilac of the evening air.”


 

NOTES

 

Brenner:  Haim Brenner, pessimistic author and leader of the generation of founders, was murdered by Arabs in Jaffa.

 

Rachel: Rachel Blaustein, the “national poet” of the founding generation of settlers, who died at age 39 of tuberculosis, is known for her great love of this area.

 

Gordon: Arthur David Gordon, optimistic leader of the founding generation.

 

Hamadia: a kibbutz in the Jordan Valley.

 

Tabha: where Jesus performed the miracle of the fishes.


BEFORE LIFE STARTS TO QUIVER

 

Before life starts to quiver

like a fish with his intestines out

but not his life—

his life is still within—

there is more life to him—

there is a whole sea that is still his own—

the depths are still deep

from him

alone

 

Before life starts to quiver

 

let’s linger a bit more

facing radiant scales

 

Though the knife blade is reflected there

as well.


HOLY TOPOGRAPHY

 

High balcony.  Vine serpent

in the blue latticework. 

A cluster-testicle hangs

and fills.

 

The radiance of the jacaranda.  The citrus grove

reaches the water line.  A boat makes

circles on round sea—

 

or loaves.  The stain of fire and wheat on

                                                mottled mountains.

 

 

The congestion of wind changing the water’s hue

from metal-grey to kingfisher blue! 

A solid

                        silence.

 

And everything one craves is in eating distance.


And the sea

 

 

 

And the sea

as always

is a miracle

that does not dry up

 

Blue not deep not strong

that still overpowers

my days

 

Again I have come

placed myself before it

awaiting its murmuring

 

 


RACHELS GARDEN

 

The mount of the dead is fresh

and the date garden is old

 

the bunches wrapped like a creation of Christo,

they are maidens from the farm draped in white

 

they are chandeliers dropping

from the arches of the chamber

between the columns of trees with palms upraised

 

perhaps cupping their cheeks

or clapping

or holding up the sky

 

 

 


FROM A CERTAIN POINT OF VIEW

 

From a certain perspective the sea is a river

                                                                        that passes

and remains.

 

From a certain point of view the sea is a scroll

                                                                        that inscribes

and erases.

In a certain light everything is stage setting:

                                                                        Kinneret,

The Galilee…

It seems that any minute any minute any minute

It will all begin!

 

And then it gets dark.

No screen opens.

Only you remain there alone intoxicated,

asking for another glass

in the place where only

            water

filled a pit.


FISHERWOMAN

 

The poems I haven’t written yet

The poems I haven’t pulled from the water

 

play with the fish and the crabs

let the Jordan pass through them,

 

become plankton for other fish

and then gather themselves,

 

frightened by a big fish

                        they run for their lives

right into my extended soul

my holey work

my embroidery

my netting of feeling and fear,

 

my deep-water net, approved by the maritime board –

 

 

for on these waters is my livelihood

 


KINNERET, SPRING

 

*

The sea is full to the brim

The sea overflows its legends

 

The pomegranate tree

that gives no scent

abounds with smeared kisses

 

That maddening blossoming 

is my sanity insurance

 

 

*

There is no way to measuring the force of flowering,

But burns have their degrees

And there are degrees of earthquakes

 

Here

the Richter scale

and Jacob’s ladder

begin in the same stone

 

 

 

 

 


 

THE MOUNTAINS FINEST HOUR

 

 

The mountain’s finest hour

is

about fifteen minutes long

 

when all the breath of ‘there’

when all the depth of ‘blue’

illuminate themselves from within

bring themselves into the light!

 

After that they

go back to being

extinguished

volcanoes, mountains

of blackness, basalt

 

the hardened lava from the heart of the earth.

 

 

 


BOUGINVILLEA

 

Tree of scarlet poultices

on the inflamed spots of being.

What rottenness

What disintegration within the brown damp,

What convolutions of root nets

spread to trawl fish

from the underground stream

all in order to produce

the innocent flowering

 

in order to raise

your joyous flags

to the top of the pole

of the lifesavers’ post

along the angry sea.

 

What a fountain of prayers;

a green flame from the dragon’s mouth

invisible-yet-felt

a swing for the hummingbird;

 

a balancing point

that makes the hours

entire worlds

to be waived!


BOUGINVILLEA

 

Tree of scarlet poultices

on the inflamed spots of

being.

What rottenness

What disintegration within the brown damp,

What convolutions of root nets

spread to trawl

fish from the underground stream

all in order to produce

the innocent flowering

 

in order to raise your joyous flags

to the top of the pole of the lifesavers’ post

along the angry sea.

 

What a fountain of prayers;

a green flame from the dragon’s mouth

invisible-yet-felt

a swing for the hummingbird;

 

a balancing point that makes the hours

entire worlds to be waved!

 

 


THE LAND OF FIRES AND RILLS

 

The wisdom of the heart says: this is the land.

From this you must distill love or ennui.

 

The madness of the heart says: go climb the myrrh mountain,

descend the honeyed valley.

Whether they are only bewitchment or only a drug,

whether vapor from a crevice and not the voice from the firmament.

 

My heart’s wisdom,

magnifying glass of little miracles,

 

sieve sifting the grass

from all the plains of garbage,

 

bring me back again in that old jeep

and take the dusty date tree

between the ruins of the Syrian camp

above the falling blast of breaking waters…

the taste of roasted sweetness

of the land of fires and shallow rills,

the smell of water in the middle of the desert,

 

will return me

to my borders

 

before I cross.


PROMENADE

 

A.

Here is the sea

where the boats called

for names of ancient cities

(and not women like in Jaffa)

cities of basalt dreams:

Magdala Arbla Kurazin

 

Here is the sea

where each boat

is the boat of Jesus

and every amazed glance

walks on the waters

 

B

What luck that the “Senor” synagogue

embarrasses the promenade,

and doesn’t let the pedestrian walkway pass smoothly,

complicates the accordion playing

of the new immigrant from the absorption center

who for a plugged nickle

transforms Rakah to Paris

 

 

C

In the Abulafiah synagogue

They fry fish and read the papers;

A newspaper named after a prayer

and fish that have mad history

 

And the “Jordan River” is a hotel

with a transparent elevator

which will soon take off from its stand

trailing with it like a train

the whole pedestrian walkway and the marina and the pizza parlors and the pubs and the frozen yogurt …

and I will be able to return to its proper place

my black city,

to nail it to reality

with the tack of the Al-Bakhri Mosque

and the tack of the Mosque of  Omar.


GOOD FRIDAY

 

After Good Friday

in the Old City

(taking calculated risks)

a Jewish woman

in Intifada times

with a friend my age

and temperament, a nun

of the same strange order

by which we have been called

to walk the Via Dolorosa

instead of sitting in a cafe

 

After the tiny shrines

in every station of His agony;

wounds that re-open here each year;

stigmata of the lost alley

amid Passover and Pesach

and the "Day of the Land"

 

After the legions of Ramadan pilgrims

checked and sorted out

by a little soldier - My child! clever child

(Do not dream now!) You knew what you have to add

to the innocence in which I brought you up

so you can stand firmly now on these dams

and direct the rites of sorting   

those who come to pray

from those who come to kill

(Do not dream! "The dream always comes after

the child is rocked to sleep by Mother").

 

And my son

sends forth a flood

of white-apparelled old men

to Mount Moriah...

 

Do not dream now! Do not say a word:

(Hebrew here is an incriminating tongue).

Just pursue your way to Calvary

trailing the cross-bearers' prosecutions, the mystery plays,

of schools, churches, and monasteries,

in a muddle of incense, candles and hymns,

the spray of perfume and tears on the stone

that may have held Him

but has surely held

the deep fervor of old Greek ladies

year after year -

hundreds of years.


 

After the stories, the thinking and the questions

after the blood in the cup, after the thorn

in the forehead

after the oblong beam

of light

that managed to transform

the motes of dust to pale blue

in the hollow of a dark chapel -

 

I want to sprinkle sugar

on a crescent cookie

 

I want to iron

mountains!

 

The whole colorful Carmel peak

composed of clothes of a man and woman

 

In my kitchen porch,

In the setting day.

 


AGI

 

Agi,

a woman with a blue number,

knew Death personally,

was almost His,

but He, suddenly, got up

and left.

 

Since then

nothing makes her weep

or laugh deeply

 

All things come and go like seasons;

 

The cows give milk, the cows dry up, are sold,

her man bends with time . . .

the cancer in her breast is also no great bother.

On outings to Tel Aviv

for radiation,

she airs her mind -

sees people who are not

her housewife neighbors,

hears things that are not

the mooing of the cows . . .

 

When she returns

and cuts through my garden,

there is about her

that light touch of

what she must have been once

 

but also

the heavy grasp.

 


 

2.

 

You said you had

a little girl named Esther

 

You had a bush of hair

like clouds

and your face ( now I know it )

was rain

that poured upon our lifted faces -

it still does.

 

You stood above us for hours,

waiting for the

rainbow.

 

Now Spring has come

even to this place.

He doesn't fear your stares

or sense the foul smells.

He brings you flowers! 

 


MARY'S WELL

 

Here, at this fountain

where a Russian monk

finally found Truth

by candle-light

 

and in Her honor built

a mountain-embracing monastery,

 

hosts of Hassids are now chanting

of "His eternal grace"

 

while tolling bells baptize you

in their pools of sound.

 

O tiny, sunny square of this "Town of God,"

Montana, Bait-Hakerem,

Ras-A-Rab,

 

they all gather here

arriving in hosts

to stain you with hot tar

 

Hassids and Monks form

the same black

on clear Judean stone,

 

nearby a trickle

so small for this big tide

it barely yields its murmur

to the din –

Amused to tears.

 

Then it remembers that, in fact,

they always used to come

with empty vessels

and brimming hearts

 

filling the first

and emptying the last,

 

then stepping back

as if something of weight

has come to pass.

 

But what could have befallen here

save drops of water on dry earth

 

What else?

 

 

Me and my Arab friend

(who strolled over from the medical school

for bread from the village store)

watch the whole scene

sitting on the fence

(along with the policeman)

and fling about light words smooth as water

on subjects heavy as earth.

 

 

 

 

 

 


EIN KEREM

 

(written during the Gulf War)

 

Alarms and church bells –

brightness of almond blossoms, darkness

of cypresses, and tops of stone-pines leaning

on thick ramparts

like sacks on backs of animals,

upon a rocky ground,

around a liquid

core.

 

The terror is slight.

The sealed-room of the convent

is 2000 years old.

 

And everything that ever was alive

between its walls

lives this moment

 

as one more ring

of the same pebble

in one and the same pond.