This is not a story
This is what happened
Two poems in my translation by Michaela Lamdan from Hebrew in Lunch Ticket.
Two poems in my translation by Nasser Rabah from Arabic and Yonatan Berg from Hebrew in Consequence.
Two poems in my translation by Nasser Rabah from Arabic and Yonatan Berg from Hebrew in Oomph Anthology.
After a Night in the Alley of Worshippers in Lunch Ticket. Two poems by Israeli poet Yonatan Berg in my translation.
A Beginner’s Guide to Tear Gas in the very beautiful Wild Age Press. Careful not to choke on it.
A Strange Vitality in Radar Poetry. With a beautiful illustration by Tayfun Gulnar.
Three poems by Agi Mishol with my translation in the beautiful Asymptote
Checkpoint Calandia in Cactus Heart
Execution in Slow Motion: A poem in Ginosko
Plague: A poem in the lovely literary journal, Word Riot
Figs and Facebook: An essay in The Los Angeles Review of Books on the superb poetry of Agi Mishol
Two of my poems in Halfway Down The Stairs
Bedouin Pastoral in The Moon Magazine
Rain After Crash in The Moon Magazine
My latest poetry publication in Haaretz’s Poem of the Week:
The wonderful journal, Recours au Poeme, has published four of my poems in French, translated by Marilyne Bertoncini. This is a weekly on-line journal with great writing from all over the world. Try it, you’ll like it. Merci beaucoup!
And here are two of the poems:
any time I want.
You are real to me your hands
are real they travel
along the pages your fingers
probe for meaning
under my surfaces.
Nothing they say
travels faster than
the speed of light.
I already know
what you are thinking.
in the middle of town,
I saw Jesus riding side saddle
on a motorbike.
Of course, I recognized him
by the blond hair and
I know Jesus when
I see one.
Come and celebrate the launching of the fabulous Ilanot Review this Saturday, January 19, 2013 at 8PM at The Dancing Camel in Tel Aviv. I’ll be there, along with Sarah Wetzel, genius poetry editor, Marcela Sulak, Annie Kantar, Judy Labensohn and a host of other fine writers.
Meanwhile, read this poem by DIane Wakoski that appears in this edition:
Perhaps because the leaves are rolled up like bbs,
or pellet shot for muzzle-loaders,
Gunpowder Tea is dark as an old wound,
It has the almost antiseptic whiff of chests that might hold
coiled rope from a sea voyage. When
I ask for it, I might
be asking for power,
as if I were an archer flexing her bow,
asking for Amazon arms,
or as if I were an engine bathing itself in oil.
When I request Gunpowder Tea,
it should signal that sometimes I wear
robes embroidered with woman warrior dragons,
that I am someone who knows how to handle a sword, as well as a bow.
And when I ask you to pour it — the
Gunpowder Tea — I am affirming
that I will honor your warrior stance as well.
This tea must be poured
at table where a liquor is brewed
and your skinny pizza-boy stance,
that reflects your archer-wrists,
which flip white fans of parchment dough
into poetry like the words of
round as a tiny green pearl,
fresh in your mouth
and resound my news:
poetry’s Big Bang can lave any warrior’s tongue.
Hot from the Oven
A great honor to be part of a group of translators showcased in The Bakery, a wonderful literary journal. Here are my translations of Agi Mishol, taken from her latest book, Working Order. And here are three of my own poems in this same issue. Please check out also the great work of Marcela Sulak, Dara Barnat and Jane Medved.
There is a big black X
scrawled in the sky
above the block we live in.
It means: Bring out your dead.
But today is the Sabbath.
We cannot bring out the dead
until this day of rest is over.
We sit. We stand
at the window watching
the street below, dogs
sniffing for leftovers
from Saturday lunch,
candy wrappers drifting
onto the sidewalk,
nudged by the wind.
We could have kept you
alive, could have punched
a hole in your throat
to breathe but we let
go and now the body
cools more slowly than
we could have imagined.
So we speak in low tones,
hovering over the body
Agi and I
From: Wax Flower
I do not know you
to tell the truth
you do not know me either.
I see the rusting wire in your eyes
and your ailing soul in the evening
with a small tuna salad in your lap
together with toast
in front of the TV.
But your mother tongue is not mine,
so we prefer to stroll:
walking is better than sitting,
sitting better than lying down,
lying down better than sleeping.
And we stroll,
your arm strung through mine,
and we play once upon a time I
was your mother,
and now you are mine.
My poem in Poet Lore
I Will Always Go Back
I will always go back to my brother’s voice, not yet fully broken, counting to ten,
the leaves crackling underfoot, the snag of an oak branch on my old red coat
as I search for a place to hide from him. The smell of damp bracken
from late summer showers, a shudder in the warm air, a whirring of bees,
hundreds of them, whose hive my clumsiness has violated, hunting me down,
swarming full throttle from the depths of the glade, catching up with my awkward
sprint, poison throbbing in their little bodies. They capture me swiftly, clinging
ecstatically to my face, invading my nostrils, attacking my ear lobes, covering the
cuffs of my coat with their rage. When I reach the driveway of our house, I stop
batting my childish hands, stop resisting. I just stand there and let them do it
to me. My brother, hearing my animal screams piercing through the glade,
finds me. He fights them off with his beautiful bare hands.
Published in Poet Lore, Winter 2012