Poetry

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Poetry

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.

Transatlantic Poetry hosted by Rachel Heimowitz. Yonatan Berg reads some cracking poetry, translated by me with love.

A Strange Vitality in Radar Poetry. With a beautiful illustration by Tayfun Gulnar. 

A podcast by Marcela Sulak on the poetry of Agi Mishol, with my translations, on TLV1. Listen and love.

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

A selection of my poems translated into French by the lovely Sabine Hunyh in Terre a Ciel

Forget What You Know About Love. My translation of Nadav Linial’s poem in Haaretz Poem of The Week

Two of my poems in Halfway Down The Stairs

My own poetry in The Bakery
My translations of Agi Mishol’s poetry in The Bakery

Bedouin Pastoral in The Moon Magazine

Rain After Crash in The Moon Magazine

My latest poetry publication in Haaretz’s Poem of the Week:
http://www.haaretz.com/culture/poem-of-the-week/poem-of-the-week-is-journalism-art.premium-1.525222

The 4Locals

4Locals jpg2

4Locals jpg

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:

Conjure

I conjure you up
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.
 

Jesus

Late last night,
in the middle of town,
I saw Jesus riding side saddle
on a motorbike.
Of course, I recognized him
by the blond hair and
leather sandals.
I know Jesus when
I see one. 

Foreign Bodies

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:

Asking The Pizza Boy To Share A Cup of Gunpowder Tea


Diane Wakoski

 

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
that echoes
my applause
and your skinny pizza-boy stance,
that reflects your archer-wrists,
which flip white fans of parchment dough
into poetry like the words of
Li Po,
Cavafy,
Stevens,
Jeffers.
Each leaf,
round  as a tiny green pearl,
will explode
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.

Plague

There is a big black X
scrawled in the sky
above the block we live in.

Apartment: 7
Block: 3
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
like vultures.

Agi and I 

My translations of the fabulous Agi Mishol in The Ilanot Review

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

http://www.writer.org/poetlore/

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2 thoughts on “Poetry

  1. You really make it seem so easy with your presentation but I find this matter to be really something that I think I would never understand. It seems too complex and very broad for me. I am looking forward for your next post, I’ll try to get the hang of it!

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