Blesok no. 76, January-February, 2011
Poetry


Asphalt Dragons
From "Asphalt Dragons", Blesok, 2011.

Ronny Someck



A Kiss


The high heel shoes were invented by a girl
who was always kissed on her forehead.
Since then the forehead shines like a shoeshine
and the eyebrows brush does not stop shining
the eye's electricity after the bombing
on the lips' mines.
I remember the first kiss, by the lemon tree that was clean
of leaves. Someone told us that if we will rub our teeth
with a leaf the cigarette smell will be erased.
The fog had then thin fingers. The city neck
was wide, refusing strangling and the girl that I wanted
did not know that the lemon smell between teeth and tongue
was spread in the imagination on her face's salad.


Translated by
Hanni Dimitstein




Passion


In the matches box called passion
they rub head by head
and know that fire is a blow engine
in the orgasm train.


Translated by Liora Someck




Shard


You say that love is like a glass.
It breaks if you hold it
too hard or too lightly.
On the sharpest of the shards poets
write poems. Not
I. I am the geologist of the strata of lipstick
smeared on the glass rim like a red rag dyed
in the bull's blood.


Translated by Vivian Eden




A Pirate Love Poem


If you cut sea's waves with scissors
You will find only water
And the relics of Phoenicians ship
Where I once sat with many slaves.
The whip that struck my back
was made in the shape of your hand,
And the voice that commanded row! row! was sharp as an ax

I wanted Love to wave like the skull on the black flag
of a pirate ship.
Something quick,
something torn right out of my body.


Translated by Henry Israeli




Sonnet of Air Narcissus


Night showers wash the asphalt dragons,
water residues traced in puddles
and at four in the morning the language of myth
touches the edge of sidewalks.

At this place flames will soon erupt from the pharynx
and street will turn against street.
The red light will be the light of a paper lantern
and nightingales will soar from Chinese legends to those of tomorrow

Only, among the heart's rocks
(of he who can fall in love
with the spreading spot

between the nail's coastal plain and the fingers of a girl he
barely knows) will
the pink-frozen night of the air narcissus blossom.

Translated by Gabriel Levin




Sun Sonnet


It will not rain today
and the earth's lips like a concubine's lips
will not be moistened by a stolen kiss.
Today the sun will come to caress the feet of hills,
whisper at the tip of a stalk a lullaby
for sleeping groundsel
and flake rust off a command sign
on the wall of the military camp
where my daughter shines.
Today love will slide
like a banana down the world's throat
and its peel discarded among the stars
will be patched above my head
like a personal moon.


Translated by Vivian Eden




Summer Sonnet


Summer is the pencil
that is least sharp
in the seasons' pencil case.
With it I compose
a billet-doux
to the seamstress who snipped
from women's clothes
collars that had hidden napes
and lopped
an inch or two of winter
from the bottom of their dress.
Perhaps this year too
it will be hot
in the low-lying spots.


Translated by Vivian Eden




Blues for the Life That Was Almost Mine


I was born in Virginia. From my adoptive father, a judge whose verdicts
were blackened by bribery, I learned to chew tobacco leaves and to reach the spot
where girls' spines end.
One night I stole the Chevrolet keys and I drove her
to Atlanta. I lived in the car and at nights, on the back seat springs,
I folded the cloths to pillow size. Once, when they caught
me urinating near the wheels and fined me 50 dollars,
I told the judge that the sky is the ceiling and the back bumper is the toilet.
One day my legitimate father showed up at the restaurant where I worked. He looked at me,
and I sewed eyes in a magical needle that I always kept
in the pocket of my longing,
if this story were not real, it could have been planted
in a Johnny Cash song, but I, who brushed my teeth
five times a day to remove the tobaccos stains, vomit all
the Johnnys Cashs into the same bowl in which I vomit Virginia.
”Where will the bomb fall” sings Roger Waters in the tape cassette player
and I begin to understand that one cannot erase the Tommy gun from one's memory
that my adoptive father kept in the drawer.
No cloud has blackened
or fallen
in this poem. I was then
the philosopher of pouring the coffee
moment at a motel
where the blonde waitress wants
to drown with you in a pile of sugar.
Why do you wear a bra, I once asked someone like this,
and she said that her breasts, like my life, are a fist
which is better off concealed in a glove.


P.S. Blues About the Real Life

I was not born in Virginia. My father was a lock of silence on
his lips' doors,
ever since his death I follow him in the back seats
of bus no.61.
The memory halts at stops, opens a door,
rings the bell and sways when there is no room to sit.
Under its wheels beats an asphalt heart
and I on the sidewalks' back
continue to whip my heels as a rod.


Translated by Hanni Dimitstein




Asphalt. Nostalgia poem


And asphalt is a stitch in the land's garment
a feeling distinguishing between heeltap,
motorcycles of the dark, or a bare foot.
And tonight, the memory of her wet lashes
after showering is similar to the blotch of crows
painted above the eyelid in the asphalt glare.


Translated by Gabriel Levin




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