Poem
Rafi Weichert
BED
Don’t move. It’s nice like this. Falling
light softens contours,
matches the body to the bed.
In a moment they too will disappear into the darkness
that blurs domains.
Meanwhile I watch the shadows that penetrate the shutters
and trace bars on the wall, mapping limitations,
affirming our presence.
While we lie this way
others explore regions of joy,
acquire property, erect palaces,
bury their dead.
The same uncommonplace evening falls
upon them and also on us.
See the squares in the ceiling,
how great the distance between light and shade,
between the room and the street,
how short the distance between us.
Nevertheless, all of our actions, the things we whisper
into warm and startled ears, the body’s simple
dance, are swallowed by the dark, into a fading
whirlpool, despite our will. They aren’t ours.
Don’t listen to me. I too have no solution
except the stubborn order of words
like a barricade against time,
expropriating things from fate.
A bed’s height from the floor, now I feel
my body’s surfeit, warm and stiff
as though its ability to love lacks nothing.
At evening I stroke you
and there’s no closeness in darkness, just an illusion
that when objects meet they fulfill their calling.
© Translation: 2014, Lisa Katz
מיטה
מיטה
אַל תָּזוּזִי. כָּכָה טוֹב. הָאוֹר
הַיּוֹרֵד מְרַכֵּךְ אֶת קַוֵּי הַמִּתְאָר,
מַתְאִים אֶת הַגּוּף לַמִּטָּה.
בְּעוֹד רֶגַע יֵעָלְמוּ גַּם הֵם בָּעֲלָטָה
הַמְטַשְׁטֶשֶׁת תְּחוּמִים.
בֵּינְתַיִם אֲנִי מִסְתַּכֵּל בַּצֵּל הַחוֹדֵר מִבַּעַד לַתְּרִיס,
מְשַׂרְטֵט סוֹרְגִים בַּקִּירוֹת, מְמַפֶּה מִגְבָּלוֹת
מִתְעַקֵּשׁ לְאַמֵּת אֶת נוֹכְחוּתֵנוּ.
בִּזְמַן שֶׁאֲנַחְנוּ שׁוֹכְבִים כָּךְ
אֲחֵרִים תָּרִים מְחוֹזוֹת אשֶׁר
אוֹגְרִים רְכוּשׁ, מְקִימִים אַרְמוֹנוֹת,
קוֹבְרִים אֶת מֵתֵיהֶם.
עֲלֵיהֶם וְגַם עָלֵינוּ יוֹרֵד אוֹתוֹ עֶרֶב
מְיֻחַדְגּוֹנִי.
רְאִי אֶת הָרִבּוּעִים שֶׁעַל הַתִּקְרָה
מָה רַב הַמֶּרְחָק בֵּין אוֹר לְצֵל,
מָה רַב הַמֶּרְחָק בֵּין הַחֶדֶר לָרְחוֹב
מַה מּוּעָט הַמֶּרְחָק שֶׁבֵּינֵינוּ.
וּבְכָל זֹאת כָּל מַעֲשֵׂינוּ, הַדְּבָרִים שֶׁאָנוּ לוֹאֲטִים
בְּאָזְנַיִם חַמּוֹת וְנִבְהָלוֹת, רִקּוּדוֹ הַפָּשׁוּט
שֶׁל הַגּוּף, נִבְלָעִים בָּאֲפֵלָה, בִּמְעַרְבֹּלֶת
מִתְרַחֶקֶת שֶׁבָּהּ, חֵרֶף רְצוֹנֵנוּ, אֵין לָנוּ קִנְיָן.
אַל תַּקְשִׁיבִי לִי. גַּם לִי אֵין פִּתְרוֹן
מִלְּבַד סִדּוּרָן הָעַקְשָׁנִי שֶׁל הַמִּלִּים
כְּגָדֵר בִּפְנֵי הַזְּמַן,
הַפְקָעַת דְּבָרִים מִגְּזֵרַת מוֹתָם.
עַכְשָׁו, בְּמֶרְחַק מִטָּה מֵהָרִצְפָּה אֲנִי חָשׁ
בְּיִתּוּרוֹ הַגָּדוֹל שֶׁל גּוּפִי, קָשֶׁה וָחָם
כְּמוֹ לֹא נִגְרַע דָּבָר מִיכֹלֶת אַהֲבָתוֹ.
עִם עֶרֶב אֲנִי מְלַטֵּף אוֹתָךְ
וְהַחֲשֵׁכָה אֵין בָּהּ קִרְבָה, רַק אַשְׁלָיָה
שֶׁבְּהִתְקָרְבוּת עֲצָמִים לְמַמֵּשׁ אֶת יִעוּדָם.
© 1994, Rafi Weichert
From: Mita
Publisher: Ahshav, Tel Aviv
From: Mita
Publisher: Ahshav, Tel Aviv
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Poems
Poems of Rafi Weichert
Close
BED
Don’t move. It’s nice like this. Falling
light softens contours,
matches the body to the bed.
In a moment they too will disappear into the darkness
that blurs domains.
Meanwhile I watch the shadows that penetrate the shutters
and trace bars on the wall, mapping limitations,
affirming our presence.
While we lie this way
others explore regions of joy,
acquire property, erect palaces,
bury their dead.
The same uncommonplace evening falls
upon them and also on us.
See the squares in the ceiling,
how great the distance between light and shade,
between the room and the street,
how short the distance between us.
Nevertheless, all of our actions, the things we whisper
into warm and startled ears, the body’s simple
dance, are swallowed by the dark, into a fading
whirlpool, despite our will. They aren’t ours.
Don’t listen to me. I too have no solution
except the stubborn order of words
like a barricade against time,
expropriating things from fate.
A bed’s height from the floor, now I feel
my body’s surfeit, warm and stiff
as though its ability to love lacks nothing.
At evening I stroke you
and there’s no closeness in darkness, just an illusion
that when objects meet they fulfill their calling.
© 2014, Lisa Katz
From: Mita
From: Mita
BED
Don’t move. It’s nice like this. Falling
light softens contours,
matches the body to the bed.
In a moment they too will disappear into the darkness
that blurs domains.
Meanwhile I watch the shadows that penetrate the shutters
and trace bars on the wall, mapping limitations,
affirming our presence.
While we lie this way
others explore regions of joy,
acquire property, erect palaces,
bury their dead.
The same uncommonplace evening falls
upon them and also on us.
See the squares in the ceiling,
how great the distance between light and shade,
between the room and the street,
how short the distance between us.
Nevertheless, all of our actions, the things we whisper
into warm and startled ears, the body’s simple
dance, are swallowed by the dark, into a fading
whirlpool, despite our will. They aren’t ours.
Don’t listen to me. I too have no solution
except the stubborn order of words
like a barricade against time,
expropriating things from fate.
A bed’s height from the floor, now I feel
my body’s surfeit, warm and stiff
as though its ability to love lacks nothing.
At evening I stroke you
and there’s no closeness in darkness, just an illusion
that when objects meet they fulfill their calling.
© 2014, Lisa Katz
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