Poem
Ilan Sheinfeld
NIGHT OF WAR 14
For two weeks already I haven’t heard from you.
You’re probably skipping between the craters in Tel Aviv,
documenting the human interest in the area of destruction. Did you
think I’d phone?
I hoped you’d be back here, with the shine of your perverted eyes, and seduce me.
I mean after all, in the moment before you left, you bit me.
But when I tried to press you to the wall, you withdrew
to the secure borders you drew in advance,
leaving me waiting, idiotic, with the waving flag of an erection.
After two weeks of the moaning of sirens
there are no signs of you. What, are you carousing with death? Were
you insulted?
I’m thirsty for a portion of translucent liqueur from the vineyards of your womb.
Here, my pink tongue licks the air.
Sweet, let us lie under a canopy of nape kisses.
If you don’t bring me your hairy mound, out of hunger I am liable
once again to inhale Rose from the orchard of testicles.
As you know, there’s no harm in it,
but lately, my dear, I desire only
to nip the berries of your nipples.
© Translation: 1992, Karen Alkalay-Gut
ליל מלחמה 14
ליל מלחמה 14
כְּבָר שְׁבוּעַיִם לֹא שָׁמַעְתִּי מִמֵּךְ.
וַדַּאי אַתְּ מְפַזֶּזֶת בֵּין הַמַּכְתְּשִׁים בְּתֵל־אָבִיב,
מְתַעֶדֶת אֶת הָאֱנוֹשִׁי בִּטְוַח הַהֶרֶס. צִפִּית שֶׁאֲטַלְפֵּן? אֲנִי
צִפִּיתִי שֶׁתָּשׁוּבִי הֵנָּה עִם בְּרַק עֵינַיִךְ הַסּוֹטוֹת, וּתְפַתִּי אוֹתִי.
הֲרֵי כִּכְלוֹת הַכֹּל, בָּרֶגַע הָאַחֲרוֹן לִפְנֵי לֶכְתֵּךְ נָשַׁכְתְּ אוֹתִי,
אַךְ כְּשֶׁנִּסִּיתִי לְהַצְמִיד אוֹתָךְ לַקִּיר חָמַקְתְּ, זְרִיזָה כְּאַיָּלָה,
אֶל מִבְטְחָם שֶׁל הַגְּבוּלוֹת אֲשֶׁר הִצַּבְתְּ מֵרֹאשׁ. מוֹתִירָה
אוֹתִי עוֹמֵד, אִידְיוֹטִי, עִם הַדֶּגֶל הַמּוּנָף שֶׁל הַזִּקְפָּה.
אַחֲרֵי שְׁבוּעַיִם שֶׁל גְּנִיחוֹת בַּצּוֹפָרִים
אֵין סִימָן מִמֵּךְ. מָה, אַתְּ מִתְהוֹלֶלֶת עִם הַמָּוֶת? נֶעֱלַבְתְּ?
אֲנִי צָמֵא לִמְנַת לִיקֶר שָׁקוּף מִתּוֹךְ יִקְבֵי רַחְמֵךְ.
הִנֵּה לְשׁוֹנִי הַוְּרֻדָּה, מְלַקֶּקֶת אֲוִיר.
מֹתֶק, בּוֹאִי נִשְׁכַּב תַּחַת אַפִּרְיוֹן שֶׁל נְשִׁיכוֹת בָּעֹרֶף.
אִם לֹא תָּבִיאִי הֵנָּה אֶת עֶרְוָתֵךְ הַשְּׂעִירָה, מֵרֹב רָעָב אֲנִי עָשׂוּי
שׁוּב לְהָרִיחַ וֶרֶד בְּבֻסְתְּנֵי הָאֲשָׁכִים.
כַּיָּדוּעַ, שׁוּם דָּבָר אֵינוֹ מַזִּיק בָּזֶה.
אֲבָל בַּזְּמַן הָאַחֲרוֹן, יַקִּירָתִי, בָּא לִי לִנְשֹׁךְ
רַק אֶת שְׁתֵּי הָאֻכְמָנִיּוֹת שֶׁל פִּטְמוֹתַיִךְ.
י"ט בשבט התנש"א
© 2013, Ilan Sheinfeld
From: Otsar shirim
Publisher: Shufra, Tel Aviv
From: Otsar shirim
Publisher: Shufra, Tel Aviv
Poems
Poems of Ilan Sheinfeld
Close
NIGHT OF WAR 14
For two weeks already I haven’t heard from you.
You’re probably skipping between the craters in Tel Aviv,
documenting the human interest in the area of destruction. Did you
think I’d phone?
I hoped you’d be back here, with the shine of your perverted eyes, and seduce me.
I mean after all, in the moment before you left, you bit me.
But when I tried to press you to the wall, you withdrew
to the secure borders you drew in advance,
leaving me waiting, idiotic, with the waving flag of an erection.
After two weeks of the moaning of sirens
there are no signs of you. What, are you carousing with death? Were
you insulted?
I’m thirsty for a portion of translucent liqueur from the vineyards of your womb.
Here, my pink tongue licks the air.
Sweet, let us lie under a canopy of nape kisses.
If you don’t bring me your hairy mound, out of hunger I am liable
once again to inhale Rose from the orchard of testicles.
As you know, there’s no harm in it,
but lately, my dear, I desire only
to nip the berries of your nipples.
© 1992, Karen Alkalay-Gut
From: Otsar shirim
From: Otsar shirim
NIGHT OF WAR 14
For two weeks already I haven’t heard from you.
You’re probably skipping between the craters in Tel Aviv,
documenting the human interest in the area of destruction. Did you
think I’d phone?
I hoped you’d be back here, with the shine of your perverted eyes, and seduce me.
I mean after all, in the moment before you left, you bit me.
But when I tried to press you to the wall, you withdrew
to the secure borders you drew in advance,
leaving me waiting, idiotic, with the waving flag of an erection.
After two weeks of the moaning of sirens
there are no signs of you. What, are you carousing with death? Were
you insulted?
I’m thirsty for a portion of translucent liqueur from the vineyards of your womb.
Here, my pink tongue licks the air.
Sweet, let us lie under a canopy of nape kisses.
If you don’t bring me your hairy mound, out of hunger I am liable
once again to inhale Rose from the orchard of testicles.
As you know, there’s no harm in it,
but lately, my dear, I desire only
to nip the berries of your nipples.
© 1992, Karen Alkalay-Gut
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