Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Yael Globerman

SECOND GENERATION

The man who almost wasn't sits down at the table.
The woman who barely made it serves him plum cake.
This is my home: It is good here. Safe.
Mother leans on Father. Father leans on a shadow.
At night they tiptoe into my room in beekeepers' suits,
rub my temples with wax.
We are a very warm family.
The floor burns under our feet.

We believe in walls. Believe less in a roof.
It has to be built every morning anew. We build.
There is ammunition in the medicine cabinet
and a bribe in the bank for the guard
who lets us steal across the border every night.
Silence is the pitch that stops up gaps, seals the floors.
I hear something deep roaring and surging:
There's a sea underneath the foundations of home.                
***
This house is filled with love. Father is strong
And mother good-looking.
Gershwin could have written our lullaby.
What good will this sorrow do
Where will I lead this sorrow
Where will I sit it down when it gets here
What will I give it to eat.
 

דור שני

דור שני

הָאִישׁ שֶׁכִּמְעַט לֹא הָיָה יוֹשֵׁב לַשֻּׁלְחָן.
הָאִשָׁה שֶׁבְּקֹשִי הִגִּיעָה מַגִּישָׁה לוֹ עוּגַת שְׁזִיפִים.                                  
זֶה הַבַּיִת שֶׁלִי: טוֹב פֹּה. בָּטוּחַ.                                                      
אִמָּא נִשְׁעֶנֶת עַל אַבָּא. אַבָּא נִשְׁעָן עַל צֵל.                         
בַּלַּיְלָה הֵם פּוֹסְעִים לְחַדְרִי עַל קְצוֹת אֶצְבָּעוֹת
בְּתִּלְבֹּשֶׁת כַּוְרָנִים, מוֹשְׁחִים אֶת רַקוֹתַי בְּשַׁעֲוָה.   
אֲנַחְנוּ מִשְׁפָּחָה מְאֹד חַמָּה.
הָרִצְפָּה בּוֹעֶרֶת מִתַּחַת לַרַגְלַיִם.                          
 
אֲנַחְנוּ מַאֲמִינִים בְּקִירוֹת. פּחוֹת מַאֲמִינִים בְּגַג.
צָרִיךְ לִבְנוֹת אוֹתוֹ כָּל בֹּקֶר מֵחָדָשׁ. אֲנַחְנוּ בּוֹנִים.
בָּאֲרוֹן הַתְּרוּפוֹת יֵשׁ תַּחְמֹשֶׁת וּבַבַּנְק שֹׁחַד לַשּׁוֹמֵר  
שֶׁמַּעֲבִיר אוֹתָנוּ, לַיְלָה לַיְלָה, אֶת הַגְּבוּל.               
שְׁתִּיקָה הִיא הַגֹּפֶר שֶׁסּוֹתֵם אֶת הַפְּרָצוֹת, אוֹטֵם אֶת הָרִצְפָּה.          
אֲנִי שׁוֹמַעַת מַשֶׁהוּ עָמֹק נוֹהֵם:                                                                                       
יָם קַיָּם מִתַּחַת לִיְסוֹדוֹת הַבַּיִת.
 
***
הַבַּיִת הַזֶּה מָלֵא אַהֲבָה. אַבָּא חָזָק וְאִמָּא יָפָה.
גֶּרְשְׁוִּין הָיָה יָכוֹל לִכְתֹּב עָלֵינוּ שִׁיר עֶרֶשׂ.
מַה יַעֲזֹר הַצַּעַר הַזֶּה
לְאָן לְהוֹלִיךְ אֶת הַצַּעַר הַזֶּה
אֵיפֹה אוֹשִׁיב אוֹתוֹ כְּשֶׁיַּגִּיעַ       
מָה אֶתֵּן  לוֹ לֶאֱכֹל.
 
Close

SECOND GENERATION

The man who almost wasn't sits down at the table.
The woman who barely made it serves him plum cake.
This is my home: It is good here. Safe.
Mother leans on Father. Father leans on a shadow.
At night they tiptoe into my room in beekeepers' suits,
rub my temples with wax.
We are a very warm family.
The floor burns under our feet.

We believe in walls. Believe less in a roof.
It has to be built every morning anew. We build.
There is ammunition in the medicine cabinet
and a bribe in the bank for the guard
who lets us steal across the border every night.
Silence is the pitch that stops up gaps, seals the floors.
I hear something deep roaring and surging:
There's a sea underneath the foundations of home.                
***
This house is filled with love. Father is strong
And mother good-looking.
Gershwin could have written our lullaby.
What good will this sorrow do
Where will I lead this sorrow
Where will I sit it down when it gets here
What will I give it to eat.
 

SECOND GENERATION

The man who almost wasn't sits down at the table.
The woman who barely made it serves him plum cake.
This is my home: It is good here. Safe.
Mother leans on Father. Father leans on a shadow.
At night they tiptoe into my room in beekeepers' suits,
rub my temples with wax.
We are a very warm family.
The floor burns under our feet.

We believe in walls. Believe less in a roof.
It has to be built every morning anew. We build.
There is ammunition in the medicine cabinet
and a bribe in the bank for the guard
who lets us steal across the border every night.
Silence is the pitch that stops up gaps, seals the floors.
I hear something deep roaring and surging:
There's a sea underneath the foundations of home.                
***
This house is filled with love. Father is strong
And mother good-looking.
Gershwin could have written our lullaby.
What good will this sorrow do
Where will I lead this sorrow
Where will I sit it down when it gets here
What will I give it to eat.
 
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère