Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Yael Globerman

EVERYONE MUST OVERCOME HIS OWN BIOGRAPHY

I  
Now, in this light, I can see:
two enormous parents inflating on the couch.
The crown is cast into a corner, nothing more than a toy.
Is it truth or a poem?
How memory extends beyond itself,
like the tree passes its own touch through leaves,
like the mouth that says
maybe this way
I can get there.
 

II
The room is a large lampshade, softly lit
and at its heart you shine, the 1000 watt lightbulb of my childhood.
Your glass skin, heating to the touch of my eyes                                              
is a bell, and inside it my pen once again moves wildly                            
like that bell's tongue,
like the tongue of an ancient mourner,                                                                
like a firefly larva inside a pear.  
 
 

כל אחד צריך להתגבר על הביוגרפיה שלו

כל אחד צריך להתגבר על הביוגרפיה שלו

I
בָּאוֹר הַזֶּה, עַכְשָׁו                                              
אֲנִי יְכוֹלָה לִרְאוֹת:
שְׁנֵי הוֹרִים עֲנָקִים מִתְנַפְּחִים עַל סַפָּה בַּסָּלוֹן.
הַכֶּתֶר מֻטָּל בַּפִּנָּה, לֹא יוֹתֵר מִצַּעֲצוּעַ.
הַאִם זוֹ אֱמֶת אוֹ שִׁיר?
אֵיךְ הַזִּכָּרוֹן עוֹבֵר אֶת עַצְמוֹ,
כְּמוֹ שֶׁהַעֵץ עוֹשֶׂה בְּאֶמְצָעוּת עָלִים.
כְּמוֹ שֶהַפֶּה אוֹמֵר                  
אוּלַי כָּךְ אוּכַל לְהַגִּיעַ. 
 
 
II
הַחֶדֶר הוּא אָהִיל גָּדוֹל, מוּאָר בְּרֹךְ                   
וְאַתְּ קוֹרֶנֶת בְּלִבּוֹ, נוּרַת הָאֶלֶף וַאט שֶל יַלְדוּתִי                                                           
עוֹר הַזְּכוּכִית שֶׁלָךְ, הַמִּתְחַמֵּם לְמַגַּע עֵינַי  
הוּא פַּעֲמוֹן, שֶׁבְּתוֹכוֹ עוֹד פַּעַם                                                                       
הַעֵט שֶׁלִי מִתְנוֹעֵעַ כִּמְטֹרָף
כְּמוֹ עִנְבָּל, כְּמוֹ לָשׁוֹן שֶׁל מְקוֹנֶנֶת,                                                                                       
כְּמוֹ זַחַל גַּחְלִילִית בְּתוֹךְ אַגָּס
Close

EVERYONE MUST OVERCOME HIS OWN BIOGRAPHY

I  
Now, in this light, I can see:
two enormous parents inflating on the couch.
The crown is cast into a corner, nothing more than a toy.
Is it truth or a poem?
How memory extends beyond itself,
like the tree passes its own touch through leaves,
like the mouth that says
maybe this way
I can get there.
 

II
The room is a large lampshade, softly lit
and at its heart you shine, the 1000 watt lightbulb of my childhood.
Your glass skin, heating to the touch of my eyes                                              
is a bell, and inside it my pen once again moves wildly                            
like that bell's tongue,
like the tongue of an ancient mourner,                                                                
like a firefly larva inside a pear.  
 
 

EVERYONE MUST OVERCOME HIS OWN BIOGRAPHY

I  
Now, in this light, I can see:
two enormous parents inflating on the couch.
The crown is cast into a corner, nothing more than a toy.
Is it truth or a poem?
How memory extends beyond itself,
like the tree passes its own touch through leaves,
like the mouth that says
maybe this way
I can get there.
 

II
The room is a large lampshade, softly lit
and at its heart you shine, the 1000 watt lightbulb of my childhood.
Your glass skin, heating to the touch of my eyes                                              
is a bell, and inside it my pen once again moves wildly                            
like that bell's tongue,
like the tongue of an ancient mourner,                                                                
like a firefly larva inside a pear.  
 
 
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