Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Anna Herman

SLEEPING BEAUTY

SLEEPING BEAUTY

Wake up, bride. Awake.
Life is knocking on your grave.
– Lea Goldberg


You read about Sleeping Beauty and wept.
You read about her in Goldberg’s glass fragments.
You read about her and wept inside a glass coffin.
You read about her and wept deep in the cocoon.
You read about her and walked along a broken lifeline
and covered yourself with a dirty quilt.
You read about her and you knew that whether
or not you wanted to, this was your path.
You slept for a hundred years and around you
poppy fields grew like bright red lips
that opened and blossomed in your damp dream,
and even now you are wrapped in your bed with
the knowledge that Sylvia Plath in winter, at your age,
opened the oven and crawled into the womb.
In a darkening bathroom, snow turning gray,
Her two children, tucked into the deepening night,
bubbled again inside the sweet decay
of their blistering room. Out of the dusty apartment
she crawled deep into death’s punctured hole.
In a house empty and cold like a Beckett play,
the children, bubbling like Coca-Cola,
were shuttered behind the door.
Her breaking point shattered like a bell jar.
Now I close my eyes and nurse
a hidden dream behind rose eyelids.
For me it’s not late, or too soon.
Outside dense shrubs grow, but I am within,
under these rose petals, like a sleeping beauty.

SLEEPING BEAUTY

היפהפייה הנמה

                           "עוּרִי כַּלָּה, עוּרִי כַּלָּה,
                            הַחַיִּים דָּפְקוּ עַל קִבְרֵךְ"
                                    לאה גולדברג

קָרָאת עַל הַיְפֵהפִיָּה הַנָּמָה וּבָכִית.
קָרָאת עָלֶיהָ בֵּין שִׁבְרֵי זְכוּכִית שֶׁל לֵאָה גוֹלְדְבֶּרְג.
קָרָאת עָלֶיהָ וּבָכִית בְּתוֹךְ אֲרוֹן זְכוּכִית.
קָרָאת עָלֶיהָ וּבָכִית עָמֹק בְּתוֹךְ הַגֹּלֶם.
קָרָאת עָלֶיהָ וְהָלַכְתְּ לְאֹרֶךְ קַו חַיִּים
קָטוּעַ, וְכִסִּית עַצְמֵךְ בְּכֶסֶת מְלֻכְלֶכֶת.
קָרָאת עָלֶיהָ וְיָדַעְתְּ שֶׁאִם תִּרְצִי וְאִם
גַּם לֹא תִּרְצִי זֶה הַנָּתִיב שֶׁבּוֹ אַתְּ מְהַלֶּכֶת.
גַּם אַתְּ יָשַׁנְתְּ מֵאָה שָׁנָה וּמִסְּבִיבֵךְ הָלַךְ
וְהִצְטַמַּח לוֹ שְׂדֵה פְּרָגִים כֹּה אֲדֻמֵּי שְׂפָתַיִם
שֶׁנִּפְתְּחוּ וְלִבְלְבוּ בַּחֲלוֹמֵךְ הַלַּח,
וְגַם עַכְשָׁו הֲרֵי אַתְּ מְצֻנֶּפֶת בַּמִּטָּה עִם
הַיְדִיעָה שֶׁסִּילְבִיָה פְּלַאת בַּחֹרֶף, בְּגִילֵךְ,
פָּתְחָה אֶת הַתַּנּוּר וְזָחֲלָה אֶל תּוֹךְ הָרֶחֶם.
מִתּוֹךְ אַמְבַּטְיָה מַשְׁחִירָה וְשֶׁלֶג מִתְלַכְלֵךְ.
שְׁנֵי יְלָדֶיהָ הִתְכַּסּוּ בְּלַיְלָה מִתְאָרֵךְ, הֵם
חָזְרוּ וּבִעְבְּעוּ בְּתוֹךְ הַמֶּתֶק הָרָקוּב
שֶׁל שַׁלְפּוּחִית חַדְרָם. מִן הַדִּירָה הַמְאֻבֶּקֶת
הִיא זָחֲלָה עָמֹק אֶל חוֹר הַמָּוֶת הַנָּקוּב.
בְּבַיִת קַר וּמְרֻקָּן כְּמוֹ מַחֲזֶה שֶׁל בֶּקֶט
חָזְרוּ וּבִעְבְּעוּ כְּמוֹ קוֹקָה-קוֹלָה בְּפַחִית
הַיְלָדִים הַמּוּגָפִים מֵאֲחוֹרֵי הַדֶּלֶת.
מִשְׁבַּר חַיֶּיהָ הִתְנַפֵּץ כְּמוֹ פַּעֲמוֹן זְכוּכִית.
עַכְשָׁו אֲנִי עוֹצֶמֶת אֶת עֵינַי וּמְגַדֶּלֶת
חֲלוֹם כָּמוּס בֵּינוֹת לְעַפְעַפֵּי הַשּׁוֹשַׁנִּים
וְאֵין לִי מְאֻחָר מִדַּי וְאֵין שָׁעָה מֻקְדֶּמֶת.
שִׂיחִים סְמִיכִים צוֹמְחִים בַּחוּץ אֲבָל אֲנִי בִּפְנִים,
בֵּין עַפְעַפֵּי הַשּׁוֹשַׁנִּים, כִּיפֵהפִיָּה נִרְדֶּמֶת.
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SLEEPING BEAUTY

SLEEPING BEAUTY

Wake up, bride. Awake.
Life is knocking on your grave.
– Lea Goldberg


You read about Sleeping Beauty and wept.
You read about her in Goldberg’s glass fragments.
You read about her and wept inside a glass coffin.
You read about her and wept deep in the cocoon.
You read about her and walked along a broken lifeline
and covered yourself with a dirty quilt.
You read about her and you knew that whether
or not you wanted to, this was your path.
You slept for a hundred years and around you
poppy fields grew like bright red lips
that opened and blossomed in your damp dream,
and even now you are wrapped in your bed with
the knowledge that Sylvia Plath in winter, at your age,
opened the oven and crawled into the womb.
In a darkening bathroom, snow turning gray,
Her two children, tucked into the deepening night,
bubbled again inside the sweet decay
of their blistering room. Out of the dusty apartment
she crawled deep into death’s punctured hole.
In a house empty and cold like a Beckett play,
the children, bubbling like Coca-Cola,
were shuttered behind the door.
Her breaking point shattered like a bell jar.
Now I close my eyes and nurse
a hidden dream behind rose eyelids.
For me it’s not late, or too soon.
Outside dense shrubs grow, but I am within,
under these rose petals, like a sleeping beauty.

SLEEPING BEAUTY

SLEEPING BEAUTY

Wake up, bride. Awake.
Life is knocking on your grave.
– Lea Goldberg


You read about Sleeping Beauty and wept.
You read about her in Goldberg’s glass fragments.
You read about her and wept inside a glass coffin.
You read about her and wept deep in the cocoon.
You read about her and walked along a broken lifeline
and covered yourself with a dirty quilt.
You read about her and you knew that whether
or not you wanted to, this was your path.
You slept for a hundred years and around you
poppy fields grew like bright red lips
that opened and blossomed in your damp dream,
and even now you are wrapped in your bed with
the knowledge that Sylvia Plath in winter, at your age,
opened the oven and crawled into the womb.
In a darkening bathroom, snow turning gray,
Her two children, tucked into the deepening night,
bubbled again inside the sweet decay
of their blistering room. Out of the dusty apartment
she crawled deep into death’s punctured hole.
In a house empty and cold like a Beckett play,
the children, bubbling like Coca-Cola,
were shuttered behind the door.
Her breaking point shattered like a bell jar.
Now I close my eyes and nurse
a hidden dream behind rose eyelids.
For me it’s not late, or too soon.
Outside dense shrubs grow, but I am within,
under these rose petals, like a sleeping beauty.
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