CHAIM NACHMAN BIALIK

At an evening of poetry in Bialik's house, male poets,
the mature and the young, old-timers and newcomers,
are coming on
to me.
I am a tall fawn in a fluttering ruffled gown
in an opulent banquet, in this garden regal and lush, beleaguered by crowns
of lemon trees in bloom.
And the poets, these men these gents, a flock of cultured uncles and champions –
Ho, reputable patrons of lyrical passions!
Yes, the poets, certifiable court jesters –
donning chimes and cymbals, bedecked with words that spray profusely like wine,
clown around and dance as dolts, play the lute
prophesy my future in Tarot,
trade with me in witticisms peppered in poetic tabasco –
spicy.
Soon they will each water me in their turn with grape's blood from a goblet of silver
soon they will each stroke my long hair and wrap their hands around my thin waist.
My lips are a pair of sweet and red scarlet threads,
my face pure and wild, beams to the distance like a glowing sun,
my breasts ripe Wilhelm Tell apples –
in their centers are pinned poisonous darts.
And all these uncles burn out their hearts –
fall one by one like the tumble of a slaughterhouse,
all the uncles are sick and their spirits bitter – because they are
caught in the snare, in the net, all the uncles confess
that I have the flesh-combusting body of a youthful poetess,
and yet I am still obscure enough, they reckon, to be tempted into prettification,
to don a coronet, And snap, I am Tamar who will come all rose-blushed
and powdered out, to extinguish their fires
and quench their thirst, pining and devout.
I am still young and all too obscure and so my soul will gush, quiver and rage,
for the perfume and myrrh pouring from a poet matured and aged.

(Only the full moon glints and sprints in the sky above like a love-frightened doe)

Shortly I will lift the bottoms of my gown, pull my sheer petticoat down,
I will reveal my moon-like, milky bum, leaning forwards tender and soft, and slap myself on the ass,
lightly,
then with the voice of a tramp expertly chewing her tongue and popping it out
in bubbles like a worn-out bubblicious bubblegum
yes, with the voice of a tramp spitting her words like globs of phlegm
to vaporize instantly on the scorching pavement,
I will yelp and yell:
How many of you manly men want a ride on this white, fresh, greased-up Cadillac,
huh?
 Yalla, come on – don't be shy!
How many of you sexy poets want a round for five shekels? Ahem,
I mean, pardon –
how many of you want a round for five minutes of fame
on this black glistening plastic podium, on the moist grass, expertly mown,
here in the garden of our great national
dead poet.

חיים נחמן ביאליק

חיים נחמן ביאליק