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    Tahel Frosh

    Side by side

    THE MOUNTAINS OF SPAIN

    I am writing what is impossible
    because there are people who talk about money during sex
    transferring through carnal channels
    money I’ll never receive
    and I hear someone say, we sold for millions
    I am listening to those blue metallic eyes

    Back at home, I’m thinking that nice frames cost 1000 shekels
    and I’m thinking that on Wednesday at the employment office
    I’ll place my finger on a square and a red
    beam will scan its ridges
    and a machine will print out
    the words: move along
    there’s no work. And I’ll be happy.

    It can’t be
    that next to money my head is as pretty
    as a Russian princess
    whose lost everything
    suddenly, in the dark, in one fell swoop

    and now drinks tea from a thermos and eats dried fruit
    and lies on her back half the day in her old
    ragged bathrobe reading English novels about English
    ladies with destiny in their favor.

    It can’t be true that I’ve only just discovered
    this innate, chronic refusal
    to think about money, to charge, to want
    to work for it. It’s a curse

    I inherited from my mother
    along with my penchant for aesthetic pleasures
    and that unholy union of wealth and beauty
    not to mention a fancy for coffee served
    in a coffee shop, and pastries and lace dresses.

    All of this is so impossible
    that it holds back thoughts of love and
    lust and my will to breathe the air
    after rain so much
    that I’ll lose myself in a book
    called Cocaine Nights
    and get mad when I read about people with

    money, so much money
    that they retire to the mountains of Spain
    and sunbathe in fancy villas
    at the age of thirty-eight.

    How is it possible
    that instead of lounging in these Spanish mountains
    I am thinking about money in a studio
    in Tel Aviv and it's raining and so what
    I won’t go looking for puddles
    and make fun of tourists on lousy vacations.

    No, it’s impossible to listen
    to that man talking about his millions and not want to die
    to really die on the cover of my English novel
    between chewed organic plums and a thermos of tea sitting
    half empty.
    © Translation: 2015, Adriana X Jacobs

    הרי ספרד

    הרי ספרד

    אֲנִי כּוֹתֶבֶת אֶת מַה שֶּׁלֹּא יִתָּכֵן
    כִּי יֵשׁ מִי שֶׁמְּדַבְּרִים עַל כֶּסֶף בְּאִינְטִימִיוּת
    מִי שֶׁמַּעֲבִירִים בִּזְרָמִים חוּשָׁנִיִּים כֶּסֶף
    שֶׁלְּעוֹלָם לֹא אֲקַבֵּל
    וַאֲנִי מַקְשִׁיבָה לַקּוֹל הָאוֹמֵר, מָכַרְנוּ בְּמִילְיוֹנִים
    אֲנִי מַקְשִׁיבָה לְעֵינֵי הַמַּתֶּכֶת הַתְּכֻלּוֹת

    וּבַבַּיִת חוֹשֶׁבֶת, מִשְׁקָפַיִם יָפִים עוֹלִים אֶלֶף שֶׁקֶל
    וְחוֹשֶׁבֶת גַּם, בְּיוֹם רְבִיעִי בְּלִשְׁכַּת הַתַּעֲסוּקָה
    אנִּיחַ אֶצְבַּע בְּמִסְגֶּרֶת הָאֶצְבַּע וְעַיִן
    אֶלֶקְטְרוֹנִית אֲדֻמָּה תִּתְפֹּס אֶת קַוַּי
    וְהַמְּכוֹנָה תּוֹצִיא תַּדְפִּיס
    וְתֹאמַר לִי: לְכִי לָךְ
    .אֵין עֲבוֹדָה. וַאֲנִי אֶשְׂמַח

    לֹא, אֵין זֶה יִתָּכֵן
    שֶׁמּוּל הַכֶּסֶף רֹאשִׁי יָפֶה
    כְּרֹאשָׁהּ שֶׁל רוֹזֶנֶת
    רוּסִיָּה שֶׁיָּרְדָה מִנְּכָסֶיהָ
    לְפֶתַע, בְּאִישׁוֹן לַיְלָה, בְּאִבְחָה

    וְשׁוֹתָה תֵּה בְּקַנְקַן, וְאוֹכֶלֶת פֵּרוֹת יְבֵשִׁים
    וְשׁוֹכֶבֶת פְּרַקְדָּן שְׁתֵּים עֶשְׂרֵה שָׁעוֹת בְּיוֹם בַּחֲלוּקָהּ הַיָּשָׁן
    הַקָּרוּעַ וְקוֹרֵאת רוֹמָנִים אנְגְּלִיִּים עַל נָשִׁים
    .אנְגְּלִיּוֹת שֶׁהַגּוֹרָל עוֹמֵד לְהֵיטִיב אִתָּן

    אֵין זֶה אֶפְשָׁרִי שֶׁאֲנִי מְגַלָּה
    בְּעַצְמִי סֵרוּב עָמֹק, בְּסִיסִי
    לַחְשׁבֹ עַל כֶּסֶף, לְתַמְחֵר, לִרְצוֹת
    לַעֲבֹד בִּשְׁבִילוֹ. זוֹ קְלָלָה

    וְאִמִּי הוֹרִישָׁה לִי אוֹתָהּ
    עִם נְטִיָּתִי הַפּוֹתָה אחַר תַּעֲנוּגוֹת אֶסְתֵטִיִּים
    ,וְהַצִּמּוּד הָארוּר שֶׁבֵּין יָקָר וְיָפֶה
    וּבִכְלָל נְטִיָּתִי אחֲרֵי קָפֶה שֶׁמַּגִּישִׁים לִי
    .בְּבָתֵּי קָפֶה, וְאחֲרֵי מַאֲפִים, וְאחֲרֵי שִׂמְלוֹת תַּחְרָה

    כָּל זֶה לֹא יִתָּכֵן כְּלָל
    שֶׁיִּדְחֶה מַחְשָׁבוֹת עַל אהֲבָה וְעַל
    עֹנֶג מִינִי וְעַל רְצוֹנִי לִנְשֹׁם אֲוִיר
    שֶׁאֲחֵרי הַגֶּשֶׁם, עַד כְּדֵי כָּךְ
    שֶׁאֶהְיֶה מְמֻסְגֶרֶת בְּסֵפֶר
    שֶׁכּוֹתַרְתּוֹ: לֵילוֹת קוֹקָאִין
    וְאֶכְעַס כְּשֶׁאֶקְרָא עַל אֲנָשִׁים שֶׁיֵּשׁ לָהֶם

    כֶּסֶף, כָּל כָּךְ הַרְבֵּה כֶּסֶף
    שֶׁהֵם יוֹצְאִים לְהָרֵי סְפָרַד
    וְחַיִּים בַּשֶּׁמֶשׁ בְּוִילוֹת יֻקְרָתִיּוֹת
    .בַּגִּיל הַצָּעִיר שְׁלֹשִים וּשְׁמוֹנֶה

    אֵיךְ זֶה יִתָּכֵן
    שֶׁבִּמְקוֹם לִשְׁכַּב בֵּין הָרֵי סְפָרַד אֲנִי
    חוֹשֶׁבֶת עַל כֶּסֶף בְּתֵל אבִיב
    בְּדִירַת חֶדֶר וְהַגֶּשֶׁם יוֹרֵד וּבְכָל זֹאת
    אֵינִי יוֹצֵאת הַחוּצָה לָתוּר אחַר שְׁלוּלִיּוֹת
    .לִצְחֹק לְמַרְאֵה תַּיָּרִים שֶׁחֻפְשָׁתָם נֶהֶרְסָה

    לֹא אֵין זֶה יִתָּכֵן לִשְׁמֹעַ
    אֶת הָאִישׁ שֶׁמְּדַבֵּר עַל מִילְיוֹנִים וְלֹא לָמוּת
    לָמוּת מַמָּשׁ, עַל כְּרִיכַת הָרוֹמָן הָאנְגְּלִי שֶׁלִּי
    בֵּין שְׁזִיפִים אוֹרְגָנִיִּים אֲכוּלִים וְקַנְקַן תֵּה
    .רֵיק לְמֶחֱצָה

     
    © 2014, Tahel Frosh
    From: Betsa/Avarice
    Publisher: Mossad Bialik, Jerusalem
    Poems
    Poems of Tahel Frosh
    Close

    THE MOUNTAINS OF SPAIN

    I am writing what is impossible
    because there are people who talk about money during sex
    transferring through carnal channels
    money I’ll never receive
    and I hear someone say, we sold for millions
    I am listening to those blue metallic eyes

    Back at home, I’m thinking that nice frames cost 1000 shekels
    and I’m thinking that on Wednesday at the employment office
    I’ll place my finger on a square and a red
    beam will scan its ridges
    and a machine will print out
    the words: move along
    there’s no work. And I’ll be happy.

    It can’t be
    that next to money my head is as pretty
    as a Russian princess
    whose lost everything
    suddenly, in the dark, in one fell swoop

    and now drinks tea from a thermos and eats dried fruit
    and lies on her back half the day in her old
    ragged bathrobe reading English novels about English
    ladies with destiny in their favor.

    It can’t be true that I’ve only just discovered
    this innate, chronic refusal
    to think about money, to charge, to want
    to work for it. It’s a curse

    I inherited from my mother
    along with my penchant for aesthetic pleasures
    and that unholy union of wealth and beauty
    not to mention a fancy for coffee served
    in a coffee shop, and pastries and lace dresses.

    All of this is so impossible
    that it holds back thoughts of love and
    lust and my will to breathe the air
    after rain so much
    that I’ll lose myself in a book
    called Cocaine Nights
    and get mad when I read about people with

    money, so much money
    that they retire to the mountains of Spain
    and sunbathe in fancy villas
    at the age of thirty-eight.

    How is it possible
    that instead of lounging in these Spanish mountains
    I am thinking about money in a studio
    in Tel Aviv and it's raining and so what
    I won’t go looking for puddles
    and make fun of tourists on lousy vacations.

    No, it’s impossible to listen
    to that man talking about his millions and not want to die
    to really die on the cover of my English novel
    between chewed organic plums and a thermos of tea sitting
    half empty.
    © 2015, Adriana X Jacobs
    From: Betsa/Avarice

    THE MOUNTAINS OF SPAIN

    I am writing what is impossible
    because there are people who talk about money during sex
    transferring through carnal channels
    money I’ll never receive
    and I hear someone say, we sold for millions
    I am listening to those blue metallic eyes

    Back at home, I’m thinking that nice frames cost 1000 shekels
    and I’m thinking that on Wednesday at the employment office
    I’ll place my finger on a square and a red
    beam will scan its ridges
    and a machine will print out
    the words: move along
    there’s no work. And I’ll be happy.

    It can’t be
    that next to money my head is as pretty
    as a Russian princess
    whose lost everything
    suddenly, in the dark, in one fell swoop

    and now drinks tea from a thermos and eats dried fruit
    and lies on her back half the day in her old
    ragged bathrobe reading English novels about English
    ladies with destiny in their favor.

    It can’t be true that I’ve only just discovered
    this innate, chronic refusal
    to think about money, to charge, to want
    to work for it. It’s a curse

    I inherited from my mother
    along with my penchant for aesthetic pleasures
    and that unholy union of wealth and beauty
    not to mention a fancy for coffee served
    in a coffee shop, and pastries and lace dresses.

    All of this is so impossible
    that it holds back thoughts of love and
    lust and my will to breathe the air
    after rain so much
    that I’ll lose myself in a book
    called Cocaine Nights
    and get mad when I read about people with

    money, so much money
    that they retire to the mountains of Spain
    and sunbathe in fancy villas
    at the age of thirty-eight.

    How is it possible
    that instead of lounging in these Spanish mountains
    I am thinking about money in a studio
    in Tel Aviv and it's raining and so what
    I won’t go looking for puddles
    and make fun of tourists on lousy vacations.

    No, it’s impossible to listen
    to that man talking about his millions and not want to die
    to really die on the cover of my English novel
    between chewed organic plums and a thermos of tea sitting
    half empty.
    © 2015, Adriana X Jacobs
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