Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Daniel Oz

YOU DON\'T NEED A HANDBAG, REBECCA

You don’t need a handbag, Rebecca, with face
toward the store window, head tilted back and to the right,
a black horse passes between her and her aunt
and she doesn’t yell. She simply stands there
with her head turned. The sun sends out
long arms to melt the popsicle, whose drips encircle its fingers.
Such indifference can drive you mad,
why doesn’t it make her cross? There goes the popsicle
and the sleeve of her dress. She turns her head
240 degrees left. The horse                                
recedes and the black hair
of the rider seems to surge toward her.

אַתְּ לֹא צְרִיכָה תִּיק, רֶבֶּקָה

אַתְּ לֹא צְרִיכָה תִּיק, רֶבֶּקָה

אַתְּ לֹא צְרִיכָה תִּיק, רֶבֶּקָה, אֲשֶׁר פָּנֶיהָ
אֶל חַלּוֹן הָרַאֲוָה וְרֹאשָׁהּ נָסוּב לְיָמִין וּלְאָחוֹר
וְעוֹבֵר סוּס שָׁחוֹר בֵּינָהּ וּבֵין דּוֹדָתָהּ
וְהִיא לֹא צוֹעֶקֶת לָהּ בְּחַזְּרָהּ. הִיא רַק נִצֶּבֶת כָּכָה
עִם הָרֹאשׁ מֻפְנֶה. הַשֶּׁמֶשׁ שׁוֹלַחַת יָדַיִם
אֲרֻכּוֹת לְהַגִּיר אֶת הַאַרְטִיק וּלְכּוֹרכוֹ בֵּין אֶצְבְּעוֹתֶיהָ.
אֲדִישׁוּת כָּזֹאת יְכוֹלָה לְשַׁגֵּעַ אוֹתְךָ,
אֵיךְ זֶה לֹא מַפְרִיעַ לָהּ? הָלַךְ הַאַרְטִיק
וְשַׁרְווּל הַשִּׂמְלָה. הִיא מַשְׂמִילָה אֶת רֹאשָׁהּ
בְּמָאתַיִם וְאַרְבָּעִים מַעֲלוֹת. הַסּוּס
מִתְרַחֵק וּשְׂעָרוֹ הַשָּׁחוֹר
שֶׁל הָרוֹכֵב כְּמוֹ שׁוֹעֵט לִקְרָאתָהּ.
15.6.2014
 
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YOU DON\'T NEED A HANDBAG, REBECCA

You don’t need a handbag, Rebecca, with face
toward the store window, head tilted back and to the right,
a black horse passes between her and her aunt
and she doesn’t yell. She simply stands there
with her head turned. The sun sends out
long arms to melt the popsicle, whose drips encircle its fingers.
Such indifference can drive you mad,
why doesn’t it make her cross? There goes the popsicle
and the sleeve of her dress. She turns her head
240 degrees left. The horse                                
recedes and the black hair
of the rider seems to surge toward her.

YOU DON\'T NEED A HANDBAG, REBECCA

You don’t need a handbag, Rebecca, with face
toward the store window, head tilted back and to the right,
a black horse passes between her and her aunt
and she doesn’t yell. She simply stands there
with her head turned. The sun sends out
long arms to melt the popsicle, whose drips encircle its fingers.
Such indifference can drive you mad,
why doesn’t it make her cross? There goes the popsicle
and the sleeve of her dress. She turns her head
240 degrees left. The horse                                
recedes and the black hair
of the rider seems to surge toward her.
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