Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Batsheva Dori-Carlier

PROLOGUE

In Greek philosophy for beginners,
I turned the ancient words over without
comprehending. I was nineteen, tightly wound
in the first row and never turned to see
your glance crossing the hall.

I don’t remember the precise green
of your eyes behind round glasses.
The golden brown that glimmered 
when you smiled or spoke of Baudelaire.

You pasted a handwritten poem
on the glass entrance wall of the Humanities: “My lover
prepared cloud soup for me”.
I thought everyone could read us falling in love.

We were shy and blushed in winter too.
A gray single mattress on the cold Jerusalem floor
that night in February,
the eyeglasses patiently biding their time
while we learned to see in the dark.

מבוא

מבוא

בְּשִׁעוּרֵי הַמָּבוֹא לְפִילוֹסוֹפְיָה יְוָנִית
הָפַכְתִּי בְּמִלִּים קַדְמוֹנִיּוֹת מִבְּלִי לְהָבִין.
בַּת תֵּשַׁע עֶשְׂרֵה, קְפוּצָה בַּשּׁוּרָה הָרִאשׁוֹנָה,
אַף פַּעַם לֹא הִסְתּוֹבַבְתִּי לְאָחוֹר לִרְאוֹת אֵיךְ
הַמַּבָּטִים שֶׁלְּךָ לְעֶבְרִי צוֹלְחִים אֶת הָאוּלָם.

אֵינֶנִּי זוֹכֶרֶת אֶת הַיָּרֹק הַמְּדֻיָּק
שֶׁל עֵינֶיךָ בַּמִּשְׁקָפַיִם הָעֲגֻלִּים.
חוּם-זָהוֹב הָיָה נִצַּת בְּקַרְקָעִיתָן כְּשֶׁחִיַּכְתָּ
אוֹ דִּבַּרְתָּ עַל בּוֹדְלֵר.

הִדְבַּקְתָּ לִי שִׁיר בִּכְתַב יָדְךָ
עַל קִיר זְכוּכִית בַּכְּנִיסָה לְמַדָּעֵי הָרוּחַ:
"אֲהוּבָתִי בִּשְּׁלָה לִי מָרָק עֲנָנִים".
חָשַׁבְתִּי, שֶׁכֻּלָּם יְכוֹלִים לִקְרֹא אוֹתָנוּ מִתְאַהֲבִים.

הָיִינוּ מְבֻיָּשִׁים וּמַסְמִיקִים גַּם בַּחֹרֶף.
מִזְרוֹן יָחִיד אָפֹר הָיָה מֻנָּח עַל הָרִצְפָּה הַקָּרָה שֶׁל יְרוּשָׁלַיִם
בְּאוֹתוֹ הַלַּיְלָה בְּפֶבְּרוּאָר
וְהַמִּשְׁקָפַיִם הָעֲגֻלִּים חִכּוּ בְּסַבְלָנוּת
כְּשֶׁלָּמַדְנוּ לִרְאוֹת בַּחֹשֶׁךְ.
 
Close

PROLOGUE

In Greek philosophy for beginners,
I turned the ancient words over without
comprehending. I was nineteen, tightly wound
in the first row and never turned to see
your glance crossing the hall.

I don’t remember the precise green
of your eyes behind round glasses.
The golden brown that glimmered 
when you smiled or spoke of Baudelaire.

You pasted a handwritten poem
on the glass entrance wall of the Humanities: “My lover
prepared cloud soup for me”.
I thought everyone could read us falling in love.

We were shy and blushed in winter too.
A gray single mattress on the cold Jerusalem floor
that night in February,
the eyeglasses patiently biding their time
while we learned to see in the dark.

PROLOGUE

In Greek philosophy for beginners,
I turned the ancient words over without
comprehending. I was nineteen, tightly wound
in the first row and never turned to see
your glance crossing the hall.

I don’t remember the precise green
of your eyes behind round glasses.
The golden brown that glimmered 
when you smiled or spoke of Baudelaire.

You pasted a handwritten poem
on the glass entrance wall of the Humanities: “My lover
prepared cloud soup for me”.
I thought everyone could read us falling in love.

We were shy and blushed in winter too.
A gray single mattress on the cold Jerusalem floor
that night in February,
the eyeglasses patiently biding their time
while we learned to see in the dark.
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