Poem
Tuvia Ruebner
Uruguay-Ghana 2010
There’s no need to write a poem about soccereven during the World Cup.
Most of the spectators manage
without poetry, thank God.
But I’d tell the player from Ghana
that I really wanted his team to win, and that the referee
should have awarded him a goal when his fabulous kick
was blocked not by the goalkeeper but inside
at the hands of an ordinary Uruguayan player…
There are many ways to interpret rules and one mustn’t blur the line
between law and tyranny. And so the referee could have waived
the red card — the game was colorful enough —
as well as the penalty kick and the jealous goal post.
Then, brother, your wife would rediscover her love,
as proud as a South American’s, and embrace you
with the glowing face of a virgin even after a seventh coupling
and your son would raise his eyes to say
you’re the best father. Your friends would treat you
at the bar, singing along with you until dawn
and you’d fall asleep with the sweet feeling that your life
was not lived in vain, on the contrary, it is so very lovely,
and wrong moves don’t detract an iota from its beauty.
All this might have taken place if you read Hebrew poetry
or I had written a poem in the language of the Ashanti.
© Translation: 2017, Lisa Katz and Shahar Bram
From: Late Beauty
Publisher: Zephyr, Brookline MA, 2017
From: Late Beauty
Publisher: Zephyr, Brookline MA, 2017
אורוגוואי-גאנה 2010
אורוגוואי-גאנה 2010
אֵין כֹּרַח לִכְתֹּב שִׁיר עַל כַּדּוּרֶגֶל
גַּם בְּהִתְקַיֵּם הַמּוֹנְדִּיאָל 2010.
הֲרֵי רֹב רֻבָּם שֶׁל הַצּוֹפִים מִסְתַּדְּרִים
לְלֹא שִׁירִים, בָּרוּךְ הַשֵּׁם.
אֲבָל אִם אֹמַר בְּשִׁירִי לַכַּדּוּרַגְלָן הַשָּׁחֹר מִגָּאנָה
כִּי רָצִיתִי מְאֹד שֶׁקְּבוּצָתוֹ תְּנַצֵּחַ, וְכִי הַשּׁוֹפֵט
יָכוֹל הָיָה לִקְבֹּעַ "שַׁעַר" כְּשֶׁכַּדּוּרוֹ הַנִּפְלָא
נֶחְסַם לֹא בִּידֵי הַשּׁוֹעֵר אֶלָּא בְּתוֹךְ הַשַּׁעַר פְּנִימָה
בְּיָדָיו שֶׁל שַׂחְקַן אוּרוּגְוָאִי רָגִיל...
לַחֻקִּים יֵש פֵּרוּשֵׁי פֵּרוּשִׁים וְאָסוּר שֶׁיְּטֻשְׁטַשׁ הַהֶבְדֵּל
בֵּין חֹק לְעָרִיצוּת. לָכֵן יָכוֹל הָיָה הַשּׁוֹפֵט לְוַתֵּר
עַל הַכַּרְטִיס הָאָדֹם - הַמִּשְׂחַק הָיָה צִבְעוֹנִי דַיּוֹ -
וּלְוַתֵּר עַל הַפֶּנְדֶל עִם הַקּוֹרָה הַקַּנָּאִית.
אוֹ אָז, אָחִי, אִשְׁתְּךָ הָיְתָה מְגַלָּה מֵחָדָשׁ אֶת אַהֲבָתָהּ
אַהֲבָה גֵּאָה כְּמוֹ דְּרוֹם-אָמֶרִיקָאִית, וּמְחַבֶּקֶת אוֹתְךָ
גַּם אַחֲרֵי הַמִּשְׁגָּל הַשְּׁבִיעִי בִּפְנֵי בְּתוּלָה מְאִירוֹת
וּבִנְךָ הָיָה נוֹשֵׂא עֵינָיו אֵלֶיךָ כְּאוֹמֵר:
אֵין עוֹד אַבָּא כָּמוֹךָ. וַחֲבֵרֶיךָ הָיוּ מַזְמִינִים לִשְׁתּוֹת
עַל חֶשְׁבּוֹנָם וְשָׁרִים אִתְּךָ עַד אוֹר הַבֹּקֶר
וְלִישֹׁן הָיִיתָ הוֹלֵךְ בְּהַרְגָּשָׁה מְתוּקָה שֶׁחַיֶּיךָ
לֹא לַשָּׁוְא הָיוּ, אַדְּרַבָּא, הֵם יָפִים, הֵם יָפִים יָפִים
וְיָדַיִם פְּסוּלוֹת לֹא תּוּכַלְנָה לִגְרֹעַ כְּקֹרֶט מִיָּפְיָם.
כָּל זֶה עָשׂוּי הָיָה לִקְרוֹת לוּ קָרָאתָ שִׁירָה עִבְרִית
אוֹ לַחֲלוּפִין לוּ כּוֹתֵב הָיִיתִי אֲנִי שִׁיר בִּשְׂפַת אָשַׁנְטִי.
גַּם בְּהִתְקַיֵּם הַמּוֹנְדִּיאָל 2010.
הֲרֵי רֹב רֻבָּם שֶׁל הַצּוֹפִים מִסְתַּדְּרִים
לְלֹא שִׁירִים, בָּרוּךְ הַשֵּׁם.
אֲבָל אִם אֹמַר בְּשִׁירִי לַכַּדּוּרַגְלָן הַשָּׁחֹר מִגָּאנָה
כִּי רָצִיתִי מְאֹד שֶׁקְּבוּצָתוֹ תְּנַצֵּחַ, וְכִי הַשּׁוֹפֵט
יָכוֹל הָיָה לִקְבֹּעַ "שַׁעַר" כְּשֶׁכַּדּוּרוֹ הַנִּפְלָא
נֶחְסַם לֹא בִּידֵי הַשּׁוֹעֵר אֶלָּא בְּתוֹךְ הַשַּׁעַר פְּנִימָה
בְּיָדָיו שֶׁל שַׂחְקַן אוּרוּגְוָאִי רָגִיל...
לַחֻקִּים יֵש פֵּרוּשֵׁי פֵּרוּשִׁים וְאָסוּר שֶׁיְּטֻשְׁטַשׁ הַהֶבְדֵּל
בֵּין חֹק לְעָרִיצוּת. לָכֵן יָכוֹל הָיָה הַשּׁוֹפֵט לְוַתֵּר
עַל הַכַּרְטִיס הָאָדֹם - הַמִּשְׂחַק הָיָה צִבְעוֹנִי דַיּוֹ -
וּלְוַתֵּר עַל הַפֶּנְדֶל עִם הַקּוֹרָה הַקַּנָּאִית.
אוֹ אָז, אָחִי, אִשְׁתְּךָ הָיְתָה מְגַלָּה מֵחָדָשׁ אֶת אַהֲבָתָהּ
אַהֲבָה גֵּאָה כְּמוֹ דְּרוֹם-אָמֶרִיקָאִית, וּמְחַבֶּקֶת אוֹתְךָ
גַּם אַחֲרֵי הַמִּשְׁגָּל הַשְּׁבִיעִי בִּפְנֵי בְּתוּלָה מְאִירוֹת
וּבִנְךָ הָיָה נוֹשֵׂא עֵינָיו אֵלֶיךָ כְּאוֹמֵר:
אֵין עוֹד אַבָּא כָּמוֹךָ. וַחֲבֵרֶיךָ הָיוּ מַזְמִינִים לִשְׁתּוֹת
עַל חֶשְׁבּוֹנָם וְשָׁרִים אִתְּךָ עַד אוֹר הַבֹּקֶר
וְלִישֹׁן הָיִיתָ הוֹלֵךְ בְּהַרְגָּשָׁה מְתוּקָה שֶׁחַיֶּיךָ
לֹא לַשָּׁוְא הָיוּ, אַדְּרַבָּא, הֵם יָפִים, הֵם יָפִים יָפִים
וְיָדַיִם פְּסוּלוֹת לֹא תּוּכַלְנָה לִגְרֹעַ כְּקֹרֶט מִיָּפְיָם.
כָּל זֶה עָשׂוּי הָיָה לִקְרוֹת לוּ קָרָאתָ שִׁירָה עִבְרִית
אוֹ לַחֲלוּפִין לוּ כּוֹתֵב הָיִיתִי אֲנִי שִׁיר בִּשְׂפַת אָשַׁנְטִי.
© 2005, Tuvia Ruebner
From: Selected Poems 1957-2005
Publisher: Keshev, Tel Aviv
From: Selected Poems 1957-2005
Publisher: Keshev, Tel Aviv
Poems
Poems of Tuvia Ruebner
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Uruguay-Ghana 2010
There’s no need to write a poem about soccereven during the World Cup.
Most of the spectators manage
without poetry, thank God.
But I’d tell the player from Ghana
that I really wanted his team to win, and that the referee
should have awarded him a goal when his fabulous kick
was blocked not by the goalkeeper but inside
at the hands of an ordinary Uruguayan player…
There are many ways to interpret rules and one mustn’t blur the line
between law and tyranny. And so the referee could have waived
the red card — the game was colorful enough —
as well as the penalty kick and the jealous goal post.
Then, brother, your wife would rediscover her love,
as proud as a South American’s, and embrace you
with the glowing face of a virgin even after a seventh coupling
and your son would raise his eyes to say
you’re the best father. Your friends would treat you
at the bar, singing along with you until dawn
and you’d fall asleep with the sweet feeling that your life
was not lived in vain, on the contrary, it is so very lovely,
and wrong moves don’t detract an iota from its beauty.
All this might have taken place if you read Hebrew poetry
or I had written a poem in the language of the Ashanti.
© 2017, Lisa Katz and Shahar Bram
From: Late Beauty
Publisher: 2017, Zephyr, Brookline MA
From: Late Beauty
Publisher: 2017, Zephyr, Brookline MA
Uruguay-Ghana 2010
There’s no need to write a poem about soccereven during the World Cup.
Most of the spectators manage
without poetry, thank God.
But I’d tell the player from Ghana
that I really wanted his team to win, and that the referee
should have awarded him a goal when his fabulous kick
was blocked not by the goalkeeper but inside
at the hands of an ordinary Uruguayan player…
There are many ways to interpret rules and one mustn’t blur the line
between law and tyranny. And so the referee could have waived
the red card — the game was colorful enough —
as well as the penalty kick and the jealous goal post.
Then, brother, your wife would rediscover her love,
as proud as a South American’s, and embrace you
with the glowing face of a virgin even after a seventh coupling
and your son would raise his eyes to say
you’re the best father. Your friends would treat you
at the bar, singing along with you until dawn
and you’d fall asleep with the sweet feeling that your life
was not lived in vain, on the contrary, it is so very lovely,
and wrong moves don’t detract an iota from its beauty.
All this might have taken place if you read Hebrew poetry
or I had written a poem in the language of the Ashanti.
© 2017, Lisa Katz and Shahar Bram
From: Late Beauty
Publisher: 2017, Zephyr, Brookline MA
From: Late Beauty
Publisher: 2017, Zephyr, Brookline MA
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