Poem
Amichai Chasson
Self-portrait
A five-year-old boy alone in the waternot far from the shore. His parents call out his first
name, then his surname.
He doesn’t answer.
Lowering his gaze from horizon to water
he expects to see his reflection, beholds instead
the sea floor, shells and seaweed, soda bottles
swept along, and feels tiny fish nipping at his feet, one spirit
for all.
© Translation: 2018, Lisa Katz
דְּיוֹקָן עַצְמִי
דְּיוֹקָן עַצְמִי
יֶלֶד בֶּן חָמֵשׁ עוֹמֵד לְבַד בַּמַּיִם,
לֹא רָחוֹק מֵהַחוֹף. הוֹרָיו קוֹרְאִים בִּשְׁמוֹ
הַפְּרָטִי, אַחַר כָּךְ בְּשֵׁם מִשְׁפַּחְתּוֹ.
הוּא אֵינוֹ עוֹנֶה.
הוּא מוֹרִיד אֶת מַבָּטוֹ מֵהָאֹפֶק אֶל הַמַּיִם
מְצַפֶּה לִרְאוֹת בָּבוּאָתוֹ מִשְׁתַּקֶּפֶת, רוֹאֶה
קַרְקָעִית יָם, רוֹאֶה צְדָפוֹת וְאַצּוֹת, בַּקְבּוּקֵי מַשְׁקָאוֹת
נִסְחָפִים, מַרְגִּישׁ דְּגִיגִים קְטַנִּים נוֹגְסִים בְּרַגְלָיו וְרוּחַ
אֶחָד לַכֹּל.
לֹא רָחוֹק מֵהַחוֹף. הוֹרָיו קוֹרְאִים בִּשְׁמוֹ
הַפְּרָטִי, אַחַר כָּךְ בְּשֵׁם מִשְׁפַּחְתּוֹ.
הוּא אֵינוֹ עוֹנֶה.
הוּא מוֹרִיד אֶת מַבָּטוֹ מֵהָאֹפֶק אֶל הַמַּיִם
מְצַפֶּה לִרְאוֹת בָּבוּאָתוֹ מִשְׁתַּקֶּפֶת, רוֹאֶה
קַרְקָעִית יָם, רוֹאֶה צְדָפוֹת וְאַצּוֹת, בַּקְבּוּקֵי מַשְׁקָאוֹת
נִסְחָפִים, מַרְגִּישׁ דְּגִיגִים קְטַנִּים נוֹגְסִים בְּרַגְלָיו וְרוּחַ
אֶחָד לַכֹּל.
© 2015, Amichai Chasson
From: Talking with Home/Medaber eem ha bayit
Publisher: Even Hoshen, Raanana
From: Talking with Home/Medaber eem ha bayit
Publisher: Even Hoshen, Raanana
Poems
Poems of Amichai Chasson
Close
Self-portrait
A five-year-old boy alone in the waternot far from the shore. His parents call out his first
name, then his surname.
He doesn’t answer.
Lowering his gaze from horizon to water
he expects to see his reflection, beholds instead
the sea floor, shells and seaweed, soda bottles
swept along, and feels tiny fish nipping at his feet, one spirit
for all.
© 2018, Lisa Katz
From: Talking with Home/Medaber eem ha bayit
From: Talking with Home/Medaber eem ha bayit
Self-portrait
A five-year-old boy alone in the waternot far from the shore. His parents call out his first
name, then his surname.
He doesn’t answer.
Lowering his gaze from horizon to water
he expects to see his reflection, beholds instead
the sea floor, shells and seaweed, soda bottles
swept along, and feels tiny fish nipping at his feet, one spirit
for all.
© 2018, Lisa Katz
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