Leaving Be'er Sheva
“’take now your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriya and offer him there as an offering on one of the mountains which I will tell you about’ . . . And on
the third day Avraham lifted up his eyes and saw the place from a far.” (Genesis 22:2)
“whatever comes out of the doors of my house to me when I return . . . I will offer it up as an offering . . . And Yiftach came to Mitzpe to his house, and there his daughter came out to meet him, with timbrels and dances.” (Judges 11: 31-34)
Naive as a ewe flock I stood looking
out over the Negev, facing North,
judging the Judean hills’ white length.
It took us three days journey walking
to reach the peaks I see in the distance
and the arid sands stretching out before us.
As I stepped down to face the hazy light
the dry desert air sliced across my eyes
tinting all crimson with the flush of tears;
red waves to swallow up the desert white.
My vision came clear and I was seeing
omens to visit an unnamed mountain.
Called Mount Moriya in verse and we followed
to a place we were shown, toting incense
wood and flame for the fire. The angels,
the ram came later. We sought to hollow
out a groove within the rock, to hallow
that space we were given with our marrow,
To sanctify our fate against the sky.
The wadi’s clay confetti hue washes
across windowsills, over eyelashes,
copper dust mascara to frame the eye.
In red bright iron the vision wavers.
I dream that I am Isaac being offered.
O Yiftach, give me back who I was
before the dance, before the white solstice,
before the gleam of the slaughtering blade
carved out our destiny in granite lines.
Be’er Sheva gleaming in the light of dawn -
Our schismed legacies becoming one.
Field Trip to Museum Row
My eye catches on a curved
scarab oval, encrested,
a name stamp no larger than
a victorian button.
No starched shirt wearer carved this
relic or that earthen vase
from the city where I sprawl
on the pedestrian strip,
Drinking Turkish coffee and
seeking prophetic vision.
Museums seem extraneous
against Jerusalem white stones.
History itself lives here
in ancient walls laid bare
to stand against the noon sun.
What can pottery shards say
To the capital’s craggy
and eternal legacy,
the stubborn bushes that sprout
from within the solid rock?
Timna
There is just enough room here
To secure hand or finger
In the crag of purple rock.
Volcanic sculptures
Form a climber’s jungle gym,
Still cast in autumnal sunset reds.
We scramble up
The honeycomb mountains
Of an alien planet.
At each ascending ledge
A view of deep valleys,
The colored strata of rock.
And in its center
A colossal molded stone
Toadstool.
Desert in Autumn
The city succumbs to mists.
Familiar places
Murmur farewells, I leave them.
The electric towers crackle a psalm.
A porcupine
Bristling, crosses the sidewalk,
And a silver moth flutters, the size of my hand.
All night the
Mists have been tumbling,
A white ghost sea.
My mind holds a sorrow, the masked
Stars disapprove.
They say
That I am a traitor,
Callous and heartless, to abandon this.
Negev in Winter
The winds are cold and the summer ended.
Hints of rain, your season commences.
The shutters are coated with fine red dust.
A dry storm is churning the sands.
You drift past the brief transition,
An autumn brilliant and fleeting
Gives way
To winter grey shades. Clouds
Hover overhead in packs -
White wolves -
Dominate the sky. The dry
Landscape becomes a flood path.
Stream beds abruptly flourish.
Rainwater erodes canyons
Deeper, scars its signature
On solid rock.
Out of Jaffa
Sidewalks give way to sand
warm winds breathe,
caress my face.
Underneath us
lies a desert,
unconquerable, ancient.
My pace softens,
the militant stride
drops.
Caution slides away
where the coast surfaces.
Even under concrete
the shore knows
who she is;
how the sea
defines her.
I intuit a closeness here:
the fine edge between
this land and I,
nearing
what I feel for you.
Cafe Shakhor
You take your coffee black,
So pure that its ebony grains
Suspend themselves briefly in the dark liquid
Then filter down to form a rich mud
At the bottom of your cup.
It isn’t a cup, really,
But a lidded jar
Which once held preserves.
The lid makes it portable,
And allows you to disperse
The black essence
Throughout a room.
The dark fragrance of fertile soil
Emanates from your jar.
These black waters tell the story
Of a desert nomad people.
Tel Aviv Melody
The Mediterranean sea
murmurs its subtle verses
and the clinging sand,
no counter of miles or hours,
sticks to foot sole, rock and water.
This narrow stretch of shore
meanders south to Jaffa.
Inland, cross the street
to the city
where any alleyway
may lead you
to spring parks blooming,
a nature trail
mere strides from the freeway,
or a tiny synagogue
where voices chant
Sephardic cadences
of lyrics from a time long ago.
There used to be a verb:
to walk down this street,
'lidzengoff. .
to see and be seen:
'To Dizengoff':
to stroll the avenues,
cut a swath across
the metropolis,
pass the trendy boutiques,
wedding gown displays,
the multi-tiered mall,
crepes, juice stalls, pizza,
synchronized leaping water
fountains. The whole
motley collage of scents,
colors, sounds. And now
to Shuk ha-Carmel,
where sellers in stalls
offer books, shirts, eclectica.
Then over to Shenkin,
the hip fashion center.
I walk here only Seeing,
being seen.
To Tel Aviv
should be a verb:
'letelaviv' . .
to be called to this city,
to hear its voices
ceaselessly,
to live only
within its gates.
O Tel Aviv,
I hear your clear melody.
It reaches me even
here in California.
And it is no mere matter
of clicking ruby heels together-
you fulfill no American Dream.
Your call comes as alarm.
I know your dangers
they are not few.
Yet at your word
I am ready
to leave behind
all I know
just to 'lidzengoff,
within your walls,
‘letelaviv.’
Palimpsest City
Your white lines scroll out to your peaks,
a stone canvas I cannot paint,
my words only to be erased
by the next calligrapher’s stroke.
Your avenues and alleys wind
across ages. Ben Yehuda’s
resurrected language flows down
via Yaffa road to the older
walled brick fortress of a city.
Concentric rectangles enfold
the traces of an ancient world.
South side, excavations reveal
eras earlier still, rock
outlines of the ritual baths;
miniature pools half filled with stairs,
leading to that inner circle
where the temple stands with the dome,
at its very center, the rock
where Isaac gazed upon the knife
of his father, gleaming, and lived.
Eve of Atonement
This is no calm; your silence,
radio broadcasts ceasing.
Twilight in no way transforms
the echos of your voices.
Rumor strolls the avenues,
passing murmurs break, deface
tranquility of closed shops.
Orange light pools in shadow.
This is no peace; your dry sweats
bleed the color of dawn’s hues.
I dream lace curtains flutter,
rustling in the sound of prayer.
From every surface rises
translucent breath, your heat rays
embrace my steps ceaselessly
in this transient season.
This is no feast, I hunger,
feeling myself prisoner
of your whim, your masquerade,
your capricious character.
Your beauty lies in harsh lines.
Judgment and mercy define
your unbalanced aesthetic,
your aura of transcendence.
Nightscape
A green humidity, the breath of trees
Warms the black night.
I can feel the dark quiet street
Breathe and surround me.
This is Tel Aviv; silent, raven-hued, tropical.
A muted streetlight casts an orange glow
Around itself, then blends into the night.
I travel soundlessly past sleeping houses,
Rustling branches.
The radio station emits no sound here,
Though the rest of the country
May be filled with its voices.
J a f f a F r a g m e n t s
I w a n d e r e d a l o n g a p a t h
A t t h e e d g e o f t h e s e a ,
W h o s e a q u a d e p t h s c h u r n e d ,
W h i t e c r e s t s f r o t h i n g a g a i n s t t h e h o r i z o n .
J e r u s a l e m s t o n e p a v e s t h e w i n d i n g
N a r r o w a l l e y s .
G r e a t p a l m s w h i s p e r i n t h e s e a b r e e z e .
S t r a y c a t s h u r r y a l o n g , r u n n i n g o n f o u r l e g s .
Y e l l o w g r a s s , a d e s e r t m i r a c l e ,
D o t s t h e s h o r e l i n e p a r k .
A l a r g e b l a c k - b r o w n b i r d
C u t s a c i r c u l a r p a t h
T h r o u g h t h e a i r
T o a l i g h t o n a b e n c h
T h e n f l y o f f a g a i n .