You say: to be penetrated, to penetrate. Sea-sand, sand-sea
verging on the very centre. Words fall between us
like something broken. Listen, I love you.
But you, having it only your way, exist, exist, exist.
You are not being paid for this and still,
Mr. and Mrs. Other, you stroll along the street as if
you’re only a name and have no navel. I
act like you, repeat the movements
which you repeat. Tell me, reflection —
I throw another stone at you — is anyone more actual than me?
I say sand-sea, sea-sand. Like something
broken: a multiplication of faces, legs and hands like
something
that’s there. So: enough. Come back to me. I’ll let you go
as often as you like.
Now there’s no longer a difference between us, except this
poem
where some sort of a world lives. Another possibility,
not really different: here, you don’t leave at all.
You don’t stop coming for a moment. I open
a mirror and turn its pages in front of what’s already
written. It’s what you are: sadness in front of the blue evening sky,
anger, insult, longing ******* the blue from your chest
or happiness that suddenly spills in front of the blue of that evening sky;
it’s a voice which accompanies what, looking,
I see now or don’t see. And I see you:
world by world, now by now, one
and yet another one. In this poem that stumbles from page
to page you watch and flicker between letter and letter
and vanish — present in every one of these apparently silent centimeters —
and don’t stop coming, and not really coming. So enough, please,
don’t hide everywhere, talk to me, all of you at once.
Amir Or, from Let's Speak You
translated by Ioana Ieronim
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 5:23 AM UTC
You say: to be penetrated, to penetrate. Sea-sand, sand-sea
verging on the very centre. Words fall between us
like something broken. Listen, I love you.
But you, having it only your way, exist, exist, exist.
You are not being paid for this and still,
Mr. and Mrs. Other, you stroll along the street as if
you’re only a name and have no navel. I
act like you, repeat the movements
which you repeat. Tell me, reflection —
I throw another stone at you — is anyone more actual than me?
I say sand-sea, sea-sand. Like something
broken: a multiplication of faces, legs and hands like
something
that’s there. So: enough. Come back to me. I’ll let you go
as often as you like.
Now there’s no longer a difference between us, except this
poem
where some sort of a world lives. Another possibility,
not really different: here, you don’t leave at all.
You don’t stop coming for a moment. I open
a mirror and turn its pages in front of what’s already
written. It’s what you are: sadness in front of the blue evening sky,
anger, insult, longing ******* the blue from your chest
or happiness that suddenly spills in front of the blue of that evening sky;
it’s a voice which accompanies what, looking,
I see now or don’t see. And I see you:
world by world, now by now, one
and yet another one. In this poem that stumbles from page
to page you watch and flicker between letter and letter
and vanish — present in every one of these apparently silent centimeters —
and don’t stop coming, and not really coming. So enough, please,
don’t hide everywhere, talk to me, all of you at once.
Amir Or, from Let's Speak You
translated by Ioana Ieronim
