Pondering Prostitutes

The air is suffused with self-righteous liberalism, as I ponder the blackness of her feet, the poem behind each speck of dirt leaning against her pores, your hands roaming down my skirt in a back alley, as if they had read my poems, and I am trying so hard not to feel the pressure of your lips, not to let myself go, because I know that if I come I will cry; then I will be here, beneath you, completely vulnerable, and then you will leave me. I know this the way I know the air's bite on my cheek, the way I know the letters of my poems, the way my tongue tastes your kisses. If I could draw you deep inside me, like a well, I would seal our love with stones, and build a hut above the waters. But love is not like a bird that can be chained, nor like a metaphor, that can be over-used and spun into Chinese folktales about emperors and nightingales. Nor is sex a thing that can be defined, because it occurs in a fourth dimension of the universe, and our dictionaries only cover the three dimensions that have been charted by philosophers. They said that love is lust, divided over time, multiplied by a factor of unwashed dishes - or some such nonsense, I don't remember, really - it's hard to think when your hands are moving between my thighs. The night air bites me; I am filled by your kisses, and I close my eyes.

Jeremiah 37

In this chapter, Jeremiah gets put in a jaill in a scribe's house. The king seeks Jeremiah's prophecy, and in exchange, transfers him to a different prison in "the court of the guard" (presumably near the palace grounds) where Jeremiah is given bread everyday, until the city runs out of bread due to the Babylonian siege. This got me started on thinking a scribe's house, or a library, as a prison. Here is the result:

They won't let me read Rilke in here, or write about flowers. All day long they make me read Fernando Pessoa, and criticize my Portuguese. They even put bars on the windows, and the bread they feed me is moldy - the say this makes it taste more like a metaphor.

Today, God came and told me to write a poem - but he wouldn't give me a topic, only a title - "Song of Songs". But  how can you write a song when you are starving?

"This is a library, not a prison", they say, but any place is a prison when you can't leave. They even make me earn my pens by dusting the shelves, and my paper by cleaning book-covers - and why won't they let me sing rose-petal serenades?

"This next poem", they say, "had better be good, or you're looking at life without parole". Well screw them! What do they know? When's the last time they used meter or metonymy?

I bet they can't even rhyme, those jail guards, with their silly sticks and their brown hats. Maybe I'll write a song about their stupidity: I would gladly trade some beauty for a piece of chocolate.

different version pondering slight changes

"אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
פן תדבקני הרע בעיניך,
פן אתמכר לכף רגליך,
ואתמרמר בתוכך,
ואתחבא מאור פניך:
התהלכתה לפני,
כחייל בשדה מוקשים,
ותבהל לדרוך את רגליך,
רמס חצרי, כובש ירכיי, נושך את שדיי.

מי ביקש זאת מידך?

הלא "אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
לא "מנשיקות פיך תנשקני"
ולא, "לקראת השחר תנשכני",
 פן תדבקני הרע בלבביך,
ואתמרמר בתוכך,
ונהפכתי לשדה מוקשים:

ריח עשבים
מלתף את פניך
שבעתי מחוחי השושנים-
  כבר נדקרתי מערוגת הבושם של צואריך
שנדבק לשפתיה באמרותם "אל תיגע בי".

כבר הייתי לטרף בין שינייך. האם טעמי מצא חין בעיניך?

אם התמרמרתי,
 נא המתיקני
בין שפתיך
ותכניסני תחת כנפיך:
ש"אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
אך אני כבר מכורה לעור פניך

Trans. of most recent vers.

"Don't touch me", she said:
 "Perhaps your eyes' evil will infect me,
or I'll become addicted to your foot,
and hide from your face's light".

You went before me like a soldier
in a mine-field, afraid
to put down your foot - yard-trampeler,
thigh-conqueror,  breast-biter.

Who asked this of you?

Did she not say, "Don't touch me"?
Not "Kiss me" or "Bite me" -
for perhaps I will be infected
by the badness in your heart,
and become bitter inside you -
I will become a mine-field:

The scent of grass caresses your face.
I've grown satisfied from the roses' thorns;
I've already been pricked by perfume of your neck,
that stuck to her lips when they said, "Dont't touch me".

I've already been prey between your teeth. Did you like how I tasted?

If I have become bitter, please
sweeten me between your lips-
for "Don't touch me", she said,
but I'm already addicted to your face, your skin.

(גם כן מהחוג) שירת הטרף

"אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
פן תדבקני הרע בעיניך,
פן אתמכר לכף רגליך,
ואתמרמר בתוכך,
ואתחבא מאור פניך:
התהלכתה לפני,
כחייל בשדה מוקשים,
ותבהל לדרוך את רגליך,
רמס חצרי, כובש ירכיי, נושך את שדיי.

מי ביקש זאת מידך?

הלא "אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
לא "מנשיקות פיך תנשקני"
ולא, "לקראת השחר תנשכני",
 פן תדבקני הרעה בלבביך,
ואתמרמר בתוכך,
ונהפכתי לשדה מוקשים-
פן יפגע הבא אחרך.

כבר הייתי לטרף בין שינייך. האם טעמי מצא חין בעיניך?

אם התמרמרתי,
המתיקני
נא על שפתיך
ותכניסני תחת כנפיך:
ש"אל תיגע בי", היא אמרה,
אך אני כבר מכורה לעור פניך.

מלמנצח בנגימות - חוב בבית אביחי בהשראת שיר השירים

הססתי אם לשים פה או לא, אך בסוף, הבלוג הזה הוא כדי לשתף אתכם לכתיבות שלי - גם כשהם לא יוצאות איך שהייתי רוצה.

גם כן, לשדר זה ממכר :)
 

דודי ירד למו,
השאיר אותי בלעדו,
 ירד לערוגת הבושם,
לרעות בגנים,
וללקט שושנים,
כי לא אהב את הבושם של שדיי,
וכבר נמעס לן מריח לחיי

אני לדודי - האם הוא לי?
הרועה שושנים

לא ידעתי נפשו -
שמחני רוכב מרכבות,
האומר "עמי נדיב".

אף פעם לא אמרתה "שני שדייך כשני עפרים"
וביום האהבה, לא קניתה לי פרחים -
זה דודי, וזה רעי, בנות ירושלים
שם אתן את דודי לך,
ואולי שדייך ימצאו חין בעיניו

כי דודי ירד למו,
השאיר אותי בלעדו
,ירד לערוגת הבושם
לרעות בגנים,
וללקט שושנים,
כי לא אהב את הבושם של שדיי,
וכבר נמעס לן מריח לחיי

אני לדודי,
אך אין הוא לי,
ואני נשארתי לבדי,
ביו השושנים.
,

Getting Ready For Bed: A Manual

1. Change into pajamas.
2. Remember the night you kissed me by the apple-grove.
3. Critique myself, because I don't think there is such a thing as an apple-grove.
4. Unbind my hair.
5. Forget the night you kissed me by the apple-grove.

Jeremiah 36 (Free-writing exercise)

The scroll is beautiful in its burning;
the ink smells slightly sweet -
it reminds me of my wife's hair,
when she scents it with rose and cinammon.

The flames are reflected in the king's crown:
A stubborn man, who thinks that words can die.
Next he will tell me that love is eternal,
when in fact it is no more than lust
mixed in with a little bit of dopamine -
that bitch Sheila must be playing with his mind:

I've seen her breasts through the chiffon robes
she let slip at the royal banquet (pre-fast, of course:
Even his majesty knows not to screw too much
with the religious establishment.)
and they are glorious, like the words of God,
or my wife's kisses, which, like the scroll,
burn slowly inside of me,
until they have eaten the ashes.

Jeremiah 35 (Not my best work)

Listen to the horses,
drunk on your vineyard's wine:

Kiss the grapes,
before you kiss me -
your lips taste like sweat and toothpaste,
minty, like the tea you made me,
on a night when I loved you too much
to care that your lips tasted like toothpaste.

On a night when the horses were sober,
and the grapes were still on the vine,
I listened to your words that tasted like kisses,
and forgot to brush my teeth,
before falling asleep to the horses' whine.

Breakup (A Fairy Tale)

Once upon a time, there was a princess, who was born in exile. The princess strove to learn the language and culture of her people. When she felt she was about to flower, she returned to her homeland - and never had she felt so lonely. She waited for others to see the beauty of her petals, but they were too focused on the other flowers, and her lilac hues seemed paltry under the Middle Eastern sun - until he came, plucked her by her stem, and kissed her petals; she felt herself open beneath the touch of his fingers. Then, one day, he dropped her: She did not know why, and the soil felt strange beneath her leaves. She grew afraid of her thorns, for they might prick the next man's fingers. Yet soon she found beauty in the brown earth, and grew to cherish the soil's softness against her skin. So she blew love into her petals, and waited for the next stranger to pick her from the forest floor - one who would learn to see the beauty of her thorns.

Conversation

"Sometimes I read my writing, just to convince myself that I've loved."
"Would it help if I wrote you a love poem?"
She laughed. "Thanks, but it's about my ability to love not about -"
"Not about your ability to be loved? Isn't that just as important?"
She shrugged and took a sip of beer.
"You know, I think that's the first time a girl ever turned down an offer for me to write her a poem."
She laughed. "Do you usually ask?"
"Of course. I only believe in love-poems with consent."
They both took a few sips. He tried not to stare at her breasts.
"Do you ever wonder if how it makes sex different, for men and for women, that we have to let our men inside us? Sorry - I spend way too much time thinking about sex. I'm like a guy in that way - that's why I have mostly male friends, I think."
He thinks, "No, you have mostly male friends because you wear lowcut shirts", but he doesn't say anything.
They continue drinking in silence.

For Tzedekiah (Jeremiah 34)

Your lips upon his lips-
he binds you in chains.

You unchained the masses,
but their masters bound their wrists,
and you have forgotten the taste of her lips.

The people's lips have forgotten the taste of figs,
of cheese and wine, of words - only Jeremiah
remembers how to form letters with his tongue,
and with his words, he tries to bind you.

Your lips upon his lips,
he will carry you to a country with golden walls
where your dream of her lips:

Your chains are scented with myhrr and lavender.

My lips were scented with cinammon,
when I bound you with the tresses of my hair,
and when I feared the hollow places,
I gave you my breasts as your song,
my tears as your lamentation.

A swan with ruffled feathers
glides upon your beak:

 Unchain her, please, so I can bring her to the zoo, and earn a few dollars. I'd like to buy some lavender.

שירת מוצאת שלום

From למנצח בנגינות writing course at Avi Chai, using phrases/imagery from Song of Songs:

ביקשתי את שאהבה נפשי

ולא מצאתי -

לא בערוגת הבסם של צואריך

לא בעטרה עזה של מצחך,

וליבי ער, יונתי תמתי -

מתי תשמיעני את קולך?

כשושנת העמקים הייתי בחיקך

הרועה בשושנים

לך לך, לגן העגוזים,  -

ועדר חדש ילתף את פניך

תנשקנו ממעין קולך,

ועל שפתיך ימתיקו החוחים.

ואני חומה,

הבנויה על חשק

לערוגת הבסם של צואריך,

שביקש את שאהבה נפשיך -

מדוע לא תשמיעני את קולך?

Quasi-autobiographical fragment (Purim) (Note: This piece references Harry Potter.)

The world grows quiet. You hold my hand at the end, watching our relationship die, like the flowers you never gave me for Valentine's day - and I know, somehow, that I will manage to hold this pain inside me. I know because I have held it there before, I, the dumper, never the dumpee, now strewn across your lap like a rag-doll, trying not feel guilty for the tears that are wetting your trousers - even though I sensed this moment, sensed it across a feast in honor of a woman who bears my name, felt it between my thighs and in the flap of skin beneath my elbow, tasted it like a kiss, or like fear, when at night my eyes refused to let me sleep. There is a certain beauty in a romance dying: I imagine it looks like a dead baby unicorn - and he who drinks the blood shall have but half-life, for he shall be consumed by memories. So let my skin forget the touch of your thighs, my lips the pressure of your lips, my hair the stroke of your fingers. Let my tongue unlearn words you half-whispered in the dark - and may my pen never write you a love-poem. Only a piece of prose, sticking out from the page like a piece of glass; sharp and shapeless, it lies transparent, waiting to prick the fur of the unsuspecting unicorn, who will lie, her legs jutting out at odd angles, at the clearing to a magical forest, where hearts sew themselves back together with thread so fine, you can only feel it when you press them close between your thighs - so why can I still hear the beating of your heart when I close my eyes?