Poetry

Remember that I'm your friend: you can tell me everything. And you can tell me everything, too. I'll remember that, stone. 7/25/1977

trans. Hebrew Ruth Whitman At five o'clock I'm going to meet a man at four o'clock a woman rises in me to go to the meeting. At five o'clock I go to meet a man and a woman. The man is new to my hands. Amazes all my memories. The woman is black. And seven…

Oh, what fire in the broken bread, what pure Dawn in the dimmed stars! I see the day coming among the stones, You are alone, black-robed, in its whiteness.

If it comes to pass that I have to shout: “Long live Poland!” —what language will I have to do it in? 1975

trans. Russian Richard Lourie In memory it will be like this — the Dnieper River, Trukhanov Island, springtime, a near crimson sunset . . . us running together, arms racing in air. A nameless sadness went through my heart. Why? Weren't we together. Us three. At our games. But then evening fell. Time to leave….

Here the restless voice consents to love The simple stone, The flagstones that time serves and delivers, The olive tree whose strength has the taste of dry stone. The footstep in its true peace. The restless voice Happy beneath the rocks of silence, And the infinite, indefinite reply Of the herd-bells, shore or death. Your…

I am like this dish: you can only accept me, do not try to alter or repair

trans. Russian Richard Lourie Having looked all around with an easy gaze, matting the grass as he walked that first day, he lay down in the shade of a fig tree and fell asleep, his hands behind his head. His sleep was sweet and deep and free beneath the blue peace of Eden's sky. ….

There was a sword Struck in the stone's mass. Its handle was rusted, the ancient blade Had reddened the stone's grey flank. And you knew You had to seize all this absence with both hands And pull the dark flame from its sheath of night. Some words were carved in the stone's blood, They told…