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Poems by ​Amir Or

​ 
אמיר אור
 
זֶרַע שֶׁנִּזְרַע בְּחוֹל מְחַכֶּה שָׁנִים לְגֶשֶׁם
 
הַשִּׁיר הַזֶּה יִהְיֶה שִׁירָהּ שֶׁל מֵאָה אַחֶרֶת, לֹא שׁוֹנָה מִזּוֹ.
הַשִּׁיר הַזֶּה יֻצְפַּן לָבֶטַח מִתַּחַת לְעִיֵּי מִלִּים, עַד שֶׁ
 
בֵּין גַּרְגְּרֵי הַחוֹל הָאַחֲרוֹנִים שֶׁל שְׁעוֹן הַזְּמַן
כְּמוֹ אֳנִיָּה בְּתוֹךְ בַּקְבּוּק, הוּא יֵרָאֶה, הַשִּׁיר הַזֶּה:
 
הַשִּׁיר שֶׁיְּדַבֵּר עַל תֹּם. וּסְתָם בְּרִיּוֹת שֶׁכִּבְיָכוֹל
הַזְּמַן גְּרָמָן, כְּמוֹ אֵלִים מְבוֹשְׁשִׁים
 
יַקְשִׁיבוּ לוֹ בְּלִי שׁוּם סִבָּה שֶׁלֹּא הָיְתָה גַּם קֹדֶם,
זוֹקְפִים גֵּוָם כְּמוֹ נְחָשִׁים
 
מִבֵּין הַגְּרוּטָאוֹת; וְלֹא יִהְיֶה לְאָן עוֹד
לְמַהֵר מִמֶּנּוּ, וְלֹא יִהְיֶה לוֹ סוֹף
 
שׁוֹנֶה מֵרֵאשִׁיתוֹ. הוּא לֹא יִהְיֶה עָשִׁיר
וְלֹא יִהְיֶה עָנִי. הוּא לֹא יִטְרַח עוֹד לְהַבְטִיחַ
 
וּלְקַיֵּם אוֹ לְבַצֵּעַ אֶת דְּבָרָיו שֶׁלּוֹ,
וְלֹא לַחֲסֹךְ, אוֹ לְהַפְלִיג אֶל שָׁם מִכָּאן.
 
הַשִּׁיר הַזֶּה, אִם יְדַבֵּר אֵלַיִךְ לֹא יִקְרָא לָךְ
מוּזָה מֹתֶק, וְלֹא יִשְׁכַּב אִתָּךְ כְּמוֹ אֲבוֹתָיו;
 
אוֹ אִם אֵלֶיךָ - לֹא יִכְרַע וְלֹא יַדְבִּיר, לֹא יִתְאַפֵּר
וְלֹא יִפְשֹׁט מִלָּיו וּבְשָׂרוֹ, כִּי אֵין לוֹ אֵין לוֹ
 
מָה. אוּלַי עַכְשָׁו אֶקְרָא לוֹ הֵנָּה, לַשִּׁיר הָרַע
שֶׁל הַמֵּאָה; הִנֵּה, חוֹלֵה בְּרִיאוּת הוּא מְהַלֵּךְ בְּקֹשִי
 
גּוֹרֵר רַגְלָיו בַּזֶּרֶם הַצָּמִיג שֶׁל מַחְשְׁבוֹת הַזְּמַן
אוֹ נֶעֱצָר לְבֶדֶק נְיָרוֹת וְלִסְפִירַת מְלַאי זוּטוֹתָיו
 
בַּחֲרוּזֵי חֶשְׁבּוֹן. הָאִינְוֶנְטָר: פְּרָחִים וּמְהַדְּקֵי סִכּוֹת,
גְּוִיּוֹת (כֵּן, אַל חֲשָׁשׁ), כּוֹסוֹת גְּבוֹהוֹת. אַחֲרֵי סִכּוֹת -
 
גַּם פַּרְפָּרִים, וַעֲקֵבוֹת רַבִּים וּשְׁאָר וַוִּים וּמַדָּפִים
לְטַעֲנוֹת בִּקֹּרֶת מְלֻמֶּדֶת, וְגַם סְתָם כָּךְ לְהִשְׁתַּטּוֹת, שִׁנַּיִם
 
מוּל שִׁנַּיִם, בְּהֶפְקֵרוּת שֶׁל חִיּוּכֵי זִקִּית שֶׁלֹּא יוֹדַעַת
שֶׁצְּבָעֶיהָ כְּבָר הָפְכוּ מָשָׁל. אוֹ בְּשַׁלְוָה בִּלְתִּי מוּבֶנֶת
 
לְנַסּוֹת אֶת מַזָּלוֹ שֶׁל מִישֶׁהוּ אַחֵר בְּמִשְׂחֲקֵי
הָלוֹךְ וָשׁוֹב שֶׁאֵין בָּהֶם תַּכְלִית מִלְּבַד, נֹאמַר,
 
קְצָת שַׁעֲשׁוּעַ שֶׁאָרְכּוֹ שׁוּרָה. מְרַח כָּתֹם עַל כְּחֹל
שְׁמֵי עֶרֶב: עַכְשָׁו סַיֵּד עָנָן קָטָן. עֲלֵה
 
עָלָיו, רְאֵה מִתַּחַת: יָם שֶׁל יָם, חוֹל שֶׁל חוֹל.
אוֹ אֶצְבָּעוֹת: עֶשֶׂר תּוֹלָעִים פְּרוּקוֹת פְּרָקִים
 
מִתְנוֹעֲעוֹת בְּקֶסֶם לֹא מֻסְבָּר. עַכְשָׁו הֵן סוֹבְבוֹת
כַּדּוּר שֶׁעִגּוּלוֹ פָּגוּם, נִפְלָא, בְּשָׂרִי. יוֹתֵר מִזֶּה
 
מֻתָּר לְךָ לוֹמַר דָּבָר (זֶה פְּרִי, קוֹרְאִים לוֹ
אֲפַרְסֵק). וְהַמִּלִּים הָאֵלֶּה טַעֲמָן מָלֵא בְּטַעַם שֶׁל
 
יֶשְׁנוֹ, בַּצְּלִיל שֶׁמְּלַוֶּה אֶת הַמַּרְאֶה בְּהִשְׁתָּאוּת,
וְלֹא בְּקוֹל טְרִיקַת הַמַּחְשָׁבָה. וְזֶה הַשִּׁיר:
 
הוּא שָׁר, נַגִּיד, לַזֶּפֶת שֶׁדָּבְקָה בְּכַף הָרֶגֶל עַל הַחוֹף,
לְבַקְבּוּקִים שֶׁל פְּלַסְטִיק, לְמִלּוֹתָיו שֶׁלּוֹ. הוּא
 
רַק רוֹאֶה: שָׁחוֹר עַל גַּב לָבָן, שָׁקוּף, אוֹ גַּרְגְּרִי.
הוּא לֹא עָרֹם פָּחוֹת מִמְּךָ. גַּם לֹא יוֹתֵר. רַק בַּדִּיּוּק הַזֶּה
 
שֶׁאֵין לוֹ שׁוּם שִׁעוּר, אֶלָּא כְּנֶגֶד חַמּוּקֵי כַּלְבָּה,
עָצִיץ שֶׁל רַקָּפוֹת, אוֹ שַׂעֲרָה עַל מַעֲקֵה אַמְבָּט.
 
הַיְצוּרִים שֶׁכָּאן אֵינָם רוֹצִים לָדַעַת. הַיְצוּרִים
שֶׁשָּׁם, שֶׁרַק רוֹצִים, הֵם אֶפְשָׁרוּת לְפִי שָׁעָה
 
לִהְיוֹת הַיְצוּרִים שֶׁכָּאן, לִהְיוֹת הָעַתִּיקוּת הַזֹּאת,
שֶׁאֵין לָהּ מַה לּוֹמַר אֶלָּא אֲנִי, אֲנִי, בְּלִי גְּבוּל
 
בְּלִי אַתָּה. כֶּלֶב כְּנַעֲנִי רוֹבֵץ עַל מַדְרֵגָה בַּשֶּׁמֶשׁ
אַחַר הַצָּהֳרַיִם, וְלֹא מַבְדִּיל עַצְמוֹ מִן הַזְּבוּבִים.
 
 
[From SHIR (Poem), published by Hakkibbutz Hameuhad 1996]



​ 
A seed sown in sand waits years for rain
 
 
This poem will be a poem of another century, not different from ours.  
This poem will be safely hidden under heaps of words until, 
 
among the last grains in the hourglass, 
like a ship in a bottle, it gets  seen. This poem                                          
 
that will speak of innocence.  And ordinary people,
who seem thrown up by the course of events, like late-coming gods,
 
will listen to it for no reason that wasn’t there before,
raising their backs like snakes
 
out of the junk,  and there won’t be anywhere else
to hurry from, and it won’t have an end
 
different from its beginning.  It won’t be rich
and won’t be poor.  Won’t bother anymore to keep promises
 
or carry out what it says        
and won’t understate or puff itself from here to there.
 
This poem, if it speaks to you, woman, won’t call you
muse-babe, and won’t sleep with you like its fathers did;
 
or if to you, man, won’t kneel or kill, won’t apply make-up
and won’t take off its words and flesh, as it has not    has not –
             
what?  Maybe now I’ll summon it, the bad poem                                   
of the century: here, sick with health     it’s barely walking
 
drags its legs in the sticky current of contemporary thought
or gets stopped to show its papers and have its trivia counted
 
on an abacus.  The inventory:  flowers and staples,
corpses (yes, no worry), tall glasses. After staples –
 
also butterflies and many footprints and other hooks and shelves
for the arguments of scholarly criticism, and also just to fool around, teeth
 
against teeth, with the chaotic smiles of a chameleon    that doesn’t know
its colours long since turned into a parable.  Or in incomprehensible tranquillity
 
to try someone else’s luck in games of to and fro   
that have no goal other than, let’s say,
 
a bit of fun the length of a line.  Spread orange on the blue
of evening sky: now, plaster on a little cloud.  Climb 
 
on, look down: sea of sea, sand of sand.                                     
Or fingers.  Ten jointed worms
 
move with inexplicable charm.  Now they encircle
a sphere whose curve is faulty, wonderful, fleshy,   furthermore
 
you  can say a word (it’s a fruit, it’s called
a peach). And these words    their taste is full of the taste
 
of being, of a tone that accompanies the sight with wonder
and not with a thought-slamming din.  And this is the poem:
 
it sings, let’s say, to the tar that stuck to your  foot at the beach,
to plastic bottles, to its own words.  All it sees                           
 
is black on white, transparent or grainy.
It is no less naked than you.  Also no more.  Only through this exactness
 
that has no measure except the curves of a bitch’s body,     
a pot of cyclamen or a hair on a bath rail.
 
Creatures here don’t want to know.  Creatures
there, wanting only that, are, for now, the possibility             
 
of becoming creatures here, of becoming this antiquity
that has nothing to say other than me, me, without limit
 
without you.  A dog lies on a step in the afternoon  
sun and does not distinguish itself from the flies.
 
 
[Translated by Helena Berg, published in POEM, by Dedalus, Dublin 2004]
 
 
 
 
 
 
תפילת אורפיאוס
 
מָוֶת וְעוֹד מָוֶת, חוֹל וְעוֹד חוֹל
עָמַדְנוּ בַּכִּכָּר, רְעֵבִים לִהְיוֹת, וּכְמוֹ צֵל הָרִים
 
כִּסִּינוּ אֶת הָעִיר בִּתְמוּנוֹת הַשֵּׁנָה בְּהָקִיץ.
הָיְתָה אוֹ לֹא הָיְתָה?
 
זָר לְגוּפִי, יָכוֹל וְלֹא יָכוֹל, נִסִּיתִי אֶת הָאֲוִיר:
כַּמָּה שָׁנִים עוֹד נֵלֵךְ בַּחוֹלוֹת הַמֵּתִים הָאֵלֶּה?
 
הָהָר נִשְׁקָף כְּמוֹ חָזוֹן אוֹ תַּעְתּוּעַ
חוֹלוֹת נוֹסְעִים תַּחְתֵּינוּ כְּמוֹ זִכָּרוֹן בְּלִי הַתְחָלָה
 
וְכָל מָקוֹם -
הוּא כָּל מָקוֹם.
 
מֵאַיִן בָּאנוּ? הַאִם הַדֶּרֶךְ עוֹלָה אוֹ יוֹרֶדֶת?
הַאִם אַתְּ שָׁם, מֵאֲחוֹרֵי מַבָּטִי? הַאִם מַבָּטִי לְפָנַי עוֹד?
 
לְבַד חָצִינוּ אֶת הַבִּצּוֹת הַגְּדוֹלוֹת עַל פְּנֵי הַטְּבוּעִים הַנְּמַסִּים לְאִטָּם.
שָׁנִים הָיִינוּ בְּנֵי אַלְמָוֶת.
 
בַּעֲלִיַּת הַגַּג, בְּאַמְסְטֶרְדַם, רָאִינוּ צַעַר נוֹרָא בַּחַלּוֹן.
כַּמָּה נֵלֵךְ עוֹד בֵּין מָוֶת לְמָוֶת, חוֹל וְחוֹל?
 
הִיסְטוֹרְיָה חֲדָשָׁה תֵּן לָנוּ, מָוֶת חָדָשׁ תֵּן לָנוּ.
אֶת חַיֵּי הַיּוֹם תֵּן לָנוּ הַיּוֹם.
 
 
[From MUZEON HAZZMAN (The Museum of Time), published by Hakkibbutz Hameuhad 2007]

 
The Orpheus Prayer
 
Death and yet more death, sand and more sand
We have stood in the square hungry to be
 
and, like mountain shadows,
covered the city with pictures of a waking sleep.
 
Was she there or wasn’t she? 
A stranger in my body, able and yet unable, I tried the air:
 
 “How many more years will we walk these dead sands?” 
The mountain is glimpsed like a vision or a mirage. 
 
Sands move-on underfoot like a memory with no beginning,
and each place  --  is every place.
 
Does the way go-up or down? Are you here, behind my gaze?   
Is my gaze there, ahead of me? Where have we come from?
 
Alone, the two of us have crossed vast marshes
on the slowly melting faces of the drowned.
 
For years we’ve been immortal.
In the attic, in Amsterdam, we saw terrible sorrow in the window.
 
How much longer shall we walk
between death and death, sand and sand?
 
A new past give us, a new death give us.
Give us this day the life of the day. 
 
 
[Translated by Fiona Sampson, published in DAY by Dedalus, 2006]
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Amir Or, the 2020 Golden Wreath laureate, has been recognised as a major voice in world literature. His poetry won him national and international awards, including the 1996 Prime Minister award, and the 2019 Homer European Medal of Art and Poetry. Or was born in Tel Aviv, 1956, studied Philosophy and Comparative Religion in the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and lectured on Ancient Greek Religion. He published 14 poetry books 2 novels, an Essays' selection, and 12 volumes of his translations from Ancient Greek, English and other languages. His work was translated to more than 50 languages, and published in 37 books in Europe, America and Asia.

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