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Home Page Competition Background Newsletter Membership Anthology 1996
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Reuben
Rose 18th. International Competition 2007 Judge: Doug Holder, Boston USA 1st.
Prize: Zvi
A. Sesling, USA Honorary Mentions My
Father's Ankles
by Donna
Bechar, Israel Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. Fish Eye by Zvi A. Sesling Once, in the home of a Filipino, I was served soup with the head of a fish floating in the middle, the eye staring up, the same as in a pile of the dead at Auschwitz, the center of the eye forming a question mark asking, Why me? Why am I here? What have I done to earn this infamous plight? The eye doesn't see, yet it tells of surprise, shock, fear, anguish and pain, not love, happiness or humor. The eye has seen too much, not enough. Questions are answered, question remain. In the end humanity consumes fish, consumes humanity. Top
of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.* Paris
Unsaid by Celia Merlin I sent my boys off to Paris today. Twenty-two and twenty, the same age as I, when captured by the Seine's rainbow twinkle, Elysees' grandeur. They are cynically young, from press keys and wires, with gadgets literally out of their ears. They will turn the same corners, eat the same bread; their boundless dreams , though well-hidden, as green as mine at that time. Anxiously I wait to see how they fared away from their text message world. Will they feel autumn slide through the narrow back alleys? Will they smell lovers' sighs in small dim cafes? Will their sneakered feet remember the cobblestone, worn and uneven from horses past and sports cars present? Will they tell of glances and blushing and wet autumn leaves and cool white marble, of ponds, round and shallow with toy boats that float as children jump past with their plaid woven scarves and their small yapping dogs? I have walked them to school- these two young men. I have taught them to swim and to drive. But I can't help but wonder and worry a bit- have I taught them to hear what's unsaid? Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. 3rd. Prize Poem by Reuven Goldfarb 72 VIRGINS by Reuven Goldfarb, — an arrow in the heart of the Intifada — "Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect…." Keats, "The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream" When you complete your mission and arrive in the place of Judgment, you will be greeted by seventy-two beautiful virgins who won't like you. They'll talk only to each other, form hostile little cabals, engage in whispering campaigns to discuss your every earthly peccadillo, and, most of all, mock your ambition to be honored as a martyr. No martyr, they will say, ever won his crown by murdering innocent people You lost your life in vain. Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. 4th. Prize Poem by Wendy Blumfield PASSIONS By Wendy Blumfield The music teacher said sing silently And not to let my voice`s passion soar to the sky A voice that held no tune. The dancing teacher said go home you are a waste of space As in passion arms reach to the sky And my plump overweight little legs march on. My grandfather gave me a little wooden desk And I wrote my passions in ink That stained my fingers and spilt down my white school blouse. God gave me four children And I fed them with passion From those plump overweight breasts Sang them to sleep with the passion Of my voice that held no tune And danced with them with passion through the autumn leaves And the joy of the windswept beach. Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. Honorary Mention MY FATHER'S ANKLES by Donna Bechar Fine-boned like a thoroughbred's With the grace of a gazelle and a cheetah's speed Quick as clippers in a barber's hand Svelte as the quiet of snowfall on velvet Flying across the backyard lawn like A magician's sleight of hand Bidding many farewells and leaving awe In their wake and wonder as their legacy These were my father's ankles of yesteryear These days, the gas pedal carries him Speedily to his destinations Replacing those chiseled contours Now swollen beyond recognition His legs are maps of torn-down byways And too-narrow highways Preventing the traffic of blood and fluids Their fluidity and refuge, instead Bottlenecking, slow passage and nowhere to go Propped up on sofa cushions while watching tv In their inertia and repose, I see through time To when they were ready for action in an instant I see them when they were like spinning tops Dizzying in games of tag, softball and soccer Becoming fins in our swimming pool Becoming wings in an over-the-fence leap And for fleeting instances, I think I see them Wink as they leave a trail of mischievous Triumphant laughter Today, my father's ankles can manage a sweet nostalgic smile As they plod like grounded mortals But I keep seeing them in their Olympic form Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. Two Zinnias by Helen Bar-Lev, honorary mention Two zinnias in a glazed vase clipped by nuns' careful scissors, are the only decoration in this spartan room in a convent in Jerusalem but it is clean, the mattress comfortable flagstone floors, yellow- and red-ochre, have been polished to a gleam by passing shoes these one hundred years, even more We have returned to Jerusalem after an absence of some months – a jittery city, it is more intolerable than ever horns constantly honk, faces do not smile congestion and pollution, agitation, congregate in its centre together with beggars, street musicians, religious Jews, Arabs an incongruent conglomeration which beckons in a manner I cannot fathom and repulses with vengeance, as though one reaction triggers its opposite, a contradiction of emotions that is disturbing considering I lived here for so long and loved it with passion, wrote love poems in dedication, painted its landscapes from every angle until my ability wilted and the brush could no longer respond to my commands So that earlier today when I walked through this city in the heat of its summer and watched dusk extinguish the gold from its stones, I noticed a nostalgia for it – for the once-Jerusalem, almost expecting the present to disappear behind a curtain and lo! enter the Jerusalem of old, the city I knew and yearned to return to, smaller, happier, more beautiful These are my thoughts now, late, in this sanctuary amidst the city's insanity, this secluded quaint convent, where quail and jay and gay flowers reside, whose energies are lovely, light, a place that does not disturb nor disappoint my memories While the two zinnias in the vase blink red and pink in the heat of the night and soothe me Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. Some Things, You Just Have to Learn For Yourself by David Silverman, Illinois, USA honorary mention The doctors must have thought we couldn't take it, because they didn't tell us what we needed to know. Or else they didn't know themselves. We figured it out, though, on our own. Cancer gets a kick out of pulling the covers off late at night. Cancer has a bad attitude and doesn't play well with others. Cancer is a sliver of glass that disappears into the fleshy part of your foot. Cancer is burnt toast, moldy fruit, the wine that's turned. Cancer is the job that should have been yours, but went to that idiot in Sales. Cancer is a wet knot in your shoelace, a size 17 neck in a size 16 shirt. Cancer is termites in the wall, a pregnant rat in the attic. Cancer is a dead battery on the coldest day of the year. Cancer is an airball, a fourth quarter fumble, a called third strike with the bases full. Cancer is a migratory bird, minding its own business, sucked into the engine of a jumbo jet. Cancer is the unexpected thunderclap overhead and the storm you thought was miles away, is here. Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. BIG GREEN GARDEN by Rena Navon, honorary mention With a simple tool, our patient, steady gardener cuts out shadows and insinuates some sunny plants. Accomplice, sharp blades snip away the marginalia. Mesmerized by shaded head and sun-glassed focus balancing I marvel how his suntanned hands don't make a sound that doesn't satisfy the purpose of his metal sheers. Ignoring all distractions as he cuts away the ugly edges, this worker's so in tune with good performance as the blades slide smoothly, my questions lose their meaning. Eyes ascend, together with the green material he is harvesting away. * Aspiring to give some form and meaning too, I was sitting and writing and rewriting, forgetting how to do it like other artists do. With my attention in his hands, he keeps cutting away lines before I get to write them down. I fail as a hypnotic patient fails to act. * As long as a magician in my garden monopolizes my natural view, will it take all day to finish up this poem? Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. Rise Up My Cowardly Dick by Ben Wilensky, honorary mention Cowardly Cur! Battlefield deserter! Once you were my brave young boy battering the gates of mighty Troy marching in a vast crusade licking loving getting laid bending heaven to her knees. Your bulging blade however embarrassed me standing up in church and school waiving that defiant tool in front of my red face. I smacked it with a stick to keep that prick in place. We were best of friends but in the end you stretched too far and I lost everything: wives kids house jobs. Now a gross belly droops across my belt. It's a blinding piece of meat. When I aim for the stars I piss on my feet. The ultimate joke and ultimate rule is every man's a god damned fool. Old time warriors weary of this fate. They sit and plot the end of days then viciously hallucinate. Rise up my dying dick and rally to the throne and I will fight my way to hell and back loyal to the bone. Wouldn't that be biblical you and I to ride into the holy wars and never die. Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. Counting… by Rena Navon honorary mention The sky, high taut umbrella, begins to close around this farmhouse for another country night. Cleaved feet of sheep get torn from pasture. I beat an echo to their injured bleating; my pleading eye skims the flock until the last one is behind the wall of straw…. When will I realize counting lambs white as rich sunshine, at the shore of my even white pillow? Where my brethren lie, are there meadows more? Abide there in your beauty, Disheveled Eternity, before stored rain I was amply spared all of my life comes crashing down on me with all of its might. Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. Little Departures by Elisheva Gal, honorary mention One commences with trifles like, let's say, a single farewell a day, one small, insignificant departure so as not to create an abrupt colossal deficiency tomorrow. One may, for example, depart from the glitter in the eye one day, from the elasticity of the figure another. Then – from the little coffee shop, the old school, the beach, from the lounge furniture set, the crammed bookcase and favourite weekly magazine of so many years. Last, one says goodbye to all those who are dearest one by one Bidding farewell by installments makes it less difficult, in fact it's quite sensible. At the very end one says goodbye to sorrow. Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. THE CHILLED TREE by Rena Navon, honorary mention Day's vulnerable colors don't collapse until the last tree chills along with the rest. The day-old sun drops and bleeds ashamedly under the swollen ground. A woman turning toward her weak left side has given up on the indomitable right, "predictable" as an ocean tide. Delivering life's waters into earth's aging arms, she ends by hiding her wrinkling hands under the shade. * As the last light gets doused, the woman's neighbors distract her by examining the planets: "See? The problem is far away, way out there," a hand pointed like a brim lowered to keep the circulating truth away. When their husbands went off to war, serialized weapons lifted, a wife shared a pact never to cry before the funeral as if they could not accept that death will come. Uniform faces resist any tear and a small, withdrawn faith holds their old belief dear. * The evening colors are thinning together into the dirt. Ancient wisdom dribbles down their long necks, darkening their hard nipples staring like cut stones through shirts hanging down to their soggy moccasins. Life's witnesses disqualified such a matriarch with her pains as profound as the green, writhing moon long ago. Does this trooper receive more than a premonition of death before hard-metal turns into its red, liquid opposite? Is that ball buried under a chilled tree the last sun? Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*. the bone by Rena Navon, honorary mention I used to force past loves to dream back to me, their slippery hands as open as the ocean, fingers numbering greater than ravenous fish. But diving has taught me since that their pretty, lustrous orange cover seems, not is I only saw it from one side of the sea's latitudinal posture. Now I wait, watching for them to swallow bait and get served by willing waiters at tables set with elegant glasses and able tools to turn their scaled bodies into meals. Their spiny substance is but a nuisance we remove like surgeons careful not to swallow bones on the shore of inhaling-bliss, enjoying the food time has made of them. Top of Page *.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.END |