Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Israel Pincas

CLOUDY OR CLEAR

1
I asked for something cold, honed down,
Burnished like nickel,

A bed-rail, on which a patient
Cools his forehead;

Perhaps a cube. A plank
Square and hardened,

Uncompromised,
Brother to madness, to silence.

A silence accrues to a buzz.
A buzzing which is speech:

A kind of largo for cellos
Or high voltage,

Like that of the generator relegated
To the edge of the lot,

Between the bushes, the barrels
And beside the stains of mazut and of oil.

2
One morning I’ll wake up and learn
That I was: a rifle butt, a chisel’s handle,
 
A square piece of wood, rigid,
a cube.

It’ll be very hot. Maybe cold. Cloudy
Or clear. A disinterested glance will reveal:

A scorched wall, or scaffolding; a frame,
Or something which can only bring to mind a frame

Of a house, a large storeroom for spare parts, or a garage,
Perhaps a dismantled hotel; a gas station

And a sign, part of a sign,
A traffic light for the young who lap distances.

מעונן או בהיר

מעונן או בהיר

 
1
בִּקַּשְׁתִּי מַשֶּׁהוּ קַר, מְהֻקְצָע,
מַבְהִיק כְּמוֹ נִיקֶל,
 
דֹּפֶן מִטָּה, שֶׁהַחוֹלֶה
מְצַנֵּן בָּהּ אֶת מִצְחוֹ.
 
אֶפְשָׁר קֻבִּיָּה. כְּפִיס-עֵץ
רָבוּעַ, מֻקְשֶׁה,
 
חֲסַר פֵּשֶׁר,
אָח לְטֵרוּף, לִשְׁתִיקָה.
 
שְׁתִיקָה מִצְטַבֶּרֶת לְזִמְזוּם:
זִמְזוּם שֶׁהוּא דִּבּוּר.
 
מֵעֵין לַרְגוֹ לְצֶ'לִי
אוֹ מֶתַח גָּבוֹהַּ,
 
כְּמוֹ זֶה שֶׁל הַגֶּנֶרָטוֹר הַמְנֻדֶּה
בִּקְצֵה הַמִּגְרָשׁ,
 
בֵּין הַשִּׂיחִים, הֶחָבִיוֹת
וְעַל-יַד כִּתְמֵי הַמָּזוּט וְהַשֶּׁמֶן.
 
2
בֹּקֶר אֶחָד אֶתְעוֹרֵר וְאֶלְמַד
שֶׁהָיִיתִי: קַת שֶׁל רוֹבֶה, יָדִית שֶׁל מַפְסֶלֶת,
 
כְּפִיס-עֵץ רָבוּעַ, מֻקְשֶׁה,
קֻבִּיָּה.
 
יִהְיֶה חַם מְאֹד. וְאוּלַי קַר. מְעֻנָּן
אוֹ בָּהִיר. מַבָּט לֹא מְעֻנְיָן יְגַלֶּה
 
קִיר שָׂרוּף, אוֹ פִּגּוּם; שֶׁלֶד,
אוֹ מַשֶּׁהוּ הַיָּכוֹל רַק לְהַזְכִּיר שֶׁלֶד
 
שֶׁל בַּיִת, מַחְסַן-חֲלָפִים גָּדוֹל אוֹ מוּסָךְ,
אוּלַי מָלוֹן מְפֹרָק; תַּחֲנַת דֶּלֶק
 
וְשֶׁלֶט, חֵלֶק שֶׁל שֶׁלֶט,
תַּמְרוּר לְגוֹמְאֵי מֶרְחַקִּים צְעִירִים.
Close

CLOUDY OR CLEAR

1
I asked for something cold, honed down,
Burnished like nickel,

A bed-rail, on which a patient
Cools his forehead;

Perhaps a cube. A plank
Square and hardened,

Uncompromised,
Brother to madness, to silence.

A silence accrues to a buzz.
A buzzing which is speech:

A kind of largo for cellos
Or high voltage,

Like that of the generator relegated
To the edge of the lot,

Between the bushes, the barrels
And beside the stains of mazut and of oil.

2
One morning I’ll wake up and learn
That I was: a rifle butt, a chisel’s handle,
 
A square piece of wood, rigid,
a cube.

It’ll be very hot. Maybe cold. Cloudy
Or clear. A disinterested glance will reveal:

A scorched wall, or scaffolding; a frame,
Or something which can only bring to mind a frame

Of a house, a large storeroom for spare parts, or a garage,
Perhaps a dismantled hotel; a gas station

And a sign, part of a sign,
A traffic light for the young who lap distances.

CLOUDY OR CLEAR

1
I asked for something cold, honed down,
Burnished like nickel,

A bed-rail, on which a patient
Cools his forehead;

Perhaps a cube. A plank
Square and hardened,

Uncompromised,
Brother to madness, to silence.

A silence accrues to a buzz.
A buzzing which is speech:

A kind of largo for cellos
Or high voltage,

Like that of the generator relegated
To the edge of the lot,

Between the bushes, the barrels
And beside the stains of mazut and of oil.

2
One morning I’ll wake up and learn
That I was: a rifle butt, a chisel’s handle,
 
A square piece of wood, rigid,
a cube.

It’ll be very hot. Maybe cold. Cloudy
Or clear. A disinterested glance will reveal:

A scorched wall, or scaffolding; a frame,
Or something which can only bring to mind a frame

Of a house, a large storeroom for spare parts, or a garage,
Perhaps a dismantled hotel; a gas station

And a sign, part of a sign,
A traffic light for the young who lap distances.

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère