Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Yael Globerman

ICARUS

At first Icarus simply wanted to get out. He didn’t want
to fly. But the sea was everywhere
and there was no door.
His brilliant father, who raised him to amaze
as he had, was shut into his work cave
deep among the boulders.
Nothing new about that. Daddy Daedalus
was always working, always shut in,
emerging after weeks,
his pupils dotted with pre-Edisonian electricity,
holding in a hand outstretched
like a branch of the tree of knowledge
something wonderful, completely new,
looking for his son to no avail
then finding him in a place he did not like:
among ordinary cliffs, with ordinary boys,
playing ancient backgammon: shells
versus conches.
 
Daedalus worried about his son,
who was no genius, not even determined:
a boy weak of character, the addictive type,
quite smart, mainly graceful.
So when he emerged now, calling
Icarus, Icarus, where are you,     
and gestured to his son to try on the wings,                
the boy came quietly.      
It wasn’t the first time his father tried
to give him wings. He had high hopes
for his son’s future.
 
But this time it was the real thing:
chassis, feathers, lining,
trembling machinery for flight.
                                                They
walked towards each other. Father            
harnessed him. Together they synchronized
their sand clocks with care.
Father’s hands touched him
there and there and there. Instructions floated
up above their heads
while his heart sank: another leap
he won’t be able to complete. Another dose of failure
released like medicine from a capsule
from his father’s loins.
 
But then, in harness, when he spread his wings,
rose in the air and found himself
                                                 flying –
everything was blue. He too.
 
Daedalus sees his son, eyes enormous,
spreading his wings, rising and whirling:
Father, I am shining!
cries the mad boy – 
 
What happens next is history, or myth at least:
the plummeting body, the screaming father.
This is what Daedalus did not understand,       
carefully navigating a brilliant landing:
seconds before bursting into flames the boy sent out a cry
that his father, hanging farther down in perfect balance            
could not make out:
thismustbehowyoufeelwheninventing!
He cried out, joyful,
And fell.

אִיקָרוֹס

אִיקָרוֹס

בַּהַתְחָלָה אִיקָרוֹס רָצָה פָּשׁוּט לָצֵאת. הוּא לֹא רָצָה
לָעוּף. אֲבָל הַיָּם הָיָה סָבִיב סָבִיב
וְלֹא הָיְתָה שָׁם דֶּלֶת.
אָבִיו הַגְּאוֹנִי, שֶׁגִּדֵּל אוֹתוֹ לִהְיוֹת מַדְהִים
כָּמוֹהוּ, הִסְתַּגֵּר בִּמְעָרַת הָעֲבוֹדָה שֶׁלּוֹ, בֵּין הַסְּלָעִים.
זֶה לֹא הָיָה דָּבָר חָדָשׁ. דֵדִי דֵּדָלוּס תָּמִיד עָבַד, תָּמִיד
הִסְתַּגֵּר, מֵגִיחַ אֲחַרֵי יָמִים בְּאִישׁוֹנִים מְנֻקָּדִים
חַשְׁמַל פְּרֵה-אֶדִיסוֹנִי, מַחֲזִיק
בְּיָד מוּשֶׁטֶת כְּמוֹ עֲנָף עֵץ דַּעַת שֶׁפָּרַח
אֵיזֶה דָּבָר מֻפְלָא, חָדָשׁ לְגַמְרֵי,
מְחַפֵּש אֶת בְּנוֹ וְלֹא מוֹצֵא, וְאַחַר כָּךְ מוֹצֵא
אֵיפֹה שֶׁלֹּא רָצָה לִמְצֹא:                     
בֵּין צוּקִים פְּשׁוּטִים, עִם בַּחוּרִים פְּשׁוּטִים,
מְשַׂחֵק שֵׁשׁ בֵּשׁ קָדוּם: צְּדָפִִים נֶגֶד
קוֹנְכִיּוֹת.




דֵּדָלוּס נָד בְּרֹאשׁוֹ עַל מַעֲשָׂיו שֶׁל בְּנוֹ,
שלא הָיָה גָּאוֹן, אֲפִלּוּ לֹא חָרוּץ:
יֶלֶד חַלַּשׁ אֹפִי, טִפּוּס מִתְמַכֵּר,
פִקֵּחַ לְמַדַּי, בְּעִקָּר
חִנָּני.
לָכֵן, עַכְשָֹׁו, כְּשֶׁיָּצָא, קוֹרֵא
אִיקָרוֹס, אִיקָרוֹס, אַיֶּכָּה
וְהִתְוָה בְּיָדוֹ שֶׁיּבוֹא לִמְדֹּד
הַנַּעַר נִשְׁאַר שָׁלֵו. זֹאת לֹא הָיְתָה פַּעַם רִאשׁוֹנָה
שֶׁאָבִיו נִסָּה לְהַדְבִּיק עָלָיו כְּנָפַיִם. הָיוּ לוֹ שְׁאִיפוֹת רָמוֹת
בְּנוֹגֵעַ לַעֲתִידוֹ שֶׁל בְּנוֹ.
 
אֲבָל הַפַּעַם הֵן הָיוּ כְּנָפַיִם שֶׁל מַמָּשׁ:
שִׁלְדָּה, פְּלוּמָה, נוֹצוֹת,
הַנְדָּסָה שֶׁל מַשָּׁק.
                      הֵם
הִתְקָרְבוּ זֶה אֶל זֶה. אַבָּא
רָתַם אוֹתוֹ. בְּיַחַד
אִפְּסוּ אֶת שְׁעוֹנֵי הַחוֹל.
יָדָיו שֶׁל אַבָּא נָגְעוּ בּוֹ
פֹּה  וּפֹה  וּפֹה. הַהוֹרָאוֹת עָלוּ                            
בְּעוֹד הַלֵּב שׁוֹקֵעַ: עוֹד זִנּוּק
שֶׁלֹּא יוּכַל לִגְמֹר. עוֹד כִּשָּׁלוֹן
שֶׁיֵּחָלֵץ כְּמוֹ מִכְּמוּסָה בְּהַשְׁפָּעָה מֻשְׁהֵית
מֵחֲלָצָיו שֶׁל אַבָּא.
 

אֲבָל בְּרֶגַע מְסֻיָּם, כְּשֶׁכְּבָר נִרְתַּם, וּפָרַשׂ,
הִתְרוֹמֵם בָּאֲוִיר וּמָצָא אֶת עַצְמוֹ 
                                            עָף –
הַכֹּל הָיָה כָּחֹל. גַּם הוּא.
 
דֵּדָלוּס רוֹאֶה אֶת בְּנוֹ קְרוּעַ עֵינַיִם,
עוֹלֶה וּמִסְתַּחְרֵר,  פּוֹרֵשׂ וּמְפַרְפֵּר,
נְטִיּת הַלֵּב מַטָּה אֶת הַכְּנָפַיִם:
אַבָּא, אֲנִי נוֹשֵׁב! צוֹעֵק הַיֶּלֶד הַמֻּפְרָע –
 
אַחַר כָּךְ הכֹּל הִיסְטוֹרְיָה, לְפָחוֹת מִיתוֹס:
הַגוּּף הַצּוֹלֵל, הָאָב הַזּוֹעֵק.
מַה שֶׁדֵּדָלוּס לֹא הֵבִין,
מְנַוֵּט בִּשְׁפִיּוּת נְחִיתָה מַזְהִירָה:
רֶגַע לִפְנֵי שֶׁהִתְלַקֵּח, הַנַּעַר שָׁלַח זְעָקָה
שֶׁהָאָב, תָּלוּי בְּאִזּוּן מֻשְׁלָם לְמַטָּה,
לֹא יָכֹל לְהַפְרִיד לְמִלִּים מוּבָנוֹת:
בֶּטַחכָּכָהאַתָּהמַרְגִּישׁכְּשֶׁאַתָּהמַמְצִיא!
הוּא קָרָא, מְאֻשָּׁר,
וְצָלַל.
 

 
Close

ICARUS

At first Icarus simply wanted to get out. He didn’t want
to fly. But the sea was everywhere
and there was no door.
His brilliant father, who raised him to amaze
as he had, was shut into his work cave
deep among the boulders.
Nothing new about that. Daddy Daedalus
was always working, always shut in,
emerging after weeks,
his pupils dotted with pre-Edisonian electricity,
holding in a hand outstretched
like a branch of the tree of knowledge
something wonderful, completely new,
looking for his son to no avail
then finding him in a place he did not like:
among ordinary cliffs, with ordinary boys,
playing ancient backgammon: shells
versus conches.
 
Daedalus worried about his son,
who was no genius, not even determined:
a boy weak of character, the addictive type,
quite smart, mainly graceful.
So when he emerged now, calling
Icarus, Icarus, where are you,     
and gestured to his son to try on the wings,                
the boy came quietly.      
It wasn’t the first time his father tried
to give him wings. He had high hopes
for his son’s future.
 
But this time it was the real thing:
chassis, feathers, lining,
trembling machinery for flight.
                                                They
walked towards each other. Father            
harnessed him. Together they synchronized
their sand clocks with care.
Father’s hands touched him
there and there and there. Instructions floated
up above their heads
while his heart sank: another leap
he won’t be able to complete. Another dose of failure
released like medicine from a capsule
from his father’s loins.
 
But then, in harness, when he spread his wings,
rose in the air and found himself
                                                 flying –
everything was blue. He too.
 
Daedalus sees his son, eyes enormous,
spreading his wings, rising and whirling:
Father, I am shining!
cries the mad boy – 
 
What happens next is history, or myth at least:
the plummeting body, the screaming father.
This is what Daedalus did not understand,       
carefully navigating a brilliant landing:
seconds before bursting into flames the boy sent out a cry
that his father, hanging farther down in perfect balance            
could not make out:
thismustbehowyoufeelwheninventing!
He cried out, joyful,
And fell.

ICARUS

At first Icarus simply wanted to get out. He didn’t want
to fly. But the sea was everywhere
and there was no door.
His brilliant father, who raised him to amaze
as he had, was shut into his work cave
deep among the boulders.
Nothing new about that. Daddy Daedalus
was always working, always shut in,
emerging after weeks,
his pupils dotted with pre-Edisonian electricity,
holding in a hand outstretched
like a branch of the tree of knowledge
something wonderful, completely new,
looking for his son to no avail
then finding him in a place he did not like:
among ordinary cliffs, with ordinary boys,
playing ancient backgammon: shells
versus conches.
 
Daedalus worried about his son,
who was no genius, not even determined:
a boy weak of character, the addictive type,
quite smart, mainly graceful.
So when he emerged now, calling
Icarus, Icarus, where are you,     
and gestured to his son to try on the wings,                
the boy came quietly.      
It wasn’t the first time his father tried
to give him wings. He had high hopes
for his son’s future.
 
But this time it was the real thing:
chassis, feathers, lining,
trembling machinery for flight.
                                                They
walked towards each other. Father            
harnessed him. Together they synchronized
their sand clocks with care.
Father’s hands touched him
there and there and there. Instructions floated
up above their heads
while his heart sank: another leap
he won’t be able to complete. Another dose of failure
released like medicine from a capsule
from his father’s loins.
 
But then, in harness, when he spread his wings,
rose in the air and found himself
                                                 flying –
everything was blue. He too.
 
Daedalus sees his son, eyes enormous,
spreading his wings, rising and whirling:
Father, I am shining!
cries the mad boy – 
 
What happens next is history, or myth at least:
the plummeting body, the screaming father.
This is what Daedalus did not understand,       
carefully navigating a brilliant landing:
seconds before bursting into flames the boy sent out a cry
that his father, hanging farther down in perfect balance            
could not make out:
thismustbehowyoufeelwheninventing!
He cried out, joyful,
And fell.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère