Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Miri Ben Simhon

THE SECOND SEX

I order an imaginary director
to color the roots of my hair
perversely.
I hide my face behind a scarf.
I’m mystery and spirit
and will be nothing at all.
But I’m filled with love
and ready to enjoy hatred.
Analysis is murderous and batters
repressed desires.
The second sex is the other sex,
something in its movements
lacks precision,
fills you with unease  
that the mind refuses
to bear, shuddering.
I could have loved him deeply
with a primal, pouncing eagerness to hate.

המין השני

המין השני

אֲנִי נוֹתֶנֶת הוֹרָאוֹת לְבַמַּאי דִּמְיוֹנִי
שֶׁיַּבִּיעַ דַּקֻיּוֹת נִפְתָּלוֹת
עַד לְשָׁרְשֵׁי הַשְׁעָרוֹת
מִטְפַּחַת מַסְתִּירַה אֶת פָּנַי כִּרְעָלָה
אֲנִי מִסְתּוֹרִין וְרוּחַ
אֶהְיֶה אַיִן.
אֲבָל יֵשׁ בִּי אַהֲבָה עִם מוּכָנוּת לְשִׂנְאָה מְזַנֶּקֶת
מְעַנֶּגֶת.
יֵשׁ מַשֶּׁהוּ בָּזֶה שֶׁמְּפָרֵק לְגוֹרְמִים רְצוֹנוֹת מֻדְחָקִים
בַּאֲנָלִיזוּת רַצְחָנִיּוֹת.
הַמִּין הַשֵּׁנִי הוּא הַמִּין הָאַחֵר
מַשֶּׁהוּ בִּתְנוּעוֹת הַגּוּף שֶׁלוֹ
בְּלִי הַנְחָיוֹת מְדֻקְדָּקוֹת, מְמַלֵּא מוּעָקָה
הַדַּעַת אֵינָהּ סוֹבֶלֶת
מְסָרֶבֶת, מִצְטַמְרֶרֶת.
יָכֹלְתִּי לֶאֱהֹב אוֹתוֹ מְאֹד
עִם מוּכָנוּת לְשִׂנְאָה קַמָּאִית מִזְדַּנֶּקֶת.
Close

THE SECOND SEX

I order an imaginary director
to color the roots of my hair
perversely.
I hide my face behind a scarf.
I’m mystery and spirit
and will be nothing at all.
But I’m filled with love
and ready to enjoy hatred.
Analysis is murderous and batters
repressed desires.
The second sex is the other sex,
something in its movements
lacks precision,
fills you with unease  
that the mind refuses
to bear, shuddering.
I could have loved him deeply
with a primal, pouncing eagerness to hate.

THE SECOND SEX

I order an imaginary director
to color the roots of my hair
perversely.
I hide my face behind a scarf.
I’m mystery and spirit
and will be nothing at all.
But I’m filled with love
and ready to enjoy hatred.
Analysis is murderous and batters
repressed desires.
The second sex is the other sex,
something in its movements
lacks precision,
fills you with unease  
that the mind refuses
to bear, shuddering.
I could have loved him deeply
with a primal, pouncing eagerness to hate.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère