Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Batsheva Dori-Carlier

IRELAND, SUMMER 1994

Through the window of the Aer Lingus plane,
a green fan of fields embroidered with brown furrows.
“The weather is fine in Dublin, no sign of clouds”.
(Did the pilot sound surprised.)
In the arrivals hall of Shannon airport
you wrapped me in your gray raincoat:
“How was the flight?”

You opened the door to the apartment on Drumcondra Street
with a royal sweep of your arm.
We shared yellow butter and whole grain bread,
Leonard Cohen songs and insights we’d gathered
(sanctimonious, unquestioning).
I looked through the kitchen window, charmed
by the red brick wall in the back yard,
half-covered by greenery, an unkempt beard.

In the evening in the pub on Grafton Street,
joy flowed thickly, simply, like foam.
Our coats clung to each other on the polished wooden hanger,
soaking up poetry, pipe smoke and melting steam.
We drank from mugs of thin glass decorated with golden harps:
a pint of black Guinness poured into the evening’s talk.              
Your bachelor bed gazed in envy as we slept entwined.

“There are some dead certainties and some lively doubts”      
claimed the sign on the church wall.
I copied snide quotes on a postcard to my sister.
In the afternoon we rested on the banks of the Liffey,
fumes from the brewery wafted through the air
like drunken sheep.
Tomorrow we’ll set out for our trip to the Dingle Peninsula,
three days at an inn.

We stood at the edge of an overhang:
clear salt water swirled over purple sea weed
and foamed, rough as a fist, on Ireland’s coarse skin.
We were silent, careful not to be swept away
into the constant quarrel between land and water.

Your old car led us faithfully,
navigating roads covered with the leaves of trees and shrubs.
I was twenty-four and complicated,
Yeats and Maud Gonne on the horizon
through the windshield.

אירלנד, קיץ 1994

אירלנד, קיץ 1994

מִבַּעַד  לְחַלּוֹן הַמָּטוֹס שֶׁל "אֵייְר לִינְגוּס"
נִפְרְשָׂה  מְנִיפָת שָׂדוֹת יְרֻקָּה, רְקוּמָה תְּלָמִים חוּמִים.
"מֶזֶג הָאֲוִיר בְּדָּבְּלִין נִפְלָא וְאֵין סִימָן לְעֲנָנִים"
(הַאִם הָיְתָה פְּלִיאָה בְּקוֹלוֹ שֶׁל הַקַּבַּרְנִיט).
בִּשְׂדֵה הַתְּעוּפָה שֶׁנוֹן, בְּאוּלָם מְקַבְּלֵי הַפָּנִים,
עָטַפְתָּ אוֹתִי בִּמְעִיל הַגֶּשֶׁם הָאָפֹר שֶׁלָּבַשְׁתָּ:
"אֵיךְ עָבְרָה הַטִּיסָה?"

פָּתַחְתָּ אֶת דֶּלֶת הַדִּירָה בִּרְחוֹב דְּרָמְקוֹנְדְרָה
 בְּמֶחֱוָות זְרוֹעַ מַלְכוּתִית.
חָלַקְנוּ חֶמְאָה צְהֻבָּה וְלֶחֶם דְּגָנִים,
שִׁירִים שֶׁל לֵאוֹנָרְד כֹּהֵן וְתוֹבָנוֹת שֶׁאָסַפְנוּ
(צוֹדְקוֹת מִדַּי, חֲסְרוֹת סִימָנֵי שְׁאֵלָה).  
הִתְבּוֹנַנְתִּי מִבַּעַד לְחַלּוֹן הַמִּטְבָּח, מֻקְסֶמֶת
מִגֶּדֶר לְבֵנִים אֲדֻמָּה בַּחֲצֵר הָאֲחוֹרִית,
שְׁעֵשֶׂב כִּסָּה אֶת מַחֲצִיתָהּ בְּזָקָן יָרֹק, פָּרוּעַ.

בָּעֶרֶב, בָּפָּאבּ בִּרְחוֹב גְּרָאפְטּוֹן,
גָּלְשָׁה הַשִּׂמְחָה כְּקֶצֶף, סְמִיכָה, פְּשׁוּטָה.
מְעִילֵינוּ נִצְמְדוּ זֶה לְזֶה עַל מִתְלֶה עֵץ מְמֹרָק,
סְפוּגֵּי שִׁירָה, עָשָׁן מִקְטָּרוֹת וְאֵדֵי קֹר שֶׁנָּמַס.
שָׁתִינוּ מִכּוֹסוֹת זְכוּכִית דַּקּוֹת, מְעֻטָּרוֹת בְּנֵבֶל מֻזְהָב:
פַּייְנְט "גִּינֶס" שָׁחֹר נִמְסָךְ אֶל תּוֹךְ הַשִּׂיחָה הַלֵּיְלִית.
מִטַּת הָרַוָּקִים שֶׁלְּךָ הֵצִיצָה בָּנוּ בְּקִנְאָה כְּשֶׁיָּשַׁנּוּ חָבוּקִים.

"יֶשְׁנָן כַּמָּה וָדָאוּיּוֹת מֵתוֹת וְכַמָּה סְפֵקוֹת חַיִּים"
טָעַן שֶׁלֶט עַל קִיר כְּנֵסִיָּה בִּרְחוֹב סוֹאֵן.
כָּתַבְתִּי צִטּוּטִים צוֹלְפִים עַל גַּבֵּי גְּלוּיָה לַאֲחוֹתִי.
אַחַר הַצָּהֳרַיִם נַחְנוּ עַל גְּדַת הַלִּיפִי,
אֵדֵי בִּירָה שֶׁנָּשְׁבוּ מְמִּבְשֱׁלֶת שֵׁכָר
שִׁייְטּוּ בַּאֲוִיר כְּעֵדֶר כְּבָשִׂים שִׁכּוֹרִים.
מָחָר נַתְחִיל אֶת הַמַּסָּע לְחָצִי הָאִי דִּינְגֶל,
בֵּד אֶנְד בְּרֶקְפֶסְט בִּשְׁלֹשֶׁת הַיָּמִים הַבָּאִים.

עָמַדְנוּ עַל קְצֶה הַמַּדָּף הַסָלְעִי, הַמְּשֻׁנָּן שֶׁל הָאִי:
מֵי מֶלַח שְׁקוּפִים הִסְתַּחְרְרוּ מֵעַל אַצּוֹת סְגֻלוֹת
וְקָצְפוּ, מְחֻסְפָּסִים כְּאֶגְרוֹף, עַל עוֹרָה הַקָּשֶׁה שֶׁל אִירְלָנְד.
שָׁתַקְנוּ, נִזְהָרִים שֶׁלֹּא לְהִסָּחֵף לַוִּכּוּחַ
הַמַּתְמִיד  בֵּין הַמַּיִם לַאֲדָמָה.

הַמְּכוֹנִית הַיְּשָׁנָה שֶׁלְּךָ הוֹבִילָה אוֹתָנוּ בְּנֶאֱמָנוּת,
מְנָוֶוטֶּת דֶּרֶךְ כְּבִישִׁים מְחוּפֵּי עַלְוָות עֵצִים וְשִׂיחִים.
הָיִיתִי בַּת עֶשְׂרִים וְאַרְבַּע, סְבוּכָה,
יֵיְטְס וְגּוֹן מוֹד נִרְאוּ בָּאֹפֶק
מִבַּעַד לַשִּׁמְשָׁה הַקִּדְמִית.
 
Close

IRELAND, SUMMER 1994

Through the window of the Aer Lingus plane,
a green fan of fields embroidered with brown furrows.
“The weather is fine in Dublin, no sign of clouds”.
(Did the pilot sound surprised.)
In the arrivals hall of Shannon airport
you wrapped me in your gray raincoat:
“How was the flight?”

You opened the door to the apartment on Drumcondra Street
with a royal sweep of your arm.
We shared yellow butter and whole grain bread,
Leonard Cohen songs and insights we’d gathered
(sanctimonious, unquestioning).
I looked through the kitchen window, charmed
by the red brick wall in the back yard,
half-covered by greenery, an unkempt beard.

In the evening in the pub on Grafton Street,
joy flowed thickly, simply, like foam.
Our coats clung to each other on the polished wooden hanger,
soaking up poetry, pipe smoke and melting steam.
We drank from mugs of thin glass decorated with golden harps:
a pint of black Guinness poured into the evening’s talk.              
Your bachelor bed gazed in envy as we slept entwined.

“There are some dead certainties and some lively doubts”      
claimed the sign on the church wall.
I copied snide quotes on a postcard to my sister.
In the afternoon we rested on the banks of the Liffey,
fumes from the brewery wafted through the air
like drunken sheep.
Tomorrow we’ll set out for our trip to the Dingle Peninsula,
three days at an inn.

We stood at the edge of an overhang:
clear salt water swirled over purple sea weed
and foamed, rough as a fist, on Ireland’s coarse skin.
We were silent, careful not to be swept away
into the constant quarrel between land and water.

Your old car led us faithfully,
navigating roads covered with the leaves of trees and shrubs.
I was twenty-four and complicated,
Yeats and Maud Gonne on the horizon
through the windshield.

IRELAND, SUMMER 1994

Through the window of the Aer Lingus plane,
a green fan of fields embroidered with brown furrows.
“The weather is fine in Dublin, no sign of clouds”.
(Did the pilot sound surprised.)
In the arrivals hall of Shannon airport
you wrapped me in your gray raincoat:
“How was the flight?”

You opened the door to the apartment on Drumcondra Street
with a royal sweep of your arm.
We shared yellow butter and whole grain bread,
Leonard Cohen songs and insights we’d gathered
(sanctimonious, unquestioning).
I looked through the kitchen window, charmed
by the red brick wall in the back yard,
half-covered by greenery, an unkempt beard.

In the evening in the pub on Grafton Street,
joy flowed thickly, simply, like foam.
Our coats clung to each other on the polished wooden hanger,
soaking up poetry, pipe smoke and melting steam.
We drank from mugs of thin glass decorated with golden harps:
a pint of black Guinness poured into the evening’s talk.              
Your bachelor bed gazed in envy as we slept entwined.

“There are some dead certainties and some lively doubts”      
claimed the sign on the church wall.
I copied snide quotes on a postcard to my sister.
In the afternoon we rested on the banks of the Liffey,
fumes from the brewery wafted through the air
like drunken sheep.
Tomorrow we’ll set out for our trip to the Dingle Peninsula,
three days at an inn.

We stood at the edge of an overhang:
clear salt water swirled over purple sea weed
and foamed, rough as a fist, on Ireland’s coarse skin.
We were silent, careful not to be swept away
into the constant quarrel between land and water.

Your old car led us faithfully,
navigating roads covered with the leaves of trees and shrubs.
I was twenty-four and complicated,
Yeats and Maud Gonne on the horizon
through the windshield.
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