Sketchbook
Helen Bar-Lev, IL
|
|
Two Zinnias
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
|
The Poetry
Workshop
In the hotel
overlooking the Sea
we observe unenthusiastic waves
lap onto the beach
from a room
where the plaster is peeling
from walls and ceiling,
where the print above the bed
has detached from its matt
and slants faded
in its plain white frame,
where the door doesn’t have
a proper lock
but creaks and squeaks
most inconsiderately,
where the mattress
is soft and lumpy
I cannot sleep
so I think about the dining hall,
a bit too small,
where “pardon me”
is the most frequent phrase
because there’s no space
between tables,
no way to move with ease;
the expected waiter
never appears—
it’s buffet all the way
even though it’s Saturday
The soup is powder from a packet
with not a single veggie in it,
the rice unfortunately is too oily,
the chicken over-boiled,
the fish is too spicy,
the couscous over-cooked,
the cake is overbaked,
the salads so-so,
only the oranges are acceptable;
there is no coffee,
neither is there tea
only tepid water in a pitcher—
from the faucet, of course
And the Sea laughs appreciatively
at the poets who are taking all this
so seriously
|
Joinville-le-Pont
I was there once
where this fisherman sits
baiting his hook
beneath bare winter trees
reflecting in the river,
his cat caught in mid-meow
by the camera
I was there once in summer
and sketched this river,
sketched the bridge
just beyond the bend,
sketched the bougainvillea,
deep pink, on that bush there,
on the opposite bank
It was there where I asked directions
of an old woman,
scarf smartly set around her neck,
her smile returning mine,
and there by the river
she stiffened when I said Israel,
her face collapsing into a frown,
as she huffed off with an energy
only prejudice produces
I was taken aback, I do admit,
but not surprised
because I’d been studying her,
knowing it was coming—
the train station at Joinville-le-Pont
was painted with swastikas
These are the French—
what do you expect?
|
|
