Three Poems
2015; University of Oklahoma; Volume: 89; Issue: 3 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/wlt.2015.0178
ISSN1945-8134
Autores Tópico(s)Irish and British Studies
Resumo88 wlt may / august 2015 Isabella Sleeps with the Dogs Isabella asked where are the dogs she slept with dogs dreamt dogs in a raging storm, there were no dogs in our house or in any other but Isabella kept looking for the dogs. And no, this wasn’t our house but a room where house is possible where love is possible, but every time it rained we walked around the room and threw stones. Isabella sleeps with the dogs sowing a bone for roaming we walked just like her from house to house and when it rained we only found branches. Black dogs take their rest with Isabella, coiled on her woolen breasts, her nipped flesh, they know everything. I sat in the street and saw the two of us or maybe I only saw the escape I knocked with the branches knocked hard at each door, there was no house the storms came and went and blue sliced the sky. The Mountains of Spain I am writing what is impossible because there are people who talk about money during sex transferring through carnal channels money I’ll never receive and I hear someone say, we sold for millions I am listening to those blue metallic eyes Back at home, I’m thinking that nice frames cost 1,000 shekels and I’m thinking that on Wednesday at the employment office I’ll place my finger on a square and a red beam will scan its ridges and a machine will print out the words: move along there’s no work. And I’ll be happy. It can’t be that next to money my head is as pretty as a Russian princess who’s lost everything suddenly, in the dark, in one fell swoop and now drinks tea from a thermos and eats dried fruit and lies on her back half the day in her old ragged bathrobe reading English novels about English ladies with destiny in their favor. It can’t be true that I’ve only just discovered this innate, chronic refusal to think about money, to charge, to want to work for it. It’s a curse I inherited from my mother along with my penchant for aesthetic pleasures and that unholy union of wealth and beauty not to mention a fancy for coffee served in a coffee shop, and pastries and lace dresses. All of this is so impossible that it holds back thoughts of love and lust and my will to breathe the air after rain so much that I’ll lose myself in a book called Cocaine Nights and get mad when I read about people with money, so much money that they retire to the mountains of Spain and sunbathe in fancy villas at the age of thirty-eight. cover feature new hebrew writing Three Poems by Tahel Frosh worldliteraturetoday.org 89 How is it possible that instead of lounging in these Spanish mountains I am thinking about money in a studio in Tel Aviv and it’s raining and so what I won’t go looking for puddles and make fun of tourists on lousy vacations. No, it’s impossible to listen to that man talking about his millions and not want to die to really die on the cover of my English novel between chewed organic plums and a thermos of tea sitting half empty. photo : alon porat Accountant Dad, I think your job killed you, when I was little you’d leave the house every morning at an ungodly hour and I would lie in bed with my heart pounding wanting to kill everyone even myself because you had to get up so early and drive and drive, your eyes really hurt, you’d put on special glasses, the sun blinded you and at night you couldn’t see anything, and still you would drive like a faithful dog to that place, you were always loyal to your job, wherever it was: once it was Hassneh,1 where you managed an investment company that privatized and collapsed and your heart broke, after that you tried to be a free agent and you went to work at some Polish...
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