Dorit Weisman Poems

POEMS

Dorit Weisman

My mother, fifty six years later, in the boulevard of

Erezbet-Park, Gödöllö, Hungary

And leaves falling falling down around her

The years fall off her,

as in another poem, tougher,

and there, at the tree-lined boulevard, she'walked lightly, leaning

on her stick. Mummy, I said to her, I want you

running like a girl, running in the boulevard,

I want to photograph you running in the boulevard,

but she didn’t run, my mother, I photographed her weeping

and the leaves fall around her. Nothing has changed in

56 years, she said. Sat on a bench on top of a rocky mound,

as she did many years ago, forgot the inflammation of the gums

and the pains in the knees. With soft, quiet face, listened to the leaves.

                                           *

So familiar

yet strange.

the big toe in your slipper

the hair on your thigh smelling of soap

the rustle of a newspaper

and cleanliness.

so clean

and soft

*

At night I dreamt I slept with my husband

in the afternoon.

funny, he said when I told him,

why me.

A NIGHT TRAIN TO ASSUAN

Naked and wakeful

to my bed

you came

outside an east wind blows

and I

as if in a hammock

wrapped in sleep

welcome you

to me

with the desert`s rhythm.

STOP BREATHING

I have

thoughts

I won`t say

aloud

not even

to you.

SLIGHT INFATUATIONS

A Canadian woman in her forties

served tea and cookies

at her house in a Toronto suburb

the record-player played from “Jesus Christ Superstar”

a tune she loved.

I saw her for no more than an hour in my life

I never spoke of her before

and I never spoke of her afterwards.

AN EVENING ON A PEDESTRIAN STREET. MY FORTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY.

OR: A POEM ON LIFE`S FRAGILITY.

Three boys were hopping on tiny unicycles,

a circle of people formed around them.

I watched the people watching the boys` acrobatics

I watched you watching the people and the acrobatic boys.

your face shone, a smile on it,

the smile that wasn`t there at the Thai resturant where we sat earlier

with candles and an Arab waiter and an Israeli owner

who`s never been to Thailand,

only the cook was from Thailand -

we asked him about the best time for travel in his country

he replied in quick English, we didn`t understand much.

afterwards we walked ambracing each other,

the warmth of your body through the shirt,

the air had the fragrance

of a shirt-sleeve evening

between us were smells and touches from long ago.

the heat broke by then.

one minute there were boys doing unicycle tricks in the square,

the next they were gone, people crossing the square.

one minute the boys were here, and the next - they were gone.

I DREAM OF YOU GALIA AFTER TWENTY FIVE YEARS

I dream of you, Galia

after twenty five years

your Madonna face, your marble breasts

a man’s dream

you set me in motion now in erotic dreams

touching me, bringing me to the verge

abandoning me

to come with a stranger on the stairs outside.

THE MAN I LOVED

The man I once loved

is all bald by now

no doubt

growing a belly

the scar on his belly, under his belly-button, is even uglier.

I can’t quite make my mind up

Whether or not I would like to meet

him, by chance.

A SMALL POEM ON SMALL BREASTS

It suits me, being a poet.

if big breasts are prose

and small ones are poetry

then my tits are just the right size,

all the more so since you love them all, just as they are

especially stretched with my arms overhead.

More of my cousin Reuven or: at the Yacht Club, Eilat

I was drinking beer and listening to them talk about him

Someone that worked with him who was a friend of his at work

Someone who knew there was someone like that

Someone who still remembers

I even confess to strangers that I was his cousin,

Because I want to hear more talk about him

Even if it is a story about how

He thought gravitation does not work

And, to demonstrate that, he dropped a TV set off two stories high

Or how he wanted to fly

I’ve also heard of my cousin Reuven

That he was schizophrenic

That nowadays they would have done better with the medications

I’m drinking a pint of beer, a big mug

The beer in my throat is on its way down

Collecting the tears

And to the left are the water the boats the moon and the clear skies

And to the right is the pub with music that penetrates all through my body

And chicks in mini skirts are passing by

Reuven told him, he said, him and Esther who’s just retired

You are my friends, I trust only you

I don’t trust the doctors, tell me if something is wrong with me.

And when he spoke of how he had dropped the TV down

Someone said it was a good thing he didn’t jump himself

To check about gravitation

And the story-teller said, he did jump eventually

But there’s no telling if it was on purpose

Maybe it was another try in flying

And on the day he jumped he told the doctors tie me down

Something is wrong with me, I’m scared

And they said if you say that then everything is fine

And let him go on leave

Afterwards we sneak away from all the others

Sit on armchairs at the hotel poolside

In the pleasant night of Eilat

A full moon, palm trees, some mosquitoes

The sweet nights of Grofit

The white night of Grofit

And talk until four in the morning

Me about Reuven

And him about his brother who was killed in a terror attack on bus 18 in         Jerusalem, a year ago.

60 cats

My aunt Tara already has 60 cats

That was revelead on our last phone call.

When I stayed with them she was feeding

A one eyed, resentful and hostile cat

For another cat she tried her best to get rare

Medications from a doctor friend, in a nearby hospital

And some of her cats were so weak,

That she had to feed them intravenously.

She lived with Lali in a big house

Near a forest, in a suburb of Boston.

60 cats, that’s a lot of milk bowls

Scattered all over the place, not to mention the smell.

The sick ones she kept in the basement.

They had colored tags on their ears

Yellow meant they could roam around the house,

Red meant they could also go outside.

My uncle, Lali, bought an improved computer and a laser printer

And converted his shares into beautiful graphs.

I wanted to write that during breakfast

They were not talking, but that’s not true,

They usually don’t have them together,

Breakfast, lunch or dinner

Twenty seven years ago,

They were my model couple

They were the first married couple

I’ve ever heard say sexy things to one another.

A shirt in blue and green

He actually has a wonderful family, so they say

Four kids, really

A wonderful family.

That’s because he hadn’t married

Me, I tell him.

And do I still see horses,

Pastures, smell of damp, wet chest hair,

A blue shirt with green stripes, lengthwise,

It was such a novelty then, I wore it

Until it was all worn out. I’ve kept

The strong smells. The underarm was already

Torn up, below on the right hand side a hole appeared.

I was mistaken to throw it out.

I do not wish

I do not wish to be

A poet of breasts.

I want healthy breasts, hidden ones

Matter of fact ones that no one ever writes about,

Definitely not me. Hands shiver.

Einstein sings of leaves in the wind.

My mother asks, how do you do that,

Dance as well.

Yellow liquid left its marks on me

One nurse said, it’ll come off in the laundry,

Another nurse stood behind me, to my left, watching,

She would have liked to lay her hand on my head.

The floodlights were turned off, someone darkened

The room.

Good morning my left breast

Good morning to the growth in my left tit.

The growth in my left breast will wilt.

What else would rhyme? Shrink

May it all shrink, may it wilt.

Maybe if I say it

Often enough it’ll disappear, wilt,

Go arid, dry out, shrink down, degenerate,

The doctors won’t find it, not even

On x-ray. It won’t be found in ultrasound,

Not in a mammo. They will search for it in old

x-rays. And it will only be present in old

Copies. And will turn yellow like years-old pictures.