The Poetry Kit MAGAZINE
By Tammara Or Slilat
I can't even begin to describe how important the PK List has been for me. I've received invaluable feedback which has helped me to improve my poems and hone my skill. I've created friendly relationship with interesting and talented people, and have felt deep sorrow when we lost some of them.
I've included the first version of one of the first poems that I've submitted to the list. I got a lot of enlightening responses which helped me to improve it. As proof I also include the final version. It has become one of my favorite poems and I'm particularly proud of it. In addition I've included a poem I've written recently.
Many happy returns to the List and may it continue to flourish for many years to come.
Quo Domini, where to?
Where vadis you going
to Wadi Samak or Wadi El-Al?
Life is a parable Domini,
while you were toying with
walking on water
we were spitting blood.
Vintage of '67, vintage of '73
blood has turned into Golan wine
and now, intoxicated with
the lava soil, we cling
to the altar's horns,
the altar of our blindness,
hoping, so very much hoping
that it should bring forth grapes...
But when we roll the crimson Merlot
in our mouth it turns sour on us.
There, in the place where a host legion
of demons' plagued swine ran violently
into the sea, O see my sea of Galilee,
I had a dream.
Were you with me in Kursi?
The basilica cross plunged into
my bosom, the earth trembling
with the stampede of panic stricken
hooves, and all is covered by deep
serenity, broken down only by the chattering
of German tourists.
A flock of nuns is scattered
around, much like the cormorants
being chased from the tops of
Eucalyptus trees, down by the fish ponds.
The Golan Heights
Quo Vadis, domini?
Where do you think you're going, Mister?
Yea, He used to play water walking here,
and sometimes wine conversions for the guys,
But we, Sir, we spat blood.
Vintage of 67, vintage of 73,
we've converted blood to Golan wine
and drunk with the lava soil hoped
to make grapes…
A pack of nuns scatter about,
like the cormorants that rise up screeching
from the Eucalyptus trees, their leaves
bleached by the birds' droppings.
There, where a herd of demon-chased swine
plunged into the waters of the Kinneret,
my Kinneret, the ground is still shaking
with the sound of panic-stricken hooves.
Kursi is covered by a blanket of tranquillity,
its hem embroidered in German-English chatter.
A recent poem:
Still Life with Pomegranates
Be still, watch:
Crimson and cadmium red
pomegranates set against
cascading ivory cloth, an old bottle
of wine in phtalocynine emerald green
and a leafy bough to bring the diagonal
uplifting energy to the composition.
We're so used to seeing that we've stopped
looking. This is what I want you to do:
forget everything you know, everything
you believe to be
true. Knowing depends
on the point of Perception: change that
and you've changed the world.
When you put your brush to the canvas
focus not on what is
there, but rather on what is not.
Objects are defined by the empty space
around them, just as people
are remembered not only
by their deeds, but also by what
they neglected, or forgot