The Poetry Kit MAGAZINE |
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Two Poems |
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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 Vadis
A.
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.
B.
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.
Final version:
The Golan Heights
A. 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… B. 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
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