There is so much going on with writing here.  Here are translations of two recent poems by Rony Sommek and Rafi Weichert respectively.  Copyrighted.

Rony Sommek

18 Lines in Honor of the Raised Hands of the Milker From Nitzanim

It’s no trick to hear only the call of the crow

on top of the lion’s head in Tel Hai,

or to picture the robin pecking

the parachute cords of Hana Senesh.

The trick is also to salute the raised hands

of the Milker from the battle of Nitzanim,

the hands that knew how to squeeze the cows’ teats

for the cups of coffee in the dining hall

from whose windows were squeezed

the trigger of a rifle more than once.

In the end he surrendered,

because after the clip was emptied of ammunition

it was preferable there, in the dust of the desert,

to fling up his hands

To the clouds of his God.

Heroism is sometimes to want not

to become another row in the 1948 guide

that indexes dead birds.      

Translated by karen alkalay-gut

Rafi Weichert

A Lament for a broken peeler

Without you how will I breach the body of a carrot

How can I cut a peeled apple for a muesli

For without the blade you’re like a poet without laurels

Unable to injure but only to softly tremble

In front of a potato or the skin of a zucchini

In the face of smirking cucumbers

facing your body that is like a imprisoned eunuch

within the impotence already empty of action

Tomorrow you will find rest in the garbage bin

With the rest of the vegetables peeled by a blade

Of the knife that played them like a harp

When it stripped them of all their arrogance.

translated by karen alkalay-gut