חתול

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Herbert

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The Prism that I Am

Words crawl out of rusty pipes, like pain
Trickle down spit hiss on sandpaper lips
The pan-hatted man once said: lampposts shear shadows
And since, I keep a missing key in my male-pocket
To light my way

What needle-eye wakes the image-flesh divide?
The prism that I am, shines

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End of the Work Day (Hebrew)

בשעה מאוחרת זו, אני כותב לך מייל כמו בלחישה
שעון חצות, פנימי, חיצוני, אני מתאמץ לפקוח עיני

אתה בוודאי מכיר זאת, מאז לקחת את אותה מטלה מנהלית על כתפיך
יש בעבודות אלו מעין דחיפה, עקשנות, מתחילה בבטן, תקוות סיום, שלמות, ישור כל קצה חוט, סידור שולחן
אך בסוף כל יום הסערה שבראש עוד רועמת
החושים מעורבלים, רואים זכרונות לא עוד עולם
והתודעה שקטה וקטנה מביטה:
רק הצללים שינו צורה, חלון נטרק ברוח

כותב על היד, בפנקס, במחשב, בפלאפון
רשימות, פתקים, סעיפים, הערות, סימני קריאה שאלה ופיסוק
מסדר מקטלג ממספר מחלק מאחד, אלפביתית כרונולוגית לפי חשיבות
שירה מודרנית, סוף סוף!

ואכן, בינות למילים
יש אמת אבודה בעולם העבודה, עובדה נשכחת
אגדה לילדים הרוצים להיות
כי האמת היא
שמשלמים לנו לפי שעה

ועל כן, מדוע לסיים?
מעמידים פנים שאנו עובדים עבור עצמנו
וזה המסיים הוא גם זה המתחיל,
זה הקושר הוא זה הפורם
לא תדע ימינך את שעושה שמאלך

סיימתי לדחוף להיום
סיימתי לרצות
אני לא רוצה כבר דבר,
מלבד,
חלומותי בהם אין סעיפים
את מה שהתחלתי אחר יסיים
האני האחר, זה של הנס של היום החדש והמרץ השב

ואני מאחל לך, ידידי
שמחר תהיה ללא צעדים, זמנך ללא ספירה
שהרעבתנות תחלוף ותותיר
אדם
המקווה
ותו לא

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Three Students, Three Teachers

Sattvic Student (Gunpowder)

A touch, compassion taught
A gesture, understanding follows
A word, and wisdom blooms on the rolling hills;
By slight of hand this mind unfurls,
A bud perfect, hidden,
Shy virgin awaiting the sun
One dew-drop needs to ripen

Sattvic Student (Dry wood)

In the forest walks
Footsteps measured, stance aligned
Eyes keen discerning the path;
A bird cries, a river calls “temptation!”
He does not stray, remains in center
Above
A cloud paces the sky

Rajasic Student (Wet wood)

The fool hangs on high branches
And screams at those who approach
He throws acorns, curls his tail, swings in frenzy
He scowls at his peers –
A hundred others in shared madness
Fill the air with loud chatter-nothings;
Oh, what fuss over one tree possesed
When all the forest beauty be

Tamasic Student (Green wood)

I once met a man
Who spoke with his tongue
Who shook his whole body
But never did move
If tears in him were, then I saw none
If living voice, I heard silence
A crystal opaque
A fire masked
An angel, fallen
Sour milk;
Not a mirror
Not a lake
Lost birds pretend flight

Sattvic Teacher (Prophet)

No-man says No-thing to No-one
The pheonix rises

Sattvic Teacher (Sage)

I follow his image
His form ahead
That stern resemblence of artfullness
Which transforms but never breaks the outline;
He knows… something
Which I do not
Yet he knows that he does not

Rajasic Teacher (Illusionist)

The magician conjures a diamond –
But what use are diamonds?
He talks, dances, hypnotizes,
The show is grand
Yet the rewards do not even last the trip home;
Curtain call
Behind the stage
In darkness he smokes a bud

Tamasic Teacher (Necromancer)

Sickly figure hunches over the altar,
Coughs;
Lungs rattle
As shaking hands perform the bloody ritual;
He shivers, muses:
This body I have stretched in time
Too far, too long
I am as tired as a mountain
Let me sleep
I will begin again;
Yet his spark stirs, says:
Kill again and live again!

Every day we have a lecture at midday, usually about karma, yoga, meditation, or any such general spiritual topic of the yogic tradition. By the next day, we have to hand in a one-page summary of the lecture, so that the instructors know we got the general gyst of it. Yesterday we had a lecture about three types of students, and three types of teachers, as they relate to the Gunas division of tamasic, rajasic and sattvic. There is also a subdivision of two types of sattva, as you will see. The papers I handed in until now were boring

Sattvic Student (Gunpowder)

A touch, compassion taught
A gesture, understanding follows
A word, and wisdom blooms on the rolling hills;
By slight of hand this mind unfurls,
A bud perfect, hidden,
Shy virgin awaiting the sun
One dew-drop needs to ripen

Sattvic Student (Dry wood)

In the forest walks
Footsteps measured, stance aligned
Eyes keen discerning the path;
A bird cries, a river calls “temptation!”
He does not stray, remains in center
Above
A cloud paces the sky

Rajasic Student (Wet wood)

The fool hangs on high branches
And screams at those who approach
He throws acorns, curls his tail, swings in frenzy
He scowls at his peers –
A hundred others in shared madness
Fill the air with loud chatter-nothings;
Oh, what fuss over one tree possesed
When all the forest beauty be

Tamasic Student (Green wood)

I once met a man
Who spoke with his tongue
Who shook his whole body
But never did move
If tears in him were, then I saw none
If living voice, I heard silence
A crystal opaque
A fire masked
An angel, fallen
Sour milk;
Not a mirror
Not a lake
Lost birds pretend flight

Sattvic Teacher (Prophet)

No-man says No-thing to No-one
The pheonix rises

Sattvic Teacher (Sage)

I follow his image
His form ahead
That stern resemblence of artfullness
Which transforms but never breaks the outline;
He knows… something
Which I do not
Yet he knows that he does not

Rajasic Teacher (Illusionist)

The magician conjures a diamond –
But what use are diamonds?
He talks, dances, hypnotizes,
The show is grand
Yet the rewards do not even last the trip home;
Curtain call
Behind the stage
In darkness he smokes a bud

Tamasic Teacher (Necromancer)

Sickly figure hunches over the altar,
Coughs;
Lungs rattle
As shaking hands perform the bloody ritual;
He shivers, muses:
This body I have stretched in time
Too far, too long
I am as tired as a mountain
Let me sleep
I will begin again;
Yet his spark stirs, says:
Kill again and live again!

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Brittany

Foreign gate
White-washed walls
Red metal door with visible hinges,
A gap left to frame wind
Marble stretches in

Hall
Open blue clouds above
Empty squares below;
Echoes symmetric
Granite pillars silent
And cyan-black floors
Smooth, continuous
Carry boxed stalls
Frame minute furniture;
Atop a platform
In center
A low white table
A vase

Flowers
In color
Bloom

Pool
Exposed deep-set rectangle
Flows into darkness under floors;
Gray spiny fish
Swarm small in schools:
One golden king,
One triangle jester
Two great black guards circle

Girl
Young, thin, alive and alert
At the edge, her foot in the water
Knee bent against moving chest
Looking down
Neck curved
True light spreads on freed autumn hair

Motion
Fish gather and follow
Peak heads, part the surface
Speak tiny bubbles, pray and sink back
Kiss cool toes a thousand light kisses
Tickled she laughs:

This day is better
She says
This hour free;
This minute sacred
This moment is me

A butterfly
Enters the hall
White and detailed, almost perfect
Helplessly flutters and lands on still waters
Moves not, stays, given up;
Gentle hands aid
Once more circles up
Into broken flight
But again lands in center
Where none can help
Stirs, flounders, rises and falls below floors
Into the dark
Gone drowned in silence

You awaken me
World where
Eyes meet eyes on occasion,
Finally at liberty
To live a different story;
You are
Within reach
Let parting lips, drawn breath
Rebirth your last sleep

And him
Reflected
Unpainted

This day is better
He says
This thought is free;
This idea sacred
This notion is me

Fades
Into paths
Half self
Pacing lost words and water
Gone

Now
Laugh
You laugh like glass hums
For no matter, no reason
And that bell-voice spreads across pond, hall and table:
Flowers stand, listen
Fish flap their tails
A doubtful heart
Sheds years of labour

Dance, my love!
In my mind then you did dance
Circled lit squares and flirted with echoes
Your free empty feet
Touched upon water, brushed marble floors
And frail body cleared
Broke apart into space
Shimmered, transluscent
Sweetly parted the union
Like the ache of farewells:
They say so begin
All strange new dreams

Be well, Brit the new
Feel hearts divide;
Legends say that
Hopeful birds fly high out of Japanese halls

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A Few Thoughts on Desire

Writing love letters – or more accurately, lust letters – does make one contemplative.

So let’s say that you deliver that letter. You’re standing face-to-face, although she’s a bit shorter, and you hand over that all-important piece of paper. She reads it, and she slowly raises those lovely, and she draws her breath closer, and she… But that is not that point. The point is that your shoulders are hunched, your gaze subdued, and your manner so polite that smiling hurts. Why?

The fact is that you are her servant. No, make that a servant to your own desire. This little girl came along, one in numerous others, and turned your world upside down, a world you no longer govern. Granted, you do recollect that being master of your world was rather boring; but is it really necessary to worship Desire like a god? Trapped, you are reduced to sighs: Every daily act is suddenly an empty habit, and you are driven to consider the ideal of spontaneity. You used to be a man with a plan, now you’re just a lion pacing his cage. She is unique, but your attraction is generalized. Actions disrupt words, words disrupt action. It’s hard to tell if you’re happy or simply high.

The problem is that you are not sure you want to be cured. One is reminded of lobotomies, of eunuchs. If you pluck out your eyes, no colors will excite you; if you chop off your head, all dilemas are solved. But you like dilemas; they are maleable, playful, communicable. You are curious to see where the sensation of elation leads. And when you breath into your passion – a new trick – your head clears up and fills up with laughing water. It does. Such days are obviously brigther than others.

Is this reflection or cowardice? When you play chess, you make plans, you keep the tension and suddenly lose. There was no attack, and all preparations were lifeless strategy; it is not enough to place your pawns correctly. She is standing there, she is /sans/ letter, you are /sans/ her. You would like to talk, or better yet, caress, and in fact, she seems willin. The world delivers so many perfect chances that you begin to suspect God is a great fan of the Theatre. And you attempt to pause and intone: I must now meditate (for you enjoy that familiar feeling of bliss), yet in her silence still this girl manages to draw you out, to draw your speech in. Your thoughts curve back and ambush other thoughts, so that in the end, you say nothing, and do nothing, and all this glorious drama flounders and drowns noisily in your oversized head. Impotence. Disappointment. Screen.

I glance at the letter:
Liza,
A touch is so much more eloquent than words
I should have invited you in last night,
But I didn’t
Let us pretend then that I did, and that you said:
‘Maybe’

Fifth version, no less. Written in morningtime, rehearsed at night. I would not say sleepless, but rather skipped; there is a blank space between lying and waking. Better say a transition between chapters – no content to seperate, it only exists in the medium of bounded space and ink. Here, rather, the medium is that flowing scenery which accompanies and stylizes our entire life: day, night, summer, winter, storm or clear blue sky; but we rarely think of physics when our skin burns against new missing skin.

In truth, this is the love letter I would like to send, these words. But that is not the way of quick romance. Reflection is too often distance, or at least that is what we would like to believe. One might say, that she does not have to know anything about me, nor I of her; but it is hard to shake this habit of totality. The self cries out for recognition – If you do not know me, have yea no part of me! – and makes simple behavior dishonest; the body the altar of the personality. The speaker interprets himself: background must become forground, hence letters and words. The speaker narrows his eyes: let us make sure you have got me right, for I see there is one more layer missing. Under his gaze, obvious hints falter, acceptance in action denied. He wants more, more proofs, more preparations, more clues to infinity. Not enough, never enough, what /is/ enough?

If love is the last step, you say, it better look it. A physical ritual to signify spiritual joining, otherwise we an unmapped world of opaque gestures. But there are others who perceive sex as merely an act, devoid of any placing in hierarchy; or perhaps they do not consider it a joining at all. There may be something to be learned here. The pattern, they say, is whatever happens. We worship somatic temples, seek union and final absorption, while they rule their Gods and minds by acting out. It is a different form of worship: while the rebels turn religious, the rest practice complete surrender. Which am I? I have still too many ideals to live. Perfect or nothing at all.

As she gives in,
her ache and release is the end of all worlds. When she sighs, your muscles untangle. Each moment perfect wanting the next. Two disappear, events remain, the unbreachable aether between dreams and happenstance seeps into willing flesh. This is the altar and hence the fear: give us the gift of personal death. The artist stumbles, for sex is the end of art; he is appaled that the muse gives herself up so easily. But I say: watch how she moves in her surrender, witness her beast call out and refuse, realize that she is never yours.

I pause, pen in hand. look up at the swaying trees. I go back to the letter.

Surely, there will be other chances. In fact, the old Matchmaker in the sky makes sure the show goes on. Whenever the muse leaves, another comes along. Each unique, each cultivates a different heart, flowers slight and surprising discoveries; yet it is still the same basic desire, spiced up to keep interesting by a master cook; and it is surely the same play, acted out to perfection. No katharsis, no realization, just the pulling of strings. The puppet asks: Will they ever break? I sometimes wish they would. Another sigh. Inifinite cycle then, but no chance is used, then a travesty, torture, sisyphus; the only way to escape the repetitive mind is to follow the exit it has itself marked out. Perhaps that is what they mean when they say fantasies heal – live the reverie, and you are allowed wake up; recurring dreams acted do not recur.

A common metaphysical doctor will say this: You wish to dine on sexual energy, preferably three times a day. Just standing next to her fulfils your potential: Your chest widens to embrace her, your arms strengthen to pin her down. She hums, or most probably you hum, but regardless these vibrations occur and they are toward – it didn’t have to be this way – towards some action, towards flesh-joins-flesh. All in you that is opposite reaches out. You are given energy to execute, so when you do not comply the vibrations drive you mad. The Gods punish waste, the priests say: your body can only contain so many refused dreams. Hence you write poems, letters, reveries; you are moving in wider circles, like all creatives, but the bars are there nonetheless.

One cannot deny the will, It is too simple to be broken or discerned. You have tried sabotaging your drive mechanic. If a vision recurs, it is using force, and so it is resisted – the greatest form of rebellion is against the self. Yet you might have noticed that rebels walk with fear, that their faces ache with the next planned expression; they are constantly looking over their shoulders, expecting they will be found out, that counting cards is not permitted. The lover is no different. Ambushed by his desire, he fears himself, and denies all action. He praises inanimate nature; He admires purity; He hunches because he carries his own weight – the heaviest weight in the world – and he begs for respite. The riddle is: Who desires? Not I, surely. But a girl once told me: “just contain it”, and I think she was right.

Whence from, beauty
That, torn from another fabric, you are abrupt and centered,
Two clumsy birds
Make love a strange tale;
I touched you once, said:
This is sacred
You laughed
You forget
I meant something else.

Is there an alternative for the self-intoxicated? The suitor with his pasty complexion has haunted us for too long. Wracked with guilt, he accepts simple human gestures like mana from heaven, he mistakes coincidence for fate. He lives perfect tales, and so he is bound in terrible chains. Seeing this we might begin to suspect that real love stories run quiently, restrict themselves to the bedroom, and contain far less balconies and ornate eulogies than is commonly portrayed. Romeo died not for his love, but from ink posioning; Casanova not from excessive fornication but from cancer of the throat. If we but trade kisses for words, and caresses for masterpieces, we would be far better off; and tell me truly, who would refuse such an exchange?

Let us then say: Be proud, Lover! For you are a great actor in your own play. Contemplation will leave you wanting. She is where, after all? Not in this paragraph. You yourself are too involved with your lines to notice, there is no proper audience, and she is either too drunk or too sober to remember herself; so you might as well get on with it. Hand over the universal roses, hang on to her waist, and swoop in for the kiss. But gently, think quiet; after some practice, the dance steps will be known. See, the mind beacons: Move and move forward; travel to the lighthouse where there is peace amongst the waves.

Ha! Now the world is changed again. There is a new character on stage, another girl. She is elvish in appearance, and suddenly Her of the love letter seems mouseish. Within minutes, your passion redirects towards another object. It is now Her that hums and the other only hums dimly with the glow of memory. What, only one at a time? You are lost in your own mechanics. Yet now a new game, a new chance. You crumple the love letter and raise your eyes to meet strange enemy eyes, blue and of the forest. Should you rehearse for new battle? No matter; subtle sword drawn, the lover ventures.

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Oh Ofir

Ah, Ofir! What a figure!
Those tits, that Ass!

A perfect eight and eight on two dimensions,
Tanned smooth skin,
Soft labia lips slightly apart
Seen through black shapely tights.

Why never a bra, Ofir?
Why that deep cleavage,
That rich earth colored valley,
Between two rising globes
(Raise your arm up, it rounds and bounces, what a sight!)

And your circle blue eyes
Sea and storm
Shaved head
– Thus all shapes continue –
From porcupine hair
Slopes curve back at the head,
Then at the neck,
Then at the shoulder steps,
Curves mid-back, round palatable cheeks,
And then between the legs and up again
Where my fingers should be

Lie in my cupped hands
Two valleys to rest

Now,
Pelvis to pelvis
Heart to heart
Breath to heavy breath
Legs down to the heavens and bare feet touching
Up for a kiss, a bite in the neck, I lean
Pushed to the wall, cold against the spine
Hold on to my arms like an anchor
While I allow things be things that wanted to be
Slide in slide out and sigh down from the stomach

What then?
No time then
Just spend it in slow-motion

Hence
Curves which signify
Alert like to like
And lips that smile
Down under or up
Make faces fire lit
Make entrances kept
And bloody keys give rise

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Stomach Trouble

Ah. Dysentery!
Exclaims the philosopher
As he sits on a lawnchair
With a gleam in his eye
Holding his stomach

Is disease abstract
Or is pain a particular?
He wonders
As he curls up to a ball
On the floor of his room

Sunlight, waves crashing, birdsong
All signs of malaise
The ache, the gurgles, the vomiting
All signs of creation

Under a rotating ceiling fan
In a strange new physical place
He finds what he was looking for:
Reasons to escape

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