Winter Poem

The sea alone knows of gray and green
simmers, boiles foaming cold - abandond is
the shore, unshaven the dunes, lonesome
as the dog who shakes the water off his
fur - like a traveler under the bridge of
wide, neverending blue - and the wind bites
off the ears of whoever still wants to
believe in summer's sweet promisses -




Nomi Ben-David

Neon

Pink hotel, angels sleep,
Dog looks for a tree,
Man leaps out of window,
Hovers like a bee -
The air is dens with rain
And it takes almost
One minute befor he hits
The sidewalk - they
Never told me his blood
Was blue, yet he is
Royalty to me - for it's
Him who dared, not me;





Nomi Ben-David.
in memory of D.

Spellbound

Gone, high and low, I lie on my face ,
Would not return to the time and place
Where together we trembled, thighs ablaze
In the shallow waters, in the blizard of
Of the sun, like pebbles on the shore
Imortal we've become - encrusted in froth
In the zenith of the night, our faces
Crack, to the touch of tiny crabs
Dancing to the moon's silent song and
Ritual - gone, darkness floods my vains;
Will we be here when the tide's come, -
Will you by then still remember my name



Nomi Ben-David

Julie

I wanted to ask her if she'd come back and
Stand by my window like she did that summer -
Her breakable body held together by longing
Alone, in her eyes the black flame of
So very many candles

I wished we could dance side by side, like
Sisters of one soul, - carry the silence of
The long road to the place where everything
Has once began - but the wind erased
Her footprints in the dunes, sand has covered
The Caravan Routes, the lost trails to
The Promised Land -

Now, an Angel follows her every step, and
The sound of rustling silk, when she hurries
Down the darkening hall - sometimes, at
Night, she softly calles my name




Nomi Ben-David

Sign

I still remember the days of hazy heat
Can't forget the sweetness of the nights
Mellow landscapes of forever child,

The touch of the sea at night, dark,
Gently swaying - the seaweed that gets
Entangled round my unsuspecting hand;

The old ancient language keeps coming
Back - its words like flowers of stone
Bloom in the meadows of my mind -

And an old children's rhym keeps chanting
Keeps repeating in my head - is like
Maybe a sign, of a new turn in time.



Nomi Ben-David

woman

The moon stoops low above her desert,
Saltflowers bloom in her lagoon, she's
Waiting, - tanning in transparent ice,
Flooded with blue, soft looming light -

She's the moonbather in her crystal cage
Who grows sweet wild grapes, on the
Quicksands by the maze - to lure the
Odd voyager to her glistening cave -

Do not try to move the heavy rock,
For under it a scorpion sheds a tear -
Its sting pointing upwards, it doesn't
Need a ring of fire to become a hero,
And where would she be, without you



Nomi Ben-David

Summer

I am weary my love, summer is so
Bright this year - the shutters
Keep hitting against the Patio wall
And molten sunlight-gold trickles
down the low, shaded windows
Dry, breathless is the wind, and
Trees are trees, are green, are
Swaying, dark and fragrant they
Race through the room, stamping
Like a herd of wild horses, and
Behind them, in a cloud of dust,
Indians, feathers and all, follow -
Swept away, sinking, down i go,
Free-falling, spinning towards
A final, bottomless meltdown...
The phone rings, - someone at the
Other end wants to know how i am
I am weary my love, - and summer
summer is too bright to bear.



Nomi Ben-David.

poem

At the top of the naked tree
I'm a bird -
Evening sharpening its claws,
Darkness falls With icy grace -

Hear,lizards lounge under the
Crispy leaves, mushrooms pop
Their poisonous tops, whisper,
Sigh and wondrous foggy sounds

Slide off the big Sax in the sky,
Flutter their blood-red wings
In a void of weightless things
Bounce on a sea of purest pink...

At the top of the naked tree
I'm a bird -
Feathers ruffled in the wind
A silent captain of the night.




Nomi Ben-David

the doing so

It is the test they set that will not go,
the failing of the doing so,
ungainly legacy that they bestow.

i know the tricks and yet i cannot show
why you and i in all our afterglow
just fail the test of doing so.
it is the legacy that they bestow,
and they remorselessly will have it so.

it is the test of those who cannot row
upon a burning sea where charred winds blow
the ghastly empires of the dead and tow
them to their ghastly deaths to show
them dead and ghastly,smiling,slow.
it is the test they set that will not go.

and all our dead and all their dead friends know
we have no gift for lying low,
no gift at all for doing so.
the test they set you will not go.
it is the legacy that they bestow,
the failing of the doing so.



Harold Pinter 1977

back, and in good company

in the long months we were absent we heard of Harold Pinter's death, - except for his unusuall, and very succesfull theater plays there is his poetry, which we love for its dry humor and sensetivity.
we wonder if you would like it as well as we do.


Nomi Ben-David

love

On the Patio of his spanish house
Salvador Dali declared his love to
a giant Artichoke - it could've been
me - or the wonderous poet, Lorca -
once you think in terms of could've
you may become prone to miracles,
like time melting in the pink sun -
nothing wrong being an Artichoke,
I would've stuk with you, whatever




Nomi Ben-David.

heroes

We who shout beneath the water, swirl airbells
onto the bely of the fish,vibrating, like a Fata-
Morgana, - sore are our throats but we keep on
singing, feet like fins, kick in the froth, - we
who do not drown, but do not swim iether -

we who never cry who grew in the greenhouse of
bravery-songs, and the young wars in the foto
albums - we, beat about like fish in the sand ...
once, once there were trenches here, - and my
Dad, he too was a soldier in sandals

on a snapshot, at home at Sarah's - this being
before the mine, the big flood and Noach, - then
the animals slowly came off the boat, later they
learned to sing and danced the Hora around the
fires of Lag-Baomer, - once, here, they very

quickly learned to swim - and the ones who were
lost, fill the chambers of the sea - look at me
from below, upwards, - and I keep silent,
while my mouth slowly fills with salty water -




Nomi Ben-David

moon

full moon, again tonight you wear your
wonderous mask of sensous desire - sunk
pale, in feathery cloud...
oh, sweet promises of the heart, don't dare
touch me, for sometimes moon you are made
of paper, - an ornament of the pantomime,
sometimes you're a double-edged knife that's
sharpened on both sides
yet as long as morning wakes me, with its
sounds of bird's delight, i shall not miss a
day of our shared decline





Nomi Ben-David.

If

if once i was a queen, then somewhere
there must be a king, who demands my
head - yet, if once i was unfair and
wild, then somewhere there must be a
man, who has learned his lesson - can
he maybe tell me how, and why? - i
can't make any promises, but i can try...



Nomi-Ben-David

Voyage

when the moon has come between us
your darkened face i ceased to see,
but for the halo, bright aroud it, of
pure, enticing mystery -
and while the planets slowly move
towards their farthest destinations,
the goddess's song engulfs in light,
so why do i like Persephone wander
in shadows of the darkest skies,
- watch for early signs of spring?
i know one day our eyes will meet,
like lightning, - and in full eclipse.




Nomi Ben-David

Twee slakken

Samen glijden van een tak,
kronkelend, als een witte wokkel
hangend aan een draad van slijm:
het grote blote slakkengeheim.

De wereld wentelt om die kolkende klont,
koudbloedig maar von kopf bis fuss verliebt.
geen erotisch plekje hier of tepeltje daar,
nee, zij helemaal om hem en hij om haar.

armzalig de boertige kikker,
de driftige duif, de terloopse teef.
armzalig het kruip-door-sluip-door
geile stekelbaarsje achter glas.

en 't mooiste zou ik bijna nog vergeten:
dat je op je glibberig hoogtepunt
als slak niet meer zult weten of je
nu het mannetje of het vrouwtje was.




Han de Ruiter

Viool

Een vrouw speelt viool in de kamer naast
de mijne - en de warme dissonanten slaan
als een vlam in de zomerse nacht - alsof
een engel daar vergaat in weemoed, zijn
vleugels verbrand

Als ik zou roepen om wat water, zou zij
weer mijn moeder zijn - haar hand koel
voelen aan mijn voorhoofd, haar geur mij
wiegen in de slaap

maar ik blijf kijken naar het licht, dat
schaduwen aan de muren haakt, luister
naar de motorrijder, die maar blijft jagen
door de nacht -

het is mij altijd bij gebleven, het ene
viool concert van Bach - maar klassiek
hoor ik sindsdien, toch liever overdag...



Nomi Ben-David voor Judith 1911-2008

Wish

When young my blood raced in my vains
yet now, softly it hums in its darkened
maze, circling back to its beginnings,
away from the Hyena's laugh - or is it
the strange sound of a man agonizing?
yet, do beware my unleashed heart, for
there's only one more wish to go, before
we fall off the flat edge of eternity -
maybe our embroidered wings will stay,
as a token of love to those just born,
who have'nt yet forgotten how to fly -



Nomi Ben-David

Stranger / Indian Summer

The tiger, he still watches me, I can almost
hear him breathe - should I have shot him that
very first time, cut his whiskers, to show off
in town? - now he paces, circling around me,
almost lazy, sure of his kill
for I am pinned down by his keen, yellow-eyed
intention, - or is it danger's fascination?
when the sirens will finally go off, it will
be too late, - only my sandals shall be found in
the tall grasses, by the pond
It shall be a summer day - friends will bring
flowers, and everyone will say: what love, how
great a passion had they!
and in the Zoo where they shall bring him,
Tiger, will become a children's pet,...



Nomi Ben-David

Things That Fly

I.
My niece speaks in riddles
to her uncaged bird

like Francis of Assisi and his flock
of wolves, a shining mist at dawn descends
like a wall to words between them.

II.
Misery may be folded
in half, like a sheet
of blank paper. Or filled
with words. No matter.
It is only a first step.

You must continue the folds, parallel
To each side, until their intricacy
builds on itself, forms a delicate
grace. Separate. Facing itself.

In Japan, there are beautiful words
For each step. This way misery dies

in equal parts, until it forms
a paper missile at twelve noon
to fling out any window, without
aiming. But only from a great height.




Jim Carroll,
from "The Book Of Nods"

Black Moon

Like a sleepwalker she moves through the
overgrown paths of his troubled sleep,
in the black and white negative print
of his unfinished dream -
Under a black moon she stops, freezing
against a white bright sky, like a deer
reflecting on the sound, of a hidden
current, whispering underground...
With no sound he tries to call her name
as slowly she vanishes into the bushes,
so strangely and brightly aflame -
leaving on the filmpaper, where she was a
scar, like a cigarette burn -




Nomi Ben-David

Poetry on Sunday

this coming sunday at 4.00, at the Literary Cafe of the "Regentenkamer" in
Den-Haag, four dutch poets will be reading from their work.
presentation is in the hands of actress Tatiana Radier. Truus van Leeuwen,
Anne Borsboom, Nomi Ben-David and Gerrit Vennema will be reading and Heleen Koster will play the saxofoon.
adress is: Laan van Meerdervoort 34., bus 13,24 tram 1,10 Vredenspalais.

Lied voor Ella

De slakken hebben in de bladeren een
zilverdraad achter gelaten -
met minuscule weefgetouwen zal ik voor
Ella een slaaplied weven - ook
zij zal moeten opletten om haar vinger
niet aan de tovernaald te prikken -
omdat prinsen uit de mode zijn, en een
sprookjesslaap het niet echt doet, voor
een prinses van zeven jaar




Nomi Ben-David

heer en hond

De hond krijgt geen gelijk
wanner hij, happend naar de handige
maan in het water springt.

liever was ik een gewone
hond die zich in alles vastbijt
dan een man vol evenwicht

bijeengedacht binnen een kleiner
heelal: verstand heerst enkel
waar het verstand nog bij kan.

de heer, hij fluit zijn hond terug,
zijn aardse droom, opdat hij hem
op de voet kan volgen.



Eric Ruygers.

Homeland

I still remember the days of hazy heat
can't forget the sweetness of the nights
mellow landscapes of forever child,

the touch of the sea at night, dark,
gently swaying - the seaweed that gets
entangled round my unsuspecting hand

the old ancient language keeps coming
back - its words like flowers of stone
bloom in the medows of my mind -

and an old childeren's rhyme keeps chanting
keeps repeating in my head - is, like
maybe a sign, of a new turn in time



by Nomi Ben-David

birthday

My daughter sleeps the sleep of waiting -
her breath, like little whirlpools of water
fills the darkness of the room -
she opens her face to the morning every
day, like a flower, unaware that her hair
curling like snakes, dances like embers in
shallow light - when walking she uses the
space of angels - it's only when her eyes
darken, with razor-edge green, that i
can see the ancient queen, she is to be.



by Nomi Ben-David

waarom

Wie weet waarom een vogel ineens opschrikt
en krijst in de stille nacht
of waarom een man uit het felle licht van
zijn droom ineens ontwaakt -
verblind, in het donker van zijn kamer staat;
sommigen onder ons staan er ongemerkt in
brand, in vertraagd vuur als waren de vlammen
koud - als herfstbomen in plotseling licht,
branden zij nooit geheel op


by Nomi Ben-David

Ausgesetzt auf den Bergen des Herzens

Wir, in den ringenden Nachten,
wir fallen von Nahe zu Nahe;
und wo die Liebende taut,
sind wir ein sturzender Stein.



Rainer Maria Rilke.

Night Meadow

Wide-eyed the rabbit in the green
looking to the hare on the face of
the moon - is it the cold, or fear
which makes her shiver? there's not
enough night, not enough darkness to
elope, - not a shadowfold to hide;
the predattors breath is on the air
when suddenly she jumps, - a white
dot of tail, zigzaging to the trees!
behind the bushes the foxes eyes,
lighten up, shine green and disapear!


by Nomi Ben-David, for Gaby.

Boomerang

writing a poem is very easy when you let it come to you, and you open the little door to that "room of changes", somewhere between the mind and the heart,
a word , a sentence or even a moment from a dream would not go away,
till i spend time to solve the puzzel put to me, - structure and rithme, the right words to a certain feeling, and then, very often the surprise towards
the end, something totaly unforeseen which comes out of nowhere, as
if to say, "you see now why all this needed to happen"?
needless to say, lots of it landed in the bin, - what i was left with, the little that stayed, needed getting used to, it often took time to understand what
my unconscious was trying to tell me...
yet with some very few things this would not work.
that is what happened with one small "set of words" written some years
ago, - i could'nt find one reason to why this came-up when it did...
sometime ago that little poem came back, boomeranging like a stone off
David's sling and strait to my heart...
unbeliveable as it sounds, poetry can be a dangerous thing sometimes.
should we believe in magic?
Federico Garcia Lorca did, and he forsaw things that happened...
i would'nt go too far with it. the advanture to me is not knowing what is
to come.


Neon

Pink hotel, angels sleep, dog looks for a tree,
man leaps out of window, hovers like a bee -
the air is dense with rain and it takes almost
one minute befor he hits the sidewalk - they
never told me his blood was blue, yet he is
royalty to me - for it's him who dared, not me.

by Nomi Ben-David

Capriccio

Behind each mirror
is a dead star
& a baby rainbow
sleeping.

Behind each mirror
is a blank forever
& a nest of silences
too young to fly.

The mirror is the wellspring
become mummy, closes
like a shell of light
at sunset

The mirror
is the mother dew,
the book of desiccated
twilights, echo become flesh.


by Federico Garcia Lorca
from Suites.

perfection

the tree in the backyard
surprises me, waking-up on
my birthday late saterday noon -
it stands there vibrating in
bright bridal yellow, it's crystal
atire flaring-up in the sun -
underneath it a perfect round
carpet of diamond-like leaves,
and as the wind does
not dare play it's novembery
hide and seek, not even the
ravens dare move the
hands of the clock, nor mutter
their complaint to the heron -
like him, on one foot, i stand
waiting a full minute - untill
one little yellow leaf, slowly
falls to the ground.

Of Three or Four in a Room

Of three or four in a room
there is always one who stands beside the window.
He must see the evil among thorns
and the fires on the hill.
And how people who went out of their houses whole
are given back in the evening like small change.

Of three or four in a room
there is always one who stands beside the window,
his dark hair above his thoughts.
Behind him, words.
And in front of him, voices wandering without a knapsack,
hearts without provisions, prophecies without water,
large stones that have been returned
and stay sealed, like letters that have no
address and no one to recieve them.

by Yehuda Amichai, frome "Two Hopes Away"
translated by Stephen Mitchel.

suburbia

the horrible wind has brought us together
on the outskirts of a city clad in night

cloud boats racing over glaring skies
the moon stalking us all the way home -

gasping for air we wake into the sunday
drink coffee, read the papers in our big

bed - later we go out, walk the dog, chain
the sun to the tree, so it would not elope

the neighbor, hatefull man, cuts it free
again and again - we did not ask for this!

monday the car breaks down, we wait for
the bus - the dog would'nt stay home, - sit!

that horrible wind once threw us together
this light summer breeze will tear us apart.

by Nomi Ben-David

a man named Oded

this blog is dedicated to the man who showed me how much fun
it is to play with words, how much they can mean to us and to others
who might read them - being a preformer, he made language come
alive in a way that stayed with me forever.
he tought me not to take myself, nor my writing, too seriouly, so being
a "radical" teenager i solemnly destroyed all i wrote every year at my
birthday, as to start all over again the next year.
this seems to have done me a lot of good, - just left me very curious
to what it might have been i wrote as a 14 year old ...
i hope to bring poetry, in english and in dutch, to this blog and maybe some actualitys and thoughts.
as i could never say goodby, thank you Oded, for all your care and fun!

Metamorf

I thought my aching heart should mend,
so I put it in a box, with a moonray
and a star, - later, when I opened it
again, in it I found some feathers of
a sandbird and a diamond, black like a
ravens eye - I put the feathers in my
hair, and found that I could fly -
the hardest stone of all I'll keep, to
serve me as evidence on the day I die

by Nomi Ben-David