SAY THE WORDS

אמור את המילים שרק ‏אתה יודע

 

דמדומים אלימים לוֹפתים שמי בזלת

מהר‏, צווה נא שקט

אם תמשך הסערה

גם עיר לא תעמוד בה

לא אדם‏, לא צמח‏, לא חיה.‏

 

הרגַע‏  נא את הלילה‏

הנח ידך על מצח אדמה קודח

נשום אל תוך לבה המתמוטט

אמור את המילים שרק אתה יודע

החלק נא חידודי כוֹכב ביופי השירה‏.

 

אליךָ רק יוצאת הנשמה

אליךָ ואל רוך מגעך שכמו

נוצה עובר על פני ריסי-נפשי

אמור את המילים שרק אתה יודע

החייה שנית את פאר האהבה‏.

 

אהבתי בתולה תַחְבֹוק את מהותךָ

אשכון בתוך השקט של אורךָ

ביד קלילה אז את רוחי תחליק

ומנשׁימתך‏, קלה כזפִיר‏, תפריח

בי אביב‏.

 

 

WELCOME

About the author.

 

Ilana Haley takes her literary inspiration from an Israeli childhood--- as a child of early kibbutz pioneers. These stories and poems reflect values and conflicts that helped to make the Nation of Israel. She left her kibbutz and spent two years in the army; from there to her life in Tel-Aviv as dancer with the Israeli Ballet, and then to America with a grant from The Martha Graham School.  She found inspiration as a fashion designer, studying at the Chicago Art Institute, and as a Yoga teacher at the Yoga Circle in Chicago. After she finished her BA in Hebrew literature at the Spertus College in Chicago, she went back to Israel for few years and received her MA at 1 University in Tel-Aviv. She came back to America to teach in high school (her favorite occupation-- as she says). After many years of writing and reflection she has finally, after the death of her mother,  decided to publish this small volume of prose and poetry that begins to tell the stories that give words to her history and hopes. She is working now on other books of prose and poetry and plans to do very little else.

The Rocky Hill

 

You can see the review and check out my book here: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show?id=103819374

In Tribute to Ann Frank

Tread softly, tread softly, boots marching to the thud Of a cobblestoned beat. Tramp upon, beat upon a huddled figure in breathless darkened ruins impaled. Tread softly, more, more softly.She clutches ravenous dreams toward emaciated glow.She raises her delicate head, her stalked, fragile-stemmed neck, raises her woman- child limbs emaciated by hunger. Tramp upon, beat upon, softly. tread most softly.Glistening bridges, water furtively stealing through treacherous nights.This night it is after night, it is morning, it is after morning. It is night again. I will walk and run and laugh and dance over bridges curved in sunny air, bitter salt of the great ocean patiently throbbing. I will walk, I will run Spun into green-core earth.Arrows pierce a woman's heart in still, chilled sleep.She spins, antique bird of velvet in a carpeted night. I looked for the world everywhere But I did not find it. Child-woman resting now, sleeping now peaceful now, suspended beyond beloved bridges in hazy dusky glow.I still believe that people are good
 
 © Ilana W. Haley 2016

A letter

Photo: Pinterest

"I sit and watch the sunset
the air is wonderfully clear,
the stars not from this world."

–It is breathtakingly beautiful,
I see her sunset-watching –

"It is getting cold at a ghastly
fast rate," she writes,
ghastly fast...cold, cold, cold…"

– I touch her her sunset and my
fingers tremble –

"I haven't been dancing on stage,
I have been walking around,
Pirouettes in my mind."

–We walk together, he and I.
Our stay in that country is over,
his and mine. Strange…

Everyone was feeling,
remembering war…
Any special war?

Especially the War Of Independence
–you know – that war no one
remembers anymore.

It was so long ago,
and not very significant.
Has everyone forgotten?

© Ilana W. Haley 2016