Three Poems for September 202`

 

Kuntillet ^cArjud

 

The mountain has the face of a sphinx.

You can’t miss it.

After all these weeks of wandering

from wadi to wadi

along ancient desert tracks

with strange clouds on the horizon

a man grows dizzy after a while

when travelling like this.

We were told to beware of the mirages

And the pillars of fire at sunset.

They said that Elijah passed through

on his flight to Jezreel,

and if he survived, so would we.

One mountain calls itself Horeb,

Another Sinai, and they are the same.

That face up there, is that the one?

In our exhaustion, we want to believe,

and we are ready if the questions

come down, tumbling like an avalanche.

Are you the pilgrim the world awaits?

Of course, not, I am who I am, no more.

Would you dare face me down if I roared

across the valley and gave you laws?

You must not frighten me.

I come in good faith, not in fear.

Not good enough: you must return.

Tell someone in another generation

where to find me and instruct

them how to stand their ground.

My riddles and enigmas

are simple if you look into my face.

If not, the world will end as it began,

Out of  nothing nothing comes.

Well, this is my decision

That I will sit here at the base of the hill

and wait through all eternity

for you to treat me with justice.

Just then the thunder roared,

then disappeared in silence

and darkness covered all the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Afghan Cookies Cannot Be Called As Such

 

They look like a painting, she said. these Taliban

in their robes, long beards and Afghan turbans,

an Orientalist portrait of two centuries ago:

their eyes are the eyes of a beast on the prowl.

Yet when they entered Kabul, and Khandahar,

at once they ran to the amusement park

and played on the bumper cars like infants,

then into the modern gym to ride the toys,

the cycles and the rowing  machines,  these excitable boys.

She said, Don’t believe a word they say,

when they speak of moderation and amnesty;

don’t look into their eyes, dark and deceitful.

Listen to the sound of whips, and watch how they spit

at women who have learned to read and write.

 

 

 

The New Year, 5782

 

The world is a whirligig

and nothing seems to hold, neither centre

nor periphery, as Timaeus told us once.

Finances do not profit them or us,

and Luxemburg and Delaware are small yet huge.

We spin as in a kaleidoscope,

seeing nothing clearly—

investiture, investment and invidious lies.

Twirling sticks and flaming batons,

as once she did who set their groins on fire,

who made us think she was an innocent,

but sat on boys crotches on the road home,

and made the driver think he was in love;

and now nearly a century later

the fantail twerks and turns on the fountain’s rim,

this way, that way, back and forth,

then plunges in and does his somersaults.

Do you remember when the moon exploded

And cheeseballs fell to the earth like fondue?