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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

3 Poems by Roy Liran

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Born in Israel in 1971. Lives in the Galilee with his wife and twins. Works in the IAA (Israel Antiquities Authority) as an archaeologist, architect and artist.
His first poetry book, ‘Not who I thought’ was published (in Hebrew) in 2016 by Pardes Publishing. It includes 65 poems and several drawings by the author.

 

 

The longer path

 

She and I used to meet by the longer path, the
one winding through the afternoon hills, where
a fine lacework of blueberry shadows lazily
crawled across her bruised stone fences.

Nothing stirred me quite like young, bare feet
stomping grapes in the curves of pressed
bedrock. Half asleep, I dreamed of sticky,
stained soles, and of toes sweet as life.

I recall laying on the old Beduin straw mat,
looking upwards through branches and leaves
at something that looked like a cloud, an
apricot blemish on an otherwise binary sky.

It comes to me, often when I have little to do.

But I am old now, bent, and the longer path is
overgrown with evening hills. The stone walls
have crumbled and solidified with wild berries.
Yet the trees persist, and the shadows, and

the memories aging in wine barrels far away.

 

 

 

After they closed the iron door there was silence

 

we stand together
apart as can be

together

undressed and cold
and unheated by
having skin chafe
on clammy skin

images of barbed
snowed landscapes
and dogs and a dazed
violin and that uniform

with its finger

a mother holds her
wide eyed daughter
for some air by the
showerheads, both
breathing as one

I see strange markings
scratches on the walls
and ceiling like nailbites

and

maybe the coming steam
will warm us a little
but if not then we

at least we die clean

 

 

 

The fogged mirror. The drain.

 

And in the mornings she
brushes her large teeth,
leaning plump like a tired
pillow over the sink. Her
face is lowered, lowered
into the disappointed bowl.

Above her wide shoulder, in
the fogged mirror, hovers
a distant, lined face. A leaf
in the wind that has lost its
wind. A river boat sailing on
a dry river, hopeful for a sea.

The white, minty froth circles the
drain. Around, once, then gone.

 

 

 

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