New Poetry -Roy Liran.

Beached boats at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer

He divides the canvas
in unequal halves of
equal size, a bladed
horizon for skies and earth,
for man and woman, rich
and poor, birds and poets.

The easel shifts on the
burning sand, reacting to
the brushes and to the
knife’s applied pressure,
causing lines to
wobble, planes to interact.

The seasonal seagulls
think his tilted cap an
unlikely tourist nest, and
none approach for
all his naked crumbs.

Fishing boats like clay
cooking pots send
wooden masts spooning
across the border, to test
the imminent waters.

Soon, beloved. Soon, there

will be startled crows flying
over yellow fields of wheat.


One unlistener or another

At someone’s someone’s funeral,
dutifully solemn yet unavoidably
detached, automatically checking
out the prettier mourners. One

among a theater made of stony
faces, all gaping at the covered
gurney. A relative trembles her

goodbyes to the unlistener. A mild
rain keeps time on the colorful
parasolesque bouquets. Umbrellas

flower among the marble slabs,
augmenting one meaning or another
for the endless names, but great
legs would be great legs anywhere.



soon, the path will end

off a cliff, or shriveled
into broken rocks
in the inner desert

but not against a
brick wall, not that

of a roadside diner
where a waitress walks
barefoot and the coffee’s
warm and sweet, sitting

at the window-side
booth to challenge all
passing cars to stop
and pause a while, where

some days are not
as long as others,
but not as short, and
someone plays the
last song on the jukebox,
over, and over again,

like leaves

yes, that, after all


Secret intentions

It matters that they are
unequally ripe, you say,

but in a good way.
I show you that something

is exposed under one tomato’s
peel, pulsing in the pulp like
so many veins and continents

and place them on the counter
as would a doctor, vulnerable,

so you will see for yourself.

If I had proposed, then,
you would have accepted.

I plant the narrow-leafed
ash to ward off the sun, and
build a wall to fool the wind

for you, yet you persist –

Is that the meaning of the ash?
Is that the meaning of the wall?

The stones in the stone
wall are simple stones,
while the ash’s intent is
spreading more ashes.



At eighteen the time
has come to be wed.

A husband was
found. A dress sewn

somewhat tightly. The
seamstress said –
raise and lower your
arms. Just like a bird.

A small hall was
rented. A band

played Aris San for
the dancing, and you

spread your arms
up and down and flew
in all directions, but
could not be relieved.

Like a hummingbird.

About the contributor

Roy's 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. His second collection, Weightless in the Nets was published by The Blue Nib in 2018.

Related Articles

The Teapot: Yame Tea Leaves. Poetry by Tonno Bisaccio

THE TEAPOT: YAME TEA LEAVES  Cherry Blossoms take Their eyes: picked, we carry Our mountain’s flavors,...

Emma Lee reviews ‘Incunabulum’ by Carol McKay

‘Incunabulum’ Carol McKay Pot Hole Press ISBN (Print) 987-1-910033-08-1

Poetry by Eamonn Wall

In this clutch of poems, Eamonn Wall pays homage to the poet Joanne Kyger


Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here

More Like This

After The Fight, The Paint

Jill Neimark is the author of adult and children's fiction, as well as a journalist

Poetry- Melissa Mulvihill

Fata Morgana I am lost on the Lake deliberately at sea tossing about in moody waves raging in storms of fictive selves struggling for a critical angle ebbing in the middle...

On bilingualism, innate hybridity and loss

Clara Burghelea speaks about the struggle and the freedom of writing in a second language.

Coming to Terms with Trying to Make Your Name by Sarah Leavesley

Poet. film-maker and essayist, Sarah Leavesley, with characteristic inventive vitality, tackles the perennial problem of writing a suitable author biography.

Setareh Ebahimi In My Arms – Reviewed

Setareh Ebrahimi is the most sensual of writers. To enter her world is to navigate a region of heightened sensation and dizzying intimacy. The mood of In My Arms is breathless, deathless, hushed, brimming with imagery that engages and intoxicates the senses.
Enjoy unlimited access to The Blue Nib for less that 0.50c per week | Subscribe