Timtum Halev

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ego scriptor, Timtum Halev, טמטום הלב

1. Language is a very thick skin
2. But all stories are the story of inner surfaces and their metamorphosis.
3. Behind all the small things that I hear, bigger ones are silent.
4. Language contains the possibility to fail
5. Talking blurs. Scrambles;
6. Thickens the mystery, isolate and isolation is insoluble.
7. I don’t know how to speak without tripping
8. Words are powerless
9. I want the in between: what remains when words are unused.
10. I only have the usual opacity choice
11. Persist in the opacity
12. Hardening my life
13. I wanted it less armed, without drops
14. But this severity is for me
15. Like an ego scriptor.
16. Language is embarrassing, made of human trivialities
17. Conversations about conversations, circumlocutions, distortion
18. While in nature everything is direct, universal, and clear.

Phlomis Russeliana

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Paolita, Phlomis Russeliana

It was good

To feel in me your soothing sap

Which stiff the branches of the limbs up to the buds of my fingers and eyes

Your thought descended to my heart

What sets us apart from our contact reflect

You suddenly took birth in my body and

In what the sky covers does not light up

The lines stand in the hollow of the knots

I draw you in the hollow of the thresholds

I make you with words

These places have no door

Have no date

Only accepting one person at a time

These places are far from the roads

Their useless night tell me that you have left traces of green in me

I ache in ways you don’t know how to help

I am like Phlomis Russeliana

Always newer and more diminished

But

From you at the end I want

Trees from here and mountains from there

Implant

Deception digs

where sprouts the singular.

Thought fallen into the heart

in vacant spirit penetrates you

where you think.

Shimon Bar Yoahi could be in no other place

than this dark cave

knocking, unheeded at closed gates

for the sake of transparence.

Lo yikaret is a promise made to broken men

And it is true we must cut-off the path to miss

clarity in the sense of silence.

Today, you can enter any building

you can look from any window

and yet much can’t be explained.

What is Petre Tutea for in destitute time?

What lies beneath the surface?

Beneath tv screens?

Self-fulfilling prophecy

is the gate through which

we all must at some time pass.

 

 

S.M

The first to remember Benjamin MiTudelo

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Bayswater lighthouse, Benjamin of Tudela

 

The storm is over. Must be something in the air

A metaphor to keep me silent

Those small snowflakes that are hanging down

Swell likely to drop the iron

Down the river, in our hiding-place

We still not ready for archeology

What I became move us away

From prophesies and from sounds of History

Away from iron windows and flags

The first to remember Benjamin MiTudelo in Sicily

Will still hear the bloody distant milk away.

 

 

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Edith Piaf, kippur, Proust Marcel

I did not smell the apple

behind Proust Madeleine

But your scent yes

a scent of cinnamon

My kippur shall be without apples

And without smell

Dives have no odor

 

The sandal of Empedocles

Picture: Courtesy of the Wolbach Library, Harvard – Étienne Trouvelot 1872

The meandering routine

Is a bottomless volcano

Where everything must burn

Like the sandal of Empedocles

Left at the lip of a crater

Signs for the presence or absence

Preserve the longing to become tangible

Hide the En sof from us

Then an aesthetic consumerism

For a lifetime unless it falls.

Geology of the Sephira Kether

Picture : Andrea Galvani, The Intelligence of Evil #6, 2007

We do not want to disappoint

Even those who count for nothing

This is very mortifying

And this freedom you speak about

Is a fantasy but not sure…

I am not like you

I am cerebral, not visceral

I have the introspection

My roots grow there

In the tree where I hang down

The Kabbalists are wrong

My infidelity is in the Kether  (כתר) 

I forsake the flesh

 I take it off

This is not new

Three years

Every second burning

Before I had to open

Then I went in and locked the door 

The thickness of things

Apache tears

Must bee seen

The crawling blade

That we believed to be the sea

Those bodies that were believed to feel

Untie their incredible prehistories

Like the water on dumb temple pilots

Inner excavation opens a garden of stones

They consent to silence

To the immobility of the leaves before the storm

For a wing to unfold in the light of aging

The bird in a metal flight

Comes like the rain through the observable

I am free cried the bird from love gripped

Just take what is alive

I will burn the stone

The wind mistaken wheat

Silence doesn’t disunite

His flesh in words of core aims and bends

Our intimate orchards

The line takes off

Cutting edges

Of the white hole in the gesture

No door for departure

Use only the faithful and naked Coal

I remember a lovely July

The pure echo of demolished walls

A foot, a wing in Buci

I remember my voice lost in other vocals

And Guillevic

I remember the thickness of things

The hand that holds

The blue abyss

Inks

We will go for tomorrow

Full of doubts and wheat

I wait as only shadow could

Surrounded by the sun

Look for a meaning to eclipses

Forget my decipherable shadow

Let only my stone bear down

No voice left to bend the other voices

My real world is silent

In the unexplored retread of me

Rises a metamorphic seed

The stone

And it birds weigh

There is a story that is told

Then the waves, the stunning waves

I have for her the obvious

Dead shoes

Unknown caramels

And perfumes from Edo

Sea Level

Rimbaud on his boat
Screamed: Earth Remember!!
And before sinking
Saw a million of golden birds

Thus, the line
Goes
Geometrizing my soul
With a blue mathematic

When your blue line calls me
My soul is flooded by
Like a window in the sun

The stream of life fills Washington streets
But all I want

Is to be the blood flowing all day
In the inextricable maze of your skin

How many are like me
Hiding under a cloak worn by the wanderings
Their wrinkled wings?

How many are like me
With a lack hidden by thousands words?

The green seems gray to me
Only the blue survived

And your hands
Holding me like Montaigne
Painted the passages of my soul

And even if I read Flaubert
Even if he assures me that the immensity
Has no conclusion

I remember

The “Vayéchev”

In your arms

And all your flowers with some scientific names

That I don’t know                                                                                  

Remind me the face of Ophelia