Yehuda Amichai

(1924 - 2000 / Würzburg / Germany)

Comments about Yehuda Amichai

  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (12/11/2015 1:51:00 PM)

    ''Near the Wall of a House''


    Near the wall of a house painted
    to look like stone,
    I saw visions of God.

    A sleepless night that gives others a headache
    gave me flowers
    opening beautifully inside my brain.

    And he who was lost like a dog
    will be found like a human being
    and brought back home again.

    Love is not the last room: there are others
    after it, the whole length of the corridor
    that has no end.


    (Yehuda Amichai - translated by Chana Bloch and Stephen Mitchell)

    455 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (10/11/2015 3:52:00 PM)

    Another poem by Yehuda Amichai:


    A Man In His Life


    A man doesn't have time in his life
    to have time for everything.

    He doesn't have seasons enough to have
    a season for every purpose.
    Ecclesiastes
    Was wrong about that.


    A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
    to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
    with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
    to make love in war and war in love.

    And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
    to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
    what history
    takes years and years to do.


    A man doesn't have time.

    When he loses he seeks, when he finds
    he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
    he begins to forget.


    And his soul is seasoned, his soul
    is very professional.

    Only his body remains forever
    an amateur.
    It tries and it misses,
    gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
    drunk and blind in its pleasures
    and its pains.


    He will die as figs die in autumn,
    Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
    the leaves growing dry on the ground,
    the bare branches pointing to the place
    where there's time for everything.

  • Doren Robbins Doren Robbins (2/11/2005 3:09:00 AM)

    Amichai speaks in the direct idom of emotion that descended from Whitman's rhythmic prose-poem style. When I read such poems as 'Inside the Apple, ' 'The Real Hero, ' or 'A Pity. We Were Such A Good Invention, ' I understand again that great lyrical poetry is capable of translating the deepest emotions into langauge that brings us to the ground of what living a human life means. That is, his best poems are really hymns to this life full of paradoxical disappointments and exhilarating passion fused with elegies to the duration of those experiences themselves that bring our strongest affirmations.

Yad Mordechai

Yad Mordechai. Those who fell here
still look out the windows like sick children
who are not allowed outside to play.
And on the hillside, the battle is reenacted
for the benefit of hikers and tourists. Soldiers of thin sheet iron
rise and fall and rise again. Sheet iron dead and a sheet iron life
and the voices all—sheet iron. And the resurrection of the dead,
sheet iron that clangs and clangs.

[Report Error]