Meir Wieseltier Poems

Holy books, said my friend, angry,
there's no such thing. Books,
books: let them talk
to us about books.
It was a hot night.

At noon light rips
through the room, and everything's clear:
over the holy we'll put a transparent
grid. From now on we'll examine it
with a critical eye, we'll see
the holy, crisscrossed through bars:
iron or a mathematical passion.

Will this make it look less
holy? Now it's evening.
It could be a mistake,
our own.

But the grid should be placed there. With courage,
with care. It's time to preserve
the wreck of holiness.


16.6.86
...

Once there was a woman.
She was very old.
For seventy-five years
she'd lived in this world.

When she was seventy-six
she thought she'd had enough.
She threw herself into the sea
to drown in its troughs.

The sea is a billion years old
and doesn't care about us.
It can drown old women daily
without any fuss.

But people were alarmed
and pulled her back to shore.
In the municipal hospital
she got the finest care.

Now she's in a Home
where they keep the Elderly.
In vain she'd hoped to find
a way out in the sea.
...

stood facing the world
with my hands up.

I was thirsty, I was hungry,
it was cold or hot outside,
I continued to stand.

My eyes were clinging to the gun,
a comical thing, such a sweetie,
though lethal and aimed at me too.

Sometimes the entire world
looks like a ridiculously short person,
with a crooked nose, its brain completely scrambled

but armed and ruthless and completely
inconsiderate of me and the likes of me,
and rather unpredictable.

Here and there, not to give a damn
I would light a cigarette
with one hand -

It got angry, squinted at me
pursed its lips tightly
but did not shoot

for now.
...