Thank you all for coming and experiencing our poetic musical journey from Baghdad to Berlin. It was the first show and because of its energies we will do more!
Thank you Gidi Farhi – our dialouge enrichen me so much!
Thank you Dury de Bagh AND Cafe De Bagh for joining our Baghdad – Berlin poetic train. We could not do it without your support and help. It was a great night for me, because poetry is window to my soul and for one moment you all were inside of me.
Here are the poems that i was reading:
“seventy kinds of different dates were in Baghdad”
my grandma told me
“and shame that we left,” she added
“over there, they didn’t put antibiotics in our food
we didn’t eat cow meat and our Kuba rice dish was filled with lamb”
and even if my way to Baghdad Has been ruined
and although I don’t speak the language
now I know that my life is a piece of a Darkened history
that sits on
a hook, a moonlight tale of my grandma.
Words of Departure
This poem will soon collapse
I left the life of guaranties
To find a new life in Berlin
I speak broken English, Broken German, Broken Hebrew, Five Shekels a Euro
I disconnected my Jewish phone
I said goodbye to my mom
My life’s beloved
The jazz of Berlin
I ask fewer questions
And lose myself more in the jazz of Berlin
Flowing from the many Diasporas
At night I climb through women’s windows
In the morning I labor
And on Sabbath with holy words
I talk to myself in Hebrew, with no country
I talk to others in another tongue, with no country
I miss my father’s memorial
And recall him in every word
I don’t know where I come from or where I’m going
But even strangeness has a birthday
And I’ll wake in your arms
And between your thighs
Remembering like a child.
Passports also break I tell you,
Passports also become worn out over the years, made by strangers, exchanged across inhuman borders
Passports also lie, that they are always new, like a biometric seal of worn out, tired, rough and diminishing skin
Passports also become refugees, when the dream’s stars do not immigrate in time from the night’s darkness
Passports are also jailed when the wall turns into a wedding, and hope remains single
Passports also struggle to pull out of the earth, which pretends being a pillow, and its heart is tough, and cold, dry-land of frozen lava
Passports also continue going to work, and not read and write the way out of the prison of thought
Passports are also saddened, when we discover that you went missing between waves of broken glass
Passports also get lost, when confronted by a prayer that does not have you in its end
“Our love has no passport,” you answer me, and write a new poem in the heart of the world.
[Translated by Na’aman Hirschfeld. 2016]
And I regret that I missed a way to his heart
I don’t know why he loved to eat above the sink
without a plate, dark bread, salty cheese.
He sits, coiled on the black sofa, with an open book
inventing funny names for anyone, who enters the house.
and I’m sure he was a free spirited poet like me, despite working in a shop all his life
truth be told I have no way of knowing, discovering or talking with him.
The only way is to write…
that he wasn’t happy than I
but I remember him reading one of my early poems one day
and coming back happy to our house he told me how in the “Old age” club where he visited
his friends liked my poems.
and perhaps with my inspiration, he started to write the story of his life
of how his wealthy grandfather was thrown out of Mashad by the local Muslims in Iran
and how he immigrated to Palestine round the start of the 20 century
[Damm, why didn’t I keep this paper?]
and now I regret every moment I ignored his point of view
I could have hugged him and understood that was his story
and what is left for me? deep regret
what is left of him? one unfinished poem
and the days are getting less
while these memories grow in their nakedness.
[Translated by Dov Waterman . 2016]
There Was Never a Home in Poetry
“There was never a state in Eden
East and west never were
We were not expelled, nor defeated”
The black eyebrows sway
The coffee cup with cardamom trembles
On the train at Hermannplatz
Ubahn, U7, one stop
And naked love, approaching in the foreignness
To be revealed
And we shall recite poetry
And clear a path out of Egypt
When the stars shine
[Translated by Na’aman Hirschfeld. 2015]