You can always cleanse yourself of me
And I can carry your seed for many hours
No one would know this as I walk down the street.
You can disappear from the face of the earth in the last war
And I can carry your child for many years
Without you. Maybe that is the reason for the stubbornness that the name
Belonging to the family will be carried on after you. But what after me.
After me the memory will remain and all the glances that I gathered
In my life will form a string of beads on the neck of our daughter.
Translated by: Sharon Hart Green
Hava Pinhas - Cohen
Poetry | Culture| Creation
Poet, lecturer on literature and art, facilitator of poetry and prose writing workshops in Jerusalem. Editor of poetry books and art books.
Founder of the magazine DIMOOY for Jewish Literature, Art and Culture.
Founder and artistic director of the “Kisufim” Conference of Jewish Writers and Poets.
Hava Pinhas Cohen Books in French, Serbian, Slovenian and more
Recipe for peppers, dough and apples
As I was grilling red and green peppers until their skins burned,
the smell from the kitchen spread into the world,
and I heard that in Aleppo missiles were falling
on the city, gas and grenades on its people and children.
On the cover of The New York Times, a photo of a woman a moment before
sunset exiting the ruins and walking with a baby (imagined) in a carriage
scorched into my eyes as if she was right here.
After I peel the skin burnt by the kitchen fire and reveal the flesh,
red and shiny and soft, I cut with a sharp knife into thin strips one
after the other and I hear of a traffic accident. Mother and children lost
their lives on the bumper of a truck in the heart of a hilly road.
I drip olive oil and lemon, add two cloves of garlic and move on to the
dough rising in the bowl.
I knead the dough that rejects my whispers but yields to my fists. I knead
in a circular movement from my belly to infinity, listening to the ripples
of movement from there to my belly and back. I lay out the apples to
arouse him from love’s deep sleep to remind him raisins hide between the
apples. I wake him to reveal his hidden face and lead him to my garden,
to the miracles of pomegranates, to see the new buds opening by the stream
and lay his head on my right breast.
Translated from Hebrew by Gwen Ackerman
The Jerusalem Conference of Jewish Writers
In my work as a poet and a writer, a work of nearly total solitude, I’ve always been attracted to the hidden dialogue between poetry and art and music, and between prose and cinema. In my eyes, boundaries between the arts are meaningless.
Travel, conversations and writing
Kiril and Stefan were prelates of the Orthodox church in
Over the course of 75 years, very little has been
From the Foreign to the known Lately, a five year