Avital Tyspe

Poems that Point

Haven't we all had                                                                                                                                  enough of poems saying

that this is that

and that is like the other,

stuffing things into each

other like a Russian doll until

you can’t see the pebble

for the planet you have sculpted in its image?

This canapé is murder.

Your mother is a wrench.

My mouth is a pavilion of rare and evil birds.

Screw that,

I want to write poems that point

silently signifying:

look at that

there’s nothing I can say about that.

 

Avshalom Guissin

 

Olfactory Rush  

I step off the bus and hit

the ground running,

absorbing the strong scents of burntgasoline,

ladywearingsweetperfume (too strong for my taste),

wetdog coming out of a mud puddle,

twosynchronizedsmokepuffs

from two soldiers who usher my path

as I gracefully cross to the other side of the road,

someonesmellingofsickness steps out of a parked car

(I try to sidestep out of her way),

freshgreentrees now that I leave the main street,

and all the rest of the way home

n o t h i n g b u t c l e a n r a i n .

 

Sonya Soloviov

 

Ink                                                                                                            

 

With every stroke

the image of your

body

becomes

a valid subject.

 

I

pretend that

I’m not

writing about

you.

 

Avner Kashtan

 

Not in Kansas

I cross the Golden Horn to Galata, escaping Sultanahmed’s twisting alleys and tourist traps. First thing that greets me is the underground shopping mall, filthy corridors strewn with last night’s garbage, crammed tight with consumer electronics and handguns, one shop next to the other, each proclaiming new sales, new models, just for you. Outside, two young men hawk their services – a shiny new photocopier and laminator, hooked up to a belching gasoline generator and mounted on an old, rusty cart. Further up the street the electronics shops come thick and heavy, one next to the other, with identical signs showing identical products for identical prices. The gun shops are replaced by banks (which are the continuation of violence through economic means, when you think about it) while the consumer electronics make way to industrial: engines and wires and giant rolls of PVC; green, blue, purple. The streets are very dirty here, flaking concrete houses drab and featureless. One gray beast of a building suddenly sports a wooden extension, like a closed-off balcony reaching down all along the side, all built of dark wood. It probably has a name, this structure, but I lack the architectural jargon. The wooden beams are capped by pretty pointy bits that, again, refuse to name themselves. I sit on a concrete block to write this down and a minivan going 40 on the sidewalk nearly takes my laptop and my foot along with it while a passing Frenchman asks me if I got a wireless signal, which I do not.

I need a better way to stream down my consciousness.

 

DaVe

 

Daydream Reconstruction of a Night Dream                                                      

 

A nightmare manifested itself in an orange

exso-suit, much like Seamus Aran

in Metroid Prime (the Gamecube version).

Three drawers comprising a big tube, grafted into my left arm.

Two spiral cords drilled through, the middle drawer.

One monstrosity of a mechanism.

The recoil was powerful enough to cleave

a human skull in two.

The outburst of the reaction

looked like a two-fold pieces

of an elbow blade.

The reload ended with a diagonal

pounding of the ground with my left hand.

The shotgun is now loaded,

dream reconstructed,

I can now open my eyes and face the

mundane reality of my life once more.

 

Assaf Friedman

 

                                                                                            

Acceptance

 

He gets more attention,
all the smiles and cheers.
Always active, confident,
fast-talking and smooth.

I can’t shake the feeling,
the rotting bad inside.
He seems like he cares,
it feels like he lies.

Therein unfolds the inner query,
to confront it is easier said;
to admit to oneself a true desire
despite a loathing of another’s way?

Am I jealous?
I ask myself, unbelieving,
believing, angry and sad.
I admit to myself – it could be.

To be like him? To be him?
With all the disdain that would bring?
(From myself more than others).
I choose no, and feel burning regret.

I love myself, I feel quite certain.
For all my faults and lacks,
for all that I’m not that he is,
I am what I am, as so many have said.

It is true and I will confess it –
I am wrong in so many ways.
Perfection falls steeply and far
from the reach of my hands…

But in numbers more numerous,
in ways he cannot even see,
I am as good and righteous
as anyone could ever hope to be.

 

Tali Opatowski

 

Our Villanelle                                                                                              

It’s Monday night’s fight, and my mood won’t be rising,

Slowly, a chill, up my spine starts to crawl.

We can’t change the steps, we must go on waltzing.

 

I wonder how much, if at all, you are sensing

of the slow shattering of this broken faced doll.

It’s Monday night’s fight, and my mood won’t be rising.

 

After all we are pretty much done with the fencing – 

heavy bodies lay down at the end of a brawl.

We can’t change the steps, we must go on waltzing.

 

It’s just me, though, who’s never quite done with debasing

the grounds for you wanting to be here at all.

It’s Monday night’s fight, and my mood won’t be rising.

 

It’s a wonder to me that I keep forgetting

how when we start to crumble the bedroom walls fall.

We can’t change the steps, we must go on waltzing

 

I won’t move from my spot, and I won’t be deciding

to suddenly come touch you hand, after all

it’s Monday night’s fight, and my mood won’t be rising,

We can’t change the steps, we must go on waltzing.

 

 

 For more 2008 student work click here.