Tammara Or Slilat, born 1960, is a bi-lingual poet, wrtiting in Hebrew and English. She is also a painter, healer, mother, grandmother and an English teacher. BA in English Literature and Philosophy, MA in Creative Writing and English Literature from Bar Illan University, Israel. She has published 3 books of poetry in Hebrew and 2 in English. Lately she also published a children’s book in English.
Crepuscular light, golden azure bright
of harvested wheat and sky, the Sabbath creeping
on cat’s paws in fields above the Sea of Galilee.
something stretches, cracks
joints, knuckles turn strenuously white –
breathing citrus flowers perfumed oxygen
peels off dried saliva stress.
Serenity is a lizard’s eye closed in the sun,
skin depth, breathing
My Lemon Tree
My lemon tree bears no fruit.
The pomegranate is decorated with bright red orbs,
the mango bows, burdened with orange-green pendants,
the fig’s ripened fruits burst at the seams dripping sweet nectar,
but my lemon tree is barren
still. I wonder
“Look at its thorns”, says the gardener.
“Miserable trees grow thorns.
You won’t find it in a book, but I know it to be
so”. People too, I thought,
grow thorns out of their pain, prick you
when you try to touch, you learn
how long, how sharp the pain
A Blue Heron
A blue heron, a blur
of feathers in a cluster
above its head,
straight neck, eyes
wide open, as if
it wanted to dance
on thin air. Only
a close look reveals
Tsunami of Fire (After the great fire on the Carmel mountain)
A wall of red death
sweeps through the forest.
What can a tree, what can a deer,
what can a man do?
Leaping bright orange tongues
plastic drips, iron melts,
and what of flesh and blood
What once was the evergreen
mountain, pines, oaks and terebinth,
the flickering flashes of poppies and cyclamens,
wild spirits dancing in an emerald world
now turned ashen white,
white rain on black skeletons.
Next winter will bring
a promise of sprouts
for change, regeneration,
but some flowers, the heart feels,
will never bloom again on these hills.
The Oracle speaks
There’s a moment when everything
amalgamates: the undone
threads weave flowers entwined
with leaves covering fruits,
the blood bell calls
all vessels way off shore.
Close, grieving eye,
give up your flickering memories.
Sleep, ancient fear,
your bluff exposed.
Listen to the nursery rhyme,
sung in foreign tongues,
and while listening –
forget what’s left undone.
Poetry in this post: © Tammara Or Slilat
Published with the permission of Tammara Or Slilat