David Tovy (1936-2009) was born in Egypt and at the age of 16 he immigrated to Israel by himself. In his early forties he began to write poetry (mostly in English, although it was not his native language). He drew inspiration, inter alia, from the history, philosophy and culture of the Mediterranean region. Tovy wrote close to 750 poems over the course of three decades of creation. After his death, many of them were translated into Hebrew and published in three poetry collections, as well as in several literary magazines.
I’m the most famous embalmer in the Levant;
my art and skill are such
that only the great and wealthy come to me.
Damascus and Ephesos, what praise and glory for me, boast I’m a native son;
but the truth is I’m an Alexandrian with a strong inclination
to the Hellene way of life.
I simply love my work and why deny it, I’m the best.
I do marvels in my splendid atelier, preserve such trait of the defunct,
such touch that’ll bring me glory in later ages.
You’ll never guess it, but I spend most of my time there,
mix with pride aromatical drugs and fragrances,
some invented over the years,
others like esoteric perfumes and balms
brought at great pain from Constantinople.
I do marvels; keep alive here a wrinkle near the eye,
there a slight twist of the mouth;
but what a race then before decomposition steals away my efforts
to other regions.
I do marvels; but even I wasn’t ready when they brought Hakim
the well known poet;
even I weakened at the honour I was offered:
preserve for posterity a tortured soul; preserve the loneliness
of a great poet.
Yannis, a stevedore from Saloniki
Yesterday, late in the afternoon, Yannis the stevedore
died from heart failure.
A noble and wild soul, that Greek from Saloniki.
Few, if any, knew his real name.
I won’t go to his funeral; he didn’t like stupid tears.
But to honour his memory, the memory of someone different,
honour our close friendship,
causeries in the deep of the night, drinking whatever we had;
and remain faithful to his teachings:
“sometimes you have to pretend,” he used to say, “otherwise life
would be unbearable.”
To honour him I’ll drink some ouzo, order some red mullets,
listen at our favourite tavern the lovely music,
“that is food my friend, food for the soul,”
chatter for awhile with one of the whores about the night’s business,
and quite drunk I’ll whisper:
“Yannis, my friend, I’d like to pretend I’m not sad.”
A moment of love
You strolled barefooted like a Moroccan queen
on the hot sands of Caesarea,
wearing your famous sombrero hat
and a chaste organdie dress;
I watched from a corner frightened by so much beauty
and you knew I was there.
But you went on in all the glory of your fifteen years;
I was just a year older.
And for a while the ancient city of Caesarea
witnessed a moment of love.
Poetry in this post: © David Tovy
Published with the permission of Jacob Tovy