Ariga: Visions: Poetry: Philip Hyams

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Poems by Philip Hyams After Twelve

The affair is finished.
Oh, you with your taxi heart!
A quarter for each beat of compassion
And the ride never ends.

An undisclosed destination.
Oh, you with your mechanical soul!
A screw for every move of understanding
And the part is supplied.

But never-ending, never-ending
That knowledge in deception,
Yet accepting all the while
Your worthless priceless reflection,
Never-ending, never-ending.

The tonguing is finished.
Oh, you with your cab philosophy,
A dime for each tick of sympathy
And the journey becomes infinite.

But never-ending, never-ending
Yet amazingly in contradiction,
Forever
Forever
Forever quickly finished.
Baiting

And you're just like a
Concentration Camp
I get thinner everyday
My soul diminishes
My spirit hides
My love is imprisoned

And I cry out just like
Those distant relatives
And open my arms wide
Ready to embrace Death
Hoping he'll receive me
Wanting to die

The gas is your smile
Then your frown
Then your smile
Then your frown
Your face is the spotlight
Burning my Jew skin
I never know how to react
To those expressions

You slowly suffocate me

But I'll never cry out!
I'll break away
I'll cut the barbed-wire
Of your body
I'll rip the wires from
Your electric personality
I'll survive
And return to see you
Stand in the accused box
Condemned for your crimes

You'll be the victim!

This Is My Heritage

This is my heritage
A series of bad knocks
And bloody circumcision cloths
From where “the chosen”
Were just that
And the mobs with their
Fish mouths raved while
They hit smashed punched
Until the gray sponge brains
Seeped out from cracked shells
A board then to be hung
“Jew Dog Child-Eater”

This is my heritage
A path of losing battles
And desert sandstorms
From where the tribe
Fought for oneness
And the Delilahs with their
Tempting kisses tricked while
They seduced lied murdered
Until the many farmer giants
Gasped out from the desecrated temples
A lesson then to be learnt
“No death without revenge”

The Marriage Temple

If I promise to love you
Can we plunge the Hari Kari blades
Together into our wombs?

At the same time
We shall be as one
Smiling in our eternal love.

Urban Gypsy

He came by my bus stop one cold and rainy evening.
He said that he was a gypsy, then he asked me if
I knew where I was going.
He didn't wait for my answer but instead continued
on speaking. “I am going but I don't know where I
am going. I am going but I don't know where I am
going. I am going but I don't know where I am going.”
Most people turned away from him or laughed.
I did not.

“I am going but I don't know where I am going.”
The cars and buses zoomed on past over the wet street beside us.
“I am going but I don't know where I am going.”
The neon jewelry of the buildings reflected
their false promises upon the people and sidewalks.
“I am going but I don't know where I am going.”
He was short and unshaven.
He carried his home in a plastic shopping bag.
At least he was truthful to himself.

Subversion

A new mode of modernity:
Robots lanced by emotion
But pursued by reason.

The ecclesia has been perverted under
A topaz sky of camouflage.
Hybrid philosophies have won the battle,
They rule and control showing no mercy.

So bind one more martyr to the pole.
Sacrifice him to an old ideal.
Let his ashes be blown across a land
Where flesh is cheap, expendable.

A new mode of modernity:
Robots lanced by emotion
But pursued by reason.

Stroll

I walked along the strand.
It was wet and smooth.
My footprints disappeared
As fast as they were embossed
Upon that hard-packed shore.
A torch of a moon shone down
And lured a light around the
Torso of a dead man.
His skin was ripped and white.
His gashes were blue and red.
In the distance I saw the smile
Of a shark, a glimmer in his eyes,
A chuckle in the dark.

Trotsky – My Conscience The bed is over there
By the picture of Leon Trotsky.
If you lay me upon it
I shall erect a god for your chapel.
If you lay me upon it
I shall moan in pleasure for your celebration.

Yet I could have sworn that Leon frowned
When your bra and panties hit the ground!
“Comrade…is this the way to change?”
“No”, I replied…”But I'd rather itch and gasp
than scream and die. I'd rather raise my little gun for
Freedom's name than raise a real one for
Freedom's grave.”

And so let's return
To the matter at hand
To the matter at mouth,
You go North
I'll go South
And we'll meet in the middle
Over by the bed.
I'll turn Leon's picture
Towards the wall.
It's making me nervous.
He looks too suspecting.
He stands too tall!
Tomorrow I'll get rid of that picture.

Philip Hyams is an English language poet living and working in Israel.

His most recent poetry at Ariga can be found here Submissions

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