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My heart has turned you
 Jay Guberman   Return, Return Let us gaze at you! -Song of Songs 7:1

      My heart has turned you    
into memories;    
    my mind, into       
a pillar of salt.    
    When I think of you    
    in the present,    
    or spend nights alone    
    with my dreams of you,    
    my mind rubs against    
    my heart,    
    like salt in an open wound.    
     
    My mind has turned you    
    into a bow;    
    my heart, into    
    strings.    
    When I speak of you    
    it is in past tense,    
    though you are very much alive---    
    it hurts less.    
    As my mind rubs against    
    my heart,    
    striking a melancholy song:    
    Shuvi, shuvi,    
    V'nechezeh bach!    
     
     
     
London & Jerusalem    
   for Ronda    
     
     
     
    You told me of your love for London    
    and I, of mine for Jerusalem.    
    And we speak of our second homes    
    and our first loves,    
    and how those memories    
    should be left for the archaeologists,    
    and how we must for the time being    
    carefully avoid the subject    
    each of the other    
    like diplomats    
    in London or Jerusalem    
    busily seeking    
    positive signs,    
    in one and the other    
    or those things    
    we love elsewhere    
    and wish we could have    
    here at home.    
     
     
While Abraham was binding Isaac    
     
     
            While Abraham was binding Isaac    
    to Mount Moriah he was interrupted by    
    a knock at the door.    
            "Who could this be?" he thought.    
            "We don't even own a door," he cried.    
    So he continued binding Isaac to the    
    altar. Again, a knock that could make    
    the deaf hear. Abraham had to stop    
    and look for the door.    
            He yelled, "Leave me alone, I'm doing    
    God's work!" and returned to continue    
    the akedah. And again a knock interrupted    
    him, and again, and again----Abraham    
    did not know what to do, whether to laugh    
    or to cry.    
            And then he thought: "This will be    
    the history of my children. When we will    
    be doing our work or God's work there will    
    always come a knock at the door to interrupt    
    us. . . whether we own a door or not." And    
    it came to pass that the history of the Jews    
    is a history of interruptions.    
     
     
Eyeless in Gaza    
     
    The noise isn't so loud    
    when you stumble in the dark    
    eyeless in Gaza    
    not seeing the coming destruction    
    but participating in it anyway.    
     
    The noise isn't so loud either    
    when you eat----    
    toothless in Gaza    
    wasting the fruit of peace    
    because you can't taste it,    
    and with false innocence    
    you lick the skin    
    like a puppy with a stranger    
    whimpering    
    a wish for teeth.    
     
    If you had all the eyes    
    that were lost    
    in a moments vengeance    
    you would have no need to see    
    only one point of view.    
         
             
   If you had all the teeth    
   knocked out in a moments violence,    
    you would have no need    
    to eat one nations food    
    nor taste the blood of anothers.    
     
    Now, if we could only see    
    we could use our eyes to compensate    
    for all the eyes closed in our lifetime,    
    to do the work yet to be done,    
    though for now,    
    I am afraid    
    all that will remain of us    
    will be our broken teeth    
    and many tired eyes    
    closed.    
     
     
Until    
     
    Until I lose my voice    
    and no one listens    
    the unsaid words of love    
    will accumulate    
    inside me,    
    and will appear on my face    
    like the flashes    
    from an electronic sign    
    whose bulbs have all blown    
    except for two or three    
    intermittently appearing    
    like a code    
    that no one but you    
    understands.    
     
    Until I lose my mind    
    with no one's help,    
    the unthought thoughts    
    will accumulate    
    and be sacrificed    
    like my great-grandfather,    
    an Isaac who wasn't spared.    
    And I, an Isaac who was,    
    was born under the sign of the ram,    
    to be sacrificed in other ways.    
     

>About Jay Guberman "My pieces have appeared in numerous journals in the United State and abroad. I am a listed writer in the Directory of American Poets & Fiction Writers. I live in New England with my wife and dachshund. I trust you will find something of interest among this selection and hope that you will contact me by return e-mail at: Yofijr@snet.net or rguberman@snet.net ...Thanks. Jay Guberman All the above poems are original works by Jay Guberman. I wish to dedicate this grouping to my parents, Syl & Maury Guberman. More poems by Jay Guberman          

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