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Poetry || SubmissionsON THE LACK OF PRODUCTIVITY OF ISRAELI ARTISTS IN THESE HARD TIMESBy Karen Alkalay-Gut I. Early in the evening you said there are too many poems already in this world I agreed and fell silent. But then you began to sigh endlessly and we saw there was a need for at least one more II In the cafes the new musicians have left off singing and the old ones repeat anachronistic irrelevancies for nostalgia's sake. In movie theaters we watch listlessly whatever French or American prize committees tell us suits the world's need, while a still small voice curses our poverty and impotence. We find no way to turn that voice to something of use to us. "Leave this land," says the latest rock star, tiny and sad, trying to steer his fans from agonies of assassinations and the aftermath of triumphant self-seekers filled with passionate intensity. "I mean it. Ah, you trust them to take care of it for you?" "Can you imagine a world without a homeland?" "Home is," said Frost's cruel farmer, "when you have to go there they have to take you in." But we sit at home and dream of somewhere else, forgetting the wandering of generations. III In the cafes the new musicians have left off singing and the old ones repeat anachronistic irrelevancies for nostalgia's sake. But we are sitting in a place called "Local Produce," drinking melon juice and eating a cinnamon babka redolent of loving grandmothers, while easy street cats-- sated from living near breezy people-- wander in and out of the sidewalk tables unperturbed by our enormous dog. And the music grabs me by the heart and teaches old lessons "I have no other country," the clear acapela of Corinne Allal reminds me. "I will not let it go, will shout in its ears until it opens its eyes." Then, as if the man who plays the tapes in "Local Produce" knows the agenda, the next song is Mother Earth." She will say, you are weary from your travels. Fear not, I will bind your wounds. She will clasp to me to her as I call her name, Mother of the Land. The indifferent cats of "Local Produce" wander in and out among the chairs, the coffee-drinkers and their dogs. Strange, but in their steadfast serenity they convince even their worst enemies it is best to enjoy the sidewalk as one. IV Later in the evening we come to an exhibit of junk lighting -- wire sculptures of floor lamps with lightbulbs woven in, lampshades made from sixty watt cartons -- in an old warehouse filled with improvisation--jazz like I have been needing to hear since the elections -- free, defiant, persistent, and with no overhead. Karen Alkalay-Gut teaches Victorian poetry at Tel Aviv University but in her own poems prefers a more direct approach than the subjects of her academic concerns. She is "always interested" in reader reactions to her poetry and can be emailed to Karen Alkalay-Gut Today's Situation
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