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Poetry || SubmissionsThree poems by Ronny SomeckAll translated by Vivian Eden Rice Paradise My grandmother didn't let us leave rice on the plate. Insted of telling us about hunger in India and the children with swollen bellies, who would have opened mouths wide for each grain she with a screeching fork would drag all the leftovers to the center of the plate and nearly in tears tell us how the uneaten rice would rise to the heavens to complain to God. Now she's dead and I imagine the joy of the encounter between her false teeth and the angels with the flaming sword at the gates of rice paradise. They will spread, beneath her feet, a carpet of red rice and the yellow rice sun will beat down on the white bodies of the Garden's lovelies. My grandmother will spread olive oil on their skin and slip Them, one by one, into the cosmic pots of God's kitchen. Grandma, I feel like telling her, rice is a seashell that shrunk and like it you rose from the sea. The water of my life. The Ballad of Alcohol Valley Only sharpen a knifeblade along its mate's hip. In Alcohol Valley the sex knife spins on its tip. Rock'n'roll cops push together straight ahead. By the sweat of crimes - our daily bread. Oh, girls of the Valley, Barbies in the dangerous game room, who will part your legs tonight, what lullaby lower nylon lashes over plastic eyes. The Valley is a dream, a bad dream. The moon is the nightlight of Dr. Freud. p.s. About the meaning of dreams in the Valley: a girl seen walking a dog - a sign she is lonely. A girl seen walking without a dog - a sign she forgot the dog at home. The razor blade that cut poetry's metaphor face To Abd El-Qadr El-Jenabi He's the last hair in Salvador Dali's beard. He's the stray bullet in John Wayne's sawed-off shotgun. He's the razor blade that cut poetry's metaphor face. He's the date palm that sweetened the trees in paradise along the Euphrates and the Tigris. So what is it we had, Abd El-Qadr El Jenabi, I ask on the fifth floor, on rue Nollet, at the edge of Clichy in Paris. Where are the horses of the thousand and one nights galloping tonight? (Such a lot of night in one line and such a lot of love in the eyes of Mona, his wife, when his finger polished the frame of the picture in which he tried to long for the Western of his life in the streets of Baghdad). In the other room, A refrigerator of consciousness opened for a moment and an icecube floated like a boat in the water melting from the seabed of her body. Ronny Someck, born in 1951 in Baghdad, Iraq, was brought to Israel when he was two years old. He has published seven volumes of poetry as well as several CDs with the jazz musician Elliot Sharp, and has received Israel's Prime Minister's Award. Another poem by Ronni Someck at Ariga: In reply to the question: When did your peace begin? More about Ronny from Google Today's Situation
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