Thursday, August 8, 2013


Poem Without an End
by Yehuda Amichai 
Translated by Chana Bloch 
Inside the brand-new museum
there’s an old synagogue.
Inside the synagogue
is me.
Inside me
my heart.
Inside my heart
a museum.
Inside the museum
a synagogue,
inside it
inside me
my heart,
inside my heart
a museum


  1. WOW! A wheel in the middle of a wheel...(and Norman Rockwell)...comes to mind!

  2. ok. seriously. gonna swear. holyfuck. truly?!

    ruth, what goes on? i am a complete shiver.

    i read this poem the other day, not thinking a lot of it but receiving it lightly, reading it in reader and paying no heed to the author.

    (holyjesus, truly, what is this world?)

    while in that city the other day i felt called to buy an anthology of poetry. i rarely buy books. i don't buy much. i don't have much money and these last few years i am conflicted and pained to buy anything. but i bought this book. it was a compilation of poets who are rarely translated into English. the other day i received a letter from another friend who is truly open. she told me of an important story (which one isn't?) of her childhood. later i accidentally found my finger in the book, only moving the book, and opened it to a poem that was, more or less, uncannily word for word my friend's story but written by this poet. it was so odd! and so a day or two went by and i continued to read the book, only a few of the poems finding their way into me, but persevering, understanding that translation itself is an important key in understanding existence. ruth, it was this same poet, Yehuda Amichai, who wrote the story my friend told me of. and it was this same poet that i came back to last night and practiced in name for i recognized something in his voice that i knew (or recognized) from my own being. never before had i heard his name. and here he is. what - oh, what can any of this mean? i have no idea but i become, while momentarily excited, more and more hushed by such experiences. is it the wisdom of the world revealing itself like the coxcomb's red to the flower's red?


    1. Erin, this (so many times this) makes me deeply joyous. What does it mean? I don't know either. I believe what matters is that we pay attention. To this. To everything.

      Yehuda Amichai, and his story, make me more alive. Connecting with you in these synchronicities makes me more alive. Paying attention makes me more alive. Alive. Alive. Alive. Alight with Life. This is what I want more of.



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