Dina Elenbogen Word from: Jake

It became a fine tradition among the mima'amakim staff to get together and moan about the state of the contemporary Jewish Art. It's scant and superficial, not digging anywhere past the beaten themes of Holocaust, Israel-Palestinian conflict, neurotic personalities and imposing mothers - you know the shpil. Hence, it's always a joy when a new exciting artist surfaces on our horizons. Dina Elenbogen's new book, Apples of the Earth has recently been published by Spuyten Duyvil.

Apples of the Earth is a literal translation of Hebrew tapuchei adama (potatoes), something very simple and at the same time, somehow enthused merely through its linguistic image. Someone used to hearing "potatoes" will inevitably be charmed by the "apples of the earth;" and to me, in many ways, that is what Dina's poetry is about: translating the real, simple Israel into American-speak in the most inviting, magnetizing fashion. Take a look at this poem of hers, originally published in the esteemed Prairie Schooner.

JABOTINSKY STREET

for Robert Friend

For the man who nurses
twelve cats, one without claws,
one voiceless, one with tunnel vision,
I bring pomegranates from the market
on Ben Yehuda Street.
Last month they were ripe on the tree
in front of my lover's house.

I bring him these fruits for tomorrow
when I will already be on my way
to another country.
Each seed is a blessing.
I try to believe each seed
is another year of his life.

His Arab housekeeper serves us fish soup.
Bread is constantly popping from the toaster.
We critique the flavor of seasoning,
compare it with last month's stew,
last month, when my skin wasn't so brown
when the wine didn't spin my head so,
when I wasn't so close to the border.

Between the soup and sherbet
we critique my poems, his jewels.
He has taken in another cat this month,
without a tail, with a loud cry,
as I have taken in a new lover,
a Moroccan without manners.

We finish the game of solitaire
he began before I arrived. He keeps
turning up the ace of spades,
the card of death, says it always falls
from his neighbor's balcony, lands on his lawn,
something he stumbles past
on his way to collect the mail.

The oldest cat lands on the bookshelf.
His limbs heal in this room
where Martin Buber once stored
his books, where my friend collects
the words of three generations, writes
the words of two countries,
and gives me black tea.
I gather the fallen pomegranate seeds
plant them in a pot outside his window and pray
things will not stop blooming.