Henry Israeli
THE BOOK OF FIXED STARS
In place of sleep, a long, sedulous sigh.
In place of comfort, a handful of fish entrails.
In place of slaughter, a gurgling, wet orifice.
What takes the place of joy, al-Sufi asks,
but no one volunteers. Al-Sufi observes
the bloody gash of the ecliptic plane,
the path on which the pilgrim sun travels yearly,
and thinks, when the prophet has a tantrum
he is sent to his room where he cuts himself.
Al-Sufi contemplates the large Magellanic Cloud
while his patron, the Emir, vanquishes neighboring Mesopotamia.
When he lays his head on an astrolabe, he dreams
of a galaxy trapped inside a dog’s mouth,
which the dog will not let go of until a gramophone
is placed next to him. When he releases it,
it spins down the tornado-shaped cone,
emerging in the form of a song.
So that’s what dogs are for, he notes.
When, the next day, he recalls his dream,
the cat looks at him skeptically, which, to be fair,
is how the cat always looks at him.
In place of sleep, a long, sedulous sigh.
In place of comfort, a handful of fish entrails.
In place of slaughter, a gurgling, wet orifice.
What takes the place of joy, al-Sufi asks,
but no one volunteers. Al-Sufi observes
the bloody gash of the ecliptic plane,
the path on which the pilgrim sun travels yearly,
and thinks, when the prophet has a tantrum
he is sent to his room where he cuts himself.
Al-Sufi contemplates the large Magellanic Cloud
while his patron, the Emir, vanquishes neighboring Mesopotamia.
When he lays his head on an astrolabe, he dreams
of a galaxy trapped inside a dog’s mouth,
which the dog will not let go of until a gramophone
is placed next to him. When he releases it,
it spins down the tornado-shaped cone,
emerging in the form of a song.
So that’s what dogs are for, he notes.
When, the next day, he recalls his dream,
the cat looks at him skeptically, which, to be fair,
is how the cat always looks at him.
A DEVILISH MERCY
A hot needle brush inside the chest.
The feeling of being naked when clothed.
A broken egg. An oopsadazy. A lofty poppy
hunched over, letting loose a sigh.
So much we were never meant to see…
The houses can’t stand to be looked at.
At night they burrow into the ground.
A hot needle brush inside the chest.
The feeling of being naked when clothed.
A broken egg. An oopsadazy. A lofty poppy
hunched over, letting loose a sigh.
So much we were never meant to see…
The houses can’t stand to be looked at.
At night they burrow into the ground.
Henry Israeli’s poetry collections include New Messiahs (Four Way Books: 2002), Praying to the Black Cat (Del Sol: 2010), and god’s breath hovering across the waters, forthcoming from Four Way Books in 2016. He is the translator of Fresco: the Selected Poetry of Luljeta Lleshanaku (New Directions: 2002), Child of Nature (New Directions: 2010), and Haywire: New and Selected Poems (Bloodaxe, 2011). He has been awarded fellowship grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, Canada Council on the Arts, and elsewhere.
