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Contents:
Spring Reading - Jerusalem, May 2009
Winter Reading - Ramat Gan, February, 2010
Spring Reading - Jerusalem, June 2010 Spring Reading -
Bar-Ilan alumni and student poets, as well as
guest poets from Tel Aviv University:
Ben Niran
 Danielle Zilberberg
 Tammara Or Slilat was born in Tel Aviv, lives in Moshav Arbel and
teaches high school English. She has published poems in various e-zines and literary magazines such as "Kav Natui", "Mashiv Her two books of published poems are "Children are made of Dream Stuff", 1991 and "Only Love Can," 1994.
She is also an active painter and has participated in many group exhibitions. Still Life with Pomegranates Be still, watch:Crimson and cadmium redpomegranates set againstcascading ivory cloth, an old bottleof wine in phtalocynine emerald greenand a leafy bough to bring the diagonaluplifting energy to the composition.We're so used to seeing that we've stoppedlooking. This is what I want you to do:forget everything you know, everythingyou believe to betrue. Knowing dependson the point of Perception: change thatand you've changed the world.When you put your brush to the canvasfocus not on what isthere, but rather on what is not.Objects are defined by the empty spacearound them, just as peopleare remembered not onlyby their deeds, but also by whatthey neglected, or forgotRuth Fogelman, a long-time resident of Jerusalem’s Old City, is the winner of the Reuben Rose Poetry Competition, 2006 and commended winner of the John Reid Traditional Poetry Competition, 2007. Ruth is author of Within the Walls of Jerusalem - A Personal Perspective. Her poems, articles, short stories and photography have publications in Israel, the USA and India. Her first full poetry collection, Cradled in God’s Arms will be released this summer.
Ruth is a facilitator of the Pri Hadash Women’s Writing Workshop in Jerusalem and graduated the Creative Writing Program of Bar Ilan University, 2006.
Visit Ruth's website at Celebrating Domestic Virtues
He celebrates her domestic virtues sprawled in his armchair; he raises his mug of beer and chews.
She stands stirring a pot on the flame. He celebrates, drink in hand, as he turns on the soccer game.
She leaves the kitchen and throws another batch of dirty socks and underwear in the washing machine. He celebrates, at the edge of his chair to watch the match.
She goes out to the porch and begins to hang up the towels, pillow cases, pants and shirts. He celebrates by springing out of the chair when his team wins.
She walks into the room. Seeing him dance, the mug still clutched in his hand, she wishes him a good night: “I’m going to bed, honey, just watch that rug.”
He doesn’t hear. He’s busy celebrating.
Ira Director, the Chicago born poet and artist, lives in the small rural community of Kibbutz Gezer nestled near the foothills of the Judean Mountains where he writes, paints and sculpts. In addition to his poems appearing in numerous exhibitions as integral components of paintings,
Traveling between America and the Middle East has added an element of diversity and a cross cultural perspective to the work.
In addition, he directs English Plus which provides international and local corporations with English language and communication training. Reading: o Stanza Tel Aviv, May 3 o Poetry BIU Jerusalem, May 17, 2009
“About suffering they were never wrong, / The Old Masters…” This quote is from the first two line of a poem written in 1938 by W. H. Auden in which he describes the ancient Grecian myth of the Fall of Icarus from the perspective of uninvolved bystanders. He postulates that suffering is always accompanied by bystanders who are either unaware, unconcerned or simply too preoccupied with their own lives to become involved.
The “Old Masters” include Pieter Brueghel the Elder, whose 16th century painting “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus,” is described in the second stanza of Auden’s poem.
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus by Pieter Brueghel
 The poem's French title “Musée des Beaux Arts” or “Museums of Fine Arts” is derived from Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, the Brussels museum which houses the painting.
Musée des Beaux Arts by W. H. Auden
About suffering they were never wrong,
Some years after Auden wrote this poem, William Carlos Williams wrote a poem titled "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" about the same painting. William’s poem supports Auden’s and Brueghel’s thesis. Landscape with the Fall of Icarus by William Carlos Williams According to Brueghel a farmer was ploughing of the year was the edge of the sea sweating in the sun unsignificantly a splash quite unnoticed Sometimes I wonder. What would have happened if the bystanders could not have, as in Auden’s poem, “turn… away/ Quite leisurely from the disaster?” What would have happened if Icarus had, not fallen into the sea, but rather into someone’s backyard swimming pool or perhaps into the middle of a poem?
I sometimes think about what makes people become involved in, or remain distant from other peoples’ suffering. I wrote the following poem in an attempt to look more closely at this question.
Is there a doctor here? by Ira Director
I. the white haired woman’s pale face turned red
she slumped dropped from the chair
the poet stopped mid poem
her husband knelt in the hot sun crying as people moved closer
I had the good sense to move away and get another piece of the apple cake which I cut horizontally to get a slice filled with apple pieces
after loading it with homemade “tehena” I took two bites
“lucky I’ve already read” embarrassed by my own thoughts I phoned Debbie “How terrible. Have you read yet?”
I stuffed the rest in my mouth licked my drippy fingers chewing slowly as I went back hoping no one would notice
a doctor was administering CPR
a young teen was crying in the john perhaps the old woman’s granddaughter
“she wasn’t even wearing a hat” I heard
II. later in the shade as the poets began reading again
I brought her an orange then thought as the ambulance drove her away
staying alive is mostly luck
what if that doctor hadn’t wanted to hear student poetry that day
III. that evening over coffee I realized I was likely the only other person who “knew” CPR
so the old lady had two chances today
though the doctor probably also saved me from finishing this day with a pair of dead lips pressed to mine as I tried desperately to remember the right steps from that course 20 year ago Guest poet from Tel Aviv University - Dara Barnat teaches poetry and creative writing in the Department of English and American Studies at Tel Aviv University, where she is also writing a doctorate. Her work has appeared in journals such as California Quarterly,
 Green Hills Literary Lantern, Crab Orchard Review, Plainsongs and Ibbetson St. Press. In addition, several of her poems were recently translated into Hebrew and published in Shvo. A collection of poetry entitled Headwind Migration was released by Pudding House Publications in early 2009. Visit her web site at http://darabarnat.googlepages.com/
Ghosts
Because love could not hold its body last night I cooked with someone else.
I stood in your place and remembered your back as you grated squash and nutmeg to please me with fresh soup.
He bought a bottle of strong balsamic vinegar from Italy and we laughed at its long and phallic top.
I played the ghost of you who once taught me so patiently to cook garlic until transparent.
He and I opened red wine as if we were familiar and on a whim poured it into our dressing.
You always worked frantically as if the right spice was the only way to reach me.
He barely touched my back while we cooked but I felt an intimacy in eating.
He and I worked slowly though we were hungry.
MC - Spring Reading in Jerusalem 2009:
Ira Director
 Panel - Spring Reading in Jerusalem 2009:
Panel Moderator: Linda Stern Zisquit
 Panel of poets (from left) Morani Kornberg-Weiss, Daniel Savery, Dara Barnat and Yakov Azrie.  Winter Reading -
Bar-Ilan alumni and student poets, as well as
guest poets:
Yonatan Sredni was born and raised in Palo Alto in northern California, but has lived in Israel since 1994. He has a BA in English from San Diego State University and completed the MA program in Creative Writing in fiction at Bar- Ilan University in 2008.
His short stories, most of which combine his passion for baseball with Jewish themes, have been published online in Cyclamens and Swords and The Jewish Magazine. His short essays have appeared in The Jerusalem Post and Israel National News.
His poetry, like his prose, tends to focus on the lighter side of life in Israel.
Dr. Seifer
The waiting The poking More waiting More poking Discomfort
Dr. Seifer arrives
"Open Wide." I open wide. "Wider, please."
I open so wide I feel my face cracking
"Does your mom still teach at the Hebrew day school?" He asks that every time My mom retired 8 years ago
"No cavities, but you've got to brush harder."
I nod I spit I rinse
Then the fluoride I hate the fluoride I loathe the fluoride Time stands still with the fluoride
Finally, we're done. Go pick a prize From the big green frog
All the prizes suck. I choose a pencil. See you in 6 months.
I have a cleaning this Friday.
Spring Reading -
Bar-Ilan alumni and student poets, as well as
guest poets from Stanza:
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Jerusalem, May 2009
Elana Meyersdorf  Yael Unterman
 Yael Unterman was born in Jerusalem, Israel. She grew up in Manchester, England, and returned to Israel at the age of 18. She holds a BA in Psychology and Talmud from Bar Ilan University, an MA in Jewish History from Touro College, and an MA in See her website, www.yaelunterman.comSisyphusOne hundred, One hundred and one, I count, for counting Is all I have. I tell myself, the stone has a different face, each time - as I roll it up the blighted crag, in a rut worn down by my scabrous feet - a different face than last time, last hour, last week. But when it rolls down, I know it is the same stone; rolling down, speeding away from me, like one more rejecting lover. One hundred and two. - - - I got a fax yesterday, It said, Sisyphus, we are with you, We are sorry for your endless labours, From the Johannsons, Norway. I get emails from around the world, Sometimes flowers and chocolates, Once, oddly, a toy frog. They swamp me in kind words, Pity, sympathy. But I know if I stopped, dropped, They would not bury me. They would rush to find another. Someone must always push, that heavy stone. I don’t mind anymore. As Camus said, A face that toils so close to stones is stone itself. - - - I was a king once, I think, in a place called Corinth, I remember marble walls. Rich, young, I was filled with cunning, as a beehive with honey; I fooled Death himself – I think. Perhaps it was just a dream. For my name then was Siss and Fuss, And now my name is Bottom-Top-Bottom-Top. One time someone came and told me I could stop, The gods were tired of my toil; bored. Enough. From Bottom, I looked at him, Sweaty hair in my eyes, and with my granite muscles, leaned forward, put my arms around my Rock – kissed it. And began rolling it again towards Top.
Guest poet from Tel Aviv University - Moran Kornberg-Weiss, born in Tel Aviv, spent her early childhood in Southern California and moved back to Israel during high school. She completed her B.A. in English and Psychology at Tel Aviv University and is currently open-mic nights, poetry readings, and performance workshops at Tel Aviv. She also paints, sculpts and collects owls. This Fall, Moran will begin her Ph.D. at SUNY Buffalo's Poetics Program, and hopes to spread her poetic spirit across the U.S.
Each Queen Stands on a Square of Her Own Color
I imagine my mother and I are the only two women on this planet.
The world would no longer be round, but a flat chessboard and she and I are opponents.
I never learned how to play chess, but I know the game constitutes one winner.
And I am the woman who can still bear child. Daniel Savery, who is originally from London, lives in Tel Aviv. He worked as a professional travel journalist in the UK for over four years and has written for Haaretz and The Jerusalem Report in Israel.
See Daniel’s web site www.danscribe.com
Bedtime Story, 1984 I sat on the carpet, The TV was blaring, Its belly blown up like a balloon, Not everyone has food, On a Thursday night, I, was a child, How easy it was,
Miriam Carabok, born and brought up in rainy Scotland, has now been in sunny Israel for forty years and still hasn’t gotten used to it. However, she writes about neither place - inner weather is what interests her. Her poems have been published in literary journals and on the web. She also runs poetry workshops whenever the opportunity arises, including for Voices Israel. Guest poet from Tel Aviv University - Ron Ben-Tovim is an MA student in TAU’s Department of English. Since his military service,he has been writing and reading poetry in both Hebrew and English. 
Leah Moses, a graduate of the Shaindy Rudoff Graduate Program in Creative Writing, is a poet and English teacher. She revels in reciting "I am a Tree" by Ogden Nash with her 4th and 5th grade students while acting out its assonance. She has published poems in The Derononda Review, Fallopian Falafel, Voices Anthology, and has a oem coming out in Poetica. She submitted to these journals, largely because her busy family and professional activities make it more convenient to publish where submissions are accepted by email. Leah lives in Efrat with her husband Naftali, and their family.
Yakov Azriel was born Gerald Rosenkrantz in 1950 in New York where he received his B.A. in English literature, summa cum laude. He holds a doctorate in Judaica,
ABRAHAM’S MOTHER
“When Terah had lived seventy years, he begot Abram...” (Genesis 11:26) Abraham’s mother (let’s call her Binah),
Was it she who taught Abraham To ask why and why not? In her lullabies, Rocking him in a simple cradle, Singing to him of little goats eating raisins and almonds, Did she also mock the idols, Whisper questions with no answers? Abraham’s mother (let’s call her Emunah), Was it she who first perceived Beyond the façade of wind and storm A greater power blows? Was it her insight that showed a little boy Not to bow to stars, But let his own soul Shine? Abraham’s mother (let’s call her Tikvah), Did she smile behind her veil When the youth smashed his father’s icons? Was it she who supplied the hammer and the ax? Abraham’s mother (let’s call her Eema), Did she feel pride, or sadness, or triumph, When her son, hearing God’s voice and choosing the route to Jerusalem, Packed his belongings and left home? Did she whisper, ‘God be with you?’ Was this her vindication? Abraham’s mother; Is all we have Hers? Ari Kohn hails from Washington DC's metropolitan area. Formerly a world famous rap superstar with a large global fan base of
Revenge/Causality
Residents of New Orleans gathered to wage war on the world’s butterfly population
Audience - Spring Reading in Jerusalem 2009: 
   Ramat Gan, February, 2010
Ira Director, the Chicago born poet and artist, lives in the small rural community of Kibbutz Gezer nestled near the foothills of the Judean Mountains where he writes, paints and sculpts. In addition to his poems appearing in numerous exhibitions as integral components of paintings, they have been published in Israeli and foreign journals.
Traveling between America and the Middle East has added an element of diversity and a cross cultural perspective to the work. In addition, he directs English Plus which provides international and local corporations with English language and communication training.
Damn,
that one lucky swipe
before I ripped his throat out.
It’s not that deep,
but enough to get infected.
What did he do, play in shit all day?
/2/ It’s a pretty good spot.
The branches are thick enough. Even
the giant whites can’t get to me in here. Anything
small enough to get in I’ll
eat.
/3/ I’d even be happy with a mouse,
though it’s half a day
puking fur and bone for
every mouth full
of meat.
/4/ It
would have to come close enough to grab it.
I’m already too weak to pounce
let alone hunt. They’re about as stupid as
a lizard,
though their instincts are better.
/5/ I hate bugs and lizards. I wish this
fever would go down or at least
if the pipes would go on
I’d get a drink from a dripper.
/6/ There it is again. The spindly legs of a great white. And
that stupid hairless
face bending down. About
as pretty as an albino lizard
squashed in the road.
/7/ It’s reaching towards me.
I’m too weak to fight or run,
but I’ll rip its face if it gets
any closer.
/8/ It left two bowls.
WATER and MEAT!
It could be a trap. I’ll wait. I’d rather die
in the bushes than in a cage.
I don’t see any wires or bars.
Crawling hurts.
/9/ A week of water and meat.
Let it it stands there
and watch me eat. So what.
I can walk again.
Tomorrow I’ll hunt.
Damn II,
he’s huge. He belongs in a forest
like that wild cat who would visit our garden
when I was a child
in Linz.
/2/ With that torn flopping left ear and infected gash in his neck
he looks like a wounded
partisan.
/3/ He doesn’t move,
even when I bring him his food.
Only looks at me.
If I stand back far enough
he crawls
then eats.
/4/ The last few days he’s been standing.
He walks to eat.
Perhaps
tomorrow he’ll hunt.
Jerusalem, June 2010 |
Creative Writing from Bar Ilan University. Yael has taught, lectured, performed and run workshops on five continents, has authored stories, articles, and a biography of Professor Nehama Leibowitz. She works as a life coach, enabling people to live inspired, fulfilling lives. 
