Shaharit
(Morning Prayer)
by
Amir Or
It is here,
falling and expanding in nothingness, without prior notice of
the birth of a universe from a point of light: an eye appears,
half opens,
shuts and opens
to see what there is to see; from an eye without an I, from outer light,
stains
by now are slowly settling on the surface of the sun; a window frame,
its paint pealed in strips of yes and no, through it –
densely
shadowed brightly spotted ivy leaves
that don’t lossen their grip from above the opposite wall; and crawl,
onward,
into the empty vessel that was already washed in blinding light,
under the beam of an eye that examines what-9s and what-is-not; in a moment
remnants
of dawn will vanish in the skies of memory, and the room will fill up with
words:
bed sheet, clock, and hair nearby, that peeks from under the blanket –
and it’s
not yours. And no, I don’t want. All this is still another
dream,
familiar like others, though somehow its images
are so
unwilling, and it’s not enough to want them, so as to embody
some kind of a world. After the light –
flesh;
a heavy opaque wave surrounds your will, still intangible,
inanimate, in no hurry to carry the burden, to be a body once again, to
exit
from the
nothing to there. What can I do? Hey my soul,
who will bless over your safe return, hop, into earth,
that immediately
turns into an “I”, like in any dream. And the I that’s behind,
that is all eyes, also returns, yet is not quite “here”,
like Sinbad
or Marco Polo from all their myriad lives; and by now it begins
to expand in the flesh, to wear a dull forgotten will,
and in
in a throat-less sign, eye after eye, to shut them all –
except those two, that look straight ahead,
into the
viscous interior. And already – you’re still outside the movements
–
you go out to conquer for yourself time and place: blanket aside,
the back
rolls half a turn on the elbow, then sends a pair of legs
to place the I in the midst of space; now
where are
the slippers? The biped refuses, but nevertheless
the whole bundle makes its way between the walls to the door,
in between
the white tiles, a sin, a mirror and water,
into what, in a combined effort a palate, a tongue,
lips and
a throat, is known as – “I’m going to the bathroom”.
Surrendering to the lighting and to what appears beneath it,
I look
at the face of a portrait, hovering in front of me from a bright surface;
Its features are a bit disheveled, its eyes bleary,
though
see: we haven’t worn anything yet. So enough, get up
and get dressed already: name, surname, profession, age, (bachelor?)
married?
divorced?) shaving, cologne, brushing teeth,
now a hairdo, pants, (the black
or the
blue?) where are the shoes, the shirt? (maybe
a jacket is required?) – a little green angle slaps you on your mouth
and already
you forgot what you remembered, from where and whereto; conquer a world
of a cup of coffee, and then – we’ll see. The fear appears
as a hidden
note in the phone’s tune that is not even becoming
to an order of prey birds: what do you want from me?
what did
I do? what haven’t I given? Oh, Gordon,
cast your gaze upon me now, before I’ll get used to moving,
before
the day will populate itself with all its thousands of questions
that dance on a tip of a needle,
which sews
and closes my openings over me while I’m still alive;
teach me the mirror’s secret
and the
tranquil silence of a stone’s wisdom,
against the mirror’s swarms of questions to which there’s only one answer:
here-I-am.
newspaper, cigarette, more coffee, window divided
between
light and shadow; beyond it – the promised land,
clear and distinct, her garbage is already being emptied out,
and the
dust, with which demons-of-entropy covered her all night,
is being wiped off;
“newspaper”,
“table”, “sugar jar”, ceiling
floor and door, wall, corner, another wall and wall and crack –
like a
reminder note stuck to every thing –
teaching again a common movement
that has
nothing of the glory of their creation,
rather a call to order, which in the ramshackle power of a miracle,
the movement
is sufficient to found in them a shared place and time
to become quite a threatened reign over a kingdom of a room. I
go to the
washroom and there learn as from the beginning
who feeds and who’s food, then let go of all this, surrender
in face
of the goddess of Change, that digests the day
without passing judgment. Now I pass through me, like her,
stop saying
“I”, and right a way I am; now
all this no longer matters, but only this: that I’ll be
what ever
will be.
Oh goddess without figure, give me the strength to let go
and not
to be so much, to roll through all the faces
of this day; so I won’t freeze outside my heart,
and walk
sinuously from fear on the day’s metamorphoses; so I won’t walk in course
with the rest of the faces that already were,
and won’t
roam as a dubious being through invisible corridors
past the sights of the day; so I won’t be embarrassed to say”
here-I-am,
talk to me in many voices,
from al the here, from me.
~~~
Now slowly
I open the exit door;
this happiness, how come?
One step
over the threshold imposes
further submission, to a domain which scale
is the
size of a grave, a world which is yours and not yours;
the threshold is a sdcret, a call beynd
another
Curtain, in which 'be whom ever you'll be'
is ot cheap or winged,
in front
of what stands here outside valor and fear,
solid as a god of Stone, it's face not yet carved,
and the
one who won't see them, is "alive" only by name.
The day waits outside for external action,
clear cut
and sculptured in the body of matter and light;
the goddess of Change governs here lazily,
and our
will no longer shapes dream and shadow.
The matter of things, that returns to a distinct dingdom,
sinks again
into itself, into the weight of its being,
so as today will be for us a border-stone and a dwelling boundary,
a touchstone
and a grindstone for our indocile spirit -
promethium's fetters on the rebelliousness of memory,
that so
far has not been sufficiently initiated
into the secret of the sacrificial order and the benevolence of a burden.
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