Zohar Eitan: 9 poems from the book\u00a0Shu Hai practices javelin<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n
Mixed sections of the following poems appear in the First Movement of „Shu Hai mitamen behatalat kidon“.<\/i><\/p>\n
SHU HAI PRACTICES JAVELIN<\/b><\/p>\n
Shu Hai practices javelin
\n– LONG BREATH PAUSE, HERE AND BETWEEN ALL STANZAS –
\nWei-ling’s parents are doctors.
\nThey believe it is good to help one’s neighbor.
\nThey train her to volunteer.
\n(A thing, warm and smooth, fills a deep bowl.
\nIt takes the entire screen, save only the corners.
\nNow an old fork approaches. It lifts a smooth,
\nbrown mass while disappearing into the top
\nright-hand corner.)
\nApproaching<\/b>
\nViewing is forbidden Mondays through Friday,
\nand the pupils
\n(The camera struggles to follow the ball’s
\nmovement among legs. The picture is slightly
\ntilted)
\nThe girls, who can’t play, cheer on
\nApproaching, Expanding.
\n<\/b>The pupils spend time with their families.
\nSunday mornings Shu-Yang
\nPartaking. Washing away.<\/b>
\nThe city, where many places of interest are
\nPartaking. Sweeping away. Straightening up.
\n(Straighten up. Become a drop of water.)<\/b>
\nThe city, where many places of interest are
\n– RECITE VERBS QUICKLY, IN A FORCEFUL MANNER, LOUDLY-
\n(Approaching a man and a boy who stand
\nalmost touching. Both hold cameras. Behind
\nthem we see: a lawn strip, a wall.)
\nWrap yourself.
\n(laughing. Children laughing.)
\n<\/b>Like children all over the world, they
\n(Now the picture slowly scans a room)<\/b>
\nmust confront the challenges
\n– LONG BREATH PAUSE \u2013
\nwhich stands
\n(Now the picture slowly scans an empty
\nroom. In one corner stands a stool. A man is
\nbent over it.)
\n<\/b>Before
\n(Now the picture slowly scans an empty
\nroom. In one corner stands a stool. A man is
\nbent over it, talking. There are no subtitles.
\n<\/b>– VERY LONG BREATH PAUSE –
\nApproaching, Expanding. Partaking. Washing
\naway. Straightening up. (Straighten up.
\nReflect. Become a drop of water. Wrap yourself.
\nWash away. Be reflected. Straighten up.
\nEvaporate. Evaporate)<\/b><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
THE BOY<\/b><\/p>\n
After three days of laying heavy granite bricks
\nin a row along the field
\nThe boy ran into the woods.
\nHe was found the day after, a safety pin in his
\ndick, his head off.
\nA little yellow bird was diligently pecking
\na recess in his throat. We almost got her.
\nShe was so into it.
\nThe head hasn’t been found to this day.
\nA couple gone screwing
\nHit upon three teeth, attached to each other,
\nbut that was all, and those too
\nWere probably a sheep’s.
\nSoon we forgot him. Three days are not a long
\ntime. Still,
\nWhoever passed through the woods could
\nhave sensed the smell.
\nThat was strange, we knew a smell wouldn’t
\nremain for so long, two months have passed,
\nAnd besides they have sent someone to clean
\nit up, some old guy, yet
\nI could swear the smell was there. A sweet
\nsmell, like syrup made of fruits of another land.
\nThinking of it now, that might be the reason I
\nwas rather glad to leave there, though
\nI could swear it wasn’t me who did it. Anyway,
\nI am telling the head, as much as one can ever
\nknow such things for sure.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
LIED<\/b><\/p>\n
He stares at the frozen lake.
\nHis love he likens to the lake.<\/p>\n
Or, instead: the lake reflects her frozen heart.
\nPerhaps:
\nHis.
\nThe postal coach approaches, carrying
\nThe moderate accompaniment, still in the
\nhome key, in piano. Does he<\/p>\n
See his love’s face reflected in this icy water?
\nHe does
\nNot see his love’s face reflected in this icy
\nwater, since<\/p>\n
His love is not here: his love
\nHas gone forever.<\/p>\n
The postal coach slowly passes by, and the
\nrider, contemplating whether he should load
\nany passengers in this god-forsaken town, half-
\nlistens to the piano accompaniment, now grad-
\nually aiming toward the lowered submediant:
\na typical Romantic outlet.<\/p>\n
Now he wonders whether he should await the
\nthawing: spring,
\nIndeed, will come back, but<\/p>\n
His love will not. His love, as
\nAforementioned, has gone. Forever. THE NEXT
\nPHRASE WILL DISCUSS THE SINGING OF
\nBIRDS IN
\nWINTER: birds never sing in winter,<\/p>\n
And this too
\nReminds us of our lost love, and of something
\nelse perhaps, veiled and<\/p>\n
Concealed, rising only when birdsong
\nCeases. THE TEMPO IS NOW BECOMING
\nEXCEEDINGLY SLOW, and the piano<\/p>\n
Casts random heavy lumps, lengthy, burdened
\nsilences
\nSurrounding them. THE CLIMAX, NO DOUBT,
\nIS UP<\/p>\n
AND COMING, where at last the cry of pain
\nwill rise, bridging
\nImage and reality, turning, perhaps,<\/p>\n
Image, hero, love, this entire
\nSong, this baritone, who
\nHad known better springs, that CD
\nPlayer, the
\nDisc upon it (AAD, RECORDED LIVE IN A
\nLIVE RECITAL, DES MOINES, IOWA,
\nNINETEEN FIFTY
\nEIGHT), us too, redundant,<\/p>\n
Quite redundant.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
TALOONS<\/b><\/p>\n
1.<\/b>
\nWhy do I read poems?
\n2.<\/b>
\nNow, for instance, I am reading poems since I seek the word „taloons“
\n3.<\/b>
\nPerhaps: „talons.“
\n4.<\/b>
\nOn the desk, right in front of me, two piles of poems lie.
\n5.<\/b>
\nIn one of them, that I already know, taloons are nowhere to be found.
\n6.
\n<\/b>In the other, though, I do not yet know if taloons, or talons, are ever to be found.
\n7.<\/b>
\nI seek the word „taloon“ since I do not yet know
\n8.<\/b>
\nAnd I should find that out very shortly, quite soon
\n9.<\/b>
\nWhether in her taloons she is carrying him, or perhaps in her talons he is clutched screaming.
\nThis is important. The air around him is fading away. He is afraid.
\n10.<\/b>
\nDown below fields fly, and woods, and beautiful homes, everything that always goes by when the big bird passes above
\n11.<\/b>
\nCarrying in her talons, or taloons, an infant, who is now laughing as he listens to the shrieking air. The screeching sound rises higher as the bird’s wings move faster. She is nearing her home in the white mountains, and the infant clutched in her talons, perhaps taloons, laughs since the vast shrieking air reminds him of his own scream. Down below pass
\n12.<\/b>
\nWhite mountains, fire, black rock, crosses and cypresses, everything
\n13.<\/b>
\nThat always goes by when the big bird comes back home, to her chicks, a new, laughing infant in her
\n14.
\n<\/b>Talons.<\/p>\n
Mixed sections of the following texts appear in the second movement of\u00a0Shu Hai mitamen behatalat kidon<\/i>\u00a0and in\u00a0Shu Hai in an orchestral setting<\/i>.<\/b><\/p>\n
„I believe that beyond these bushes I could bathe in warm cisterns“ is the text for the song in\u00a0Six Miniatures and a Simultaneous Song<\/i>.<\/b><\/p>\n
1.
\nStella arrives at the lonesome ranch in
\nArizona.
\nFrom afar, she hears a baby cry.
\nJust now, she broke up with her lover, in a
\ncold, cutting, bitter phone call.
\nSomething is new in all that, but it is still not
\nquite –
\nNot there yet.
\nThe ranch mistress has an affair with one of
\nthe hands.
\nHis name, it seems, is Bob. He is thin, and
\nhas a beard and a bald spot.
\nStella inspects, investigates. She is very
\npretty. Lots about her
\nWe do not know.
\nNow, she is walking through the wide open
\nmeadow, caressing
\nThe head of a cow.
\nA strange light of the desert blows around.
\nOnly real concern motivates her, she says.
\nOnly real concern can make such light blow.
\nOnly real concern.<\/p>\n
„I believe that beyond these bushes I could
\nbathe in warm cisterns“<\/p>\n
For three years now he has been sitting in a
\nchair, the very same chair, sitting
\nWhere one could see a triangle: an
\nOpening between two branches, facing (here
\nYou may hang a picture: a triangle, a wall) a
\nwall.
\nSometimes a leaf dropped, or an ant came in
\n(they used to
\nDisappear when he was asleep), and in winter,
\non
\nClear days, the triangle’s lower edge was
\nilluminated: a
\nLine, slanted a bit, appeared there, and he has
\nspent many a day
\nThinking about it: Did somebody open a
\nshutter? And why
\nAlways in winter? And, perhaps, he may even be
\nLooking? And once (this too happened in
\nwinter) a bird also
\nCame. And this is all he now knows: the wall,
\ntwo
\nSlanting branches, a moving dark spot (an ant,
\nperhaps), a stripe of
\nLight, fading away. And
\nThe bird.
\n*David Perlov, „Insomnia,“ from „A Diary,“ Pt. II.<\/i><\/p>\n
_What Does the Serial Killer Want?_<\/p>\n
The Serial Killer wants it all to be Love.
\nLike an egg, he explains.
\nAll Unlove should be taken out, says
\nThe serial killer, pared, like an
\nEgg. It has no place, he
\nSays, all that is not
\nSmooth enough,
\nOr round, or
\nWhite.<\/p>\n
Parting
\nI, says he, will be more famous than Elvis,
\nAnd I am not even dead yet,
\nAnd he tries hard to make her see how upright
\nis he, how erect, yet we detect
\nThat quick quiver, like a window pane replying
\na distant falling shell, passing through his thigh,
\nAs his little finger knocks its way up the kitchen
\ntable leg: every three seconds,
\nA single knock.
\nThat plate in her hand she has been soaping for
\nfive minutes now in even, circular motions,
\ncontinually, always clockwise,
\nHer head lolling from side to side like the
\nsevered skull of a mechanical rabbit whose
\nbatteries are dying away.
\nHer ears, though, are unlike a rabbit’s: they are
\nshort and fair.
\nThe coney, as distinguished from the rabbit,
\nhas short ears. It descends from elephants, and
\nwells
\nIn the clefts of the rock.
\n„In the clefts of the rock,“ she thinks, „like the
\ndove.“ And then she thinks
\nOf how she ever got there, to the coney.
\n„Like a gazelle,“ he says. And he closes the
\ndoor from the outside, quite softly,
\nAnd goes.<\/p>\n
I should be plain. Must be. It’s
\nDesirable. Worthwhile, being
\nPlain, and I must
\nAsk: bellyache, is that
\nPlain? Well, am I
\nPlain enough while being
\nA bellyache, or is something
\nElse needed, like: throwing
\nUp, pinching rabbits, or
\nStaring right into the
\nSun’s sphere, no blinking please, and
\nThen, right away, close eyes,
\nConcentrate please, focus on those
\nDrifting glowing circles, whose
\nRims are blurry, as they fade
\nAway, striving toward the
\nShadow. I MUST, AS AFORESAID, BE
\nPLAIN. The drifting glowing circles now
\nTurn into grey quivering gradually darkening
\nPlanes. IS „PLAIN“ A
\nI am very hot now,
\nAnd I want DERIVATIVE OF
\n„PLAINT“? to tear all my
\nClothes off. Now, when I am
\nClosing my eyes, i IS
\n„PLAIN“ plainly see
\nBlack. SOMETHING NEAR
\n„BLACK“? Should I
\nGo I SHOULD
\nGO now? I must
\nNOW go
\nNow. Go
\nBE in
\nPLAIN peace.<\/p>\n
\u00a9 1996 Zohar Eitan
\nPublished by Bitan Publishers, Halikon Series,Israel<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/td>\n
Programm:<\/p>\n
Chaya Czernowin<\/a><\/b>\u00a0(*1957)<\/p>\n [01]\u00a0Shu Hai mitamen behatalat kidon<\/b>\u00a0(1997)\u00a029:31<\/b> Noa Frenkel<\/a>, alto voice<\/p>\n EXPERIMENTALSTUDIO des SWR<\/a> Pre-recorded tape:<\/i> <\/p>\n Mark Andre<\/a><\/b>\u00a0(*1964)<\/p>\n [01]\u00a0ab II<\/b>\u00a0(1996\u2009\/1997)\u00a027:07<\/b> COLLEGIUM NOVUM Z\u00dcRICH
\nfor one female voice and nine pre-recorded reflections with live electronics
\nText: Zohar Eitan<\/p>\n
\nReinhold Braig, sound direction and mixing
\nSimon Spillner, sound direction<\/p>\n
\n18\u201321 December 2006
\nStudio 2, EXPERIMENTALSTUDIO des SWR
\nNoa Frenkel, alto voice
\nReinhold Braig \/ Chaya Czernowin, recording
\nReinhold Braig, mixing<\/p>\n
\nfor contrabass clarinet, cello, cimbalom, percussion, piano and live electronics<\/p>\n
\nElmar Schmid, contrabass clarinet \u00b7 Imke Frank, cello
\nFran\u00e7oise Rivalland, cimbalom \u00b7 Martin Lorenz, percussion
\nChristoph Grund, piano<\/p>\n
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