Opening Words

Interview

1) First of all who is Yoav? How & when did you start writing poetry?


I am an Argentinian-Jew, who has lived in various countries,
including Argentina, the United States, Israel and Britain. I am a 
political analyst and I am involved in family-related business. I started writing
poetry at the age of 12. Back then I wrote in Hebrew. A few years 
later, as a result of my love for the Spanish language, in general, and the 
poetry of the late Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, in particular, I began writing 
poems in Spanish (my mother tongue).

 
2) To say youre a global citizen would be an understatement, from Argentina to Israel with 
stops at Oxford & other places of learning. What brought about all this traveling & has it
influennced who you are?

Several reasons. Some were family-related, others had to do with myacademic life. I have lived,
in a sense, in three different societies: the Hispanic, the Anglo-Saxon and the Israeli.
There can be little doubt in my mind that, having lived in various countries, has enriched 
my life very much. My perspective changed each timeI moved from one country to another. 
Intellectually, I am very much attachedto the Anglo-Saxon world. My years at Cambridge and 
Oxford have wielded asingular influence on my intellectual upbringing, so to speak. 
Emotionally,I feel more at home in a Jewish/Israeli environment or in anArgentinian-Hispanic 
setting.

3) In one biography it is mentioned you stoppedwriting poetry for a number of years, what led to 
the stopping & what motivated you to start writing again?


I stopped writing poetry at the age of 15, if I recall correctly. While atOxford, when I was 
well into my twenties, I began writing short stories. Iwas captivated by short stories, 
which was a new genre to me, and, inparticular, by the narrative style and linguistic elegance 
of SomersetMaugham. Almost five years ago, I started writing poetry again. This was prompted by 
a personal crisis, which I was traversing during that period.Since then, I have found out that 
the writing of poetry is almost aninseparable part of my emotional experience: it is not only a 
means ofexpression, but also part and parcel of the emotional experience itself.


4) Who do you consider as your influences?


I have been influenced by lecturers, poets and friends who are not necessarily well known to a 
wide audience. To each of them I owe a special debt of gratitude. So far as more widely known 
poets are concerned, I can’t say anyone has wielded a preponderant influence on my writing. 
When I was adolescent, I thought I was influenced by the Odes of Pablo Neruda. But 
I think this was more of a feeling than a concrete influence, which could havebeen proved 
empirically. Incidentally, I like Neruda’s Odes in particular. Most people I have known usually 
like his love poems. The Argentinain writer Jorge Luis Borges stressed Neruda’s 
Communist-inspired poems as his best.


5) One review of your work mentioned that:"in the same vein, he sees poetry as the unshed tear, 
which canonly be shed on paper, in the innermost experience ofpoetry writing."  
How do you work that idea or concept in your poetry.



I don’t know if I could describe precisely how I do that. Suffice itto say that there are 
painful emotional experiences that, in my view, can beconveyed through poetry in a manner that 
could not be expressed verbally.Writing has a special quality to it that allows the unshed tear 
to be shed when otherwise it would not; and poetry is a singular means by which a
reader can almost palpably sense that unshed tear. There is a feeling ofloneliness when writing 
poetry which allows that intimate unshed tear to beshed without shame, and in a way that depicts
and explains it without excuses.


6) What moves you to write?  When you see an event or have an experience, what causes you to 
write and how do you write it.


My poetry is essentially autobiographical. I don’t usually describe events that are unrelated 
to my innermost feelings or thoughts. What I findboth interesting and flattering is when some 
people say they can identifythemselves with a certain poem, or even a phrase I write. But I 
write aboutmy own emotional and intellectual experiences. Events might be a trigger to
write about my emotions and thoughts, but I would not transform those eventsinto the 
‘protagonists’ of my poems.


7) You're also a member of the The International Raoul Wallenberg Foundation, I wonder if you 
could give us some information about this foundation.


The International Raoul Wallenberg Foundation is a non-profit,private, family-related NGO, 
which is privileged to have as its members morethan sixty heads of state and prime ministers, 
nobel prize laureates, and many people of good will from every walk of life. Its aim is to 
promote thevalues of mutual understanding and respect, human rights and peace based on
the examples of those individuals who were willing to risk their lives in order to save the 
lives of others during the Holocaust. Raoul Wallenberg,the Swedish diplomat who is credited 
with having saved the lives of tens ofthousands of Jews in Hungary only to be abducted 
subsequently by Soviet troops never to be seen again, is, in a sense, primus inter pares, 
first among equals. The foundation tries to remember the deeds of those heroes ofthe Holocaust 
and to promote the values that emerge from their actions.


8) We here in the west view Israel as a land that's under seige and often the problem lies with 
the Israeli government, if only they'd give in more to the Palestinians, I wonder if you could 
give the readers your view of the events in your nation.


The Arab-Israeli conflict in general and the Palestinian-Israeli, inparticular, are too complex 
to be defined or resolved in one sweepingstatement. With your kind permission, I would refrain 
from advancing my personal opinion about the conflict in this interview. I prefer, in this
context, to concentrate on the complexities and beauties of the individualmind and heart as 
manifested in poetry.

9) What does the future hold for Yoav Tenembaum?

Good question. I wish I knew. In my poetry, I try to deal with my past and my present – 
and I have much difficulty with that. I have to saythat the future has one advantage as far as 
I am concerned : I don’t have to deal with it right now.

Thank you for your time.

both photographs are of Yoav in Prague

Poetry of Yoav Tenembaum

				Cornered


                          Angry people
                          Hovering above me

                          Constantly

                          The fear of admonition
                          Of disappointment

                          The gaze of ire

                          Unfulfilled expectation
                          Awaiting them all

                          And the noise
                          The helicopter of anger

                          Turning round and round

                          The images of disillusioned eyes
                          Of controlled rage

                          Which in my mind keep emerging

                          A never-ending wave of sour faces
                          Surfing up and down

                          With no way out
                          No calm

                          Not even in the deepest corner of my sleep
		         Originally published in ForPoetry
                         Copyright@ Yoav J. Tenembaum





			Like a Ray of Sunshine in the Midst of Rain

                          Like rain that comes accompanied
                          By a ray of sunshine

                          So do now my feelings for you
                          Come mixed with sorrow

                          Feelings of tender love
                          Of a heart that misses

                          And always fears the moment
                          Of the last adieu

                          As though it were really the last
                          When it is not

                          A heart split into two
                          Between the nest of love
                          And the love of nest

                          Between being with you
                          And being alone

                          Right now wrapped up
                          By sadness as I remember your smile

                          Like the ray of sunshine
                          Breaking in the midst of rain

		          Originally published in Poetic Voices
                          Copyright @ Yoav J. Tenembaum

Each Time You Rest Your Head on my Shoulders


Each time you rest your head on my shoulder
And hold my hands with your two hands
I feel as though this were the first time you do it

And maybe it is and my memory fails me
The first time ever you rest your head on my shoulder
And hold my hands with your two hands
For each time you do it I feel my heart beating
As though it were really the first time it does

And maybe it is and my memory fails me
The first time ever I feel my heart beating

For my heart remembers differently
Than my head ever will

Each touch of yours
Is ever the first I feel
The like of which my heart can’t recall
Originally published in Makata
Copyright @ Yoav J. Tenembaum

How Lucky is the Sunshine

How lucky is the sunshine
That it never doubts

Never questions itself
“Should I rise in the morning?”
“Should I set in the afternoon?”

How fortunate
The sunshine

That it does not query
The wisdom of its actions

“Perhaps I should stay longer in the winter?”
“What about if I encircle the sky more quickly in the summer?”

What a relief it is
For the sunshine to have no dilemmas

“Why must I go on in this monotonous life of mine?”
“Who shines upon me as I do upon the others?”

Or maybe it does
The sunshine

Questions

Queries

Poses a dilemma

But has no answers

So it continues doing what it does
While it doubts

Day after day
Life after life

And nobody knows
That behind the solid face

Behind the rhythmic proud
Walk in the sky

There lies an excruciating mind
Hiding in a yellow mask

Smiling to us
Without even a hint

Of the question mark
On which it stands.

Originally published in Promise
Copyright@ Yoav J. Tenembaum

Poetry

WAITING AT JAKE'S PLACE

Mellow sounds from his guitar,
stale cigar smoke,
a glass of pale amber in my hand,
I wait for him to finish the set.
His beard hides soft skin, square chin;
he hides behind his beard,
I hide behind the glass of pale amber.

The floor is packed with two-somes
humming tunes he fingers on the strings;
I sip from the glass,
shake my head no
when a man asks me to dance:
I have to deal one at a time.

A woman slips a dollar bill
into his cup; he smiles, nods,
keeps on strumming.
Set over, he strokes my hand
while drinking a beer;
a fan in tight jeans passes,
"how about the Texas two-step?"

I lose him again to his guitar;
Jake fills my glass with the pale amber.





   

WEEKEND HIDEAWAY

               Bed and Breakfast,
                    antique andirons,
               Whistler's Mother's eyes
                    gazing at guests

               savoring sweet scents of
                    raspberry tea and
               cranberry cinnamon muffins
                    baking in an old iron stove.

               A weekend in the country,
                    leaving behind
               clicking computers,
                    frantic phones, faxes.

               Moss-laden cottonwood branches
                   sweeping down, pointing gently,
               tickling noses,
                   shading eyes.

               A sudden shower,
                    soft terry towels rubbing
               against wet naked bodies,
                    lazy lovin'.

               A weekend in the country,
                    relaxing, restoring,
               wistfully remembered
                    on Monday morning.





              

ANGELA' S GIGGLE

She was about five, grasping a giant green beach ball,
rolling it, bouncing it, maneuvering it through the sand.
I had a small throw-away camera,
you know, one that sell for about five dollars,
and I snapped picture after picture of the little girl
playing with the beach ball;
I wanted to capture her giggle on film

She bounced, rolled, maneuvered the ball
close to the waves,
her mother yelled, "Angela, be careful."
Now I knew her name was Angela.
She edged closer to the water,
the ball following her; she stooped
to pick up a sea shell, a nautilus, I think;

the lens opened, closed, opened, closed,
click, click, click,
I watched the ball on a wave,
and Angela was no more.

In the last frame, in a frozen fragment of time,
I noticed a shadow, a gray bony hand;
I looked at the photo again and again,
I heard Angela's giggle, saw the shadow
of the hand; Angela's, or was it another Angel.
I will not share this picture with anyone.





         A 

FRENCH FARCE

        table set
             crepe suzette
                   awaiting flame
                        as we proclaim
        Voila!

        flakes of snow
             must forego
                   dinner guests
                        to ingest
        Oh merde!

        the two of us
             no muss, no fuss,
                   cold Bordeaux
                        tickles nose

        A Votre Sante!





                

FOOTNOTES

                 Blots of tears and
                         lipstick smears;
                 a heart, a line
                         from Stein,
                 letters scribbled, etched
                         and stretched,
                 lost and tossed,
                         placed into another
                 space;
                         words set, not in
                 stone,
                         erased, honed.
                 at last    a poem.
GILDA KREUTER

CW Hawes bring us these works.


leaf skitters alone...
in the cold wind and sleet
I run in pursuit
seeking any companion
for my lonely heart









your picture torn
in pieces lies at the bottom
of the wastebasket
but try as I might I can’t
tear you out of my heart









your eyes drink me in
and I lose myself in you
completely submerged
I am no longer my own
God I hate your hold on me








how long has it been
six not long enough months
and still I find
too many memories
today your Stones CD





                     


at the bar I sit
and sip a scotch and water
alone in the crowd
on the jukebox “Color My World”
and my heart breaks again

Remember Me

Oh, listen –

Can you hear it?
It’s me calling out to you.

I am standing

On the shore

And looking towards the ocean

With such yearning

Oh, I hope

That you can hear me.
Are you there,
On the other side?
Are you waiting for me,
Do you still know me?

I know I’ve changed since you last saw me

Gone is the little girl

But I am in her place

And  I am longing

For you to come get  me

Or for a way for me to get to you.

Have you forgotten?
Do you miss me?
Can you see me struggling to be brave?

I am overwhelmed

With missing you,

Needing  you

And I wish that for one moment

We could touch

Am I still yours?
Do you still feel it?
That bond we had that was like no other
Are you too far

To see me
Reaching for you

With all my might?

I want to know,
 Can you remember me?
 I still remember you

And I still love you

I’ve not replaced you in my heart,

Nor will I ever

And I can still recall.

That for a moment

That smallest moment

Our worlds revolved around each other

And for a time,

That shining time,

I was your little girl.

9-5 for Siddhartha Guatama

He removes his sandals-
sinks down into the plush lap
of his recliner-
another day of being-
injected into poems and
literature, inspiring people towards

enlightenment.  Rubbing his feet,
dismayed to hear the chime of his doorbell-
a writer concocting a blueprint
wanting him as the key structure.

He flicks on his TV-
resigns himself for tonight,
to send Shiva or Thor
if the word insists
on building temples
out of sentences around
mystical figures.






 

A Girl at the Birch Tree Inn

Buttons line her purse strap-
ornate medals-
a general’s sash.
Preparing salad, looking
through the sneeze shield
her thoughts are tossed-
the strategic secrets of
nature; specifically,
the tomato.







Geese Feathers:  a childhood memory

Gray London smog-
erupting shrapnel
flapping clear of arrant balls-
a soccer field
wet with morning’s paint.







R

Reflecting on my first childhood memory

On a hill-
face buried in the shoulder-
an adopted parent-
wetting her hair

reliving my first swim lesson-
the bluejean summer murk
of a public pool.

I needed a parent’s arms to lie across
as I grasped the cement eyebrow of the
pool, kicking for my young life-
not just the bottomless illusion of
a dark pool to drag me down

“Nobody loves me.  Nobody-
loves me!
Nobody-
	-Loves
		ME!”

I needed to know-
not that anyone loved me
(at that age I had no room in my
vessel for water).
I needed a parent’s shoulder to rest
my head on-the
invitation to sleep, the reassuring
hardness of a warm rock
under the summer sun–
not a grassy hill sloping into a ditch
below a soccer field.

I needed my
anthem of youth-  someone
to attend to my helmet
cut curls shaming my pretty face,
and whisper words  spoken
with mild annoyance and mockery, but
that deaden the drums in
my ears, leaving my kicking legs
heaving, and the ground
around flat-
the exhausted bald
spot of a tribal fire
in  middle
aged night-

after a ritual dance.

Alex Nowalk

CHINKS

The blueprint-perfect life: 
posed photographs with dolls and kittens; 
rings and candles, light of dreams
passed down by word of mothers.

All married-up and mortgaged
with a baby on every finger – 
how comes it 
that in this house you built yourself

bats have crept into a chink 
in siding? They live 
their lives in negative,
they fly out echo-locating in your sleep.

This one’s found a crack 
that leads inside your safety-lock: 
the black loner zig-zag hunter
through your dreams.

Green Ocean Journeys

  I came out of a thicket

  into a meadow of luscious grass,

  speckled with bright yellow buttercups

  and flax of sky blue.

  Sunlight drizzled

  on petals and weed,

  like a gooey, runny icing

  on a freshly baked cake.

  Imagination grabbed

  up a handful of dreams,

  and skipped them across

  green oceans,

  to journeys left unmade.

Trash Day

  Darkness flees

  like a black cat scared,

  darting between shadows,

  with the light of day

  nipping at its tail.

  Trash cans

  sit like blind blue men,

  unaware this daily chase,

  waiting for the roar and rumble,

  to unburden their laden souls. 

Another Lover I’ll Never Know

  Her hair was tasseled

  like an intricately woven bird’s nest,

  styled by an over friendly wind.

  Hands fought wily strands

  lashing at eyes bent to see,

  it was at best a break even fight.

  She smiled in the midst of battle,

  more perfunctory than not,

  but I liked that it was aimed at me.

  We passed on the fuel dock,

  never speaking, never looking back,

  that was all we’d ever be.

Pat Paulk

patpaulk50@msn.com

Closing Words