The Poet and the Fly
I raised my book of poems to kill a fly.
The creature was too quick for me and fled.
And I was glad. It isn't in my head
when I sit down to write
to wipe the simplest creature out,
although I hope, of course,
my poems will have a clout
and knock my readers dead.
The Hairpin
I hide it from myself
somewhere hard to find,
but I find it anyway
lying in wait --
an accusing memory
in a tin box
rusting with time.
Blazing all the same
with what it summons up --
her living hair.
Hunger: A Meditation
The so-called savage looks down
on the poor ignorant white
who has to consult a clock
to check his appetite.
How can he know he's hungry
if it's not twelve or eight?
An illicit pang or two
will simply have to wait.
Happier is the cat
who need not live in awe
of a tyrant watch
imprisoning his paw;
who grows fat as the moon
though the moon in times grows thinner,
unlike the cat who knows
it's always time for dinner.
See review of the late Robert Friend's: "The Next Room"
Robert Friend, born in New York in 1914, came to Israel in 1950 and died in January this year. A poet and translator of such distinguished Hebrew poets as Leah Goldberg, Rachel, and Gabriel Priel, he taught at the Hebrew University for over 30 years. His last work, "In the Next Room," Menard Press, London, 1996, contains his most recent poems as well as selections from previous collections.