Pears by Shai Dotan

PEARS
The pears are not seen
As the observer wills.
Wallace Stevens
1
Sometimes they are pears.
At other times sirens in a basket.
And not so often, violins
one tunes with a stem.

2
Pears hold their heads up high
they have cello-shaped waists and curvy hips.
Buddha adapted their way of sitting
in order to reside inside nothingness.

3
The pears are dressed in a green suit
with red pockets.
The poets among them wear
a felt fedora with a leaf.

4
Their single hair jumps to attention
or curves like a whip, raised against
the clay-ness of the bowl, the pressing of fingers,
of teeth.

5
The great communist painter,
Pablo Picasso, framed them into cubes.
With lopped heads they resemble
their common brethren, the apples.

6
Their shadow is like sudden excitement,
a breathtaking leap that ends
in disenchantment:
the murmur of the stem, the echo of the leaf.


Note: from On the Verge;
publisher: Am Oved, Tel Aviv, 2005
translation: Ohad Stadler, 2008

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