“He traces my skin with a teaspoon,
having covered my eyes.
I finish telling the story of my life. Now it is his turn…”
“You who in his hand were
The Sling, the Stone, the Strike
You who wait, caressing,
A thousand word a night…”
Our Winter Edition is dedicated to “Women” and encompasses works from 22 artists.
This edition includes poems and contemporary literature alongside works of art and music that explore Femininity and female creativity.
A little word of warning – you might bump in to Moran Kliger’s she-wolf that has been seen roaming the magazine pages lately. No worries. She is very friendly.
“I came to the Circus Tent I saw her brother brushing
A horses’ mane, her mother reading a Magazine
Which on its cover flashed joy in the corner of the eye
Of Sofia Loren”
“I’m your unknown child.
I’m the negative
between your two blue-eyed children
who radiate against my darkness…”
“She knows how to handle demons, and every so often she invites Lilith to our home…”
“And no longer shall I
be alone for the Holidays,
And will not buy-and-sell Love,
Every pot will be Holy,
And Tel-Aviv will be Jerusalem.
And I shall try to be the Living Water
And not cry when being touched.
Every pot will be Holy
And I will be Jerusalem. “
״The sealed can of memory
It’s mother’s smell
As if she hasn’t been wearing out
the nightgowns of her soul
for thirty years now…״
“And we were a few
But I came to your book as a group
The way women come ,
In circles they do, adjacent and wounded.”
“After the call ended he stood in the kitchen for another long minute, holding the
receiver between his shoulder and his neck…”
“I love you, so much.
For this kind of nonsense, for others.
For your wickedness, for the heart rending you provoke.
There’s not a girl born as sharp as you.”
“Evening is descending and your eyes don’t seem as bright.
It is painful to look longing in the eye but without pain, how shall we heal the Oedipal hurt.
I said hurt. but heard heart.”
״Oh, Rahab, Rahab
My Jericho agreement
Could not agree.
A simple girl. A seamstress.
You weaved ropes to me by crimson threads.
And sanctuary is walls between us.״
“In a softened miniature version
Of our prosaic lives…”
“She hides behind me
and I’m ashamed of her.
The world’s blinks
are needles up to scratch the skin.
You must love her
I tell myself at night
as is, with all of her flaws
you are her mother
and I’m incapable…”