Johnmichael Simon
Johnmichael Simon was born in England, grew up in South Africa and has lived in Israel since 1963. He has published two solo books of poems: ‘Sonatina’ – largely on musical subjects and ‘Bordwinot’ – a mix of ballads balderdash and other strange ingredients, as well as two collections in collaboration with partner Helen Bar-Lev: ‘Cyclamens and Swords’ – poems and illustrations about the land of Israel and ‘Silly Wishes’ – an illustrated collection of fun poems for children of all ages. Johnmichael has been awarded several prizes in international poetry competitions: first and third places in the Reuben Rose, first place in the Margaret Reid, third place in the Tom Howard plus numerous honorable mentions in other contests.
The following works are copyright © 2008. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Strada del Serpente
It comes quietly into the day
reptilian
mucous of night still clinging
to unopened eyes
Neither protesting nor resisting
creeping
it squirms against
the web of dawn
Into soft tissue
emerging
a slow trail
squeezed from a murky tube
Coalescing into a road
winding
hugging mountain walls
furtive down to a lake
Where it sips
reflections
cliff faces in the water
beholds
its own forked tongue
Its ribbon of tar
delving into translucency
Crop Duster
On a drowsy morning
between bird talk
and silence of mountains
a crop duster roars overhead
like an angry bumblebee
If the words close, treetops,
daredevil, breathless, spray,
stunt and wingtip have anything
to do with one another, this
yellow storm has them all
not to mention insecticide, pungent,
carcinogenic, chemical and poison
At five thirty or thereabouts
he kisses his sleeping children,
gets into his battered jeep,
drives down to the field airstrip
Schubert’s impromptus are playing
on the radio and he thinks Schubert
and orange blossoms are the closest
things to pure perfection
He’s a helicopter pilot when on
reserve duty, twice decorated for
bravery. The six o clock news comes on,
a long wanted terrorist was driving his
car when a missile fired from the air
hit the vehicle. The terrorist managed
to throw himself out in time, escaped
with wounds but four bystanders-
a woman and her three children
were killed
Before getting into the cockpit he calls
home, chats with his wife. He drinks
a cup of strong coffee
The coffee tastes like mud
Hollyhocks
It’s May, the fields are awash with ripening fruit
peach, plum and apples stretch away in leafy rows
and over there between the hedge of raspberry bramble
and shaven crops of wheaten stubble, grow spires of hollyhock
Their tall pale green stalks, inconspicuous until now
have suddenly burst forth in tiered pastel faces
pinks, reds and purples like dollied dowagers at Ascot
they crane over each other’s heads to see their fondest hopes
race across the yellowing course, noting at the same time
what the others are wearing and whether these new fashions
are as chic as last year’s
Too soon the summer heat waves will arrive and send them all
scattering back to the pavilion, closing up their umbrellas
to drink mint tea or gin and tonic, blame the weather for
once again spoiling what was unanimously a brilliant show
Gone
a house built with his own hands
twenty years of loving labor
a stamp collection
two sets of dishes; one for guests
three trousers, four overalls
a photograph album, his incense burners
a forgotten copy of the little red book
a portable phonograph, some vinyl discs
two beds, six straw mats, three bags of rice
their wedding pictures
one black mongrel bitch,
wife aged 37; daughter 11
Sichuan, Myanmar, Aceh, Izmit
dreams, so many dreams
Gone!
Existence
You search for meaning
behind things, dear Confabulo
what did you find? Two syllables
the first of which denotes
one of existence’s paired faces:
me – the self inside where everything
else is ‘ning’ which, peering in or
peering out, may or may not exist
depending on the view or on the viewer.
Let us not seek meanings then, but
me-things – a symbiotic notion to be true
but more approximately this poem’s bent;
a yellow page, a finger lettering ink, is this
not what you see Confabulo, can you see
me here writing in your mind – are we
inside or out Confabulo, you and I
and all the rest of them viewing their
pages from the inside out, is that all
there is or are the viewers themselves
an illusion? Now there’s a thought –
leaving but a ‘ning’ that writes itself
upon an endless page.
Missing
Last night
she made love
to the bedclothes
again
immersed herself
in dark warmth
arms around a pillow
toes clenched against
rough mohair gown
teeth gritted
she imagined you
as you were
that last time
Last night
last thousand
nights
she has slept
alone
not knowing
why
you disappeared
without a trace
Some nights
she searches
places
for a glimpse
of you
Anthony
Jonathan
Felipe
Joshua
Christopher
Julian
Robert
Jose
Billy
Marco
