…The pears are not seen
…as the observer wills
Sometimes they are pears.
At other times sirens in a basket.
And not so often, violins
one tunes with a stem.
Pears hold their heads up high
they have cello-shaped waists and
Buddha adapted their way of sitting
in order to reside inside
The pears are dressed in a green suit
with red pockets.
The poets among them wear
a felt fedora with a leaf.
Their single hair jumps to attention
or curves like a whip, raised against
the clay-ness of the bowl, the
pressing of fingers,
The great communist painter,
Pablo Picasso, framed them into
With lopped heads they resemble
their common bretheren, the apples.
Their shadow is like sudden
a breathtaking leap that ends
the murmur of the stem, the echo of
by Shai Dotan
from On the Verge;
publisher: Am Oved, Tel Aviv, 2005
translation:Ohad Stadler, 2008