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Best Famous Yehuda Amichai Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Yehuda Amichai poems. This is a select list of the best famous Yehuda Amichai poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Yehuda Amichai poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of yehuda amichai poems.

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Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem

A Man In His Life

 A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have a season for every purpose.
Ecclesiastes Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment, to laugh and cry with the same eyes, with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them, to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget, to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest what history takes years and years to do.
A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves he begins to forget.
And his soul is seasoned, his soul is very professional.
Only his body remains forever an amateur.
It tries and it misses, gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing, drunk and blind in its pleasures and its pains.
He will die as figs die in autumn, Shriveled and full of himself and sweet, the leaves growing dry on the ground, the bare branches pointing to the place where there's time for everything.

Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem


 Not the peace of a cease-fire
not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,
but rather
as in the heart when the excitement is over
and you can talk only about a great weariness.
I know that I know how to kill, that makes me an adult.
And my son plays with a toy gun that knows how to open and close its eyes and say Mama.
A peace without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares, without words, without the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be light, floating, like lazy white foam.
A little rest for the wounds - who speaks of healing? (And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation to the next, as in a relay race: the baton never falls.
) Let it come like wildflowers, suddenly, because the field must have it: wildpeace.
Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem

Do Not Accept

 Do not accept these rains that come too late.
Better to linger.
Make your pain An image of the desert.
Say it's said And do not look to the west.
Refuse To surrender.
Try this year too To live alone in the long summer, Eat your drying bread, refrain From tears.
And do not learn from Experience.
Take as an example my youth, My return late at night, what has been written In the rain of yesteryear.
It makes no difference Now.
See your events as my events.
Everything will be as before: Abraham will again Be Abram.
Sarah will be Sarai.
Benjamin & Barbara Harshav
Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem


 On a roof in the Old City
Laundry hanging in the late afternoon sunlight:
The white sheet of a woman who is my enemy,
The towel of a man who is my enemy,
To wipe off the sweat of his brow.
In the sky of the Old City A kite.
At the other end of the string, A child I can't see Because of the wall.
We have put up many flags, They have put up many flags.
To make us think that they're happy.
To make them think that we're happy.
Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem

Memorial Day For The War Dead

 Memorial day for the war dead.
Add now the grief of all your losses to their grief, even of a woman that has left you.
Mix sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history, which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning on one day for easy, convenient memory.
Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread, in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.
" No use to weep inside and to scream outside.
Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.
Memorial day.
Bitter salt is dressed up as a little girl with flowers.
The streets are cordoned off with ropes, for the marching together of the living and the dead.
Children with a grief not their own march slowly, like stepping over broken glass.
The flautist's mouth will stay like that for many days.
A dead soldier swims above little heads with the swimming movements of the dead, with the ancient error the dead have about the place of the living water.
A flag loses contact with reality and flies off.
A shopwindow is decorated with dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white.
And everything in three languages: Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.
A great and royal animal is dying all through the night under the jasmine tree with a constant stare at the world.
A man whose son died in the war walks in the street like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.

Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem


 Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at the Holocaust Memorial, They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall And they laugh behind heavy curtains In their hotels.
They have their pictures taken Together with our famous dead At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb And on Ammunition Hill.
They weep over our sweet boys And lust after our tough girls And hang up their underwear To dry quickly In cool, blue bathrooms.
Once I sat on the steps by agate at David's Tower, I placed my two heavy baskets at my side.
A group of tourists was standing around their guide and I became their target marker.
"You see that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch from the Roman period.
Just right of his head.
" "But he's moving, he's moving!" I said to myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them, "You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important: but next to it, left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family.
Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem

What Kind Of A Person

 "What kind of a person are you," I heard them say to me.
I'm a person with a complex plumbing of the soul, Sophisticated instruments of feeling and a system Of controlled memory at the end of the twentieth century, But with an old body from ancient times And with a God even older than my body.
I'm a person for the surface of the earth.
Low places, caves and wells Frighten me.
Mountain peaks And tall buildings scare me.
I'm not like an inserted fork, Not a cutting knife, not a stuck spoon.
I'm not flat and sly Like a spatula creeping up from below.
At most I am a heavy and clumsy pestle Mashing good and bad together For a little taste And a little fragrance.
Arrows do not direct me.
I conduct My business carefully and quietly Like a long will that began to be written The moment I was born.
s Now I stand at the side of the street Weary, leaning on a parking meter.
I can stand here for nothing, free.
I'm not a car, I'm a person, A man-god, a god-man Whose days are numbered.
Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem

Temporary Poem Of My Time

 Hebrew writing and Arabic writing go from east to west,
Latin writing, from west to east.
Languages are like cats: You must not stroke their hair the wrong way.
The clouds come from the sea, the hot wind from the desert, The trees bend in the wind, And stones fly from all four winds, Into all four winds.
They throw stones, Throw this land, one at the other, But the land always falls back to the land.
They throw the land, want to get rid of it.
Its stones, its soil, but you can't get rid of it.
They throw stones, throw stones at me In 1936, 1938, 1948, 1988, Semites throw at Semites and anti-Semites at anti-Semites, Evil men throw and just men throw, Sinners throw and tempters throw, Geologists throw and theologists throw, Archaelogists throw and archhooligans throw, Kidneys throw stones and gall bladders throw, Head stones and forehead stones and the heart of a stone, Stones shaped like a screaming mouth And stones fitting your eyes Like a pair of glasses, The past throws stones at the future, And all of them fall on the present.
Weeping stones and laughing gravel stones, Even God in the Bible threw stones, Even the Urim and Tumim were thrown And got stuck in the beastplate of justice, And Herod threw stones and what came out was a Temple.
Oh, the poem of stone sadness Oh, the poem thrown on the stones Oh, the poem of thrown stones.
Is there in this land A stone that was never thrown And never built and never overturned And never uncovered and never discovered And never screamed from a wall and never discarded by the builders And never closed on top of a grave and never lay under lovers And never turned into a cornerstone? Please do not throw any more stones, You are moving the land, The holy, whole, open land, You are moving it to the sea And the sea doesn't want it The sea says, not in me.
Please throw little stones, Throw snail fossils, throw gravel, Justice or injustice from the quarries of Migdal Tsedek, Throw soft stones, throw sweet clods, Throw limestone, throw clay, Throw sand of the seashore, Throw dust of the desert, throw rust, Throw soil, throw wind, Throw air, throw nothing Until your hands are weary And the war is weary And even peace will be weary and will be.
Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem

You Mustnt Show Weakness

 You mustn't show weakness
and you've got to have a tan.
But sometimes I feel like the thin veils of Jewish women who faint at weddings and on Yom Kippur.
You mustn't show weakness and you've got to make a list of all the things you can load in a baby carriage without a baby.
This is the way things stand now: if I pull out the stopper after pampering myself in the bath, I'm afraid that all of Jerusalem, and with it the whole world, will drain out into the huge darkness.
In the daytime I lay traps for my memories and at night I work in the Balaam Mills, turning curse into blessing and blessing into curse.
And don't ever show weakness.
Sometimes I come crashing down inside myself without anyone noticing.
I'm like an ambulance on two legs, hauling the patient inside me to Last Aid with the wailing of cry of a siren, and people think it's ordinary speech.
Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem

I Want To Die In My Own Bed

 All night the army came up from Gilgal
To get to the killing field, and that's all.
In the ground, warf and woof, lay the dead.
I want to die in My own bed.
Like slits in a tank, their eyes were uncanny, I'm always the few and they are the many.
I must answer.
They can interrogate My head.
But I want to die in My own bed.
The sun stood still in Gibeon.
Forever so, it's willing to illuminate those waging battle and killing.
I may not see My wife when her blood is shed, But I want to die in My own bed.
Samson, his strength in his long black hair, My hair they sheared when they made me a hero Perforce, and taught me to charge ahead.
I want to die in My own bed.
I saw you could live and furnish with grace Even a lion's den, if you've no other place.
I don't even mind to die alone, to be dead, But I want to die in My own bed.