This poem contains very strong images. The poem is graspable, but the contents of what the poet and the reader are trying to grasp are not. We are seeking something that is impossible to catch in every single direction. First, Ravikovitch sends us upwards as we try to catch the extinguishing smoke of coal. However, we find our limitations of flying and we fall right back to the ground with empty hands. Second, Ravikovitch takes us swimming in a direction trying to catch a boat on a river. However, we again tire and realize our limitations as we drift backwards in the water, catching a glimpse of the boat as it descends on the horizon. Third, we rest. Even resting in one spot, trying to grasp a solid object, we cannot grasp it fully:

(Ravikovitch, "Trying Again," in The Vintage Book, p. 330)

Finally, we descend downwards to the depths of the ocean, trying to grasp "the bottom of the ocean I’ve never seen" (Ravikovitch, "Trying Again," in The Vintage Book, p. 330). We realize that this part of the ocean we will never see as we swim back to the surface for a necessary gulp of air.

This poem is filled with the words "If" and "How." There are always too many if’s in this world compared with the amount of how’s. Dreams are filled with if’s, but we don’t live in a dream world. We live in a world that relies on how’s to make the if’s a reality. Her poems return me to a child-like fantasy with all of its imagination. (She has written many books for children.) The thing is, I still have this same imagination that I had as a child. Her if’s take me to this child-like dream world, and her how’s add my adult-like reasoning. For me, Ravikovitch’s message is for us to make our child-like dreams of if’s a reality. She reminds me not to forget them and encourages me to live them even as an adult.

This Chirping

They sing without giving us a thought

and they are as many

They have a life of thier own,

Some are rare, some common,

Their hearts aren't heavy

The heavens were givin to them

and when they touch a branch,

Over the years

it even seems to have

I think Dahlia writes incredible poetry because I think she is saying the things that we often think but do not like to say or do not have the courage to say aloud. She is a talented poet, but in the first stanza she says that she prefers the "poems that others have written." She at first would rather hear the stories of others before unearthing her own. Maybe she doesn't have the courage to deal with hers right away, in this light, she seems very human, very accessible.

In the second stanza she writes: "Sometimes I wish everyone would go away." Now that's honesty. She wants alone time, to be with herself. Her assertion for isolation become more confident as in the third stanza she drops "sometimes" and just states: "you wish everyone would go away. You don't know what's the matter with you." (This line reminds me of someone who is dealing with depression and just cannot shake the blues off and cannot figure out what's going on.) However, 'I' is replaced with 'you.' It's as if she is talking about herself but does not want to directly link herself to her statements.

Her direct honesty continues:

"you wish you were dead or alive or

somebody else.

Isn't there a country you love? (relation to Jerusalem) A word? (she can't find her poetic voice)

Surely you remember."

Once again, the 'I' is replaced by 'you.' I like these lines because I think Dahlia feels overwhelmed, burnt out, discourages, and maybe unmotivated. She is trying to figure out how she arrived at this place, and trying to remember her passionate feelings, what she was fighting about. She is having trouble writing as well. She's trying to remember what she cared about.

Disclaimer: If you opened this entry because you agree with my title, please stop reading immediately! Just kidding all.

Since I worked on the Japanese poet Ryuichi Tamura with my group, I figured I'd write a quick entry on Dahlia Ravikovitch's poem, "Surely You Remember," found on page 330 of The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry.

I want to make it clear that I really love this poem. It seems to speak to me directly, as I often find that sitting in my room makes the walls grow taller, while "Colors deepen." And yet, "I remain." Really nice stuff here. Indeed, when I am alone for a period of time, and decide to spend my moments of freedom in deep thought or observation, I find that I notice the small things in life much better -- and that, afterward, I'm thankful that I did. Only when I am alone, perhaps with a book of some sort, do I connect with the sounds of nature, and the beauty that's everywhere in the world. To be sure, I notice these things at other times as well, but only when I am alone can I really separate myself from all distractions.

At first, there seems to be a tinge of melancholy in this poem. The author doesn’t feel as though she can connect with others, or so it appears when she writes, "Sometimes I wish everyone would go away." But in reality, this isn’t a feeling of sadness but of creativity. The artist can only get in touch with the true depths of living when she isn’t being harnessed by those around her. She writes, "You wish you were dead or alive or / somebody else." How does this fit into my interpretation? Well, I think the author is writing about the pain that often comes along with creativity. Do you ever notice that many of the greatest authors lived sad, depressing lives? To me, such a life isn’t a result of circumstances so much as what the artist feels deep inside at all times. When alone, this woman can write and feel things that she cannot in the company of others. Unfortunately, at first, this is an agonizing situation. Soon, however, the author discovers the power that comes along with her creativity:

Only a fool lets the sun when it likes.

It always drifts off too early

westward to the islands.

Here, the poet has come to grips with the power of her words. With one stroke of the pen, she is able to control the sun, the moon, and the stars. At the moment of composition, the author is, in a sense, playing God. This is both a burden and a blessing. Others will be greatly affected by what is written, just like she is affected by what others have already written.

After they all leave,

The question immediately arises… who? Who left the speaker of the poem? "They" could imply anyone at this point in the poem because of the ambiguity of the title of the piece. "Surely You Remember", the title of the poem, gives little insight into the "they" of the poem, but merely implies that whomever makes up the "they" are memorable individuals. "They all" implies a lot of people, so the speaker of the poem is most likely not referring to his or her parents because "they all" would seem to imply more than two people, but perhaps the speaker is referring to his or her entire family. The speaker could also be referring to enemies in a war, finally leaving him or her in peace. The possibilities are almost endless at this point in the poem.

I remain alone with the poems,

There is a sense of relief that buried in this line. The speaker seems to feel some sort of discomfort around the others of the poem, the "they" of the poem. When "they" leave, there is relief in the silence and the reliance upon inanimate objects for company. She or he seems to sigh this sentence, finally alone with her or his thoughts, in peace "with the poems".

some poems of mine, some of others.

This line seems to speak of a community in which the speaker approves. His or her community exists on paper, as a communication between poets. His or her own poetry, speaks loudly in this community, but the poems of others, with similar concerns are welcomed and appreciated.

I prefer poems that others have written.

This seems to be another statement to community. There is a respect on the part of the speaker for the poems, to which he or she has access. A respect, and perhaps a sense of personal inadequacy… the personal intuition that his or her poems are not as good as those that others have written or that the speaker can get more out of those other poems (more personal insight).

the knot in my throat dissolves.

I think this is another reference to the interference of the "they" at the beginning of the poem. The speaker is returning to his or her center, that place of emotional peace, through the reading of poetry and silence. There is a sense of relief, of calming. My brother tenses in large groups, no matter if the large groups consist of family or friends, the speaker seems to resemble that type of individual, one who cannot function and feels extremely out of place with a lot of people about.

I remain.

This seems to be a clarification, a restatement by the speaker of his or her own reality. It is a centering statement, calming and permanent. It brings him or her to earth. Like the statement "I think, therefore I am." The speaker is now in his or her place, feeling comfortable and in the moment.

I love this poem! It reminds me of the mornings I would spend on the couch, curled up with a book and a cup of coffee. I would watch the snow trickle down on a Saturday morning, praying to God that no one found something for me to do before I soaked up enough of the experience. Just breathing, is a positive experience on those days.

This easily fickle poem gave me a few problems, but now feels close to my heart. After reading the second and third stanzas I felt a connection to this poem. I knew just what she meant about the way things change when you're alone, all of your senses finding an always new intensity. Exploring your imagination and reflecting over your life. Reaching the sixth, seventh and eighth stanzas of this poem, I found I wasn't so sure about the meaning here. When I read "A sun sets at midnight." (Ravikovitch, "Surely You Remember" pg. 330-331 Vintage), I was certain this line was referring to a shift of thought that involved becoming a person of the night, losing one's inhibitions, that the thoughts would change next. I found that this interpretation was wrong when I read "Only a fool lets the sun set when it likes." This line seems to say that the day ends when the sun sets. So maybe she is saying that a sun setting at midnight is a person making more of their day, maybe it is saying that a person can control through their imagination something as constant as the sun, or maybe this second sun line is completely unrelated to the first. You can see why I was thrown off of my path of simple understanding (I should have learned by now that poems never fit into a nice little package after one reading). After dozens more readings, I have come to terms with this poem again and I'm content with my original interpretation about imagination, aloneness, and reminiscing.

One of the images in the first stanza was especially striking to me. It falls not far before she gives the poem to the reader, changing from first person to second. "I remain quiet, and slowly // the knot in my throat dissolves." This is great, it can say so much for me. She is saying that speaking is actually wounding her. Talking with other people has unnaturally caused her an uncomfortable abnormality. This knot shows how ineffective spoken words can be, especially in a day-to-day setting. People try to communicate through a mediocre translator of their voice and their word. When this is gone, she remains, as does the poetry. There are just two things in the poem right now, her and the poems. The words of the poem aren't like the spoken words though, they don't result in a lump, but "infinite treasures". She is telling me right here that this poem I'm reading isn't a conversation and it cannot be. Ravikovitch is giving a defining characteristic of poetry, it may feel like a conversation, as this poem does at times, but poetry has something else. You can return to poetry and relive it, years later, minutes later, or even a word later.

I have one other little observation about the final stanza.

infinite treasures.

Surely you remember the refreshing smell of dead fish guts, the way you smell them deeper down, on the tops of your lungs. And you leave the obese, black night to your laboratory where you paste fish tails onto dog heads and neglect the body all together. "Specimen is now more frog-like...amphibious tendencies..." you note into your tape recorder and chomp on a powdered donut.

That's the feeling i got from Dahlia Ravikovitch, as i'm sure you all did as well. To me, "Surely You Remember" is a poem about creating (and re-creating) the self, about the need to be re-made every instant, (to escape boredom), but at the same time, to maintain an identity. The method is called blending in poetics, and cut-ups by William S. Burroughs. You re-shuffle your memories, your instincts, your feelings, your surroundings to create a new self in a new world. This is achieved: "A sun sets at midnight" she is "somebody else".

Kate Lucas

HONR 250

Fr. Mark Thamert

18 March 2000

Inner Fist Fights

Dahlia Ravikovitch fits into many different categories. She is claimed by her country, Israel, and her Jewish background, called "One of the pillars of Hebrew writers" (Green). She is connected to human rights activists and protesters of war. She is a woman and writes both of celebrating womanhood and protesting its societal limitations. Finally, she writes of her humanity, in which she explores her inner recesses, faults, and loneliness. This great introspectiveness, which seems to permeate most of Ravikovitch’s works in some way or another, is a common thread throughout and an important vehicle for a greater understanding of both the poems and the poet herself.

An example of this common undercurrent can be found in the poem "Hovering at a Low Altitude." The premise of the work is war, as it describes the rape of a young shepherd girl, but what becomes even more glaring upon reading the poem is the inner war of the speaker. The work does describe an outward, physical violence of war, but there is also a very apparent inner violence being described.

The poem begins with a strong statement but what seems a quiet dignity: "I am not here." This line initiates right away a yearning for detachment, which rings throughout the work. The vivid, horrific event described is continually juxtaposed with these statements. "I am not here. I am not here," the speaker repeats again and again, as if she is trying to tell herself, make herself believe that she is not. And between these lines, the story comes out.

The poem first introduces the shepherd girl, then right away says, "She won’t live out the day, / that girl." This is such a simple, grave statement and almost imitates a child-like honesty. Without sparing words, the speaker tells us right away that this girl is doomed. There is a sorrow, a pity in that simple statement as well. At times the speaker has the ring of an unfeeling, omniscient observer, seeming to watch from afar all that happens, but at other times the speaker expresses very strong emotions. In one instance of this, the following lines, the speaker first objectively describes more of the circumstances of the situation, saying:

From the deep mountain gorge

a red globe floats up,

not yet a sun

Soon, though, the narrator’s emotions surface. She turns back inward, saying, "I am not here." Then,

The light will not burn me, the frost

won’t touch me.

Why be astonished now?

I’ve seen worse things in my life.

She seems to be attempting to comfort herself, trying to calm herself down. The lines hint at the idea that she is only trying to make herself believe what she is saying even though in reality she is really emotionally affected.

The next line is to me one of the most important in the poem, as she says, "I gather my skirt and hover very close to the ground." This hovering is referred to in the name of the poem, of course, and later it is described more:

My thoughts cushion me gently, comfortably.

I’ve found a very simple method,

not with my feet on the ground, and not flying—

hovering

at a low altitude.

The visual image of this is almost angel-like, this omniscient viewer suspended in the air, watching all. But the image created does not completely follow an angelic theme. The observer is not completely worried about the girl she watches; she is also looking out for herself. Her hovering is more about being able to protect and "cushion" herself, detach herself from the danger that is going to happen in front of her eyes. This is an ever-present conflict in the poem.

The lines sandwiched between the ones above about her detachment suggest to me that she wasn’t quite so uninvolved and "cushioned" from the situation as she would like. From the following vivid, detailed description, it seems the viewer was deeply intent on watching everything about the girl and not so much on detaching herself:

What is she thinking, that girl?

For a moment she crouches down,

her cheeks flushed,

frostbite on the back of her hands.

The scene, imprinted this clearly, doesn’t seem like it was observed carelessly—or that it would be easily forgotten. Later, the observer addresses this, saying,

With one strong push I can hover and whirl around

with the speed of the wind.

I can get away and say to myself:

I haven’t seen a thing.

But these lines are ironically followed by the most vivid, horrific lines of the poem, describing in incredibly vivid images the girl’s reaction before death. Again, it is hard to believe that this narrator could every really forget.

Throughout the poem, there is this conflict between what the narrator sees and what she wants to see. When talking about her ability to detach herself, the speaker is talking directly to herself, telling herself she isn’t where she is or she isn’t seeing what she sees. But it seems to me there is a difference between what she is telling herself and her true reality. This point is crucial, the sort of inner turmoil that is created out of a traumatic experience, the mind replaying and replaying the event while some part of the person yearns to control it and discredit its truth. Ravikovitch seems to capture in this poem an incredible amount of empathy and emotional understanding of the injustice and also the emotional turmoil she describes. (And judging from her biographical information, this is most likely because she has experienced similar conflicts in her own life.)

These themes surface again in the poems "Surely You Remember" and "Hard Winter" which both explore similar struggles, emulating overall the great precariousness of a person experiencing such emotional conflict. In the poem "Hard Winter," the theme is described using a metaphor, a description of a mulberry tree struck by lightning. The poem succeeds in creating a great amount of tension and anxiety through this seemingly simple idea.

It begins with a startling image:

The little mulberry shook in the flame

and before its glory vanished

it was lapped in sadness.

The word "little" seems to create a sort of sympathy for the tree. It is small and slight, and it is shaking, being attacked violently. The next line exudes emotion as well, as the speaker watches the tree’s "glory" and splendor disappear in a moment. The life and the beauty of this thing is destroyed right before the speaker’s eyes, and it is obviously very disturbing for her to watch. At this point, it isn’t clear what is causing the tree to tremble and succumb, to lose its glory. This makes the poem all the more striking and tension-filled.

The final line in this series is the first hint of a metaphor. The tree experiences "sadness," a human emotion. This word does two things. First, it shows a great connection and compassion for nature on Ravikovitch’s part. Secondly, it gives the tree a human emotion and therefore human characteristics, making the reader wonder if the author is really talking about a tree or if it is a metaphor for a human. Whatever is meant, however, the emotion calls upon all the more sympathy and compassion from the reader; this little tree is really suffering.

In the next stanza, the poem introduces new subjects to the poem:

Rain and sun ruled by turns, and in the house

we were afraid to think

what would become of us.

One wonders, is this a really bad storm? Why does it affect these people, safe in their house, so much that they themselves almost feel in danger? The people continue to watch the tree, and "Each of us was sunk in himself alone." This event is definitely not only affecting the tree. Everyone watching seems in pain or turmoil about what is happening. Then in the next stanza, the author seems to give the first inkling of connection.

But for an instant, offguard,

I saw

how men topple from this world.

So this tree is showing us something about men, about humanity. The tree’s struggle correlates to humans’ lives.

Like a tree that lightning splits,

heavy with limbs and flesh, the wet branches

trampled like dead grass.

The tree is weighted down, is struggling hard. The author through this vivid imagery creates such a vivid conflict, the image being able to then manifest human conflict. The last stanza is the most intriguing:

All the fibers of the plants were intent

on themselves alone.

This time I never thought I’d survive.

The first two lines echo a line earlier in the poem: "Each of us was sunk in himself alone," and the parallel between the tree and the people becomes clearer. Earlier, the people see the suffering of the tree and have to turn inward, and now it is clear that the suffering tree is doing the same. But the last line is surprising, with its switch in focus to the first person. The poem has spent the majority of its time describing the violent struggle of the tree, but at the end, the speaker turns to talking of her own struggle to survive.

This makes me think of two things. First, it reminds me of the preceding poem, "Hovering at a low altitude." It seems to echo that poem’s idea of watching someone suffer and struggle and not being able to do anything about it, then having to deal with the inner turmoil this creates. Secondly, the poem makes me think that maybe the tree is a metaphor for the speaker herself, that this vivid, physical description is a way of personifying, making come alive and concrete her own spiritual, emotional (and therefore abstract) struggle.

What makes me think it might be this second idea is because of Ravikovitch’s poem "Surely You Remember." This poem is also very much about an inner turmoil, a struggle for finding self. The speaker in the poem talks about wanting to be alone, with her poetry, "After they all leave." The speaker seems to find in poetry a vehicle for turning inward. "I remain quiet . . . I remain," the poem repeats. Once, alone, however, this person experiences tension: "You wish everyone would go away. / You don’t know what’s the matter with you" and later "You wish you were dead or alive or / somebody else." But she also seems to find some sort of answers, some clarity, as she says, "Then it all passes, and you are pure crystal." The poem later refers to Narcissus, looking into the river:

Narcissus was so much in love with himself.

Only a fool doesn’t understand

he loved the river too.

This part seems to describe a sense of self-absorption. The speaker seems in conflict with her need to turn inward and to poetry. Poetry allows her to see herself better, as Narcissus could see himself in the river, but it also is a selfish thing. Towards the end of the poem, she asks, "Isn’t there a country you love? A word? / Surely you remember." She seems to want to find something to focus on, to devote her attention to, even though at this moment she is too sad and depressed to really think of anything else.

The imagery and emotions wrought in this last poem are really too much to describe with any depth or great clarity here. But I think the main thing I took from this poem was, again, the idea of inward turn and turmoil. The speaker of this poem is definitely struggling with these same ideas, and what seems especially interesting to me is that, while "Hard Winter" manifests this in a concrete, vivid description, "Surely You Remember" describes it in the emotions and thoughts themselves. While both poems are powerful, their effects are really quite different; for me, the concrete, vivid description of "Hard Winter" has a more intense, immediate emotional effect.

Ravikovitch writes about a great variety of ideas and expresses them in a great many methods, but the more I read, the more clues I find woven throughout her work, pulling together themes and thoughts. I have begun to see a picture of an introspective, passionate, social justice-minded, and nature-loving woman. And through it all is an undercurrent of self-exploration and questioning that at times seems passionate with conviction while at others seems as precarious as a tree bent in the wind. Most importantly to me this inner battle and introspectiveness manifest a deep thinker, intensely determined to sort things out—both the inner and the outer. I have a feeling that I have found in Ravikovitch a voice worth following in her search.

Works Cited

Cosman, Carol, ed. et al. The Penguin Book of Women Poets. Viking, 1979.

Green, Saguy. "Israel Prizes for writing awarded to Amos Oz and Dahlia Ravikovitch." 1998.

Rachel Castor
Poets for Life
3/27/00

Reaching

It's raining outside and the wind is blowing and I want to dance naked in the old green woods and soak up the tears from life-giving trees. This is every poet's dream: to get beyond the self, to enter the realm of nature or fantasy, to become the other. Dahlia Ravikovitch, a nationally famous Israeli Poet who received the Israeli Prize for Literature and Poetry in 1998 (Vintage, 329), explores this in her poetry. She makes me feel that I am no longer myself - that I am no longer one person feeling my way through life. Or perhaps she expands the concept of person, so that one individual is both a single instance of person-hood and all people, as a poem is a moment that contains all moments.

Poetry is both timeless and time itself. Dahlia's poems walk the fine lines between I, us, and all. It seems that all poets must be able to do this, to speak out of personal experience in a way that draws everyone in. But in Dahlia's poems I hear her talking, then I hear Israel, then myself, another woman, everyone. Her poems are enigmatic for me, full of wrestling images that I can't pin down. Out of her nine poems that I have read; including "Trying Again", "Surely you remember", "A Dress of Fire", "The Sound of Birds at Noon", "You can't kill a Baby Twice", "Hovering at Low Altitude", "Pride", "The Blue West", and "Magic"; "The Sound of Birds at Noon (333)" is the only one which seems light to me. Even then, I can't shake the feeling that it only seems light because I cannot see it's shadows nor depths.

I recently wrote a poem about a vase of blue marbles in my windowsill. I wrote:

round and tiny in a vase

in a windowsill

Dahlia's poems are like little oceans in my windowsill, each deep and alive, yet contained. There is something cold about their color: blue, something unfriendly. These poems are not calm or shallow or clear, but rather, difficult to descend.

"Trying Again (329/30)" is the one poem of Dahlia's I thought I would not, could not, write about. Every time I read it I imagine it is about something else. The only subjects are "I" and "you" and the action is getting or having. The first line of the poem is "If I could only get all of you," and the other stanzas begin "If I could get you for all the years," and "If I could only have all of you." I do not pretend to understand this poem, if any poem can indeed be understood, and I hesitate to attempt to analyze it. But this poem captures me. It pushes itself into my pencil and won't leave until I come to terms with what it is that grabs me. It is this idea of getting or having. I do not know who or what the speaker wants to grab, only that her desire is so strong that she must have it all. Her desire is like Rapunzel'a mother who had to have the radishes or the girlfriend in Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried who arrived in Vietnam and wanted to swallow the whole country, the woods and the paddies and the whole war.

When I read this poem I think of Andrew, a boy I loved once. If only I could get hold of every particle of you. "If I could get hold of you like metal - " Everything about our love was fatalistic. I wanted all of him, to know every aspect of his being. I search for truth also this way, 'to hold it like metal' - a straight unchanging rod that I can come back to again despite the layers of lies I build around it. I am not alone in this search for truth; sometimes it feels as though our whole society is crashing through space, through rainforests, through oceans, looking for truth. Dahlia has brought me away from my own struggle and has spoken the human voice, a voice reaching to grasp something greater than itself. But truth, like love, is not absolute, finite, or circumscribable. At the end of each stanza I feel like Dahlia comes to a realization that she cannot get hold of "you". Whether she speaks of a lover, of truth, of a poem, or the connection to her readers, it escapes her grasp again and again. At the end of the stanzas we are left with:

and the breath of the day burning like a furnace

and

don't believe they'll support you.

and

a thousand and one held breaths

Hardly things to hold on to. Not metal or mountains or rivers or any of the solid things Dahlia mentions in the poem.

The last line remains particularly enigmatic for me. Perhaps she meant for it to be impossible to fully grasp, just as the "I" cannot "have all of you". The poem ends:

If I could only have all of you

like a part of me.

I'm not sure what to make of the "like"; it twists the meaning that I want to read into the line. My mind wants to read "how could you ever become/ a part of me." Does Dahlia mean that "you" is different than, rather than "like" (similar to), a part of the speaker? Is "like" used to mean "as" or "similar to"? I don't know.

One interpretation is that Dahlia is talking about Poetry and realizing that no matter how much she has, it cannot become a part of her. Just as this poem speaks the individual and communal voice, so does it speak from both a single moment and all moments. This poem captures a single thought as it runs through the speaker's head, a desire to connect to someone else through poetry. But it also speaks of a lifetime of trying to communicate, or to grasp on to something solid. The poem speaks of a struggle that has existed since humans have: to want. The last clause could also be a question, the speaker wondering how to make the poem a part of her. Assuming that the translation is accurate enough for this type of word by word analysis, my reading is that Dahlia sees poems like star-words strung together into infinite constellations, a lace curtain in the sky. We see patterns, we name each star, but the complexity, depth and meaning of it all is beyond our grasp. We stare at stars our whole lives and are endlessly taken up in a vastness we can never come to terms with. Stars are inexhaustibly interpretable. And though we cannot untangle these star-webs, can we touch them? Can we be burnt trying to catch these mysteries? Can poetry burn us? I have to believe it can.

I have chosen words as my passion, my pivot point, my metal, and my 1000 held breaths. If words cannot burn us, they cannot warm us either. On days I believe in love, and moments when I believe we can fall into it, it seems reading a poem is like falling in love. Dahlia's poem "Dress of Fire (331/32)" draws me in and clothes me in Medea's dress of fire. First I am the princess, Jason's new wife and the recipient of Medea's vengeance and revenge. Then I am Medea: "It was Medea… Medea did that to her." I am this tragic Greek heroine, strong because I am a woman with an agenda who, as April Bernard described herself and Sylvia Plath, doubts herself, doubts life. I am human, a vulnerable killer. Just as Sylvia Plath's doubts were more than a memoir, so does Dahlia's voice in "Dress of Fire" speak of our communal doubts. If Dahlia wanted this poem to open her up for us, she would have written an autobiographical story. She wrote this poem to open ourselves up for us, and in opening ourselves we are glimpsing what it is to be human: to share our doubts, fears, and grieves. Dahlia does not doubt life, we all doubt life.

Dahlia has clothed me in this burning dress, but in the end I'm not sure of anything, not even the dress. All I know is that I'm burning. I've "got to be careful." But I don't know who's warning me, or who's given me this "dress that glows/ like an ember…. They made me a burning dress, I said. I know./ … but I don't know how to be careful."

Because Dahlia was a peace activist, I'm tempted to read this as a social commentary. Perhaps it's the institution that's burning me -- the administration, the Empire, the establishment, society. As a woman, I am like Jason's wife, the recipient of wrath, jealousy, and lust… just for being what I am. Medea uses Jason's new wife to hurt Jason. The speaker in this poem burns to make a statement she is not involved in. We are these innocent, yet not so innocent, bystanders burning with the guilt of dirty money in our hands, memories of the land our ancestors have raped. Here again the distinction blurs between Dahlia, the reader, and humanity. The voice of the wronged, the suffering, may be spoken by one person, but it expressed the pain of many. I believe that poetry is the voice for the voiceless part in all of us. We have all shared in this pain, as Jason's wife did, but we do not choose it. We accepted it, as one accepts a poisoned gift.

The last line of "A Dress of Fire" is "I'm not wearing a dress at all,/ what's burning is me." Dahlia seems to say that this burning is not something we put on, but it is us; it is inside and inseparable from our being. This idea still fits my reading of "they" as the establishment and the dress as all the guilt society heaps on women, yet it seems to more closely fit a second reading. Perhaps "they" and the dress, and "she" are all part of me, of you, of each of us. This last line strips away any pretense that the dress is outside of the individual. No, with this last line Dahlia rips me off my social commentary soapbox and shows me my palms. They are not scorched on the surface, but pumping fire in my veins, like some fatalistic volcano that can only erupt once. Like Dahlia, I want to scream, as she shouted in realization

what are you saying?

what's burning is me.

If my pumping heart fuels the very flames that burn me, I can turn to no water for relief. I see myself, naked, and burning, standing at the stake, in the center of a town, amid a sea of faces. Each one not the strangers I expect, but each one my face. I am both my judge and executioner, yet I did not choose this burning. But you accepted it, says Dahlia. You opened Medea's gift, knowing who she was, and you put on the dress. And I know Dahlia is right. Now that the dress is gone, it is me that burns. Perhaps this is the fate I chose when I chose poetry: not to burn, but to look into a fun house mirror, my burning face reflected a million times back at me. To see this burning where others see the dress, to wait for love to ride in on a turtle while others wait for white steeds, to find salvation slowly and suddenly in words while others prescribe to containable prophets or named gods, is this what it is to be a poet? We all burn, but poets feel this burning, and can't escape it. Is it then their job to show us this burning with their poetry? Perhaps that is how poetry burns us -- by showing us that burning inside us. Does this mean that poets can save us? Or will we explode, leaving crater lakes as our legacy? Somehow I know the water has to come from inside me, to fill the craters I create. If my heart can pump magma it can pump water as well, from the deep blue well of my soul.

This poem speaks not only of one woman's struggle, Dahlia's or Medea's, but of a people's struggle, our struggle. We reach towards each other in communication, in love, trying not to burn each other and ourselves. The poem captures one scene, a moment of realization that "what's burning is me;" yet this realization is not trapped in one moment, it is timeless. People come to it in different ways, but at some point we all feel this burning, being consumed by the world, or ourselves. This feeling is not a fleeting moment, but exists indefinitely. Time is burning away at and as much as we try to ignore it, when we turn to look, it is still there.

Just as the marbles in my windowsill still a moment in time while also transcending time, Dahlia's poems freeze both one moment and all moments. As I watch the marbles I believe they will exist there forever - each a world like our own. If colors can capture time, blue holds it the most deeply, mysteriously out of our grasp. Dahlia's poem "The Blue West" (see attachment) captures my romance with blue. The form of the poem culminates in the last two stanzas. The first stanza is a question, an actual happening situation she can't come to grips with, followed my two "I want" stanzas, and an "If only" stanza. The last two I named "this" stanzas, they are the hopedreamtime when all the ifs can exist, and all the wants disappear into happening. I can feel the reaching in her words:

I want to reach the other side of the hill,

want to be there.

And in her final stanzas I feel the lengthening of breath. I feel Dahlia taking me to live in this hope of a time when she will be there, when the sun she wants to climb and not be burned by will "shine for us blue as the sea," and "will wait for us till we will climb up".

I am happy here, amid these dreams. They are not ambitious but blue and moving and deep. They will not leave me behind but propel me forward. In these dreams I lose the sense of hidden misery present in the first stanza. I feel as if I can ride this blue setting dream over the horizon, but perhaps when the sun disappears I will fall back down to this dark field, my own shadows, which I cannot understand. Is the field a graveyard, the site of a battle, a rape? Are the painful memories, the stone, ours alone or communal? Is it my face that stares back at me in the mirror or a mysterious woman who has darknesses I will never explore?

Each of these poems of Dahlia's uncovers questions unanswerable, as every good piece of literature does. Like gazing at the stars, poems are timeless. Poets enclose oceans in marbles, and present marbles to us as infinite oceans. Poems will always be both contained and outside any lines we draw around them. I can't answer these questions, but I can ask them. There isn't a way to walk slowly through each tension in Dahlia's poems without ripping the wings off the butterflies she has summoned from the cocoons of our minds. Dahlia lays star patterns in front of us, allowing us to see the night sky and awing us with its vastness. She does not "reach/ all the cities beyond the sea" or "the end of thought", but rather takes us to a place where we can imagine the end of these reachings. Dahlia invites us to explore rather than dissect. She does not present oceans behind glass, but within marbles we can hold.

Dahlia Ravikovitch

If there was only a road there

the ruin of workshops

one fallen minaret

and some carcasses of machines,

why couldn't I

come to the heart of the field?

There is nothing more painful

than a field

with a stone on it's heart.

I want to reach the other side of the hill,

want to reach

want to be there.

I want to break out of the mass of the earth,

from my head to my footsoles

the mass of the earth.

I want to reach the end of thought

whose beginning slice like a knife.

I want to climb up to the borders of the sun

and not be eaten by fire.

If only one could walk about

with locust feel on the water,

if only one could climb up

on the high arch of the sun's rays,

If only one could reach

all the cities beyond the sea -

And there is another sorrow:

a seashore where there are no ships.

On one of the days to come

the eye of the sea will darken

from the multitude of ships.

In that hour all the mass of the earth

will be stretched out like a snail.

And the sun will shine for us blue as the sea,

a sun will shine for us as hot as an eye,

will wait for us till we will climb up

as it heads for the blue west.