Kochavi

Omri Kochavi

Star Black

Writing In Museums

10.5.18

Assignment #15 – Punctuation Poem

&#< ‘, ‘, ‘, >#$ ,’,’ &$&

)*{} ‘,’, {}*@ ‘,’,’, @#

‘,

*#&^ ‘, &&^

(#&^ ‘,’, &^$ ,’

,’
 Kochavi

For you are my falafel

And I am your pita

Right?

Let me hold you in my pocket

And cover you with a blanket of Amba

Right.
 Kochavi

Omri Kochavi

Star Black

Writing In Museums

10.5.18

Assignment #16 – Imitation Poem

The memory of my youth is vague and dull,

like a mountain view on a foggy day.

Just as a tarantula stings its prey with speed and cruelty,

my youth went by.

The seas of my elderliness,

are waiting to be sailed on.

 Kochavi

Father by Yehuda Amichai (out of Yehuda Amichai poems 1948-1962)

The memory of my father is wrapped up in white paper,

like sandwiches taken for a day at work.

Just as a magician draws towers and rabbits out of his hat,

he drew love from his small body.

The rivers of his hands

overflowed into his good deeds. 

 Kochavi

Omri Kochavi

Star Black

Writing In Museums

10.5.18

Assignment #12, 13, 14

A dress (after Saturday vestment for the virgin of El Rocio by Yves Saint Laurent)

A dress. A dress lucent with wrinkles, textures and shapes. Is it a cloud I see there? A Lilly? A

periwinkle? I’ll keep looking.

Look at this dress. Look at its fabric. Don’t you want to feel it? But all I can do is look. The

longer I look, the more it makes me wonder.

There is the crown, and the necklace, and the key. It doesn’t fit. It’s unbelievable. It doesn’t

make sense.

And then comes the cloak. Doesn’t every dress wish it had a cloak that covered it? Every inch of

it? I bet it makes the dress feel safe.

I wish I wore this dress. I wish I was this dress.

 Kochavi

A blade (after a blade for a short sword, Edo period)

It took everything I had, and then a little bit more. Don’t let the red flower carving mislead you.

Nothing seemed to help, not a plaster, not a bandage.

Now that I look back on this day, all I remember is the lake, and it’s indigo-ish shade, and my

pain.

It might sound bombastic, and believe me, it is. It might sound worrisome. But don’t think about

it like that.

The knife took everything I had. Don’t let the red flower carving mislead you. But now I’m here.
 Kochavi

Where am I (after A Mortally Brigand Quenches his Thirst by Eugene Delacroix)

I never thought it will end up this way.

I remember my 6th birthday, vivid as if it was two days ago. After blowing on the candles, my

mother touched my chin, like she always did before saying something important, and said to me

– you can be whatever you want.

I feel that memorable moment was the starting point of the daisy chain that led me up to now. I

never celebrated my birthday again. I don’t even know what my age is.

Anyway, this will be a good moment to say goodbye. Too bad her knife was jagged, it would

have ended sooner if it was straight. Well, that’s what you get.