Poetry
Waves of Grief
Lines in the Dark
My daughters, knowing that I love poetry and that I write secretly at night, often ask me about the process of creation.
The idea, the flow, the beauty, the moment when words appear as if from nowhere.
I remember my own first moment vividly. I was about eleven years old, in the fourth grade of a Soviet school, when we first read the old Russian epic poems. Sadko was the first, I believe—a tale that wove history and myth together, the bard of Novgorod who lived both in chronicles and in song. Later, in a literature club, our teacher placed into our hands The Tale of Igor’s Campaign, that haunting fragment of the twelfth century. Even as a child I could feel its strange gravity, the language like a chant rising from the depths of time.
Perhaps it was inevitable, then, that my first attempt at poetry was a kind of mimicry. The words were mine, but the style was borrowed, epic in its cadence. I still remember the exact moment of creation: waking in the middle of the night with lines already formed on my lips. I rose quietly, lit no lamp, and wrote them down in the dark. When I read them aloud, they sounded—at least to me—like real poetry.
Unable to contain myself, I crept to my parents’ room. I opened the door and, in the only way an excited child knows, gave my father a gentle kick in the back.
“Do you want to hear my poem?” I whispered.
He turned over, half-asleep, and smiled.
“Of course, child.”
Verses for Lenin
I kept writing, turning stray thoughts into lines of verse. Soon it was not only for myself: I began composing for different occasions, sometimes even seeing my words printed in a local newspaper or on the school board.
That was when I first learned what it meant to write “on command.” Inspiration did not arrive freely—it was requested, sometimes demanded. One memory stands out with particular clarity. In April of 1985, just days before Lenin’s 115th birthday, our class was taken to his mausoleum. The principal had ordered a series of events to mark the celebration, and I was asked to provide a poem.
So I wrote one. A child of my time, obedient to circumstance.
I share this now not to invite judgment, but to offer a glimpse into the era in which I grew up—an era where even poetry bent itself, willingly or otherwise, to history’s weight.
I stood by the fountain in Pyatigorsk,
At the still and shadowed foot of Mashuk,
Yet what burns deepest in my memory
Is the day we came to Lenin’s grave.
We moved as one, a mourning column,
And in my ears there rang that hush—
The silence kept by those who slumber,
Departed from our lives for all of time.
Do not weep—
For Lenin walks with us still;
His voice is woven into our steps.
As once he did,
He guides us onward to communism—
Toward the brighter dawn
That all hearts have sought.
Я был у Пятигорского фонтана,
стоял у подножья Машука,
но в памяти моей навек осталась
экскурсия к могиле Ильича.
Вот я иду с шеренгою скорбящих,
Звенит в ушах моих та тишина,
которую оплакивают спящих,
ушедших от нас навсегда.
Не плачьте, люди,
наш Ленин с нами
и никогда от нас не уйдет.
Он так же, как прежде,
нас к коммунизму ведет.
Fragments in the Dark
I was my parents’ only child, a solitary figure in a world that often felt too large, too echoing. The pangs of loneliness came suddenly, like cold air seeping in through a crack in the window on winter nights. When that happened, I found comfort in my room, arranging my lead soldiers into armies. They were heavy in the hand, cold to the touch, yet in my imagination each one was alive — a tiny hero urging his comrades forward against some unseen enemy. In the lamplight their metallic bodies almost glowed, as if they knew the stakes of the battle were real.
Autumn had its own kind of loneliness. I remember walking home from art school on evenings when the air smelled of wet earth and leaves going soft underfoot. My steps rustled across the path, and I let my mind wander through scraps of Byron or Burns. Often, in the half-dark of the park, a line or two of poetry came to me uninvited. Not finished poems, just fragments — but enough to feel as if the world was speaking back.
And always, behind these small moments, the bigger questions pressed in: Why are we here? What is the purpose of life? Even as a boy, I sensed that the encyclopedias on our shelves had no real answers. They were too certain, too neat. I began to understand — though I wouldn’t have said it that way at the time — that every person has to search for themselves, and that the search itself may be the only answer we’re ever given.
Where sorrows grow
Autumn spreads her golden wings
across the dying year,
Scattering ash of precious things
where summer once was here.
The restless world grows hushed and still,
its fevered dreams now past,
While sickly light creeps past the sill—
pale shadows holding fast.
The sun forgets to rise too soon,
dawn lingers, cold and slow...
I'll walk into the barren noon
and stand where sorrows grow.
Осень золотая распустила крылья,
Прахом драгоценным всё вокруг покрыла.
Суета исчезла вместе с знойным летом,
День в окно стучиться слабым тусклым светом.
Солнце поздно встало, рассветает долго.
Выйду утром рано постою немного...
Embrace of Autumn
Through autumn's garden do I wend my way,
With pride and melancholy in my breast.
All nature speaks in hushed and solemn tones,
The birch doth whisper secrets to the wind.
Behold the maple in his golden robes,
How generous he scatters forth his wealth!
Beneath my feet there flows a precious stream
Of topaz dust, like jewels from above.
Unseen, the seasons wrought their gentle change,
The leaves descended timid as the dove.
But lo! a tapestry of crimson hues
Now mantles o'er the earth's rain-darkened breast.
The soil grows bright with autumn's painted gift,
While still the leaves fall soft in endless dance.
And I, 'midst these dark sentinels of wood,
Do clasp their slender forms in fond embrace.
The Mystery of Days
The sun arrives when it will come,
dawn keeps its secret time,
I'll step into the morning mist
where shadows write in rhyme...
What whispers should we trust from fate,
what promises believe?
We walk through veils of mystery—
each day a gift we can't perceive.
The years unfold like ancient scrolls
with verses yet unread,
We dance with time's uncertainty,
not knowing where we're led.
How beautiful this not-knowing,
this tender, aching space—
Each dawn a door to somewhere new,
each night a lover's grace.
In Byron’s Shadow
Somehow, I always believed I was meant for a great destiny.
It seemed impossible to me that a human being could be born merely to exist, to pass through life without some heroic deed or extraordinary act.
As a boy, I dreamed in many directions at once. At times I saw myself a brave general, leading armies to victory. At other times a politician of influence, a writer with volumes on every shelf, a journalist whose words traveled faster than he could. What I could not imagine was a life without achievement—without excitement, without recognition.
Among my heroes was Lord Byron, who died in, or perhaps for, a foreign land. His restless spirit haunted me. To travel, to explore, to encounter beauty and grace in distant places—those were my ideals.
I am no longer a teenager. The world has tempered me, and some of those ideals have shifted shape. Yet the hunger that drove them—the longing for discovery, for something beyond the ordinary—remains. It has never left me, and I doubt it ever will.
I still wonder how, at the age of 14, I could write these lines of hope...
On Greatness and Purpose
I shall be great, for Heaven's fire burns bright
Within my soul, a flame that will not die.
Though shadows gather and the grave's cold night
Awaits, I lift my spirit to the sky.
Life flows through me like sacred wine divine,
Its golden essence fills my mortal frame.
Through storm and trial, joy shall still be mine,
For happiness transcends both loss and shame.
Be it through verse that stirs the human heart,
Or wisdom gleaned from nature's hidden laws,
My faith shall guide me, never to depart
From truth's bright path, whatever be the cause.
I must discern what purpose life has given,
And walk its course with meaning, not in vain.
Each step - a prayer, each breath - a gift from Heaven,
Each trial faced - a link in wisdom's chain.
Between Mountains and Words
שֶׁמֶשׁ זוֹחֶלֶת בְּאִיחוּר
הַשַּׁחַר נוֹשֵׁם לְאַט, מִתְמַהְמֵהַּ
אֵצֵא אֶל הַחָצֵר הַדּוֹמֶמֶת
אֶעֱמוֹד מוּל הָאוֹר הַמִּתְעוֹרֵר...
למָּה לַחֲכּוֹת מחַיִּים
למָּה מִן הַיּוֹם לִצְפּוֹת
לָמָּה אֵינֵנוּ יוֹדְעִים
כַּמָּה זְמַן עוֹד נִתָּן לִחְיוֹת?
About fifteen years ago, I lived in Karmiel, a small town tucked into the northern hills of Israel. The air there was crisp, the mountains vast, and the community full of warmth. Among my neighbors was Jonatan Karmy, an amateur writer with an irrepressible spirit, who invited me into a local literary circle that soon became a cherished part of my life.
We gathered each week, trading poems, novel fragments, and lectures—an ongoing conversation shaped by creativity and friendship. Over time, we even compiled an almanac of our work, a record of voices woven together.
It was within that circle that I first found my voice in Hebrew poetry. I wrote only a handful of poems, yet each one remains close to me—quiet vessels carrying memory, emotion, and the trace of a particular time and place I will never forget.
One morning in Karmiel, we were pleasantly surprised to wake up and discover a beautiful blanket of snow covering the landscape.
Connect
Explore science, creativity, and shared passions here.
© 2025. All rights reserved.