Poetry 9

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Poetry 9

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Hadass Golandsky
[email protected]
These poems are written in Hebrew, and scanned in directly from Ms. Golandsky’s prints. We have used the date as provided by the poet for each poem, they are in European format (day.month.year). “Born in Israel in 1962 to a father who was a Jewish immigrant from White-Russia, and a mother from a well known family in Tiberias (Northen Israel). I am the last of three children, and the only girl. I attended an artistic high school in Haifa, where I finished my A-Exams in photography. After that I spent 2 years in the Israeli Army. I didn’t really feel at home in Israel, and in 1987 I moved to Austria, where I married and divorced an Austrian. It was here, far away from Israel and my family that I also came upon the fact that I am a survivor of sexual abuse in my childhood. Painting and writing poems (in Hebrew) help me go through the process of healing.” See also her Visual Art.


  • Poetry in Hebrew

    Like a Butterfly

    like a butterfly in winter
    she sits cuddled up
    in herself

    like a butterfly in winter
    she yearns
    for some warmth and care

    like a butterfly in winter
    she declines to believe
    that this is her end

    like a butterfly in winter

    she shuts her eyes

    and the sun shines


  • In the Shade of Trees

    sitting in the shade of trees
    on a shore of a flowing river.
    a plastic bottle
    passes by.
    birds chirping.
    children playing.
    in the distance
    an ambulance

    sitting in the shade of trees
    on a shore of a flowing river.
    an old newspaper
    passes by.
    a woman sunbathes
    half naked.
    a young man passes her
    on his bike …
    and doesn’t glance.

    sitting in the shade of trees
    on a shore of a flowing river.
    my feet are in the water

    and everything



    to exist.


  • Birth

    a baby emerges
    to the air of the world
    not ready.

    a baby emerges
    to a world
    and cold.

    a baby emerges
    to a world
    and warm.

    a baby
    to the world…

    who decides?
    who has the saying?
    who determines
    where we are born?

    the baby himself?


  • Small Moments

    she lay on
    the floor in
    her room
    and listened to
    soft jazz
    and the cat
    cleaned its face.

    so what does this
    have to do with it?
    he asked in surprise.
    it doesn’t …
    she answered
    … it’s just a small moment
    in my life.

    my life is full
    of small moments
    connected to each other
    with transparent fibres.

    and suddenly everything is clear
    and suddenly everything is bright
    only for me
    to see

    some more small moments
    not belonging
    connected to each other
    with thin, transparent
    of life.


  • Man

    I once saw a man
    walking on the street
    with a walking street.

    he crossed the road
    without looking
    and walked on
    in small
    to Herzel street.

    there he turned to the right
    and disappeared.

    and since then
    I never saw him again …

Melanie C. Morgan
[email protected]

“I am an incest survivor and have been on my healing journey since 1993. I found my way to the National Mental Health Association working as a project coordinator and supporting their mission. I started writing when I was ten. I have kept a journal since I was 10 years old. My poetry is a creative outlet to all of the pain and other emotions evoked from the abuse. I also write short stories and draw. I am interested in the healing arts and hope to someday work in the field.”

  • “Untitled”
    by Melanie C. Morgan

    I often wonder what I would be
    If life had not given me this strangeness,
    Like an abnormal growth that is not
    Supposed to be there,
    But lingers in silence, standing out
    Brandishing its difference
    Like a left wing independent.

    What if I had gone to Harvard
    Or grew up a happy child?
    With a father and mother who loved me?
    What if I grew into this normality?
    I see walking everyday beside me,

    Down the road, across the river
    Where are you?
    Who are you?
    Why can’t you love?
    Why can’t you feel something
    That means anything?
    Except longing.

    You are like wind and rain
    Disappearing from my thoughts.
    Distant and vague like a Cirrus cloud,
    Why can’t I touch you when I so long too?
    My fear is grander than I ever believed
    It straddles my heart, takes me hostage
    And I am left with emptiness,
    A vacuous tunnel
    A bird hidden in the trees.

    Adornments distract me and
    I make them matter.
    Dancing to your songs only
    Makes me feel alone.

    So I am shattered and it
    Never ends, like seasons it
    Only changes, but returns again.

    “The Lost Father”
    by Melanie C. Morgan

    I am afraid of him as he opens the door.
    What will I find with the sad aroma of
    Candles and dry flowers?

    He seems grand, strong, and omnipotent.
    From afar I see love, old and worn,
    The longings of a little girl.

    In hopefulness I long for his love,
    A shelter from the pain.
    To take away the search, surrender the fight.

    He will never gather me in his arms,
    Or carry me afar, not even hold my hands

    The scent of wistfulness allows me todream
    Of dolls, children’s laughs, moments unseen.

    I long and wander searching in the vast
    Emptiness of fear and loneliness,
    I reach out, yet know he is no longer there.

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