I've read of the incarcerated
in fields and on mountains,
read of their starless nights
on cold floors behind bars,
while sailing, a lasso of light
around my heart,
read of the confined and cuffed, the tears they shed, the echo on cement,
yet not till I too lay on the bench, surrounded by bricks,
locked, locked, locked, have I come to know the cold, the cold ice itself dreads to touch.
None know, none can imagine,
none can fathom the helplessness which takes
grip of the convict, but the those who have felt the clap of irons choke their wrists.
Experiencing it, breathing the still air inside that lonesome jail cell has taught me
how much may be lost at the cost of one unchecked impulse.
I was 23, in the habit of being
swooped off my senses by
going on stealing sprees.
It was the thrill that charmed
my reason out of the equation.
Now has come the time to give
experience's aftermath full
leave to stand me before its
mirror and above it see these letters:
He is wise who sees his own mistake in its full guise.
So I say to impulse, " I've been your puppet and toy, but now the strings must meet the
blade, and I be called master
and not slave or knave, and though your charms will take some seasons to wear off, in the
meantime I'll not forget to put up a fight when you
slide the words " transact me" into my ear with allurement and lucidity.
*
Who hears the tears’ echo
in a jail cell? In the cold and shiver,
kneecaps held tight against the chin.
Who hears this tear’s echo?
No blanket or pillow,
trickles down the chin, they plummet on the cement floor.
Cold, cold, cold. My back is on the wilt, my meadow’s peak faces the ground, parched, yet the heart is
rubbed to warmth by memories of love.
*
That cold, how could my body forget?
Mere hours were utter eternities
In that cell, in that net.
Over childhood I lament,
With autumn leaves for solemnities.
That cold, how could my body forget.
The impulse made me its puppet,
The hammer shall strike, the strings shall freeze.
In that cell, in that net.
There is a groveling allurement
In the act, though I'll not seize!
That cold, how can my body forget.
A longing for my first room, womb, to protect
My dimming-self from the momentum-gaining breeze.
In that cell, in that net.
I am my torment
And maker of keys.
That cold, how could my body forget.
In that cell, in that net.
Bio: Omer Zamir reached out to POPS from afar. He is a 23-year-old poet. The range of his writing depends on how deeply he experiences life’s various dishes, and of late, a little time in jail has brought forth a new dimension to his poetry. And hopefully it has helped to give him some wisdom. Sun shines, new times abound.
