“... Hanging by a thread, my fathers jostle together, A sleeve of Hispania cloth permeated with the scent of jasmine On an austere robe from the lands of years gone by On a breeze bearing blows, payes and pelts…”
So reads a section from “Fathers,” a poem by Tel Aviv-born novelist, poet, and theater director Michal Govrin, whose poetry our host Marcela Sulak introduces to us today. The daughter of an Israeli pioneer father and a mother who survived the Holocaust, Govrin’s work is concerned with the legacy of trauma left to children of Holocaust survivors.
Govrin has described her poems as the flowers of a desert plant with very deep roots; some have roots as deep as fifteen feet, but when we see the flower we never imagine how much of the plant remains invisible to the eye.