Mountain Goats

In the Negev Desert where I grew up there were no lions of any kind. But yes, Mountain goats, the Nubian Ibexes, ruggedly walking on near vertical cliffs. Males were with dark brown mane down their backs and well grown beards. I remember, as a child, my utter fascination with them. I remember their distinct farness.

Now, so much older, as one who makes things and is curious about writing, my fascination goes more to symbolism and personal metaphors than to lions, or goats. To the way they present themselves: Resilient, ambitious, gracious, cautious, self-reliant. An emblem of a soul’s ascension, an innate measured wisdom.

And then this, this collage I made a couple of days ago at a beautiful one day workshop by friends Mija Matriz and Jon Labrousse, guiding us through a process I haven’t experienced before which was, simply described, the making of a collage, inspiring the writing of a poem, and then ‘performing’ it.

It was so very lovely, to be mused by these two’s rich world, and yes, you guessed it, the images of a young woman, perhaps still a child, the goat, these pictures I chose as focal points of my collage, brought forth this particular introduction and the following piece, perhaps a little story, a poem, probably not quite:

His name was Ez, pronounced Ehz, not Easy

It means ‘Goat’ in her native language

She once, twice, or more, offered the back of her hand

To him, for him to kiss, which he did so kindly. Softly.

His lips often lingered, as he looked up to her eyes

Greener than his. His, hosting amber warmth

Pale irises, with wide, darker, horizontal pupils

She said: Come, come with me, float with me

Then she waited, for the companionship of his words

She grew accustomed to the words, to the waiting too

He became familiar with this floatiness of hers

And after a measured pause, he said:

I’ll be right here, on this slim path, to lick salt

From the rock, midway of this mountain we both love

I’ll stay here as you walk, once again, to farther terrains

I will follow your moves, from up here, I promise

And he did, he did, he was a goat of his words

Then he moved each foot with exact purpose

Keeping a low center of gravity

Deliberately, to stay safe on the rock ledge

And she became good at leaving, at coming back

at leaving, at coming back, she adapted

To the new beloved pattern, the rhythm, the cycle

To their new ways of belonging, bridging landscapes

And in the same time, she began to recognize

This was her own ancient way, that it had

Nothing at all to do with goats, or even lions

Or horses, and ants, and mountains, and scribbles

White chalk on black boards, pink or red roses

Such events occurred well before he appeared

On those barren and rocky mountains,

Fixed in place, and time, and story, and heart

Lands where there are no goats nor women

Only tumbleweeds tumbling low above the surface

In slow motion, blurry intersections, whispery winds,

Parallel rainbows and dusty, hiding horizons

Behind familiar waiting mountains

Generations upon generations.

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