Philip Hyams is an Israeli/Canadian novelist and
poet living near Tel-Aviv.
His first novel, "Canaan Barred", was published in 1995 by Tell Books in New York and Toronto. He has performed in Amsterdam under the auspices of One World Poetry and been published in First Time Magazine, Isibongo, Ariga, Talus, Scree, Almogaver. Peace, Shalom.
His email is Philip Hyams
Once Was A Hope
THE BROOD *
LUNAR LANDING *
THE KICK *
After Twelve *
This Is My Heritage *
The Marriage Temple *
Urban Gypsy *
Trotsky – My Conscience *
PLASTIC FLOWERS IN PARADISE *
THE SURVIVOR COMING HOME *
MEA SHEARIM *
TRANSPARENT CUTS REWARDED *
FALLEN POETS *
SITTING FOR ISSAC *
THOUGHTS OF A MAN IN A CORNER *
SETTLING FOR STONE *
THE MEETING *
NUMBERS FROM THE PAST *
JERUSALEM PYTHON *
AT WIT’S END *
THE TERRORIST *
FROM A DISTANCE *
WE ARE ALL REFUGEES *
And so the hot dry Sinai
Beckoned like an immense vessel of refuge
Perhaps like a woman in the throes of seduction
So I fled to the oasis and Nueiba with crystal
sharp lights of blazing orange/brown hues
And at night…piercing quiet…at last
With a marble of cobalt-blue skies
Massaged by the washing hands of a Red Sea in slumber
To quell the turmoil in the heart
Of this high-tech refugee from a
Land lit up by diodes and Web-driven Fantasies
This fantasy was momentarily needed above
The reality-check days of pressurized
The Fleeing…accepted by a heart
Beginning to quiet.
L. for love of my life
And a score and a half
Of full living…the ups…the downs…
But always my passion for your sweet
Smile and warm body next to mine in the nights
When the visions tore at everything.
My everything is you L.
A secret to your identity in this tome
For it is written we are 1 (ONE) for eternity
My love for U is forever.
Once Was A Hope
The hope once was a
Dream for us in a
Nightmare of war we
Believed in Peace
But now the stones mixed
With the blood of the children
And the plans of murderers
Hit each of us enemy or not
In our souls with dead
Another human being is buried
In Holy ground
While Peace the greatest victim
Escapes for generations and the
War of brother’s resumes spilling
The guts of families across a
Wasteland of historical imbecility
Who? You. Me!
Cousins with dark features and
Weathered brown complexions.
With names like Mohammed and Moshe,
Avi and Ali, Michal and Mustapha.
Dark stars, cousins killing brothers killing
Mothers killing fathers killing children
Killing cousins over and over and over
Till the bell tolls:
Enough! Truce! Wasted lives
Lives meant to be lived but instead
Lived to be killed even though
Death will come in due course for us all.
You look like me but are not.
I look like you and am not.
Who? You. Me!
I come from a land which
Gave birth to the world and
Now destroys itself while the
I come from a country where
Ideas formed other freedoms and thoughts
But now has no ideas except the
One buried on the lips of martyrs.
I come from a place where
Cultures and peoples were born and
Died out like petering embers of
A global campfire.
Only ashes are left. Birth pangs?
Initiated by a strange thought,
Your body is a moonscape
I saw an old leather boot lying dead
In recollection those memories
The affair is finished.
And you’re just like a
This Is My Heritage
This is my heritage
The Marriage Temple
If I promise to love you
He came by my bus stop one cold and rainy evening.
A new mode of modernity:
I walked along the strand.
Trotsky – My Conscience
The bed is over there
PLASTIC FLOWERS IN PARADISE
Plastic flowers propped up,
THE SURVIVOR COMING HOME
But the numbers indicated
Who are you who prolong
TRANSPARENT CUTS REWARDED
Lesions painted by ideologies
My Arab brother
Not all of us,
The Sachnah oasis where we swam
SITTING FOR ISSAC
We sit Shiva like cowardly Buddha’s.
Mongrel, they shot you with
THOUGHTS OF A MAN IN A CORNER
That man, sitting in the corner over there,
SETTLING FOR STONE
Settling for stone
Like the old/this dented city with its
NUMBERS FROM THE PAST
AT WIT’S END
At wit’s end.
The bomb was fabricated from
Silences/your hair touching my shoulder/
FROM A DISTANCE
At these heights one does not see
WE ARE ALL REFUGEES
The washed shutters in pearl blues