Publications.
See about page for complete list of publications
Portrait of a Poet
A Portrait, classically defined, has design and color and in Covensky's poetry color is variegated and design constantly recombines multiple configurations around a central core.
Description by Professor Michael Giordano
Published by Henschel Haus.
English version available as an e-book only.
E-Book FREE with Amazon kindleunlimited!
Genesis
The publication was translated into Spanish and published in Argentina the summer of 2019.
Selected Poems Hebrew & English
Edith Covensky reads selected poems in Hebrew and English.
Available to purchase in Argentina and through the publisher.
Life as Fiction
This book raises and explores the perplexing question of existence itself, taking the reader on an intimate journey through the dualities of memory and fantasy, fear and joy, and the erotic mated with the sanctified.
Description by Jeffrey Covensky
Currently not available for purchase in the U.S.
Under a Silky Sky The Symbolist Poetry of Edith Covensky by Yair Mazor
This book of literary scholarship is dedicated to the Symbolist poetry of Edith Covensky, one of the most creative, original, and prolific poets in the arena of modern Hebrew poetry.
E-Book FREE with Amazon kindleunlimited!
Where To Go?
This bi-lingual (Hebrew-English) dialogue book, 'Where to Go'? functions as a supplement to teaching the Hebrew language abroad in universities, Hebrew High Schools and other learning institutes.
Available for purchase in the U.S. and Israel.
Poetry by Edith Covensky
Small Blessings
I must be grateful it seems
For small blessings
And sometimes great ones.
At the last moment: unnecessary
Accidents and happenings
And children play in toy stores
With tools they still hold.
Still life:
An ancient fireplace covered with ash
Potsherds
Cooking utensils
And other pottery.
There are no fiddlers here
You cannot convince me there are
And I sit and wait on the fifth floor
In the air between the stars
Like a worker in a yellow raincoat.
After Long Thought
After long Thought
There is no point I do not reach
Beautiful in my poetic duty.
I love the shadowy zones in my room
Opening drawers full of sonnets
I can just be a painter.
And I own libraries of sonnets
Some after Petrarch
Scarring me
In the night.
Then the poem begins
As a literary practice
On a bench crumbling in gloom
Its essay is clean
My hands are holding a flower
My rhymes drop on my neck
Instead of the rain.
Confession
My mother told me
She wanted to die in the summer
Yet Yeats died in January
1939.
She did not remember him
Nor he her
Among the dead.
My real heroine
Is like mother
Always laughing
And sometimes believing in sun:
Great and total.
Love is a relative thing
(Mother told me)
Like an addiction
Sweet and almost narcotic
Between two bodies repetitive.
With every attempt at Love
It becomes clear to me
That in the window of planes
The sun is not always apparent.