He was.
         So, one day, Elisha Porat's biography will begin. The simple opening will serve because elaborate phrases and clever analyses cannot better explain Porat's individuality and patriotism, his quiet genius that transcends political and ideological boundaries. He must be read. Suffice to say, Porat, the man, is a veteran of three of Israel's wars for independence: Six Day War in 1967, the Yom Kippur War in 1973, and the War of South Lebanon in 1982. He is a farmer, the keeper of an orchard on Ein Hahoresh kibbutz, which his parents founded. Like Hemingway, he is a soldier; like Frost, he is a tender of the land. But Porat is exquisitely, inexplicably, more.
         As a writer, he is perhaps best defined in the moment when, reading quietly, one recognizes the author as a master, long neglected by the English-speaking world. Porat's stories are unassuming pieces dedicated to the study of a single moment and epic trips into maelstroms of war. His poetry, never prosaic or trite, is humble but encompassing, and displays a prowess for Donne-esque conceit and self-observation. Porat notes that the antipathetic occupations of his life are weighty factors in his work. "'Until I smelled the fragrance/ of the cut grass, I didn't believe/ I was home again,' said the young soldier, " Porat writes in "The Fragrance of Mignonette."

And I, who was stricken after him, fifteen years
after him, did not believe I had risen
from my bed: drunk as then climbing
the clay hilltop, flattening myself
on its grass.

But his dissentient work, like the way he has lived his life, treks toward one end: the betterment of Israel.
         Porat's writing is understandably laced with sadness. An IDF volunteer, horrified by his recent actions, finds himself unable—or unwilling—to communicate with an attractive young woman on the kibbutz. People wander the streets of Porat's Israel seeing in strangers the faces of friends dead for decades. Sex is a consensual escape, an act not without consequence but often without deep emotion. Life is real, and the majority of his work is conspicuously lacking in fantastical deus ex machina and quaint palaver. Things are. People are, or they are not. The concrete, even tone of his often reporter-staccato fiction renders a clearer picture of Porat's soul than could any wispy Romantic prose.
         Porat makes himself clear to those who have not lived his life, or any semblance of it, and that could prove to be among his most useful gifts. His recent publication in The Boston Review and his willingness to embrace electronic publishing as a legitimate and important medium are harbingers of the continuing expansion of his world-wide readership. At home in Israel, where he has published 17 books of poetry and prose since 1973, he was honored with the 1996 Prime Minister's Prize for Literature. In the U.S., he has achieved what few foreign-language writers can ever hope to experience—the translation and publication of his work in book form (The Messiah of LaGuardia, Mosaic Press). It is unfortunate that something is inevitably lost in translation. But something is inevitably gained. In Porat's case, that could mean a votary for life.
         Now, Elisha Porat—who must be read—explains something of his home in the creative essay, "Projecting a United Will."

Projecting a United Will

In my youth, the old-timers told me that people who sought solitude in the woods near the kibbutz were unique. Too highly educated to take part in the exhausting work, too sensitive for the daily hustle and bustle, too snobbish to participate in the daily affairs of the settlement, they set out for the tall Eucalyptus trees on the outskirts of the kibbutz to hide in the shade of their thick branches and build a tree house that could only be reached by a makeshift ladder.
         And that is why people would tell all kinds of controversial tales about them; fascinating tales about a life of freedom up here, in the shaded domes, completely isolated from the warm, pulsating life beneath them. These men raised their hot heads upward, toward a different sky, one that could not be observed by the pedestrians on the soft sandy path down below. Some were dropped from the collective kibbutz memory soon after having arrived. Others lived to a bright old age and eventually joined their comrades down below. They merely blush a little on being jokingly reminded of their former escapades in the tree tops. Several of them have actually become mythical. But the tales serve to remind them of their first days in the country, their first steps on kibbutz—most of all, they recall the unique smells.
         As a lad, I chose to ignore the decaying tree houses in which crows nested. I tried to disregard the large rusty nails that were forever stuck in the large trunks and served as an annoying reminder. In my wandering, I merely intend to discover some concrete evidence of legendary existence.
         And then, on one of my walks at twilight, as my power of judgment seemed to be somewhat impaired, I came across that legendary figure from the old-timer's tales. He looked just like one of us, in his dark blue clothing and heavy rubber boots. "Come on up!" he called, encouraging me to climb those precariously loose steps. "From up here the entire world looks different".
         Overcoming fears that had been nurtured throughout sleepless nights, I followed him up the tree.
         "This way! This way!" He pulled me into his lofty outpost, which overlooked tower tops and power lines. "Sit down! Why are you breathing so hard, why are you so pale? They must have scared you with their stories down below! After all, this is merely a simple tree house, not a dragon's nest.
         "Do you remember Rabbi Haim Vital's stories? Do you recall one about the Holy Ari and his failure?" Instantly he had removed all barriers. I was not longer a young dreamer, but his spiritual equal. I was no longer a moonstruck lad, seeking temptation and sin in the woods, but a pupil sitting in front of his teacher. I was extremely flattered to have been chosen from among my buddies who had remained behind, down there in the teeming kibbutz yard.

[Editor's Note: You can read more about Elisha Porat on his website.]

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