Mayn kleyne tokhter iz a mame fun tsvey groyse zin – Zi hot di shvartse, lange tsep mit yorn krik Opgeshoyrn un mit zey farbundn Dem friling fun an ershtn, knospedikn glik.
Es iz nokh teyl mol in ir blik faran Der opshayn fun a vort, vi fun a vaytn shtern, A vort, vos hot dem reyekh fun frish-farzeyte beytn Un dem tam fun nokh nisht oysgeveynte trern.
Nor ire lipn – tsvey farpreste ziglen Hitn shtreng un kinedik dem tsiter Fun yene teg, ven s’hot a harbst, a frier Antbloyzt zey un gelozn naket tsum geviter.
Un es iz glaykh a kholem volt gedemert Un zikh banayt mit yedn dor af s’nay, Gepruvt zikh oysglaykhn mit benkshaftn farveyete Vos vartn ergets shtil, geduldik un getray. Di gnod fun vort, 1968
ES HOT MAYN MAME ZEYER OFT GEVEYNT
Efsher iz oysgevoksn a bereze af dem bergl, Far velkhn merderhant genumen hot di mos In dem gedikhtn vald lebn dem shtetl Greyding, Un bloyz a foygl kumt ahin af keyver-oves.
Tsu mayn mames umbakantn keyver, Vu zi ligt. In harts a daytshe koyl, Ken ikh bloyz in kholem geyn un geyn un geyn Mit farmakhte oygn un farshtumtn moyl.
– – – – –
Kh’gedenk, es hot mayn mame zeyer oft geveynt, Un ikh, ikh hob gemeynt, Az fun fargelte bleter fun ir tkhine Kukt a gebundener tsu ir Avroms zun Un zi shtelt zikh in der muter Sores pkhine.
Vayl mir, di kinder ire voyeven, shtifn, lakhn, Khotsh der tate undzerer iz azoy yung geshtorbn — Volt er gelebt, der foter guter, volt er keyn mol, keyn mol Undz nisht gefit tsum barg Morie far a korbn.
Dokh hot mayn mame azoy oft geveynt — Hot zi gevust, geant, Az s’greyt zikh shoyn der himl in der hoykh Uftsupraln zayne toyern in der breyt Af uftsunemen ire beyde zin In volkns roykh?
Nor ikh, ir bas-yekhide, bin farblibn, Vi a dorn af an oysgeydevert-vistn pleyn Vern der hemshekh fun mayn mames trern, Vern aleyn Ir geveyn. Af der sharf fun a rege,Tel-Oviv, 1972
Rokhl Korn’s biography can be found in Week 13 along with her poem “To My Mother”. See also Week 17 for her poem “Generations”.
My Little Daughter
My little daughter is a mother of two grown sons — she cut her long black braids off years ago and bound them round the springtime of a budding joy.
At times a word still glistens in her eye like a distant star, a word that has the smell of fields just sown and the taste of unfinished tears.
But her two lips pressed together, sealed, jealously hold in the shiver of those days when an early autumn left them naked to the storm.
It’s as if a dream turned to twilight and in each generation new strove to make terms with wind-blown longings that wait silent, patient and true. Tr. Seymour Levita English translation copyright Seymour Levitan
My Mother Often Wept
A birch tree may be growing on the mound heaped by a murderer’s hands in thick woods near the town of Greyding, and only a bird goes there to honor the dead
where my mother lies in an unknown grave, a German bullet in her heart. And I go, go, go there only in dreams, my eyes shut, my mouth dumb.
I remember that my mother often wept, and I, I imagined Abraham’s son, bound for the sacrifice, looking to her form the pages of her prayerbook while she lived Sarah’s fate
and we tumbled, laughed, and played, despite our father’s early death – Had he lived, our good father, he would never, never have taken us to Mount Moriah to be sacrificed.
And yet my mother wept so often – Did she know that heaven had prepared to open wide its gates and take her sons in billowing clouds of smoke?
And I was left behind, her only daughter, like a thorn in dry ground, and I am the voice of my mother’s tears, I am the sound of her weeping. Tr. Seymour Levitan, Generations, Selected Poems, Rachel Korn, Mosaic Press/Valley Editions, Ontario. p.46
Ikh gedenk nit, vos shpeter, vos frier, Af a khvalye in kholem farshvind ikh. — Nor di mame, — zi shteyt nebn mir. Vi a mol. Vi by nakht. In der kindheyt.
Ven zi hot nit gevust tsi ikh shlof. Ven zi hot nit gehert, tsi ikh otem — Un iz borves arop funem bet un a lof, Un fun shrek nit gevust — vu a trot ton.
Af der khvalye — ir blaslekhe hant Mit a tsertlekhn rir mit a mildn; O, ikh hob zikh ir nign dermont, Vos mit im zi farvigt ire kinder.
Az ikh kon nit deryogn ir kol Az aropgelozt ergets ir blik iz; Nor zi vigt mikh un zingt vi a mol Un ikh — ikh gey oys fun mesikes.
S’yogn vintn zikh on, on a shier. Zey bafaln dos lid, dos baginte; Nor di mame… zi shteyt lebn mir. Vi a mol, vi bay nakht in der kindheyt. 1948
Peretz Markish (1895 – August 12, 1952) was born in Polonnoye, Volynia, Ukraine. He was a poet, prose writer, playwright and essayist, often called the “Jewish Byron.” As a child he received a traditional Jewish kheyder education. From ages 12-15 he sang in the choir of the synagogue in Berditchev. At age 15 he started writing poetry in Russian. During World War I he served as a private in the Russian Imperial Army. In 1917 he made his debut as a Yiddish poet. In 1918, he moved to Kiev and took part in the Eygns anthologies (1918–1920), which heralded renewed Yiddish literary creativity in Ukraine after World War I. His poems were often infused with declarative pathos and an apocalyptic mood. Later, he lived in Warsaw, where in 1921, together with Meylekh Ravitsh (see Week 32) and Uri-Tsvi Greenberg, he formed the nucleus of the literary group called Di khalyastre (The Gang) and coedited their expressionist Khalyastre almanakh, which contained drawings by Mark Chagall. There he also cofounded the weekly journal Literarishe bleter in 1924. In 1926, after spending time in Berlin, Paris, and London, and visiting Palestine, Markish returned to the USSR convinced that with its state support of national literatures, it afforded the best possibilities for the flourishing of Yiddish literature.
For a time Markish prospered and during this period he produced his best-known works, including those expressing Soviet patriotism and his grief at the extermination of the Jews. In all, he wrote forty works in Yiddish, twenty of which were translated into Russian. He was amply rewarded for his talent and loyalty; the Order of Lenin was conferred on him in 1939, (he was the only Yiddish writer ever to be so honored) and then the Stalin Prize in 1946. Markish was also a member of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee. All these things notwithstanding he was accused of being a “Jewish nationalist”, was arrested in 1949, as part of the liquidation campaign undertaken against the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee and against the remnants of official Jewish cultural activity in the Soviet Union. He was shot, along with a number of other prominent Yiddish writers, during the Night of the Murdered Poets, August 12, 1952.
You may hear the poem sung by Mark Aizikovitch (see above), as recorded on his CD In Jiddishchn Wort, Raumer Records. Music is by Sender and was first recorded by Emil Gorovets on his LP, Ikh bin a Yid/I Am A Jew: Songs of the Martyred Yiddish Poets of Soviet Russia, 1977.
The Muse
I remember not, before or after, I fade on the sharp crest of a wave – But my mother, – is standing beside me, AS was her way. At night. In my childhood.
When she knew not if I were askeep, When she listened to hear, if I breathed – She would come to me barefoot – and running, And from fear – her steps were unsteady.
On that wave – her pale slender hand With its touch so tender and mild; Oh, I remember the song’s melody When she sang her children to sleep.
When I cannot recapture her voice, When her gaze is cast down somewhere else, Still she rocks me and sings as before And I – I am swooning with bliss.
Endlessly, winds are pursuing, Her own song of dawn they assail But my mother. . . she stands there beside me. As was her way, at night, in my childhood. 1948 Tr. by Mary Schulman Peretz Markish: Inheritance (Yerushe), tr. by Mary Schulman, 2007
The life of Sarah דאָס לעבן פֿון שׂרה אמנו זאָל איר זכות איר בײַשטיין במהירה בימינו אָמן was 120 years איז געווען הונדערט און זיבן און צוואַנציק יאָר איז געווען די צאָל פֿון שׂרהס טעג and she was mourned מע האָט זי באַוויינט מיט ביטערע טרערן זייער אַ לאַנגע צײַט. Whereupon it was decided that in all the history of Jewish liturgy love and literature there should be enough matriarchs to furnish a feminist room. האָט מען געזוכט צווישן אַלע ראשונות און אַחרונות צי איז ניטאָ קיין מאַמע וואָס קען געבוירן אַ נײַע חבֿרה פֿרײַע מיידלעך און לוסטיקע ייִנגלעך וואָס קענען זיך איינער דעם צווייטן ליבן און שטיצן and they all got together in a castle on the hill. Ruth ascended the spiral stairs and let her hair hang down as she sang songs of bloody speartips. שׂרה שענירער האָט געהייסן די מיידלעך לערנען פֿלײַסיק ווײַל נאָר זיי וואָלטן זיך אַליין דעראַרבט די מיצווה. But naming all women is like naming all men. תּעמוד תּעמוד תּעמוד אָן ענד. אַ לאַנג מגילה פֿון זיִען אין אַ בית-כּנסת פֿון ערן.
Zackary Sholem Berger (1973 – )
was born in Washington, D.C. And grew up in Louisville, Kentucky. He is a poet, journalist, and translator in Yiddish and English. He is probably best known, in the small world of modern-minded Yiddish speakers, as the translator of Dr. Seuss’s The Cat in the Hat into Yiddish. He has published widely in both Yiddish and English, in journals such as Gilgulim, Lyric, The Forward, and Tablet. He has published one volume of poetry Zog khotsh lehavdil/Not in the Same Breath: a Yiddish and English Book of Poetry, 2011. His poems were included in Step by Step: Contemporary Yiddish Poetry, 2010 and The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry, 2010. He was a translator for Sudden Rain: Yiddish Poems by Gtil Schaechter Viswanath, 2003. See Week 5). By day he is a doctor (internist) in Baltimore where he lives with his wife and children – they speak Yiddish to each other and their friends. He and his wife Celeste Solod founded and run the Yiddish Cat Publishing house: http://yiddishcat.com
About his bi-lingual poetry Berger writes: “For me it is very difficult to distinguish between the tasks of a poet and a translator. Maybe they are the creature with two faces, the דו-פרצופים which both the midrash and Plato place at Creation.”
I have translated the whole poem into English. The Yiddish sections are in blue italics. In cases where the Yiddish is translated into English in the original I did not repeat the line twice in English.
The life of Sarah our Mother, may her merits stand by her speedily and in our days amen was one hundred and twenty years old she was mourned with bitter tears for a very long time. Whereupon it was decided that in all the history of Jewish liturgy love and literature there should be enough matriarchs to furnish a feminist room. So they searched among all the First Great Women and Later Great Women to see if there wasn’t a a mother who could give birth to new band of free girls and joyful boys who would be able to love and support one anotherand they all got together on a castle on the hill. Ruth ascended the spiral stairs and let her hair hang down as she sang songs of bloody speartips.Sore Shenirer told the girls to learn diligently because only they would inherit this mitzvah. But naming all women is like naming all men. Rise, rise, rise without end. A long scroll of shes in a synagogue of hes.
Di bakn – ayngefaln un di oygn – halb nor ofn, Hert mayn mame, vi es ziftsn ire kni: A gantsn vinterdikn inderfri Af ale merk arumgelofn – Loz zhe itster undz bam toyervant Di nakht dershlofn… Un s’veynt ir hant: A foygl vert dokh oykh farmatert fokhen, fokhen Mit di fligl nokhanand… Un s’zinkt ir kop – – – Nor mayn mame treyslt gikh zikh dem driml op, Vi a beyml treyslt op dem regn. Ir ponem roykhert zikh – a fayertop, Un ire hent, zey mestn, vegn. Zi taynet ayn, zi ruft, Biz zi dremlt ayn mit halb farmakhte oygn, Es tapt ir hant in kalter luft Un blaybt azoy shoyn oysgetsoygn. Ot azoy, A shotn afn shney, Shoklt zi zikh um a gantsn tog, Biz in der nakht a shtik; Zi vigt zikh, vi der shpindl fun ir vog, Ahin un af tsurik. Ot azoy, An ufgehoykerte – eyn groyser horb, Foylt zi inem shneyikn gedrey, Vi di epl in ir korb Un shloft … Vi koyln glien ire bakn, Es shnaydt der frost in haldz un nakn. – In vint un shney farveyt Shloft mayn mame shteyendikerheyt… Un khropet shoyn vi a kudlater shvartser hunt der hoyf, Nemt zi ire koshikes tsunoyf, Vi a betler zayne groshns Un dos royte oyg in toyer vert farloshn. Nor glaykh bam shvel tseyomern zikh ire trit: Umzist gehoft! Zi toptshet um in shtibl mid Un shloft… Dos lempl shlukertst in ir hant, Es shtikt zikh inem roykhikn geveyn, Zi vigt zikh ba a vant, Vi afn feld ba a matseyve-shteyn, Un shloft… Es loyert in ir hant di hak Af ire oysgekrimte finger, Un af ir mogerer, tsekneytshter bak Loyern in eyvele di fayerdike tsinger — Un zi shloft… Es frirn ire hent in multer: Fargesn zey aroystsunemen!… Es treyslt zikh ir diner shulter, Zi vasht, zi shoydert mit aropgelozte bremen Un zi shloft… Un nemt zi shoyn tsevishn ire kni dem top, Dos lefl tsu ir moyl, — Falt ir hant tsurik arop An oyngematerte un foyl — —- — Zi shloft — Mayn mame shloft… Doyres, Lider un poemes, Nyu-York, 1945
Chaim Grade (1910 – 1982) was born in in Vilna, Lithuania (then Russian Empire) and was one of the leading Yiddish writers of the twentieth century.
His father, Shloyme-Mordkhe Grade, a Hebrew teacher and maskil (proponent of the Enlightenment) died when Chaim was a young boy. Beginning at age 13 Grade was educated in various outposts of the Novaredok Musar yeshiva, receiving a particularly extreme form of religious education that strove to educate the moral personality through self-abnegation and intense self-analysis. He also attended a secular YIddish school. He was also deeply influenced by his experience as a student of the (non-musar) outstanding Talmudic scholar Avraham Yesha‘yahu Karelits, better known as the Ḥazon Ish, much beloved in Vilna.Though Grade excelled as a student in the yeshivah, he was denounced for secretly reading secular literature and for writing poetry. Much of Grade’s later writing negotiates his conflicted allegiances to the models of his maskilic father and orthodox teachers. At age 22, Grade abandoned his studies to embark on a career as a secular poet and in the early 1930s was among the founding members of the Yung Vilne (Young Vilna) experimental group of artists and writers which included Avrom Sutzkever (see Week 29). His first volume of poetry Yo (Yes) was published in Vilna in 1936. During World War II, believing that the Nazis would not harm women, Grade fled eastward alone and sought refuge in the Soviet Union. Both his mother, Vele Grade, and his wife, Frume-Libtshe, perished, leaving him with a sense of guilt from which he never recovered. When the war ended, he lived briefly in Poland and France before relocating to the United States (The Bronx) in 1948 with his second wife, Inna Hecker Grade.
Grade’s unique contribution to Yiddish literature is the description of the pre-war world of the musaryeshiva and its adherents. His most highly acclaimed novels, The Agunah (1961, tr. 1974) and The Yeshiva (2 vol., 1967–68, tr. 1976-77) both translated by Curt Leviant, deal with the philosophical and ethical dilemmas of Jewish life in prewar Lithuania, particularly dwelling on the Novaredok Musar movement. Although today Grade is perhaps best remembered for the richness of his prose, almost all of it set in his beloved pre-war Vilna, he is also the author of nine volumes of poetry. In his works he gave voice to national tragedy and became one of the central Yiddish figures in the canon of Holocaust literature. He died unexpectedly in New York in 1982 while at work on a novel about Vilna on the eve of its destruction.
This particular poem (one of very few translated into English) describes his mother, Vele Blumenthal Grade, whom he held up as the model of long-suffering pious devotion. After the death of Chaim’s father she eked out a meager living selling fruit.
My Mother
Her cheeks collapsed and her eyes half-shut, My mother listens as her knees sigh: The whole morning under the winter sky She ran about to every market. So let us now at the gate of the wall Sleep through the night… And her hand cries: A bird too gets exhausted from fluttering about As its wings rise and fall… And her head sinks down – But my mother flicks the daydream off, Like a tree shaking off the rain.
Her face smolders, a fire pot, Her hands measure, weigh; She pleads, she call, Till again she dozes with eyes half-shut; Her hand taps at the freezing air And stays there, stretched out.
Just like A shadow on the snow, She sways back and forth the whole day long, Until late at night; She rocks herself like the pointer of her scale, To the left, to the right. Hunched up, one large hump. She rots in the snow flurries, Like the apples in her basket – And sleeps.
Her cheeks glow like coals, Her neck is whipped by the sleet. Wrapped up in wind and snow My mother sleeps standing on her feet.
And when the market snores like a grisly black hound, She gathers her baskets, Like a beggar his pennies, And the market’s red eye is put out. But right at the threshold her steps start to weep: Wasted hope! Worn out, she stumbles through the hut And sleeps.
The lantern hiccups in her hand, Choking with smoky tears. She rocks at the wall As in front of a grave, And sleeps.
The ax lurks in her hand, Above her twisted fingers, And the fiery tongues of the little stove Menace her wrinkled cheeks – And she sleeps. She forgets to take out her hands: They are freezing in the kneading bowl. Her thin shoulder shakes, She washes, she trembles with eyes cast down, And she sleeps.
When at last she takes the pot between her knees, The spoon to her mouth, Again her hand falls down, Exhausted and slow She falls asleep – My mother sleeps… Tr. Florence Victor A Treasury of Yiddish Poetry, edited by Irving Howe and Eliezer Greenberg, 1969
Mashe Shtuker-Paiuk (1914 – 1988) was born in Kartuz-Bereze, then Poland. In 1925 the family emigrated to Argentina and lived in the agricultural settlement of Montefiore. In Poland she studied in a Hebrew and zionist-oriented Tarbut school and in Argentina in the school in her colony where her father was a teacher. In the early 1930s he studied in the Yiddish teachers’ seminary in Buenos Aires and was for many years a kindergarten teacher. In 1943 she settled in Buenos Aires. She published her first poem “Meydl fun kamp” at age 16 in Penemer un Penimlekh (edited and published by Tshernovetski and Gruzman) but she made her real literary debut in 1933 with a series of poems in the Yidishe tsaytung, Buenos Aires. After that she participated in a number of Yiddish publications in South and North America as well as in Israel where she emigrated in 1974. Shtuker-Paiuk was mostly, although not only, a children’s writer, in various genres: poetry, short story and fairy tale. Her poems and children’s stories were included in a number of anthologies for Yiddish schools. Her books include: Kinderlekh (Little Children), Buenos Aires, 1948, Zingendik (Singing), children’s poems, Buenos Aires, 1951, Der Tsoyberboym (The Magic Tree), tales and stories, Buenos Aires, 1957, and Ban fun Mayne Teg (Train of My Days), poems and stories, Tel-Aviv, 1981.
I’m Becoming My Mother
I look into my looking-glass. Please tell me glass, is that face me? It seems to me it’s come to pass my mother’s face looks back at me.
The wrinkles deep, the tired gaze, the hair already streaked with gray – in years gone by, her later days she looked precisely just that way.
But when and how did all this start? Quite suddenly, it seems to me. Perhaps I see my mother’s face because of active fantasy.
But no! It’s true, it’s true! I see my mother’s every line reflected in my face. “It’s you!” Her tied old face becomes now mine. Tr. Barnett Zumoff Songs to a Moonstruck Lady: Women in Yiddish Poetry, Selected and Translated by Barnett Zumoff, The Dora Teitleboim Center for Yiddish Culture, 2005
“Mame” – Dos ershte vort, vos falt arayn In kindishn hertsl. Der opklang funem klingendikn faln Dos gantse lebn hert zikh… 1990
Di Amolike Teg
Mayn mame Osne Lemster, Vos iz alt beerekh akhtsik yor, Zitst in ir tsimer, Bam ofenem fenster, Afn zibetn shtok, Un kukt arop – Zi hert zikh tsu tsum lebn, Vos khvalyet zikh dort untn Vos roysht a gantsn tog.
Far di morgns Zi darf zikh shoyn nit zorgn. Di toyznter teg adurkhgegangene, Hot zi, vi layvntene laylekher Oysgevashn, Oysgeprest, Opgebleykht Un tsunoyfgeleygt eyns afn andern In a hipsh gepek Fun tsikhtike, likhtike laylekher-teg. Zey lign oyf a politse in ir zikorn Un shtraln aroys Fun ire oygn loytere, klore… 1993
Der Mames Troym
Akh, ven ikh kon Ale in der fri oyston fun zikh di elter, Vi an opgetrogn malbesh me tut oys. Zi oyfhengen ba der tir oyf a henger, Ven fun der heym ikh gey aroys.
Dernokh in ovnt, Umkerndik zikh shpet, Di elter vider onton, Di likht farleshn, A halbe nakht nit shlofn, Dreyen zikh in bet Vartn mit a tsiter Afn zunshtral ershtn, Afn gebentshtn inderfri, Ven oyston kh’kon di elter Un a yunge vider Tsu der velt efenen di tir… 1991
S’hot Nit Ver
Kh’gedenk, ven ba der mamen Ikh bin geven a foygl. Ven kveln flegt zi fun mayn hoykhn fli. Geshtralt hobn mir freyd di frume ire oygn, Ven Fraytik af der nakht Zi hot gebentsht di likht.
Ven af der erd ikh hob aropgelozt zikh, shpeter, Di mame kveln flegt fun mayn getoktn trot, Barimen zikh far yedern in shtetl, Vi rirevdik un flink Ir zun iz, danken Got.
Itst fli ikh shoyn bloyz in khaloymes hele, Ikh leb pamelekh, Nit aylndik di teg. Nito nor ver s’zol zikh freyen haynt un kveln Fun dem, vos kh’gey gehit, pamelekh Af mayn lebnsveg. 1994
Epitafye
Zi hot in ir lebn nit veynik gebidevet Itst in di himlen gring iz ir fli — Fun a kleyn shtetl a poshete yidene, A posheter shtern tsvishn shtern vi zi… 1993
Moyshe Lemster (1946 – ) was born in the Moldavian village of Stolnitshin. In 1949 his father died and in 1953 he and his mother moved to the shtetl Yedinits. By training a physicist and mathematician, he starting writing Yiddish poetry as a student in the 1960s . In 1981 he came to live in Kishinev, and sought out the Yiddish writer Yechiel Shraibman as his literary mentor. In 1982 he made his debut as a poet in the journal Sovetish Heymland. From 1989 until 1991 he participated in the Yiddish section of literary courses in Moscow named for Maxime Gorky, conducted by Aaron Vergelis, editor of Sovetish Heymland. In 1996 the writer Avrom Karpinovitch published Lemster’s first volume of poetry, A Yidisher Regn (A Jewish Rain). After emigrating to Israel in 2000 with his wife and two daughters he published the collection of poetry Amol Breyshis (Once in the Beginning) in 2008. In Israel he has received several literary prizes.
My Mother Osne Lemster Prologue Poem
“Momma” – The first word that falls into A child’s heart. The reverberation of that fall can be heard A whole life long… 1990
Days Gone By
My mother Osne Lemster, Is about eighty years old, She sits in her room, At the open window, On the seventh floor And looks down – She is listening to the life That is surging down below And rushing about noisily the whole day long.
For the tomorrows She need no longer worry. The thousands of days she has gone through She has like linen sheets Washed, Pressed, Bleached And folded one on top of the other In a hefty pack Of tidy, bright linen-days. They lie on a shelf in her memory Shining forth From her eyes, so pure and clear… 1993
My Mother’s Dream
Oh, if every morning I could Take off my old age, Like you take off a worn-out garment. Hang it up at the door on a hanger, When I leave the house.
Then later in the evening Returning home late, Put on my old age, Turn out the lights, Not sleep half the night, Toss and turn in bed Waiting with a quiver For the first ray of sun, For the blessed morning, When I can take off my old age And a young woman once again Open the door to the world… 1991
There’s Nobody
I remember, when to my mother I was a bird. When she would delight in my soaring flight Her pious eyes beamed with joy, When she blessed the candles Friday night.
When later I came down to earth, My mother would delight in my well-turned step, Boast to everyone in town, How lively and agile Her son was, thank the one above.
Now I only soar in bright dreams, I live slowly, Not hurrying the days along. There’s no one now to take joy and to delight That I walk carefully, slowly Down my life’s path.
Not hurrying along the days. There’s no one now to take joy and to delight That I walk carefully, slowly Down my life’s way. 1994
Epitaph
She suffered not a little in her life Now in the heavens her flight is easy From a small town a simple Jewish woman, A simple star among stars such as she… 1993
Akht shteyen mir arum undzer mamen. Azoy vi a federl iz gring undzer mame. Vu nemt es a gringinke mame Aza shver geveyn?
A klugshaft vi a zunflek Flatert oyf ir ponem – Flatert um tsvishn vies un ir moyl. Un ir klugshaft, dukht zikh, Tseylt undz dray mol iber. Un ir klugshaft, dukht zikh, Taytlt mit di finger:
Akht zent ir, akht! Akht zent ir mir – shpener. Un er geven iz eyner, Eyner – mayn demb. Lider (1949)
ERD-TSITERNISH
Tsvey beyze hent hobn mikh fun mamen opgerisn.
Ikh knip zikh arayn in mames tseflatert kleydl Un heng iber an opgrunt. Mayn kleyn hentl rayst zikh tsu mames tikhl. Ot, ot derlang ikh ire hor. Di hor! A vikher tserayst dem knup un dreyt mikh arayn Inderleydik. Kleyne fingerlekh vi motiln Tsitern in der luftn: Elnt, elnt, elnt.
Ekelekh fun mames tikhl Geyen oys. Funken — mayn mames hor Tsuken zikh. Mayn mame-got hot mikh aropgevorfn. Mame-gots ponem Lesht zikh. Mameshkeyt shvimt avek fun mir Un ikh fargey zikh oyf a fremdn aksl. Fremdn aksl. Mild Mayn Vild, 1958
IN ZISN VEYTIK Yoselen un Yudelen
Ir turemt iber mir Mayne groyse zin. Sa pitsinke ikh bin Ba ayer zayt. Ikh hob dokh keyn mol zikh nit opgeknipt Fun ayer eyfltsayt.
In ershtn ,,shray” Fun maylekhl aroysgetsungen Klor ikh hob gehert ,,Ikh” Fartsitert kh’hob aroysgeshtamlt: Du. Du.
In ershtn simen fun derken in eyglekh ayere Vi a flatershrift geleyent kh’hob ,,Du”. Shtil geentfert hot mayn shmeykhl: Yo, ikh.
Ershter tseyndl in mayn brust arayngebisn, Un gevorn iz a bund farshnitn: ,,Ikh-du-du”.
Ershter tseyndl in mayn brust arayngebisn, Un gevorn iz a bund farshnitn: ,,Ikh-du-du”.
Ot azoy In zisn veytik Gevorn zenen mir Eyns dem tsveytn neytik. Haynt Iz Eybik, Tel-Oviv, 1977
Malka Heifetz Tussman (1896-1987) was born in Bolshaya-Khaitcha, Ukraine. She wrote her earliest poetry in Yiddish and Russian. She immigrated to the US at the age of 16 joining family in Chicago and began writing poetry in English but soon switched to Yiddish. She made her literary debut in 1918. She became a teacher in a secular Yiddish school in Milwaukee and studied at the University of Wisconsin. Later she, her husband and two sons moved to Los Angeles. In 1981 she was awarded the prestigious Itsik Manger Prize for Yiddish Poetry in Tel Aviv. Her poetry, according to the introduction in With Teeth in the Earth: Selected Poems of Malka Heifetz Tussman, translated and edited by Marcia Falk, “Frank and exploring, innovative in language – reveals the richness and complexity of a woman’s life.” She died in Berkeley, California. Heifetz Tussman published poems, stories and essays in Yiddish magazines both in America and Europe. Her six volumes of published verse include Lider (Poems), MIld mayn vild (Mild, my Wild), Shotns fun gedenken (Shadows of remembering), Bleter farn nit (Leaves don’t fall), Unter dayn tseykhn (Under your sign), and Haynt iz eybik (Today is forever).
Another poem by Malka Heifetz Tussman may be found at Week 2.
Her Oak For Mother
Eight, we stand around our mother. Our mother is light as a feather. From where in such a light mother Does such heavy weeping come?
Wisdom like a sunspot Flutters on her face – Flutters between eyelashes and moth. And her wisdom, it seems, Counts us three times, Points with her fingers: Eight, you are eight! My eight you are – chips. And he was one, One – My oak. Tr. Kathryn Hellerstein American Yiddish Poetry: A Bilingual Anthology, eds. B. and B. Harshav, University of California Press, 1986.
I am offering two translatons of the poem “Earthquake,” one by Kathryn Hellerstein and one by Marcia Falk.
Earthquake
Bad hands tear me from Mama.
I knot myself into Mama’s fluttering skirts And dangle over an abyss. My little hand tries for her kerchief. Soon, soon I’ll reach her hair. Her hair! A whirlwind breaks the knot and spins me In the void – Little fingers like butterflies Trembling in the air: Forsaken! Forsaken!
The ends of Mama’s kerchief Flicker out. Sparks – my Mama’s hair – Dive. My Mama-god has cast me down. Mama-god’s face grows dim. A Mama-world drifts away from me. And I sob on a stranger’s shoulder. Stranger’s shoulder.
Tr. Kathryn Hellerstein American Yiddish Poetry: A Bilingual Anthology.
Earthquake
Two angry hands tear me away from Mama –
I knot myself intso Mama’s billowing dress and hang above a cliff. My small hands grab for Mama’s kerchief – I’ve almost got her hair. The hair! A whirlwind tears the knot and spins me into emptiness. My little fingers tremble like butterflies in the air: alone, alone, alone.
The corners of Mama’s kerchief fade away. Sparks – my Mama’s hair – flicker out. My Mama-god has thrown me down. Mama-god’s face is extinguished. Mame-ness swims away from me and I gasp on a stranger’s shoulder. A stranger’s shoulder.
Tr. Marcia Falk With Teeth in the Earth: Selected Poems of Malka Heifetz Tussman, Translated, edited and introduced by Marcia Falk,Wayne State University Press, 1992.
In Sweet Pain for Yosele and Yudele
You tower over me, my big beatiful sons. How tiny I am next to you. Still, I’ve never unknotted myself from your babyhood.
In the first cry, forced from a little mouth, I heard clearly: “I.” And trembling, I stammered: “You, You.”
In the first sign of recognition In your little eyes, I read, as in a flutter-script: “You.” My smile quietly answered: Yes. I.”
When the first little tooth bit into my breast, a covenant was cut: I-you-you.”
That’s how in sweet pain we became necessary to each other. Tr. Marcia Falk With Teeth in the Earth: Selected Poems of Malka Heifetz Tussman.
A klik tikt un zi a Iz a varem un oyg Un oyg un kha un hant un hant Un kleyd un klik klik klik klik.
A Yingele un a Zemele
A yingele est a zeml mit puter, A ketsl kukt im in di oygn. Dos yingele iz shlefe un hunge. Eyn oyg klept zikh. Di kats hot a groysn glezern oyg Un di nakht hot dray oder efsher fir Glezerne oygn. Un di mame hot an ek un lapes mit negl Zi tut im oys un drapet. Zi iz gut un drapet. Der zeml iz fintster, vi di nakht, Fun danen biz aher un het. Un di nakht iz a glezerne. A shvarts fentster iz di nakht, Vos ligt afn dil un in mames lid. Morgn vet zayn beser. Es vet zayn a bisl likhtik Un me vet nisht moyre hobn tsu kukn Durkhn ketsloyg tsum droysn.
NAKHT, ZAY SHTIL TSU MIR
Nakht, zay shtil tsu mir – Shtile nakht. Nakht, zay lang tsu mir – Lange nakht. Mit mir unter dem tsudek zay shvayg tsu mir – Shvayge nakht. Ikh vel es dray mol iberibern. Hekher fun der moyre zingen. Heymlekh iz mir der groyl fun dayne Ketsldike oygn in ale tunklen. Lib iz mir di shrek fun dayne Milyasn royshn in ale vinklen. Di mame iz a merderin. Ir art nisht, vos a shotn Sharft a meser un vil mikh koylen. Zi iz avek, in tatns bet, Un ir art nisht, vos morgn Vet men mikh gefinen a dervorgn. Art mikh nisht. Art mikh nisht Art mikh oykh Nisht. Durkh der shmoler stezhke Nakht, zay kum tsu mir. Tsu mir in fentster. Nakht, zay kuk tsu mir. Kuke nakht.
Yidish-taytshn, 1937
DER MAMES SHTOLTS Moris Samyueln mit nontshaft
Der basherter yon-tef fun shtarbn Tsindt in der mames oygn Shvartse farbn. Zi volt shoyn ahingefloygn, Zi ken ale trep, Ober zi veyst – ire letste tsaplen Zenen madreyges. Zi darf durkhtantsn ale shtaplen, Mit a bisl shrek un a sakh gloybn. Zi reynikt zikh antkegn, Yene ayngedenkte vegn oybn, Mit kleynem basheydenem shtolts.
Tsvey getraye flign Brengen a zhum fun taytsh,khumesh-nign. Di frume gsise Iz s’bisl eygns, opgehit, Opgeshport fun der mames Farhorevet, shver gemit. Zi veyst vi a koshere yidene shtarbt.
Der vantzeyger tseylt arayn Ire otemdike trit, Ergets in der mit Fun an eybiker eybikeyt. Di kleyne mame shtarkt zikh. Zi iz greyt. Zi nemt zikh plutsem ayln. Hoyt-un-beyn shpant mayln Umgerikht, Tsu ir likht – der finsterer vant. Zi veyst vi fayerlekh zi vert dort opgehart.
Nokh itster farklemt mir dos harts, Oyb me hot kholile, Aza fargleybte gutskayt Finster opgenart. A Yid fun Lublin, Nyu-York, 1966
UNDZER KIND
Undzer kind, di alte mame, Mit di khokhmes ire, Vos hobn undzer tish Freylekh gemakht Iz avek. Mir hobn zikh kegn zey gekliglt. Ire khokhmes hobn undz Nisht eyn mol oysgelakht.
Undzer kind, di alte mame, Hobn mir tsertlekh ayngeviglt.
Ir kheyder iz itster Matseyvdik undzer freyd. Mir trogn lib dem ol Fun gedenkte, Shpet-kindishe reyd. A Yid fun Lublin, Nyu-York, 1966
Yankev Glatshteyn (1896-1971) was born into a religious, maskilic (enlightened) family in Lublin, Poland. He received a solid traditional Jewish education and studied secular subjects with private tutors. His first literary endeavors in Poland, beginning at about age thirteen, were greeted with much joy by his father. Glatshteyn immigrated to America in 1914 and made his debut there in the same year with a story, “Di Geferlekhe Froy” (The Terrible Woman) in the anarchist paper, Fraye Arbeter -Shtime. As a student at New York University Law School he met the poets N.B. Minkov and Aron Glanz-Leyeles. Together they founded the In Zikh, introspectivist school of Yiddish poetry, in 1920 and its organ, a magazine by the same name. The In Zikhistn rejected formal elegance in favor of free verse whose rhythms were to be the expression of unique, individual experience. They believed poems should work by suggestion and association rather than by direct statement and logical development. The poem ”From the Nursery” presented here is a fine example of this. Throughout his long and celebrated career Glatshteyn moved far from his early credos and experimented with a variety of forms. The war and the Holocaust saw him emerge as one of the great elegists of Eastern European Jewish life, reflected in countless soul-searching, God-wrestling poems. He published many volumes of poetry, among them Yankev Glatshteyn (1921), Fraye Ferzn (Free Verse) (1926), Kredos (Credos) (1929), Gedenklider (Remembrance Poems)(1943), Shtralndike Yidn (Radiant Jews) (1946), A Yid fun Lublin (A Jew from Lublin) (1966) and Gezangen fun Rekhts tsu Links (Songs from Right to Left) (1971). He also wrote two autobiographical novels, Ven Yash iz Geforn (When Yash Went) (1938) and Ven Yash iz Gekumen (When Yash Came) (1940) (English translation: Homecoming at Twilight, 1962). His prolific journalistic writings, some six hundred essays of literary criticism and political commentary are collected in the volumes In Tokh Genumen (The Heart of the Matter) (1947); 1956; 1960) and in Prost un Poshet (Plain and Simple) (1978).
A click ticks and she a Is warm, and eye, And eye, and ha and hand and hand And dress and click, Click, click, click. Tr. Sheva Zucker
A Little Boy and a Little Roll
A little boy eats a roll and butter, A cat looks him in the eye. The little boy is slee –– and hung–– . One eyes is stuck shut. The cat has a big glass eye And the night has three or four glass eyes, And Mommy has a tail and claws with nails. She undresses him and scratches. She is good and scratches. The roll is dark as the night From here to there and beyond. And the night is made of glass. A black window is the night Lying on the floor and in Mommy’s song. Tomorrow will be better. There will be a little light And it won’t be so scary to look through The kitten’s eye to the outside. Tr. Sheva Zucker
See above to hear Glatshteyn himself reading these two part of the poem in Yiddish.
Night, Be Mood to Me
Night, be mood to me – Mood night. Night, be long to me – Long night. With me under the cover, be calm to me – Calm night. Three times I shall repeatrepeatrepear, Louder than fear I shall sing. Intimate is the terror Of your catty eyes in all darknesses. Lovely is the scare Of your myriad noises in all corners. My mother is a murderess, She doesn’t care that a shadow Sharpens his knife and will kill me. She left, she’s in daddy’s bed, She doesn’t care that in the morning They’ll find me strangled, So I don’t’ care either. I don’t care. I don’t’ care either. I don’t’ care. I don’t Care either. Through the narrow path, Night, be come to me. To me in the window. Night, be look to me. Look night. Tr. by Benjamin and Barbara Harshav, American Yiddish Poetry: A Bilingual Anthology, eds. B. and B. Harshav, University of California Press, 1986.
MOTHER’S PRIDE
The fated holy day, her day of death, stirs dark specks in Mother’s eyes. Ready to set out, she knows the way, but knows that her last throes are passages. With some fear and a store of faith, she will glide through every stage. She purifies herself to face that concentrated climb, with a touch of modest pride.
Two faithful flies drone in women’s-Bible singsong. The pious death-rattles are her own – guarded and saved by Mother from her days of labor and a heavy heart. She knows how a pious Jewish woman dies.
The wall clock counts the pace of her breath towards a private eternity, The shrunken mother braces herself. She is ready. She suddenly sets out. Facing the dark wall, her skin and bones, unaware, span miles toward her light. She knows that she will be received with ceremony.
Yet now I am troubled – if, Heaven forbid, such a friend of goodness lies in the dark, deceived. Tr. Richard Fein Selected Poems of Yankev Glatshteyn, Translated, edited, and with an introduction by Richard J. Fein
OUR CHILD
Our child, our old mother, With her bits of wisdom That made our table Happy Is gone. We tried to figure out how to respond. More than once her wisdom made fools of us.
Our child, our old mother, So gently we rocked her to sleep.
Her room is now A monument to our happiness, Lovingly we carry the burden Of remembered, Late-childish talk. Tr. Sheva Zucker
I am under no illusions that my translation is good or even adequate, or even literal, for that matter. Because of the many nuances Glatshteyn packs into a word certain words like khokhmes (witticisms, facetious remarks, jokes, drolleries…) and matseyvedik (tombstone-like, monumental, something invoking permanence and/or death) just can’t be adequately translated into English (or at least, not by me). Also, forget about the briliant rhyming between his newly created verbs gekliglt and ayngeviglt. I welcome any suggestions.
Der gemostener fli fun a makhne toybn Iz nisht azoy harmonish un sheyn, Iz nisht azoy noent tsum oybn Vi der blik fun mames, ven zey zitsn aleyn
Un kukn durkhn fentster in der nakhtiker vayt Un horkhn iber zikh a geroysh vi fun fligl Un derkenen di shtimen: eyns lakht un eyns shrayt, Un eyns vil davke aroysfaln fun vigl.
Azoy vaykh der droysn, un zey konen nisht farshteyn Vi zeyer hoyzgezind iz zikh funandergefloygn; Un khotsh zey zitsn in der nakht bam fenster aleyn Veynen un lakhn di kinder ba zey in di oygn.
Un zey veysn: gut un gerekht iz kivyokhl un groys, Er iz di shif oyf di volkns un der duft in di groyzn, Un di vos zenen fun zeyere lendn aroys Zenen oykh zayne un er vet nisht farlozn.
In di alte hertser iz a gortn fun gloybn, Az zeyere tekhter un zin vaksn ergets in glik. Un der shenster fli fun a makhne toybn Iz nisht azoy harmonish vi zeyer blik.
A YUNGE MAME ZINGT
Tif untern vigele Ba Khayeml tsu fisn Shteyt a goldn tsigele, Fun vanen zoln mentshn visn?
Un az men veyst nisht iz dokh gut, Vet men nisht forn handlen, Dos bahaltnste in blut Un tayerer fun mandlen.
Unter Khayim|ls vigele Shteyt a goldn krigele, Keyner veyst gornisht derfun Az ikh hob a raykhn zun.
Un az men veyst nisht iz dokh gut, Yeder oytser iz geheym. Ven in himl tseblit zikh der sod fun blut Vil di ofene zun shoyn untergeyn.
TSVEYTE MAME ZINGT
Iz shver. Iz shpet. Un ale shlofn. A baloykhtener fentster loyft nokh dem vint. Der vos hot zi gelibt, iz antlofn, Vi baloykhtener fentster loyft nokh dem vint.
Er iz heys geven, un zayne nekht Hobn zi shvarts gemakht vi koyl. Ver iz shuldik un ver iz gerekht? Am shenstn iz ir tekhterls moyl.
Dos tsimer drikt oyf ir vi metal. Zayn bild klingt do tsvishn di vent. Zeyer khasene hot gehat an oremen bal, Ober di makht hot gehat veykh bloe hent.
Vi shtekhik regndik dos lebn tserint. Shpet iz, shver iz. Un ale shlofn. A baloykhtn fentster loyft nokh dem vint. Nor ir tekhterl halt s’maylekhl ofn.
DRITE MAME VEYNT
Dos raykhe yor iz nokh vayt, Un mayn zun iz itst azoy kleyn. Er ligt nokh dervayle un shrayt Un hot nokh nisht keyn tseyn.
Vayt iz dos raykhe yor, Un durkh ale toyern Krikhn oys far hunger di hor. Un di shtern troyern.
Dos raykhe yor iz nokh vayt, Nokh iz erd nisht mit zumer bafarbt, Vinterdik lang shloft di tsayt Un zet a kholem: zi shtarbt.
Un zet felder mit korn mit raykhn, Nor zi bakumt nisht keyn bis; Un zet vayte geshpiglte taykhn, Nor zi falt fun dorsht fun di fis.
Iz dos a kholem a beyzer, Un mayn kind iz itst azoy kleyn. Ver zol zayn der derleyzer? Mayn kind hot nokh nisht keyn tseyn.
Vayt hengt di kroyn fun dem tog, Ven zayn tat vet zayn bentshung der mamen, Un di velt iz a shteynerner blok Vos krishlt zikh ba breges fun yamen.
Ir gerekhtikayt iz: rudershpur Vos vert in vaser farloyrn, Un di zoymen in shoys fun a hur Vet ir gayve gornisht geboyrn.
Velt kortshet zikh in yoldes-vey, Nor di kimpetorn vet nisht derfreyen. Di teg faln arop vi shney Un bagrobn dem mentsh unter shneyen.
Der vinter tsit oys zikh alts mer, Un alts shverer koshmarner der shlof. Di kelt shnaydt zikh nenter aher, Lomikh bahit un bashitst zayn fun shtrof.
Mayn kinds oygn! azoyne oygn! Un der shmekt vi epl in /sod. Er hot nokh knap fun der erd gezoygn, Fun shtrof bashirem mikh, got!
IKh vel fest di fentster farklepn, Zol in mayn shtub nisht arayn keyn farkilung; Mayn kind trogt varemkayt, lebn. Ikh vel zayn di muter fun friling.
Mayn zuns dribne glider, Vi kleyne feygl zingen zey, Zayne tseyn reymen zikh vi lider Ven dikhterharts loyft durkh zey.
Vi der fridn in a vunder-farnakht, Goldikt shtil zikh zayn hor. Gots hant iz shoyn oyfgemakht, Khotsh vayt iz tsum raykhn yor.
Khotsh der himl kukt tunkl un shlekht, Khotsh mentshn zenen shtiker geveyn, Ober ikh her shoyn durkh shtilkayt fun nekht, Ikh her mayn kind vaksn di tseyn.
Er vet groys zayn un shtark zayn un klug zayn, Un vi a zunblum oyfgeyn mit freyd, Di funken fun zayn oyg veln genug zayn Tsu farvarfn a likhtike keyt
Arum di, vos shvaygn un laydn dershrokn, Oder farsheltn dem tog fun geboyrn, Oder varfn, vi mist, zikh fun shtokn Oder hobn in blendshpil farloyrn
Di trit fun dem eybikn vanderer: Dos blut, vos geyt shtolts inem layb, Un zey lekn di shpiz, vos an anderer Shtekht in zey, zeyer kind, zeyer vayb.
Mayn kind vet shtark zayn un klug zayn un tif. Der shenster shtern iz gefaln oyf mayn hoyz. Kh’hob nayn khadoshem geshribn a briv, Itst shik ikh im in der velt aroys.
Zoln im leyenen ale vos filn Trern oyf zeyer gezikht. Got, gib mayn zun dem viln Fun a rikhter bam letstn gerikht. Foroys, N’ 16, Varshe, dem 8tn Yuli 1938 Di Goldene Keyt, N’ 128, 1990
For a much more complete biography and to read more by and about Yisroel Shtern I would like to direct you to the wonderful Yisroel Shtern website established by Andrew Firestone of Melbourne, Australia: http://www.yisroelshtern.org
Yisroel Shtern (1894 – 1942) was born in Ostrolenke, Poland. He studied in kheyder and in yeshivas in Lomzhe and Slobodke, and then in a Warsaw musar-collective. He was a student of musar (Jewish religious philosophy of moral edification more prevalent in Lithuanian yeshivas) as well as very drawn to the world of Braslaver hasidism. In 1919 he made his debut with poems in the weekly periodical Dos folk and continued to publish in various Yiddish publications in Warsaw. He also wrote many essays and literary critical articles. With the help of Mark Rakowski he translated Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice for the Warsaw Yiddish youth theater in 1929. He was a lonely man who never married and was always very poor. He was in the Warsaw Ghetto and perished either there or in Treblinka. Those who knew him there say he wrote a great deal in the ghetto but thus far nothing has been found. One volume, Yisroel Shtern: Lider un Esayen (Yisroel Shtern: Poems and Essays; 1955), edited by the great Yiddish writer H. Leyvik, was published posthumously. Of him the literary critic Shloyme Bikl said, “In Shtern’s poetry…. there blazes the desire to unite with God and the pain of social injustice.”
MOTHERS By Yisroel Shtern
I. The loveliest flight of a host of pigeons
The measured flight of a host of pigeons is not as serene nor as lovely nor as near to the Above as the gaze of mothers, when they sit alone
to look out the window deep into the night hear rustling above like the sound of wings and recognise the voices: one laughing one yelling and one set on falling from its cradle.
The weather is so mild. They can’t understand how their brood has flown apart; and though at night they sit alone at the window their eyes still see the children laugh and cry.
They know how good great and just is the Name He is the ship above the clouds, the grasses’ fragrance, and those who came from their loins are His as well, He won’t abandon them.
Within their old hearts is a garden of faith, that somewhere their children flourish in joy and the loveliest flight of a host of pigeons Is not as serene as their gaze.
II. A young mother sings
Tucked away beneath his cot close to Chaim’s feet, a golden kid is standing – but how could anyone know?
And not to know is very good then you won’t go off trading what’s deepest hidden is blood more precious far than almonds.
Under little Chaim’s cot stands a little golden jug, no one at all can know I have a rich son.
For not to know is best, every treasure is in secret. When the secret of blood blossoms in the sky the bright sun itself wants to go down.
III. Second mother sings
It’s hard. It’s late. All are asleep. A lit‐up window chases the wind. He who loved her has run away like the lit‐up window that chases the wind.
He was hot‐blooded, and his nights turned her black as coal. Who is at fault and who is right? Loveliest is her little girl’s mouth.
The room presses down on her like lead. His image echoes from these walls. Humble was their wedding party yet that night had blue and tender hands.
Painful and trashy, life dribbles away. It’s late. It’s hard. And all are asleep. A lit‐up window chases the wind, but her daughter keeps her little mouth open.
IV. Third mother sings
The year of plenty is still far off and my son is still so small. Now he lies there yelling without a single tooth yet.
Far off is the year of plenty while through all the gates hunger makes hair fall out so that the stars mourn.
The year of plenty is still far off Earth hasn’t yet put on summer colours Time has a long winter sleep, sees in a dream that she dies:
a vision of fields of abundant rye yet not one bite for her; a vision of distant reflecting streams while she drops to the ground from thirst.
Such a nasty dream and my son is still so small. Who will the rescuer be? My child has no teeth yet.
The day of honour is still far off when his mother will be blessed for his acts… the world is a block of stone that crumbles by the shore of seas –
its righteousness but a rudder’s trail that vanishes in the water, and like semen in the lap of a whore its pride will give birth to nothing.
In birth pains the world writhes but no relief will they bring. The days fall away like snow and bury us under snowfalls.
More and more the winter drags out with sleep ever nightmarish harder. Ever closer cuts the cold – shelter, protect us from chastisement.
My child’s eyes! Such eyes! And he smells like an apple‐orchard. He has sucked so little yet from the earth, protect me from punishment, God!
I shall seal the windows tight let no chill into my home. My child bears warmth and life I shall be mother of spring.
My little boy’s delicate limbs sing like little birds. His teeth rhyme like songs when a poet’s heart flows through them.
Like the joy of a wondrous twilight is his quiet golden hair. God has opened up his hand though it’s still far to the year of plenty.
Though the sky looks dark and ugly and people are hunks of tears, yet through the stillness of night I can hear my child’s teeth growing.
He will be big and strong and clever and will bloom with joy like a sunflower. Just the sparks from his eyes will fling out a brilliant chain.
Around those who are silent and suffer in fear or curse the day they were born, or throw themselves from buildings, like garbage or who, through gambling, have lost
the steps of the eternal wanderer. the blood that flows proud in the body – and who lick the spear that another has plunged into them, their child, their wife:
my child will be strong, wise and deep. Upon my mind landed the loveliest star, for nine months I wrote a letter now I send it out to the world.
Let all read it who feel walls before their faces. God, give my son the strength of will of a judge at the last judgement. Translated by Floris Kalman
זי האָט זיך באַטײליקט אין די אױסגאַבעס פֿון דער גרופּע יונג־ישׂראל און זיך געדרוקט אין אַ סך פּובליקאַציעס, בתוכם: די גאָלדענע קײט, לעצטע נײַעס, ישׂראל־שטימע, על המשמר, און סבֿיבֿה.אַרױס אין בוכפֿאָרעם זײַנען: זון איבער אַלץ, 1962, דערנער נאָכן רעגן, 1966, הימל צװישן גראָזן — שמים בעשב, 1968 און די װילדע ציג — עזה פּזיזה, 1976. אין 1978 האָט זי באַקומען די מאַנגער־פּרעמיע . צו לײענען נאָך װעגן פֿישמאַנען לײענט דוד ראָסקעסעס אױסגעצײכנטן אַרײַנפֿיר אין דעם צװײשפּראַכיקן באַנד אַזױ װיל איך פֿאַלן: אָפּגעקליבענע לידער פֿון רחל פֿישמאַן/I Want to Fall Like This: Selected Poems of Rukhl Fishman, Wayne State University Press, 1994.
מאַמע, איך קען ניט אײַנשלאָפֿן
מאַמע, איך קען ניט אײַנשלאָפֿן. נעם דעק מיך גוט אײַן מיטן װאָרט “הײם”. איך קען, מאַמע, ניט אײַנשלאָפֿן.
טאַטע, מיט פּאַסיקער ערנסטקײט האָסטו פֿאַר מײַנע קינדעריש שטומפּיקע פֿינגער אַנטדעקט װי אַזױ די שיכבענדלעך פֿאַרבינדן. ניט צו דערקענען איצטער מײַנע פֿיס. איך יאָג זיך נאָך זײ אַ גאַנצן טאָג.
טאַטעניו־מאַמעניו ― דעם זומער האָבן אין די היצן אַלע מײַנע זיכערקײטן געציטערט. װעמען האָב איך געזאָלט דערצײלן אױב ניט אײַך? אַלעמען װאָלט איך דערצײלט ― נאָר ניט אײַך. 1955 זון איבער אַלץ, תּל־אָבֿיבֿ, 1962
* * *
צעביסן אינאײנעם די ליפּ און דאָס ליד. אַזױ דין ― הױט. לעכערלעך שװאַך די צאַמען װאָס לאָזן דעם אמת ניט צו.
אַז דו װעסט עלטער װערן זאָלסטו װיסן אַן אונטערשיד פֿון דעם ים מיט אַ מבול דערקװיקן, ביז אַ שׂרפֿה אין פֿלאַמען דערשטיקן.
אױ מאַמע דערנער נאָכן רעגן, 1966
* * *
איך בין פֿרי אַװעק פֿון הױז.
צו פֿיל ליבע, צו פֿיל שטאָלץ, צו פֿיל טרױער, אױגן, אױגן. צו פֿיל פֿאָדער, ייִדיש, פֿרײד.
Zet nor! Vi sheyn dos kind shtift. Vi sheyn dos kind shraybt. Vi sheyn di kleyne loyft fun undz avek.
Azoy fil libe, azoy fil shtolts — Azoy fil foder in di reyd — Kh’hob shoyn tsugenung un iberfil Tsu shraybn Un tsu shtumen.
Tate.
Vu Iz ahin Dayn ponem. Derner nokhn regn, 1966
Rukhl Fishman (1935 – 1984) was born in Philadelphia in a cultured Yiddishist home. She finished hekhere kursn (higher courses, i.e. Yiddish high school) in Philadelphia and emigrated to Israel when she was 19 making her home in Kibbutz Beit Alfa. There she married and she and her husband adopted two children. When she left the US for Israel her parents worried that she would be far from the Yiddish culture that they had tried with so much devotion to instill in her but even in Israel, a country that was at the time quite anti-Yiddish and where writing in Yiddish was considered anti-Israeli she made the decision to write in Yiddish. She was the youngest and the only American born member of the writer group Yung-Yisroel (Young Israel) which was founded in 1951. Her poetic mentors were Malka Heifetz Tussman of Los Angeles whom she got to know when she was a teenager and Avrom Sutzkever who would sit with her in his favorite Tel-Aviv café editing her poems. She contributed to several of the publications of Yung-Yisroel and published in many Yiddish publications, including: Di Goldene Keyt, Letste Nayes, Yisroel-Shtime, Al Hamishmar and Svive. She published the following books: Zun Iber Alts (Sun Over Everything; 1962), Derner Nokhn Regn (Thistles After Rain; 1966), Himl Tsvishn Grozn (Sky Among the Grass, bilingual Yiddish/Hebrew; 1968) and Di Vilde Tsig (The Wild She-Goat, bilingual Yiddish/Hebrew; 1976). She received the Manger Prize in 1978. To find out more about Fishman see the excellent introduction by David Roskies in the bilingual Azoy Vil Ikh Faln: Opgeklibene Lider fun Rokhl Fishman/I Want to Fall: Selected Poems of Rukhl Fishman, with poems beautifully translated by Seymour Levitan.
Momma, I Can’t Sleep
Mame, I can’t sleep. Tuck me in with the word heym. I can’t sleep, Momma.
Tate, you were so serious when you showed my stubby young fingers how to tie my shoes. You wouldn’t recognize my feet now. I chase them all day long.
Tatenyu, Mamenyu all my certainties wavered in the heat this summer. Whom should I have told if not you? I’d have told everyone – but not you. 1955 Tr. Seymour Levitan I Want to Fall Like This: Selected Poems of Rukhl Fishman אַזוי וויל איך פֿאַלן: אָפּגעקליבענע לידער פֿון רחל פֿישמאַן Translated from the Yiddish by Seymour Levitan, 1994
* * * Bit my lip all up together With the poem. So thin – is skin. Ridiculously flimsy the fences That don’t let The truth in.
When you get older May you know the difference Between refreshing the sea With a downpour, And choking a fire With flames.
Oy Mame. Tr. Sheva Zucker
The following poem actually mentions by name only the father but I believe she is referring to both parents throughout the poem.
* * *
I left home early.
Too much love, Too much pride, Too much sadness, Eyes, eyes. Too much demanding, Yiddish, Joy.
Just look! How beautifully the child makes mischief. How beautifully the child writes. How beautifully the little one runs away from us.
So much love, so much pride – So much demanding in those words – I have already toomuch and morethanenough To write And to be silent.
