Mayn tatns briv fun Amerike tsu mayn mame – hobn zikh shtendik ongehoybn: Beste froy Dvoyre! Un oyb di mame iz geven di beste, di shenste, vos iz er epes gelofn dray mol kin Amerike?
Kh’veys, kh’veys, di mame iz geven frum, zi hot nit gevolt forn kin Amerike un zen ire kinder geyn arbetn dort Shabes. Di mame iz geven frum. Un efsher zol ikh forn kin Shikago nokh an entfer? Oyszukhn dort dos beys-oylem vu mayn tate rut in a keyver, un hot a matseyve tsu kopns, a shteyn – Un di mame? Der vint hot tseblozn iber di poylishe felder dem ash fun ir gebeyn.
The biography and an earlier photo of Rajzel Zychlinski can be found in post no. 3. Other poems by her can be found in post 3 and 4.
Zychlinski’s father did indeed immigrate to the United States several times and was unable to convince his wife to come. She believed that American was no place for pious Jews.
My Father’s Letters From America
My father’s letters from America to my mother always began: Best of women, Dvoyre! But if my mother was best, most beautiful, why did he run to America three times?
I know, I know, Momma was pious, she wouldn’t move to America and see her children work on the Sabbath. Momma was frum. Should I go to Chicago for an answer? Find the cemetery where my father rests in his grave? At his head he has a stone– And momma? Over the fields of Poland blow the ashes of her bones. Naye lider. Tel-Aviv, 1993
Translated by Seymour Levitan English translation copyright Seymour Levitan c 2012
בן מיך דעריאָגט און װי אַ קראָ, אױף אַ קלײן הינדעלע אַרויפֿגעפֿאַלן, איז אָפֿט באַלױכטן העל מײַן צימער אין די נעכט, און כ’האַלט די הענט איבער מײַן קאָפּ פֿאַרװאָרפֿן און ס’זאָגן מײַנע ליפּן אַ שטילן אײנפֿאַכן געבעט צו גאָט און ס’קומען טרערן, װי אַ קאַרגער־אײנציק־טראָפּנדיקער רעגן. חשוונדיקע נעכט, ווילנע, 1927
FROYEN-LIDER
I
Es veln di froyen fun undzer mishpokhe bay nakht in khaloymes mir kumen un zogn: Mir hobn in tsnies a loytere blut iber doyres getrogn, Tsu dir es gebrakht vi a vayn a gehitn in koyshere kelers Fun undzere hertser. Un eyne vet zogn: Ikh bin an agune geblibn ven s’zenen di bakn Tsvey roytlekhe epl af boym nokh geshtanen,
Un kh’hob mayne tseyner di vayse tsekritst in di eynzame nekht fun dervartung. Un ikh vel di bobes antkegngeyn zogn: Vi herbstike vintn yogn nokh mir zikh Nigunim farvelkte fun ayere lebns. Un ir kumt mir antkegn, Vu di gas iz nor tunkl, Un vu s’ligt nor a shotn: Un tsu vos ot dos blut on a tume S’zol zayn mayn gevisn, vi a zaydener fodem Af mayn moyekh farbundn, Un mayn lebn an oysgeflikt blat fun a seyfer Un di shure di ershte farrisn?
VIII
In nekht ven ikh bin vakh, Un s’kumen tsu mir teg mayne fargangene Zikh far di oygn shteln, Kumt far mir mayn mames lebn. Un ire oysgedarte hent In tsniesdike arbl fun nakhthemd ayngehilt Vi a gotsforkhtike shrift in vayse gvilim Un s’beyzern zikh verter fun Hamapl, Vi fayerdike koyln geloshn fun ir shtil gebet
Un oysgetriknt ir dos moyl Vi a fardarte floym. Un s’kumen ire trern vi a karger-eyntsik-tropndiker regn, Un ersht, az kh’bin aleyn a froy Un gey in broynem zayd gekleydt Mit bloyzn kop Un naket haldz, Un s’hot der umglik fun mayn eygn lebn mikh deryogt Un vi a kro, Af a kleyn hindele arufgefaln, Iz oft baloykhtn hel mayn tsimer in di nekht, Un kh’halt di hent iber mayn kop farvorfn
Un s’zogn mayne lipn a shtiln eynfakhn
Gebet tsu Got Un s’kumen trern, vi a karger-eyntsik-tropndiker regn. Kheshvndike nekht (Nights of the month of Heshvan). Vilna, 1927
Kadya Molodowsky (1894-1975) was born in Bereze Kartuskaya, White Russia in 1894. Although a girl, she studied Khumesh (Pentateuch) with her father, a melamed, a teacher, and later both Gemore and Russian with private tutors. In the 1920’s she settled in Warsaw and worked by day as a teacher in a socialist Yiddishist Tsisho school, and in the evenings in a Hebraist community school. Herself a fervent Zionist, she married a Communist, the historian and literary critic Simkhe Lev, and they lived, from 1935 on, for the most part, in Ame
rica, with a three year interval in Israel. The couple had no children. Generally considered the foremost female writer in modern Yiddish literature, and a first-rate and prolific poet by any standard, she published eight volumes of poetry, a collection of short stories, several novels, and also edited a literary journal Svive in New York. Molodowsky’s work reveals a woman striving to reconcile the opposing forces of religion and modernity, a realist and a skeptic who longed for miracles, a philosophic thinker who tempered deepest tragedy with irony and humor, and a spiritual seek
er who despaired in God and humanity. Paper Bridges (1999), translated and edited by Kathryn Hellerstein, offers a comprehensive selection of her best poetic work in English and was voted one of the 100 best Jewish books by a panel at the National Jewish Book Center.
Women-Poems
The women of our family will come to me in dreams at night and say: Modestly we carried a pure blood across generations, Bringing it to you like well-guarded wine from the kosher Cellars of our hearts. And one woman will say:
I am an abandoned wife, left when my cheeks Were two ruddy apples still fixed on the tree,
And I clenched my white teeth throughout lonely nights of waiting. And I will go meet these grandmothers, saying: Like winds of the autumn, your lives’ Withered melodies chase after me. And you come to meet me Only where streets are in darkness, And where only shadows lie:
And why should this blood without blemish Be my conscience, like a silken thread Bound upon my brain, And my life a page plucked from a holy book, The first line torn?
VIII
Nights when I’m awake
And one by one my past days come To place themselves before my eyes, My mother’s life come to me. And her emaciated hands Wrapped in modest nightgown sleeves Are like a God-fearing script on white parchment And the words of Hamapil are angry Like fiery coals quenched by her quiet plea, And they shrivel her mouth Like a withered plum. And her tears come drop by drop like a stingy drizzle.
And now that I myself am a woman,
And walk, clad in brown silk With my head bare And my throat naked, And now that my own life’s misfortune has hunted me down Like a crow falling upon a chick, Often my room is lit up all night, And I hold my hands, reproaches, over my head, And my lips recite a quiet, simple Plea to God. And tears come drop by drop like a stingy drizzle. 1925 Tr. Kathryn Hellerstein, Paper Bridges: Selected Poems of Kadya Molodowsky, Translated, introduced and edited by Kathryn Hellerstein, Wayne State University Press, 1999
Mayn mame iz a sheyne un a bleykhe Un a vayse vi a toyb; Di hor vi shney – tsvey dine pasmes Faln fun ir hoyb.
Un shabesdik, in zayd in shvartsn Geyt zi shtendik ongeton; Af a goldn keytl af ir hartsn Ir kale-medalyon.
Un oygn hot mayn mame, grine oygn, Groz un zun vos rut; Un az zi kukt a mentshn in di oygn Vert yenem mentshn gut. Lid un Balade, Band II, Nyu-york, 1955
Mani Leyb (1883-1953) was the pseudonym of Mani Leyb Brahinsky. He was born in Niezhyn, (Chernigov district, Ukraine). At the age of 11 he left school to be apprenticed to a bootmaker and was twice arrest for “revolutionary activities” while still in his teens. He emigrated to New York in 1906 where he began publishing poems in the Forverts and Fraye arbeter shtime. He worked as a shoe and boot-maker until he contracted tuberculosis and lived in a sanatorium for two years (1932-1934).
He was a leading figure in Di Yunge (the Young Ones), a poetry group which, in rebellion against the earlier worker poets, placed individual mood and sensation at the heart of poetry. The appeal of simplicity as an aesthetic goal attracted him to folks songs and folk motifs, and to the writing of children’s verse.
In 1918 he published three volumes of poetry – Lider (poems), Yidishe un slavishe motivn (Jewish and Slavic motifs), and Baladn (Ballads). Some of these and later poems were published posthumously in 1955 in Lider un Baladn (Poems and Ballads). After an unhappy marriage and five children he began a relationship with with the Yiddish poet Rashelle Veprinski (see posts 1 and 6) which lasted from the1920s until his death in 1953.
My Mother
My mother is pretty and pale And as white as any dove. Her snow-white hair, in two thin locks, falls from her bonnet above.
In Sabbath clothes of dark black silk She often goes around, and on a chain upon her neck her bride medal’s to be found.
My mother’s eyes – she has green eyes – are like the sun at rest; and when she looks in someone’s eyes, that one is doubly blessed.
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
װען איך זאָל קינדערלעך געבױרן, יעדן יאָר אַ קינד, ביז איך װעל האָבן צען – װי װוּנדערלעך דאָס װאָלט געװען. איך װאָלט זײ דורך די טעג, אײַנגעזױגן, אײַנגעװיגט, אין אָװנט װאָלט איך לײַבעלעך פֿון װאָל פֿאַר זײ געשטריקט, העמדעלעך און װינדעלעך װאָלט איך געװאַשן, פֿאַר טאָג, װען אַלע שלאָפֿן, װאָלט איך זײ צעהאָנגען אױף די שטריק און װאָלט אַ װײַלינקע געשטאַנען, געקוקט אין הױכן הימל צי ס’װעט הײַנט רעגענען, און ס’װאָלט מײַן האַרץ באַהאַלטן אָנגעקװאָלן פֿון דעם שירך־שאָרך װאָס דער װינט מאַכט אויפֿבלאָזנדיק די העמדעלעך און װינדעלעך װי די פֿאָנען פֿון אַ זעגלשיף, — די פֿאָנען פֿון מײַן זעגלשיף — װי װוּנדערלעך דאָס װאָלט געװען. די פּאַליטרע, תּל־אָבֿיבֿ, 1964
FUN MAYNE SHLANKE GLIDER
Fun mayne shlanke glider veynen kinder nit geboyrene, Vos viln durkh mayn layb di vayse velt derzen Un ufblien unter der zun Mit kepelekh gekroyzlte, Eygelekh breyt-farvunderte, Shvartsinke un bloy. Nor tif in zikh farneyn ikh yene klore shtiimelekh Mit toyznt shtimen Fun a fiberishn drang, Tsu blaybn eybik, eybik, Azoy meydlsh-beygik, Fray far shvung, kapriz, – – Un far dayne libndike hent –
To zoln mayne nekht un teg Do vern hastiker farshvendt, Az dortn vu ir vart, – Ahinter vayse toyern, – Kumen zol ikh yung tsu aykh. Ikh vel aykh Shtil tsuzamennemen unter mayne mame-fligl Un af epes veynen glaykh mit aykh. Di palitre, 1964
VEN. . .
Ven ikh zol kinderlekh geboyrn, Yedn yor a kind, biz ikh vel hobn tsen– Vi vunderlekh dos volt geven. Ikh volt zey durkh di teg, ayngezoygn, ayngevigt, In ovnt volt ikh laybelekh fun vol far zey geshtrikt, Hemdelekh un vindelekh volt ikh gevashn, Far tog, ven ale shlofn, Volt ikh zey tsehongen af di shtrik Un volt a vaylinke geshtanen, Gekukt in hoykhn himl Tsi s’vet haynt regenen, Un s’volt mayn harts bahaltn ongekvoln Fun dem shirkh-shorkh vos der vint makht Ufblozndik di hemdelekh un vindelekh Vi di fonen fun a zeglshif, – Di fonen fun mayn zeglshif – Vi vunderlekh dos volt geven. Di palitre, 1964
Rashel Veprinski (1896-1981) was born in the town of Ivankov, not far from Kiev, in Ukraine. She came to New York in 1907, and at thirteen she went to work in a shop. At fifteen, she began writing poetry, and was first published in 1918 in the journal Di naye velt (The New World). She wrote several books of poetry, among them Ruf fun foygl (The Call of the bird), 1926, Di Palitre (The palette), 1964, Tsum eyntsikn shtern (To the single star), 1971 as well as an autobiographical novel , short stories, and articles and was published regularly in Yiddish periodicals. From the 1920s until his death in 1953, she lived with the famous Yiddish writer Mani Leyb.
There are 2 poems by Veprinski this time because they are related. You can find another poem by Veprinski in the posting of Week 1.
From My Slender Limbs From my slender limbs cry children yet unborn Who want, through my flesh, to glimpse the white world And blossom forth under the sun With curly heads, Little eyes wide with wonder, Blue and black. But deep within me I say no to those pure little voices With a thousand voices Out of a frenzied striving To stay always, always So girlishly supple, Free for the lilt, for the whimsy, And for your loving arms.
So let my nights and days Here be more hastily squandered So that there where you wait, — Beyond white gates, — I may come, still young, to you, And I will take you, my children, Quietly under my mother-wings And cry over something, together with you. Di palitre (The palette), Israel, 1964
Tr. Sheva Zucker For Generations: Jewish Motherhood Edited by Mandy Ross and Ronne Randall, Five Leaves Publications in association with European Jewish Publication Society, 2005
If…
If I were to bear children Every year a child, until I had ten How wonderful it would be then. By day I would nurse them and rock them in their cradle, At night I would knit them undervests of wool, And wash their little shirts and diapers, At daybreak, when everyone was still asleep I would hang them out on the line And would stand for a while Looking at the sky above, To see if it was going to rain today, And secretly my heart would delight In the rustle of the wind Unfurling the little shirts and diapers Like the flags on a sailboat, — Like the flags on my sailboat — How wonderful it would be then. Di palitre (The palette), Israel, 1964
Tr. Sheva Zucker For Generations: Jewish Motherhood
Eyn por orems oysgelebt zikh – links un rekhts bazunder.
Nor zet a vunder!
S’hot fun di tsvey zikh oysgevebt a nestele far kinder.
Gitl Schaechter-Viswanath (1958 – ) was born in the Bronx, New York and grew up in a Yiddish-speaking, staunchly Yiddishist home. She studied in the Sholem Aleichem Folkshul 21, United Mittleshul and Jewish Teachers Seminary, where she graduated with a degree in Jewish literature. She also earned degrees in Russian (Barnard College), nursing (Columbia University) and health administration (New York University), and currently works as a clinical consultant in long-term care. She has been active in the Yiddish movement her entire life, and has worked as editor for several Yiddish magazines. Since 2005 she has been stylistic editor of Afn Shvel, the periodical of the League for Yiddish. She lives in Teaneck, New Jersey, and is the mother of three Yiddish-speaking children. She has published one volume of poetry, Sudden Rain: Yiddish Poems (Israel Book, Tel Aviv, 2003).
Mother
One pair of arms living life separately, left and right.
But what a sight!
From these two is woven tight one little nest for child’s delight. Sudden Rain: Yiddish Poems Translations by Jeffrey Shandler and Zackary Berger
Mayn kind klapt mit farmakhte vies In dem toyer fun der velt. S’iz Kislev – Di verbes tsitern in frost Un es shmekt di tseshternte kelt. S’klapt dos harts fun mayn kind: Efn!
Baym rog fun gas hob ikh zikh Mit der akhter levone getrofn. Mit yidishe oygn kuk ikh Der levone in ponem arayn: – Mayn kind, dos blut in dayne odern iz zaft Fun gloybn un payn, Gelaytert ba di taykhn fun Bovl Un ba di bregn fun Nil. S’hot mayn mame in a shtetl in Poyln Gedavnt in a shil, Di shil iz geven fun holts Alt zeks hundert yor Un di beyner fun di zeydes Hobn geloykhtn in tol.
Di shil iz farbrent, Der tol tsetrotn. Af opgemekhte kvorim Hoyern nor shotns.
– Kh’shtel pamelekh di trit. Ikh gey laykht azoy vi a shtral, Vi a vanderer in midber, Vos hot gefunen a kval.
Mayn kind klapt mit farmakhte vies In dem toyer fun der velt – Der himl iz ful nokh mit shtern un haftokhes, Vi a mol, iber Yankevs getselt.
The biography and photo of Rajzel Zychlinski can be found in post no. 3. Although this poem has a child as the subject it is written from a mother’s perspective. I would love to hear if anyone has any ideas of what she means by the “eighth moon.
My Child Knocks
My child knocks with closed lashes At the gate of the world. It’s Kislev– The willows quiver in the frost And the starry cold is fragrant. The heart of my child beats: Open!
At the corner of the street I met the eighth moon. With Jewish eyes I look The moon in the face: –My child, the blood in your veins is the juice Of belief and pain, Purified in the rivers of Babylon And at the shores of the Nile. In a town in Poland my mother Prayed in a synagogue, The synagogue was made of wood Six hundred years old And the bones of my grandfathers Shone in the valley.
The synagogue is burned, The valley is trampled. Over rubbed out graves Only shadows hover.
– Slowly I walk, Treading lightly like a sunbeam, Like a wanderer in the desert, Who has found a spring.
My child knocks with closed lashes At the gate of the world– The heavens are still full of stars and promises, Like long ago, over the tents of Jacob. Shvaygndike tirn (Silent doors), 1962
Tr. Sheva Zucker For generations: Jewish motherhood Edited by Mandy Ross and Ronne Randall, Five Leaves Publications in association with European Jewish Publication Society, 2005
Mame, Du host fayer gemakht. Host fun dare shtiklekh holts Tseblozn a zun. Du herst vi mayne hor shoybern a dank, A dank. Nor in droysn veynt nokh alts der vint. Nem im, mame, in dayn shirts arayn, Un vig im ayn. Der vint, er vet dir gloybn, Un vi a shepskl, Tsumakhn di oygn. Shvaygndike tirn, 1962
Rajzel Zychlinksy (1910-2001) was born in Gombin, Poland in 1910. Her first book of poems, Lider (Poems), published in 1936, included a very laudatory foreword by the celebrated poet Itsik Manger. She and her husband, the psychiatrist and author, Dr. Isaac Kanter, left their home in Warsaw during the Second World War and took refuge in Russia where their son Marek was born.
In 1951 Zychlinksy emigrated to New York. She lived there until the last few years of her life, when she moved to Berkeley, California, to join her son. She published several volumes of poetry in Yiddish, among them, Tsu loytere bregn (To clear shores), 1948, Shvaygndike tirn, (Silent doors), 1962), Di November-zun (The November sun), 1977 and Naye lider (New Poems), 1993. In 1975 she was awarded the prestigious Manger Prize for Yiddish Poetry. The Holocaust is a major theme in her work.
A fine selection of her poems has been published in English in the book God Hid His Face: Selected Poems of Rajzel Zychlinsky, translated by Barnett Zumoff, Aaron Kramer, and Zychlinsky’s son, Marek Kanter.
Mama
Mama, You made fire. Thin sticks of wood You fanned into a sun. You hear my hair rustling a thank-you. Thank-you. But outside the wind is still wailing. Take the wind, mother, into your apron, And rock him to sleep. The wind will trust you, And like a little lamb, Will close his eyes. Tr. Sheva Zucker
Vu hostu, mame, genumen di klugshaft di shtile? Alts veyst dayn shtilinker blik.
Af dayne lipn rut kesedyer A sod inem knup fun dayn shvaygn – Vos Kinder groyse, Kinder alte Zaynen alts tsu yung tsu visn.
Neyn. Ikh forsh nit, mame. Ikh ver zikh kegn dayn alvisikn blik Vos hot shoyn, dukht mir, Untergetsoygn oykh mayn sakhakl.
Yetst Az ikh hob zikh aleyn derklibn Tsu dayn shmeykhlendikn zifts Iz mir oykh shoyn shver tsu libn, Mame. Un dos hob ikh dervust zikh Eyninke aleyn… Un shmeykhl shoyn tsu alts vi du. Nor nit klug bin ikh, Nit klug.
Vi azoy bistu Klug gevorn, Mame?
A bisele Bin ikh nokh vi der tate: Shrayen vil ikh, Shrayen hoykh, “Oy vey un tate ziser”. Nor keyn mol, dukht mir, Vel ikh nit vi er fartroylekh Lign mit di lipn ba di kleyninke tsvey Yudn Un keyn mol nit vi er Mit farmakhte oygn Tsertlen dem “Shaday”. Lider, 1949
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).
I read a fragment of the following poem – the first two verses followed by a repetition of How did you get so wise, Mama? – at my mother’s funeral. Of all the poems about mothers in Yiddish literature this fragment best captures my mother’s quiet wisdom.
How Did You Get So Wise, Mama?
Where, Mama, did you get this quiet wisdom? Your quiet gaze knows everything.
A secret knotted into your silence rests always on your lips – a mute truth that grown children, old children are still too young to know?
No. I’m not prying, Mama. I’m defending myself from your all-knowing gaze which – it seems to me – has already sized me up.
Now and then you take pity on me. Pity slips out from under your smile and bows my shoulders down.
And now that I have attained your smiling sigh, it’s hard for me, too, to live. I smile at everything, just like you. But without your wisdom.
How did you get so wise, Mama?
In some ways, I am still like Father. I want to shout out loud, “Oy vey!” and “Dear God!” But it seems I’ll never trustingly – like him – press my lips to the holy letters and, with closed eyes, caress the name of God. Tr. Marcia Falk With Teeth in the Earth: Selected Poems of Malka Heifetz Tussman Translated, edited and introduced by Marcia Falk, Browser Books Publishing
און דעם ווינד־און־וויי, און צער פֿון דער וועלט, שטעל איך פֿאַר דיר, פֿאַר דײַן אָנגעזיכט — פֿרום ווי מײַן מאַמע די וואַקסענע קנויטן, צינד איך מײַנע לידערליכט. די פּאַליטרע, 1964
Frum
Frum hot mayn mame gebentsht ire likht, Ikh – tsind di knoytn fun lider – Di vies bashiremt, s’likhtikn finger, Lipn in forkhtikayt tsitern vider:
Far freyd un far tsar, Far dem seykhl bayort, Gib mir Got fun dayn moyl In mayn moyl dos vort.
Dos vort vos hot nokh nit getsvit, Vos shloft inem shteyn, inem shtoyb in der nider, Vek es uf, loz es ufblien frish vi in beyt, In der shure-shnit fun mayne lider.
Un dem vind-un-vey, un tsar fun der velt, Shtel ikh far dir, far dayn ongezikht – Frum vi mayne mame di vaksene knoytn, Tsind ikh mayne liderlikht. Di palitre, 1964
Rashel Veprinski (1896-1981) was born in the town of Ivankov, not far from Kiev, in Ukraine. She came to New York in 1907, and at thirteen she went to work in a shop. At fifteen, she began writing poetry, and was first published in 1918 in the journal Di naye velt (The New World). She wrote several books of poetry, among them Ruf fun foygl (The Call of the bird), 1926, Di Palitre (The palette), 1964, Tsum eyntsikn shtern (To the single star), 1971 as well as an autobiographical novel , short stories, and articles and was published regularly in Yiddish periodicals. From the 1920s until his death in 1953, she lived with the famous Yiddish writer Mani Leyb.
For the first post I have chosen Rashel Veprinski’s poem “Frum” (Piously) because the blog gets it name Candles of Song from the last line of that poem.
Piously
Piously my mother blessed her candles, I – light the wicks of songs – Eyelashes covered, fingers grow luminous, Lips once again trembling in awe.
For joy and for sorrow, For aging wit. God, put the word of your mouth Into mine.
The word not yet bloomed, That sleeps in the stone, in the dust down below, Wake it up, let it blossom forth anew As if in the flowerbed, In the line-harvest of my poems.
And the pain and the woe, and the grief of the world, I put before you, in your presence – Piously as my mother the waxen wicks, I light my candles of song. Di palitre (The palette), Israel, 1964 Tr. Sheva Zucker
