שירים מתורגמים

A strong man, Mr. Berger, and stubborn

At seventy-three still changes my damaged screens,

cleans out my gutters, and is up on the roof fixing tiles.

A strong man, Mr. Berger, at seventy-three

his eyes are as blue and bright as the boy’s of thirteen

on the transport with his parents to the camps.

Then he didn’t want to live

but now he’ll suddenly give a laugh

and a slap of his thigh

(eyes as blue and bright as a holiday)

“Ach, what a life it was in those days ! ”

and climb back up on the roof.

1.

Under the photo that rebuts my face

are letters laying claim to my name,

numbers that know nothing of the day I was born.

With these, the machine stamps me captive,

with a pin stuck through my neck

my identity is fixed and done with.

2.

Well, now no more of this false witness.

Better think of the one waiting over the wall,

so as, at long last, to strip away

that not-your-face —

call to the light the face inside the face,

let the heart of the truth through

that is but the silence inside the silence.

His colorless eyes when he looks, as it were, at you.

You, you know, have never been the focus of his gaze,

but a point far behind you, hidden.

Why does he rouse in me such rancor?

The sword, after all, is aimed at his own heart,

not to speak of the fear.

What would happen if I went up behind him and laid my hand

gently on his shoulder or neck, would he sigh with relief?

Much more likely something would snap

Not to speak of the fear

that he might turn and look right into my eyes.

But you’ve forgottem that I am earth

— a worm,

whose wings stretch the sky wide,

A worm flung out these high vastnesses of seeing.

Like a kite, I am knit to the earth’s navel,

to all that shields me from the shining.

And no bird metaphysical, only a lonely body.

*

And man is implanted in a connectedness larger than he,

in the tatters and trifles that are his life…

Said Renoir, "I carry on what others before me

have done so well."

"I want my red to ring like a bell."

Nor did he shame to paint beauty pure.

Radiant women in a radiant light.

Tenderly sensuous, harmony, delight in the senses.

Trees, pools, couples dancing, cafés

and conversation — a pageant of beauty.

"I think, at long last, I'm beginning to understand something.

I'm still making progress," he said

in the days before his death. FRIDA KAHLO

The black brows are eagles' wings.

Flushed face, leaves,

fruits, roots like veins, trees of weeping.

A chatelaine, long-necked and proud.

Flowers of sovereignty. Hair piled and braided.

Queens over parakeets and monkeys,

over moon, sun and stars.

That straightforward stare.

But around the mouth

piercing, voiceless pain.

Sparing heself nothing

again and again she paints herself

(in anguished anger verifying her existence)

Frida sans peur drew the icon of death

on her own brow.

I am Ernst Ludwig Kirchner

savage painter of despair.

Sharp-angled trees impale the sky.

Etchings black and white of ascetic faces.

Alcohol eyes clubbed with anxiety.

Orgying in ink before the world ends.

No, I do not whistle in the dark

to chase away fear.

I have seen deep into it.

The evil that will flood the earth has cut a chasm across my path.

I am lost. Always I have gone

my own way. Sought exile in mountains.

From life erased myself.

Morphine my lover.

The drawings speak truth.

To die I shot myself.

 CASPAR DAVID FRIEDRICH

Caspar David Friedrich

painter of northern melancholy

and vistas of mystery.

Two hundred years ago painted

a tree of crows.

Watch the crows. Watch the tree.

It's roots are held

in a black dread.

It flees for its life that storm-torn tree,

ochre tresses streaming back,

burning for light,

yearning for dusk

and a momentary glow of crows.

In a museum

room after room

when of a sudden there blares into my eyes

an iridescent splay

a vast tawny cloud

scudding over an oblong of black.

Rothko's rendering

of a burning bush —

I remember Rothko

He worked alone

burning and was consumed

(from: TRACES )

At first glance, her own sweet regard, her shift discarded

are what draw your eyes

to that nakedness of thighs —

marble columns touched with flame.

Then the hand as it writes glides into the light

of what might be. And your focus slides

as always to little things —

the old lady's forehead, her head-dress, or a shameful foot

engoldened in light tumbling from a table drape.

( From: WOMAN )

*

:Translation - Henry Abramovich

Maybe in a time to come I`ll write of

bending women in Millet`s pastoral field

Moving their heavy bodies

Vividly wraped, Collecting potetoes

for the drawing of Van-Goh.

And the guilt born from esthetic feelings

Born from Cracked backs

of bending women in the field.(Millet - French painter, Drew working women in the fields)

*Translation - Lary Barak In the Gym

Is it possible to write a poem

in a gym?

On the speedy treadmill

I listen to recordings on Buddhism.

The voice of the teacher is clear and quiet.

Vigorous people are wiping sweat.

The treadmills roaring with a rhythmic moan -

the bellows of the godsFrom: RISIM

Our heart goes out to Saul

for his holding back, for his doubts, for his falls into depression,

for his loving David, whose love was given to Jonathan.

None loved Saul—

this tall looming man with curling tresses,

slated for kingship but who could not pass muster—

none save Samuel whose first choice he was,

Samuel loved him

then dropped him.

Our heart goes out to the man

whom his God afflicted with an evil spirit,

who in the depths of night sought a sorceress's aid,

who knew he was a simple man,

not one to dance transported before his God,

and who had only to venture his own way with the divine word

to be flung to the Philistines' swords.

Our heart goes out to Saul

for we also assail the heavens—

why were we slated for this world,

selected for spiritual kingship,

and then assaulted with reproach and recrimination.

Our agonies too have fallen on deaf ears,

and our distress. Saul has our love

and we shall never cease from seeking answer

why he who never asked for kingship,

why he who is closest to our hearts

should end impaled on a city wall.

:Translation: NAHUM STEIGMAN

(from Risim, Pardess Publishing, 2011, p. 83)

In the third millennium they will take ship:

Millions of leaves

And a great calm

And a peach will open its heart

And its knobby kernel

Will be a crystal of love

A treasury of magnetic resonances

From the great sphere

In the third millennium the cypresses will roam about

An ocean floor of wheat will open up

And a green stone into whose center

The waters drip

To be poured out around us

From the place whence are waters without end.

( from: sharit. carmel.2000. p.9)

*

Listen listen to her

Her neck a pale candle

Her almond eyes darken

In her hair the blaze spreads.

Listen to her words

The heart of the danger

Be attuned to her

Give her raw wheat and your breasts.

She takes a break anyway

Measuring the distance between you

not to be severed

Translation: Jenny Grigg

From: Yarok vitrage. Allef. 1987.p. 6

  Whom of You

Whom of you have I met

And what part of you meets

Part of me

That which darts out from me

Like a chameleon in a slow movement

changing within your selfhood

Scheming a laugh out of confusion

A story from your innards.

Which of you will come tomorrow

To meet with what from me

What faces to build her towers

In my roots.

Translation: Jenny Grigg

From: Yarok vitrage. Allef. 1987.p. 7