In the Illuminated Dark: Selected Poems of Tuvia Ruebner [1 ed.] 0878202552, 9780878202553

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In the Illuminated Dark

In the Illuminated Dark Selected Poems of Tuvia Ruebner

Translated & Introduced by Rachel Tzvia Back

Hebrew Union College Press University of Pittsburgh Press

Published by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA, 15260, and the Hebrew Union College Press, Cincinnati, OH, 45220 Copyright © 2014, Hebrew Union College Press All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America Printed on acid-free paper Library of Congress Cataloging‐in‐Publication Data Ruebner, Tuvia, 1924– [Poems. Selections] In the illuminated dark : selected poems of Tuvia Ruebner / Tuvia Ruebner ; translated and introduced by Rachel Tzvia Back. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978‐0‐87820‐255‐3 1. Ruebner, Tuvia, 1924‐‐‐Translations into English. I. Back, Rachel Tzvia, 1960– translator. II. Ruebner, Tuvia, 1924– Poems. Selections. III. Ruebner, Tuvia, 1924– Poems. Selections. English. IV. Title. PJ5054.R49A2 2014 892.41'6‐‐dc23 2013042361 Book design by Raphaël Freeman Cover design by Paul Neff Permission has been granted for poems previously published by the following publishing houses: Sifriyat Poalim; Even Hoshen; Keshev.

For Alice (Litzi) Ruebner (1929–1942) little sister

Between one voice and the next suddenly she’s here, fleet-footed gazelle, quiet as a shadow falling over my open eyes a figure lighter than fire toying with me with her games “my father is dew my mother the star’s spire” I’m still here and she’s gone.

CONTENTS Acknowledgments

xv

Introduction

xvii

Translating the Poetry of Tuvia Ruebner: a Praxis & Poetics of Paradox

xxix

A Note on Organization

xxxix

I / Testimony Testimony [Like an echoless voice] Among These Mountains [In the air that no longer flows] Oblivion My Little Sister Voices [ Just the days and the doves,] This Night Children Father and Infant A Family Song My Sister Old King David

3 5 7 9 11 13 17 19 21 23 25 27 29 31

II / As Long As [When the statues started moving] There, I Said Someone Will Say She Was From the Shadow in My Eyes The Sword Let Me See Your Face Fish Distance Yourself, Don’t Burial

35 37 39 41 43 45 47 49 51 53

x ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner Awakening Awakening (2) [Reaching out into the world like a slave clutching] Go, If You Can [The song of the frozen bird of the night.] [As long as you say]

55 57 59 61 63 65

III / The Battles of the Night Left Behind The Battles of the Night Left Behind The Mother’s Face in the Palm of Her Hands This City [ Jerusalem] Moon and Stars That You Created Summer The Last Desert Rondanini Pietà 1983 Farewell from a Friend

69 71 73 81 83 85 87 89 93

IV / A Graven and A Molten Image The Fall Why The Commander The Youths The Smile The Gravestone Face A Painting and a Conversation Horse and his Rider The Letter Paul Klee’s Angels: Eight Drawings and One Watercolor Angelus Novus Still Life The Color of Black Waters The Memory The Tower of Babel (1) The Tower of Babel (2)

97 99 101 103 105 107 109 111 113 115 117 123 125 127 129 131 133

Contents ∙ xi The Tower of Babel (3) The Last Supper Descent from the Cross Memory of a Woman in the Egyptian Wing

135 137 139 143

V / Postcards From Far Away A Postcard from Pressburg-Bratislava A Postcard from Shastin: Autumn Fires A Postcard from Budapest A Postcard from London A Postcard from Tel Aviv A Postcard from the Hebron Region A Postcard from Vienna A Postcard from Jerusalem A Postcard from Sienna Draft of an Impossible Postcard Transformations

147 149 151 153 155 157 161 165 167 169 171 173

VI / How Do We End That Which Has No End Victim, Again Voices (2) Still Afraid? Audrey’s Birds Man with a House It’s Been Years Footnotes to the Book of Job One Plague and Another A Question

177 179 181 183 185 187 189 195 199

VII / History [My father was murdered.] My Father My Mother Moonlit Night Photograph Soldiers’ Memorial Day

203 207 211 213 215 217

xii ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner History After But This Light Guide for the Young Poet NotPoem [Erase your traces]

219 221 223 225 227 229

VIII / Belated Beauty Belated Beauty On the Road to Tivon Perfection Olympics About Time All This Suffering Yosl, Yosl Moonlit Night (2) Chimes Giacometti: Walking Man The Old Man and Beauty Last Day at the North Sea Poem

233 237 239 241 243 245 247 249 251 253 255 257 259

IX / But What Would We Do Without Poems One Cannot Poetry’s Soliloquy To the Moon Not Every Day Memorial A Postcard from There: Almost a Conversation Black & White Photograph, Summer 1939 I Thought I Wouldn’t Write Even One More Line on Death But It Was Stronger Than Me Hebrew, My Love Before Picasso’s Weeping Woman In My Old Age Wonder

263 265 267 269 271 273 275 277 279 281 283 285

contents ∙ xiii X / Last Ones A Wondrous World To My Friend The Crows Want Brueghel: The Hunters in the Snow A Meeting in Venice Avraham Father Untitled Abandoned He If The Mother of My Daughter What Joy With Day Breaking After Beckett

289 291 293 295 297 301 303 305 307 309 311 313 315 317 321

Notes

325

Chronology of Tuvia Ruebner

343

Books by Tuvia Ruebner

347

Index of Poem Titles

351

Books by Rachel Tzvia Back

355

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This volume, born of devotion to Tuvia Ruebner’s poetry, would have been impossible without the support and aid of many. It is a pleasure to now acknowledge and thank all those whose contributions to this project made all the difference. Many thanks to the editors of the following journals and publications where earlier versions of translations first appeared: Modern Poetry in Translation, Exchanges: A Journal of Literary Translation, Two Lines Online (of The Center for the Art of Translation), and Haaretz English edition. I want to acknowledge in particular Sasha Dugdale of mpt and Vivian Eden of Haaretz whose enthusiasm for my renderings of Ruebner’s poetry encouraged me greatly. For their keen critical input and open-hearted support of this work, I am deeply grateful to Yiftach Reicher Atir, Aaron Back, Giddon Ticotsky, and Jeff Weinstock. I am wholly and happily indebted to John Linder, for his great faith in this book and for opening the right doors at just the right moment. To David H. Aaron, I am profoundly grateful for his embrace of this collection and for the countless ways he has made this work inestimably better. His erudition, scholarly rigor and artistic spirit inform all parts of this volume. Many thanks to Sonja Rethy, for the incomparable care and intelligence of her editing, and for ushering this book through production with grace, professionalism and patience. My thanks also to Angela Erisman for the care and expert attention she has devoted to bringing this book into the public eye. Many thanks to Meital Klachuk, for her help at every stage and for being the kind of research assistant everyone dreams of. I want to thank also Rafi Weichert, Ruebner’s Hebrew editor, for his own devotion to Ruebner’s work, which has resulted in poetry volumes that have enriched us all. Many thanks also to Norman Finkelstein for his generous and invaluable input. I am deeply grateful to the Brown Foundation Fellows Program at the Dora Maar House, which provided me with the place and time to work intensively on these translations. It was during this month-long residency that a significant portion of the translation work was accomplished. I am particularly grateful to Gwen Strauss, resident director of the program, for her flawless facilitation of the fellowship, for her hospitality and kindness, and for all the ways she helped make that month as productive and peaceful as it was. Many thanks also to Mishkenot Sha’ananim for hosting me at a crucial stage of my writing. The Yehoshua Rabinowitz Foundation for the Arts also provided support for the project, and I would like to thank all those involved in awarding that grant.

xv

xvi ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner Finally, to Talya, Ariel, Daniel and Yoni – deepest gratitude for accompanying me in this project these last three years, for listening to my endless deliberations about specific words and titles, for allowing this poetry to become part of our family life, and for contributing in real ways to making this work, truly, a labor of love. Rachel Tzvia Back December 2013

INTRODUCTION I exist in order to say these are the crossbeams and chronicles of my parents, coal, ash, wind of my sister in my hair blowing back and back…

I Childhood Loss defines the “crossbeams and chronicles” of Tuvia Ruebner’s life. Born in 1924 into a semi-secular Jewish family in Slovakia, Ruebner was also born into the catastrophe that would follow – the extermination of European Jewry and of his own family in the Holocaust. While his earliest childhood in the ancient town of Pressburg-Bratislava, situated along the banks of the Danube at the edges of the Carpathian slopes, gave no sign of what was to follow, Ruebner notes (on the very first page of his memoir A Short Long Life) the cursed coincidence of Adolph Hitler becoming Chancellor of Germany on January 30th, 1933 – Ruebner’s ninth birthday. Six years later, in 1939, the race-laws enacted also in Slovakia banned all Jewish students from school; with the completion of ninth grade, Ruebner’s formal education was ended. His father, Manfred Moritz Ruebner (b. 1885), was a well-off, well-educated businessman; his mother, Elisabet née Ehrenreich-Grunwald (b. 1899), came from the more rural environs of Shastin, where her parents continued to reside. Ruebner’s sister Alice, nicknamed Litzi, was born in 1929. With the horrors of Nazism spreading across Europe, Ruebner’s father made preliminary plans to immigrate with the small family to Mandate Palestine; in 1938, he met with a representative of the Jewish Agency travelling through Europe and discussed buying land in the northern village of Shavei Tzion. The representative said he would return the following year – a return prevented by the onset of war; thus, the family’s immigration plans were quashed. Meanwhile, the teenage Ruebner became more involved in the activities of Hashomer Hatzair, the Socialist-Zionist youth movement that Ruebner describes in his memoir as giving him and his peers “a feeling of self-worth in those days of constant Jewish humiliation” (48).1 In 1941, permission papers to leave Slovakia were purchased for Ruebner and eight other youths by their families – papers that also stipulated they could never return to their native land. On April 28th, Ruebner bid farewell to his parents and little sister in the Pressburg-Bratislava train station – a farewell that Ruebner describes as “still weighing on my bones” decades later. From Bratislava to Budapest (where certificates permitting

xvii

xviii ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner entrance into British-controlled Palestine awaited them), via the Black Sea to Istanbul, through southern Turkey to Aleppo in Syria, from there to Beirut and southward, the nine journeyed for weeks until finally crossing the border, at Rosh Hanikra, into Palestine. Ruebner was settled in the Emek Yizrael ( Jezreel Valley) kibbutz of Merchavia, where he worked as a shepherd, in the fields and kitchen, and in other branches of the communal economy; in the afternoons he and the other members of his group studied, primarily Hebrew and Bible. During his first six months in Palestine Ruebner still managed to exchange isolated letters with his parents and sister in Slovakia (and by then residing with the maternal grandparents in Shastin) – tiny missives of no more than twenty-five words, conveyed into occupied Europe via the International Red Cross. In January of 1942 Ruebner received what would be the last personal letter from his father: “Dear one, we’ve heard nothing from you since September. We hope you are well. We are all fine. Write every month. We think of you all the time. Loving kisses, your parents and everyone.” Ruebner continued writing anxious and unanswered letters into the void. Only years later was his family’s exact fate made known to him: in June 1942 his parents and sister were deported on Transport 46 from Shastin to Auschwitz-Birkenau, where they were murdered.

II 1943–1983 In 1944 Ruebner married Ada Klein, a fellow Slovakian immigrant. In 1945 World War II ended, the concentration camps were liberated, and records of the genocide slowly emerged. Israel’s War of Independence broke out in 1948, and in 1949 Ruebner’s daughter was born. A few months later, Ruebner and his wife Ada were involved in a bus accident; Ada was killed on impact and Ruebner was seriously wounded. After a lengthy hospital stay, Ruebner returned to the kibbutz and to his infant daughter, and, no longer able to do outside labor because of his burns and injuries, was appointed kibbutz librarian and high school literature teacher. Over the years, he became known in the still-fledging intellectual and academic communities of Israel as a poet and man of letters, meeting with and befriending other immigrant writers such as Ludwig Strauss, Werner Kraft, Lea Goldberg and Dan Pagis. All of these figures shared the bifurcated identities of the Jewish European immigrant-refugee-survivor. In 1966, Ruebner was asked to join the faculty of Oranim College, and in 1972 he was invited to teach at Tel Aviv University and Haifa University. Eventually Ruebner devoted himself fully to Haifa University where, with only a ninth-grade education, he went on to become an esteemed and internationally known professor of German and comparative literatures. Three years after the death of his first wife Ruebner married Galila Jizreeli, a pianist from Kibbutz Ein Harod, and two sons were born: Idan in 1956 and

Introduction ∙ xix Moran in 1960.2 The wars in Israel marked the passage of time, and in early 1983, shortly after participating as a reservist soldier in the First Lebanon War, Ruebner’s youngest son Moran left Israel to recover far from the battered and battering land. He stopped first in Boston to visit his parents (on sabbatical at Harvard), then journeyed on to South America. The few letters from the young man are full of detailed descriptions of the local landscapes and sites – and a starkly-stated desire to distance himself from the bloody Israeli reality. In a letter from mid-February, Moran asks after his father’s new book, his mother’s return to piano-playing, and then writes: “Don’t write about what’s happening in Israel, I don’t want to know.” The passage is underlined. Shortly after, the letters stopped. From that moment, all trace of Moran was lost, never to be found. “I see him every day before me,” writes Ruebner in his memoir, “just as he looked [all those years ago]…. If only I could embrace him as I did then at the airport, I would be endlessly happy…” (153). From a train station farewell in Pressburg-Bratislava to an airport farewell in Boston. From the anxious letters he sent to Europe in 1943 (12/5/1943: “My beloveds, no word, write! Has anyone heard from my parents? And Litzi, Litzi?”), to the desperate and unsuccessful search in 1983 for signs of the lost son. “Our dead live among us,” writes Ruebner, “if we don’t hide from them. Sometimes it seems to me I see them in the shadows of the air, more and more in the last years. No, I don’t see them – I feel them” (33–34). The lost son and, above all, the lost little sister wander unceasingly through Ruebner’s poems. Time does not distance their images or lighten the weight of their absence. “[Litzi] is closer to me now than she has ever been,” writes Ruebner in 2006, sixty-five years after he said farewell to his little sister. “She has been for me the essence of grief and agony. When our lost son was added to her, one abyss did not cover the other” (79).

III 1983 and Onward: Late Acclaim For many years, Ruebner’s work was situated at the margins of the Israeli literary mainstream. One may surmise that various factors contributed to this position, from his rural locale (away from the Tel Aviv and Jerusalem literary centers), to his refusal to identify fully with the new Israeli culture and his continued focus on the lost European world. Ironically, his poetry, prose and translations all were lauded and celebrated in Germany long before they were recognized by the Israeli literary establishment. As early as 1955, Ruebner began receiving European literary awards, awards that later included the D. Steinberg Prize (Zurich, 1981), the Christian Wagner Prize (Germany, 1994), the Jeanette Schocken Prize (Germany, 1999), the Theodor Kramer Prize (Austria, 2008) and most recently the Konrad-Adenauer Prize (Austria, 2012).

xx ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner At the very end of the twentieth century, Ruebner’s work enjoyed a certain renaissance, and the demands of the literary establishment shifted as well; as a result, Ruebner’s books began to garner in Israel greater critical and popular attention and acclaim. This acclaim and acknowledgment of Ruebner’s distinctive poetic voice and significant contribution to Hebrew letters has resulted in his poetry receiving, in the last fifteen years, every major Israeli literary award, including the Jerusalem Prize, the Prime Minister’s Prize for Hebrew Writers (twice) and the most prestigious Israel Prize (in 2008). This “Elder of the Tribe” (as he’s been named), at ninety, having outlived by many years most of the Hebrew poets of his generation (for example, Yehuda Amichai, Dan Pagis, T. Carmi), continues writing in his kibbutz home, ever examining the world that was, the world that is, and the fleeting redemptions offered through poetic expression.3

IV The Poems What language? To date, Tuvia Ruebner has published fifteen poetry collections in Hebrew, from his 1957 collection, The Fire in the Stone, to his 2013 collection, Last Ones. The number is considerable, all the more so when one factors in that Ruebner wrote exclusively in German for the first twelve years of his life in Palestine/ Israel. Ruebner’s adherence to his native tongue was an anomaly in the literary landscape of the day, where immigrant writers more commonly adopted the newly reborn Hebrew – a choice that was often charged with ideological and nationalistic fervor. Ruminating aloud in a video documentary on his life as to why he continued composing in German for so long, Ruebner suggests a twofold reason: German was the language in which he spoke to his lost beloveds, and German served as a protection from the overwhelming strangeness of his new land and life.4 Indeed, German was the language of the literature he read and loved (Kafka, Hoelderlin, Rilke), and the language in which he had written, primarily short stories, already from primary school. German was his home and his childhood. However, in 1953, Ruebner began composing poems in Hebrew – a Hebrew he had learned “from the new Hebrew, the Bible and Agnon” (94) – and from then on he wrote his poetry exclusively in Hebrew.5 Ruebner’s literary mentors, Ludwig Strauss and Werner Kraft, were instrumental in effecting this significant change, encouraging him to compose his poems in the language in which he lived and spoke. In addition, Ruebner’s marriage that same year to Galila Jizreeli contributed to the shift in languages, as his new wife and love did not read or understand German. In his poem “Hebrew, My Love,” Ruebner describes his relationship with Hebrew as fraught and complex: “I turned

Introduction ∙ xxi my back on you / You turned your back on me / though still we pulled toward each other like magnets to the pole.” The inevitability of the attraction did not guarantee ease of expression: “I stuttered, became silent, I begged and I whispered,” continues Ruebner in the same poem. The motifs of the stutterer and of an ever-encroaching silence are repeated in many Ruebner poems. The stutterer reference unavoidably evokes the biblical Moses who was, by his own account, “heavy of mouth and heavy of tongue” (Exodus 4:10). Midrashic interpretations attribute this “heavy tongue” – traditionally read as a stutter – to his having burned his tongue on hot coals as an infant. The hot coals of the midrashic story become in Ruebner’s life the burning coals of the Holocaust.6 Thus, the “foreign tongue” flailing about in the poet’s mouth becomes the literal and figurative expression of the difficulty, and often impossibility, of speech before the devastation of the twentieth century: “To these too many bones you sent me, Lord / me, the stutterer…/…/ I fall mute upon the bones” (“Oblivion”).

An Evolving Poetics “If we only knew how to privilege the poem over our emotions and our thoughts, the poem would not betray us,” wrote the well-known Czechoslovakian surrealist poet Vítězslav Nezval, as an inscription in a poetry collection owned by one of Ruebner’s childhood friends. Ruebner always remembered this statement – as a type of warning – and quotes it in his memoir as an early and central tenet of his own evolving poetics. The poetic craft itself, argues Ruebner – the attention to language, form and, above all, sound – will result in a true poem; the indulgence of emotion and thought will not. Indeed, Ruebner’s poetry is characterized by a sparse and exacting lexis, by language creating meaning through sound connections across and within lines, and by a great formal restraint. Thus, in a short and untitled poem on his thirteen-yearold sister’s death, Ruebner avoids any direct expression of what he feels on losing his sister; instead, he relies on anaphoric repetition, simple descriptions and similes, and phrases that are as though aborted at each line’s end, to build the poetic effect: In the air that no longer flows in the air that clenches like a fist in the air that crumbles to dust and the dust to needles in the air of the fire blind in the air sweet-not-from-blossoms in the air thin as a cry in the air that tears at a thousand eyes

xxii ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner and every eye sees darkness in the air that is dwindling between her lips my little sister lives the last minute’s eternity. Ruebner refuses an outburst of emotion, as one might have expected; in fact, the speaker himself is all but absent, alluding to himself only in the penultimate line and only through his relationship to the poem’s subject, the lost little sister. The poet’s control and devotion to the unfolding poetic creation, to its embedded truths and inevitabilities, create a suspense that carries the reader into the poem’s final, quiet devastation. What remains at poem’s end is a doubled horror (flawlessly conveyed through a single line-break): the unbearable, enjambed description of the little sister’s “last minute’s / eternity,” and the closing line of a single word, the unqualified, unqualifiable “eternity” of this moment in the speaker’s imagination.7 A second and related tenet of Ruebner’s poetics is his insistence on the importance and centrality of poetic form. “Artistic creation is about form,” he writes in his memoir. “Form grants the creation validity, gives it honor, worth and, I believe, form is about integrity too” (64). Formal choices and constraints are, for Ruebner, an expression of the poet’s necessary restraint, and are instrumental in the poet’s task of distilling from the everyday its poetic essence. “The distinction between poetic language and prosaic language is the distinction between the Sabbath and the secular,” writes Ruebner in a 1988 single-page tract on poetics. “Just as the Sabbath is said to emit its aura over the everyday, so too should art serve as a type of radiating corrective over reality.”8 But what distinguishes the Sabbath from the everyday? It is, in fact, the jealously preserved form of the Sabbath – its predetermined framework, rituals and time-boundaries – that imbues it with its sacred essence, just as form imbues the poetic with its sacredness (in the broadest sense of the word). The forms that Ruebner chooses, however, are rarely predetermined, as “closed” and inherited forms are; for example, he does not write in sonnets or standard quatrains. Instead, each poetic foray dictates its own unique, no less exacting, formal choices – from the precise tercets of “Go, If You Can” to the single, fullpage stanza of the “Postcards From” series (as though there is no interrupting the flow of the experience at each revisited site), from the impossibly short lines spilling from one page to the next in “All This Suffering” to the unforgiving, haiku-like quatrains of the “One Plague and Another” poems (to name only a few formal choices represented in this collection). A third, inevitable tenet of Ruebner’s poetics – not of his choosing, but unavoidable – is the influence of the Holocaust on post–World War ii writing. The Holocaust influence extends beyond the personal loss of his family; for Ruebner, Auschwitz is, and must be recognized as, the central and definitive

Introduction ∙ xxiii event of the twentieth century. It was Auschwitz, he argues, as reality and symbol both, that “…created a new human being, a person who is terror-stricken. With Auschwitz before his eyes, he sees clearly now what he is capable of…” (83–84). Ruebner wonders how the Holocaust is not more present in the writings of his fellow Hebrew poets – not as thematics but through the very form of the texts. In his own texts, the absent, the broken and the fragmented are ever-present. Poems and poetic lines break off in mid-thought, shift direction, mark what they do not say. For example, the last eight lines of the fourteen-line poem with the seemingly light-hearted title “A Family Song” unfold as follows: I live under the memories with you, my children, the birds and the dark from within me, from within my mother my father me I bring forth words, cloud, lament, you9 in the quiet of my life, in a howl I live, no longer in me, in the other. No single image is completed, almost every line is as though disrupted by the white-page silence, and the final two lines open to various, perhaps contradictory, readings. Is the speaker stating he no longer lives, or that he no longer lives in himself, only in and through the “other”? Or might the lines be read as the speaker stating he lives detached not only from himself but detached also from the enigmatic, though definite, “other”? Who is the unnamed “other” who lingers at poem’s end? The poem abounds in figures, from the present and past alike; but perhaps “the other” is someone exterior to the text entirely? The questions remain open, and by poem’s end this “family song” reveals itself to be a doubled song of (re)birth and death; a family song of the newly-formed family (wife and children), and of the lost family (murdered parents, sister and grandparents) alike. The lines’ insistence on indeterminacy reflects the indeterminacy of a new life built in the shadows of a lost old one. Textual rupture and fragmentation reflect historical rupture and fragmentation. Thus, Ruebner has accomplished the all-but-impossible feat of writing a poem that is both an ode to new life and a lament. A final tenet of Ruebner’s poetics, which by all rights should have come first, is Ruebner’s reiterated insistence on poetry as a sound-propelled art form. Rhythms, rhymes and other musical patterns are an essential and significant element in Ruebner’s poetry; indeed, it is often this element that leads the poem forward. In his encounter with words, isolated and also as they form connections between and among themselves, Ruebner seems to be first listening to the sound of the word, only then assimilating its meaning.

xxiv ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner Like a foreigner encountering a foreign language for the first time and hearing only the strange sounds it produces, Ruebner retains an awareness of his adopted language’s strangeness, and its great musicality. Thus the overwhelming strangeness of his adopted land and language, a strangeness which he once resisted by producing German-language poems in his Jezreel Valley home, is transformed over the years into an important, defining and, finally, embraced element of his poetry and poetic self.

Ekphrasis One of the paradoxes of Ruebner’s poetics is that the emphasis placed on sound and music – the aural aspects of poetry – is countered by the pronounced visual focus of much of his work. “I am a very visual poet; I am a man of eyes,” declares the poet, who is also a renowned photographer. In discussing his photography in a video-documentary on his work, and with more than a little whimsy in his voice, he asserts that “the great advantage of photography is that it doesn’t need words.” Photography, and, by extension, all visual art, do not need words; however, the poet gives words to the images nonetheless. Thus, one of Ruebner’s favored rhetorical forms is the ekphrastic poem, the poem describing or commenting on a visual representation or work of art. Already in his early 1967 collection As Long As Ruebner offers an ekphrastic poem, the sparse and poignant “Rondanini Pietà,” a poem composed after he first saw the unfinished sculpture during his years in Europe in the 1960s.10 Ruebner describes his encounter with Michelangelo’s unfinished masterpiece thus: “… [when] I entered the room with the Rondanini Pietà…everything else melted away. I stood before the unfinished sculpture and I couldn’t move” (104). From that first poem and over the next five decades of poetic composition, Ruebner proceeded to write numerous ekphrastic texts on paintings, photographs, sculptures, tombstones and other artifacts, even devoting a complete poetry collection, A Graven and A Molten Image (1982), to the form. These poems are an expression of the poet’s visual orientation, and of his great appreciation of what might be accomplished through the visual mediums. However, his choice of artifacts and his perspectives on those artifacts make clear that Ruebner’s ekphrastic poems are above all expressions of the poet’s existential contemplations, and existential sorrow. Time and again, the relationship between life and death, and between the present and past, is queried through the encounter with the artwork. The canvases hang and the sculptures stand, with all their beauty and culturally imbued importance, in various European museums, and whether ancient, Renaissance or modern, they all seem to reflect, as seen through Ruebner’s eyes, lost people and lost worlds. Great artworks of western Europe in particular attest to a cultural wealth and world that proved, with the rise of Nazism, utterly devoid of ethical worth.

Introduction ∙ xxv The art seems to exist as though in a vacuum, as though in a resounding silence. In fact it is these works’ very silence that draws Ruebner to them; it is a silence that “…answers no question [and] asks none” (from “Why” – a poem on the crystal skull artifacts in the British Museum), a silence that may be the truest expression of the twentieth century. Silence, however, is ultimately antithetical to the poet who exists through the not-silence. Ruebner’s delicate and complex verbal representations of the visual offer a cautiously generative response to the silence, and to the devastation all around. Through these representations, silence is given voice; stasis is given the motion of poetic rhythms. Above all, the generative element of these poems resides in Ruebner’s repeated focus on the individual human encounter with the art. The personal, the local, the interpretive and associative all enter into these “descriptions” of masterpieces (and some lesser-known artworks too), and become part and parcel of their existence. Thus, in these many museum halls that he wanders through, Ruebner draws our attention as much to the gazing eyes as to what they are gazing at. For example, the poetic speaker in “Memory of a Woman in the Egyptian Wing” is less engaged by the artifacts around him than he is struck by, and compelled to find, a woman he saw among the Egyptian sarcophagi, describing her as foreign woman in a foreign crowd [….] …her eyes welling up with tears there she stood secretly crying on seeing the dead Egyptian man drawn on his casket cover her eyes as black as almonds she stood there gazing through tears at all that beauty The emotion evoked by art, whether it is joy, despair, or an inexplicable longing, is ever the focus of Ruebner’s ekphrastic poems.

V The Political The disasters of the twentieth century swept Ruebner from Europe to Israel, from German to Hebrew, from the familiar to the strange. Chance and seemingly insignificant choices were responsible for his survival.11 The losses he suffered and the destruction he survived could have transformed him into a fervent ideologue; he took, instead, a different path. Ruebner is a devotee of no movement or ideology, stating clearly, in his memoir and in interviews alike, that he has “no talent for ideology.” Ideology, he argues, “demands loyalty

xxvi ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner from its followers and I am capable of being loyal only to people.”12 In the ideology-propelled landscapes of the Middle East in general, and Israel specifically, where the nationalistic (and often religious) rhetoric of zealots on all sides of the conflict keeps cycles of violence ever in motion, Ruebner’s poetry and prose cast a critical gaze on the country that saved him. “I live in a blood-drenched land” are the startling opening words of his 2006 memoir, and even as early as a 1970 poem, deceptively named “Summer,” he writes of this “death-demented, blood-dreaming land.”13 A cult of death has taken hold of Israel, he argues, where “Moloch and the Gods of Sheol [the underworld]” are worshipped.14 Death is romanticized and sanctified, and the living are left in its wake. Indeed, in a fashion that may be considered by some blasphemous, Ruebner is critical of the very notion and reality of national identities and of statehood. “The [idea and reality of] ‘State’ in no way excites me. It is, after all, simply an organization of power. I see ‘the State’ as a necessary evil – nothing more” (17). Similarly, Ruebner interrogates the emotionally charged, often idealized and idolized, notion of “homeland”: “Lea Goldberg wrote that there are [for her] two homelands [the one in which we are born and the one we choose].15 I feel that I have two ‘no-homelands.’ I was uprooted twice. A person can have only one homeland: the place where he was born. Slovakia spewed me out and what is happening in Israel today has uprooted me again.” Thus, Ruebner identifies himself as ever between homelands, drawn to both the light-drenched, verdant landscapes of his youth and to the once desert-like, now fertile landscapes of his adulthood, but finally belonging to neither. The single place of belonging becomes the literary: “Poetry became my homeland,” he states simply.16 Ruebner’s virulent critique of late twentieth-century Israel includes a fierce censure of Israel’s ongoing occupation of the West Bank and, with this forty-six years of occupation, its oppression of two million Palestinians. This Holocaust-identified poet refuses that single categorization – refusing thus the self-righteousness and self-justification that Holocaust rhetoric has often spawned – and has written poems that gaze with an unflinching eye at the wrongdoings and crimes of the occupation. These poems protest the military violence directed at Palestinians, a violence that has stripped an entire people of their basic human rights and has resulted in the deaths of countless innocents. In his poem “Victim, Again,” he writes In Khan Younis five children on their way to school stepped on something. In one second they became torn flesh, ragged flesh. A sixth child was shot there the same day, on the twenty-third of November 2001. The army…is checking… investigating…from that same spot… artillery fire was shot…expresses…deep…sorrow…

Introduction ∙ xxvii From the almost matter-of-fact reportage of the event to the unadorned (though repeated) description of “torn flesh, ragged flesh,” and finally to the ludicrous military-speak (“…is investigating…,” “…expresses…deep…sorrow”) – with the ellipses marking the annihilating gaps intrinsic to this prevaricating discourse – this poem situates itself firmly in the tradition of poetic dissent. In other texts, such as the startling haiku-like series “One Plague and Another,” Ruebner’s voice adopts the tenor of the biblical prophets of rage, those who saw and named the crimes of their people, and knew that also their own doom was embedded in these deeds: The Heart is parched. The dirty blood shines. You, me, he. What we have done even God, Full of Compassion, will not forgive. And the panicked run wild through the City of Terrors. The poet as witnessing prophet, testifying to what he has seen and beholden only to the truth, insists that there is no mitigating narrative that justifies oppression and violence; blood is blood, the innocent are innocent, and the deaths of these innocents is unforgiveable.

VI Wonder A poem entitled “Wonder” from Ruebner’s 2011 collection Contradictory Poems, written in the poet’s ninth decade of life, reads as follows: If after everything that has happened you can still hear the blackbird, the tufted lark at dawn, the bulbul and the honey-bird – don’t be surprised that happiness is watching the clouds being wind-carried away, is drinking morning coffee, being able to execute all the body’s needs is walking along the paths without a cane and seeing the burning colors of sunset. A human being can bear almost everything and no one knows when and where happiness will overcome him. The wonder of Tuvia Ruebner is that after a lifetime of loss and tragedy he remains open to the possibility of happiness, listens for it as one listens to the songbirds at dawn and dusk. This open-heartedness accommodates the many paradoxes and conflicts of life, and infuses his poetry with an enduring

xxviii ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner compassion for the lost and for the living both. Thus, in the poems of his old age, from a poem describing in perfect detail the tensed-up backs of the red-bereted soldiers standing at the gravesite of a comrade-in-arms, to a poem remembering a childhood friend, dead 70 years, who “…had that fair look, seemed always illuminated / as if his golden heart shone outward,” Ruebner continues to articulate with poetic precision the elusive world of the heart, his own and of others. “The poet writes poems when he writes poems,” Ruebner offers, in a characteristically tautological fashion. “[The poet] writes when his life becomes language. When the distant is near and the near is distant. When frost is fire and fire – frost. When words that were once strangers find each other, and are amazed they were not connected previously. When a word finds its sister….”17 Poetry, Ruebner knows, has an ever-more marginal place and status in the modern world – and still one may very well be lost without it. Poetry’s attention to the details of language, its unwavering distinction between the chaff and the wheat, its insistence on distilling, presenting and preserving life’s essence, may, Ruebner suggests in his memoir, “strengthen the stand against the lies and the liars that have engulfed us, and may encourage the search for truths” (127). The truths of words finding their destined forms, and the testimony of an unfailing gaze toward what is and what was, propel Ruebner’s poetry onward. In a tone of wonder, Ruebner notes that “after the complete destruction of World War ii, everything that exists is a kind of miracle, and one can sing a song of praise in its honor” (14). To return to the poem that stands as epigraph to this introduction, Ruebner’s poetry – existing in order to say what was and is no more – is a poetry that knows the abyss but does not surrender to it, a poetry that says “… yes / in the emptiness” (“Testimony”). In testimony, in truth-telling and in praise-songs, Tuvia Ruebner’s poetic oeuvre offers us an exquisite and indispensable voice of the twentieth century.

TRANSLATING THE POETRY OF TUVIA RUEBNER: A PRAXIS & POETICS OF PARADOX “the same – different – the same attributes, different yet the same as before.” ~ H.D., Tribute to Angels18 Early in his memoir A Short Long Life, Tuvia Ruebner describes his move from writing poetry in German, his mother-tongue, to Hebrew, the language of his adopted homeland. At the relatively late age of twenty-nine, in a Hebrew he learned from “the new Hebrew poetry, the Bible and Agnon,” Ruebner “…started trying to write in Hebrew” (the qualifying “trying” in his description emblematic of his characteristic modesty). The passage continues, but instead of elaborating on the struggles or joys of composing poetry in this new/ancient language, Ruebner unexpectedly shifts his attention to the issue of translation: Once I started [writing in Hebrew], I was addicted and I didn’t want my poems translated into any other language. As a devoted student of Ludwig Strauss, I knew that sound plays a central role in the meaning of a poem, and aside from rare instances, we are unable to transfer sound from one language to another. (69)19 Thus, from the very start of his Hebrew writing career, which is the start of his poetic career, Ruebner is preoccupied by issues of translation, a preoccupation that undoubtedly emanates not only from the multilingual nature of his upbringing, but also from the violent translocations and dislocations he experienced in his young life. It seems as though the ancient and melodious Hebrew rhythms offered Ruebner a refuge of beauty and fashioned-wholeness in a ruptured world, and the early refusal to have his Hebrew poems translated into other languages speaks to a refusal to undergo additional loss – the inevitable loss that accompanies any transfer from language to language, as from land to land. However, this resistance belies the fact that Ruebner’s poetry and poetic sensibility occupied from the very beginning a place of being “always already in translation,” a place of in-betweenness, doubleness and fragmentation, eschewing in content and form notions of poetic (and political) completion, perfection or redemption.20 The seeming redemption offered in poetic music – the untranslatable sound of a poem that carries and conveys so much of the poem’s meaning and essence – is fleeting and changing, and the ancient homeland-contours of Hebrew in no way counter the enduring exilic resonances of

xxix

xxx ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner Ruebner’s work. Indeed, Ruebner’s early and youthful resistance to translation ebbs, and he agrees to having his poetry translated; his poetry eventually finds an avid reading public in other languages beyond the borders of Hebrew, most pronouncedly in the German-speaking world.21 In addition, the poet himself becomes a renowned translator (from Hebrew to German, and German to Hebrew), best-known for his translations of the work of S.Y. Agnon. I offer this passage describing Ruebner’s early resistance to poetry-in-translation, and the changes that resistance undergoes, as a portal into my own evolving understanding of the translator’s work. Doubtlessly, translation of poetry is a daunting task, deemed by many as destined to fail, seemingly impossible from the outset. Unlike prose that often has plot, character and other elements to rest on, the primary world of the poem is its language – the sounds and shapes of that language, the manner in which individual words and entire phrases rest upon or push against each other. Extracted from the original language and transplanted elsewhere, what can the poem still say? How can the poem still evoke the affects it means to evoke? What, finally, should the translator’s objectives be? Theoreticians of verse translation often find themselves engaged in debates regarding these questions (and others) based on dichotomous positions: is the translator’s goal to familiarize and domesticate the poem-in-translation – that is, make the poem “at home” in the translation, as though it were originally written in that language – or is the translator’s goal to “foreignize” the poem-in-translation, announcing through syntactic and lexical choices its other language origins? Is fidelity (which seems to mean literalness) to the original text paramount, or should the translator enjoy freedom to depart from the original in the interest of producing the “best” translation? Is the poem-in-translation meant to re-enact the original poem in the foreign language, or is the poem-in-translation in fact an independent artistic entity? The debates are important and fruitful, and the temptation to adopt one position over another is great; and yet, the most successful poetry translations very well may emanate from resistance to singular and categorical positions.22 Thus, I offer the following as an articulation of how I see the verse translator’s responsibilities and aspirations: the translator of poetry must strive toward loyalty to the original and must also exercise a significant degree of creative freedom in order to convey in translation the poem as a whole in the best fashion. The translator of poetry must immerse herself fully in the lexical, linguistic, cultural and musical world of each poem she’s translating, and must also, at a certain point, separate herself from that world in order to hear the translated text in its own literary and sound contexts. The translated poem is beholden to and an extension of the original poetic text, just as the translated poem must also stand on its own as a successful poetic entity. Of course these objectives seem, and in many ways are, oppositional to each other; indeed,

translating the poetry of tuvia ruebner ∙ xxxi the translator’s craft and art is a confluence of paradoxes. The challenge to the translator is to negotiate these paradoxes without attempting to resolve them, for it is the very paradoxes of translating poetry that are the source not only of translation problems, and even failures, but also of generative possibilities in literary representation and cultural bridgings. Locating my translation praxis and poetics within this arena of paradox, as the translator of Tuvia Ruebner’s poems into English I am responsible for conveying as accurately as possible the intention of his poems and the experience of reading them from the Hebrew into the English language texts. Accurately, however, does not mean equivalently, and reading the translations for one-to-one equivalencies with the Hebrew (a great temptation in a bilingual edition) undermines the essence and purpose of the translated poem – which is, finally, to stand in its own right (though ever acknowledging its place of origin, the Hebrew original). As Ruebner’s translator, I must attend religiously to the formal, lexical and syntactic choices he makes (from poem length, length of individual lines, stanzaic structure, to gendered discourses and addresses, inverted syntax, etc), and strive to be faithful to these elements in my translation choices. However, the issue of “faithfulness” to the origin is significantly complicated by the fact that the practical “kinship” between English and Hebrew is a distant one indeed, and the transfer from a highly inflected, gendered and syntactically more flexible language like Hebrew to a weakly inflected, ungendered and syntactically rigid language like English results in countless instances where deviations from the original are not only unavoidable but are in fact essential.23 As Ruebner’s translator, I must listen closely for the many allusions, primarily biblical and liturgical, that are often the “warp and woof ” of his poems.24 However, once the allusion is uncovered, the question of how to convey it – through direct insertion into the text, through notes, or not at all – remains to be answered and carries with it numerous considerations. As Ruebner’s translator, I must follow the sound patterns of the Hebrew original and register their effect, then work to create in the English translation “a new music,” a music that is true in the English even as it evokes, in Walter Benjamin’s phrase, “the echo of the original” – though that “echo of the original” also marks what is, inevitably, lost.25 But that which is lost is hardly the last word on the translation project (contrary to oft-quoted axioms on the matter). For whatever is lost in the transfer, other attributes and elements are gained. Indeed, the art and act of translating poetry is, finally, an art and act of transformation; as Benjamin states, there is “a renewal of something living – the original undergoes a change.”26 Through that renewal, the original gains a new life it might not have had otherwise – a presence in the world that is, as the epigraph to this piece suggests, “…the same – different – the same attributes, / different yet the same as before” (H.D.). The language into which the poem is translated is, ideally, also

xxxii ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner transformed through its wrestling with the foreignness of the original language. In the best cases, the language-wrestling leaves an origin-telling mark on the target language – reminiscent, perhaps, of the mark left on Jacob’s thigh after his own night of wrestling with an unnamed, intimate other.27 As previously stated, Ruebner’s early resistance to having his poems translated dissolved and he eventually became an important translator in his own right. One of his most significant translation projects was the translation into German of the work of Nobel Prize winner S.Y. Agnon, work that played a part in Agnon achieving the world-wide recognition he did. “Gershom Scholem wrote,” states Ruebner in his memoir, “…that it was my translation [of Agnon] that was before the eyes of the judges on the Nobel Prize committee. I am proud of that” (96). But a different effect of his translations seems to be of even greater importance to Ruebner and articulates most elegantly the power of the literary translation. After journeying to Agnon’s home in the Talpiot neighborhood of Jerusalem, precious pages of his translation in hand (a journey that involved Ruebner getting drawn into an antiquarian bookstore beside his bus stop in Jerusalem’s city center, getting distracted by forty-five volumes of Goethe in translation, then missing his bus and arriving in Talpiot late – to find Agnon himself waiting for him in the hot sun), Ruebner shares his translation of Shevuat Emunim (The Oath) with Agnon and remembers the moment thus: After I read for [Agnon] my translation, tears filled his eyes and he called out: “Estherlein, Estherlein, come and hear how beautiful!” I say the following not out of false modesty…but I know for certain that Agnon was referring to the story itself, which he had not engaged with in a while, and not to the translation. The fact that the translation revived for him the original is praise enough for me. (96) Hence, Benjamin’s aforementioned “renewal of something living” resonates and is expanded in Ruebner’s vivid description of translation as a “reviving,” a restoring of life to that which is already alive. This “revival” of the living text – for the author, the reader and the translator all – is as apt a way as any to describe the translator’s paradoxical work. Images are translated by time and by circumstances; across years, resemblances make the connections we seek. Thus, I conclude this brief consideration of the translator’s work with an anecdote mirroring the image offered above. In spring 2013, the journal Modern Poetry in Translation published six of Ruebner’s poems in my renderings. On the Shavuot holiday – the Festival of First Fruits – I travelled to Kibbutz Merchavia to visit with Tuvia and his wife Galila, and to give him a copy of the journal. I left the journal with him; the next day, I received the following email:

translating the poetry of tuvia ruebner ∙ xxxiii Rachel my dear, Something very nice happened to me this morning. I was reading through the journal you left here yesterday, from right to left as is my fashion, when my eyes fell on a poem that ended with the words “A human being can bear almost everything / and no one knows when and where / happiness will overcome him.” I thought to myself, now that’s a very good poem, I wish I had written it; then I saw my name on the poem and realized, with pleasure, I did write it… ~ Tuvia The art and act of poetry translation precipitates the unexpected across language borders; the translator of poetry is the privileged practitioner of the multiple, the unexpected, the paradoxical, and the ceaselessly coming into being.

Postscript: On Origins and Gratitude I started my journey toward Tuvia Ruebner’s poetry a decade ago. I was working on a collection of Lea Goldberg’s poetry in English translation and, as Goldberg’s literary executor and friend, Tuvia Ruebner was everywhere. He was the editor of her posthumously published exquisite final collection The Remains of Life and of Goldberg’s three-volume collected poems, and he was the author of the single most important monograph on the poet, her life and work. While immersing myself in the work of Goldberg, I felt an intimacy with and tremendous gratitude toward Ruebner – whom I had yet to meet – for his careful and devoted editing of Goldberg’s poetry, and for his gracious opening of countless doors into her work. Four years later, while engaged in a translation project of a different sort, I encountered Ruebner again, this time through his own poems. I was editing and doing much of the translation work on an English version of an anthology of Hebrew protest poetry entitled With an Iron Pen: Twenty Years of Hebrew Protest Poetry; in the collection there were four haiku-like poems and one longer poem by Ruebner.28 The haiku-like poems were devastating in their unforgiving brevity, their direct gaze on wrongdoings, and their fierce prophetic tone. The longer poem, entitled “Victim, Again,” entwined newspaper reporting through a text of lyrical descriptions and longings, and became one of the most-quoted poems from the English anthology once it was published. I translated the Ruebner poems and made contact with him for the first time, discovering him to be a very gentle gentleman, of European mannerisms and graciousness coupled with a Jewish whimsy and story-telling propensity. I began reading more of his work, picking up original editions of his out-of-print

xxxiv ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner collections from the various second-hand bookstores I frequented, discovering as I read how this Hebrew poet so often associated with Holocaust poetry defied rigid categorization and was no less a poet of post-modern sensibilities and protest. Finally, in the autumn of 2010, I travelled to an artists’ residency in a tiny town at the southern tip of Italy, hoping to complete there the collection of elegies I had been working on for two years, the book that would become my poetry collection A Messenger Comes. I sent ahead a box of books and folders to accompany me during my month-long retreat. Among the books I packed, quite randomly, were various poetry collections I had on my shelf but had not yet had the chance to read; Ruebner’s 1967 collection Kol Od (As Long As) was one of the books. And so I found myself sitting one late afternoon in the stone-silent plaza at town center, in the shade of the church steeple where bells chimed the hour every hour, reading from the slender, yellow-paged volume in hand Ruebner’s poems of longing and loss. From “Go, If You Can” to “She Was” to “When the statues started moving,” every poem seemed a type of elegy, deeply familiar to my heart and hauntingly at home in the solitude and stone alleyways where I walked. I have always felt that translation projects announce themselves to the translator, telling her “this is the one you must do now.” The translator needs only to listen and be receptive to the book or the poet that chooses her next. These are moments of self-recognition and revelation, finding oneself in the work of another, knowing one has the voice with which to bring that foreignness into one’s own language and context. I also know that many steps and seemingly unrelated elements along the way (Goldberg, protest poetry, the purchase of a random second-hand poetry book) lead up to these singular moments of revelation. And so it was there, in the autumn of 2010, in a forgotten Italian town (that spoke a fair amount of Greek), at the southern edges of the continent, reading a collection of Hebrew poetry published over forty years earlier, I felt possessed by a poet I had yet to meet and filled with a sense of urgency that moved me to contact Ruebner at once, and set the translating work in motion. That was three years ago. Over the last three years I have immersed myself in Ruebner’s many collections, reading, studying, analyzing and listening as closely as possible, hoping also to hear even in the Hebrew reading the English rhythms the poem might produce. I have debated with myself (and with Ruebner) which poems to include (and which to exclude) in this volume which means to be representative of the poet’s seven-decade poetic trajectory. The translator is not a sieve through which the original travels unchanged; the translator inevitably interprets as she works. The aspects of interpretation are multifold and operative (if not always evident and obvious) at every stage of the work – from which poems are translated and how the book is ordered

translating the poetry of tuvia ruebner ∙ xxxv to every individual translation choice. The anxieties a translator often experiences about misrepresenting or misinterpreting the original text, or simply making translation errors, have been significantly eased for me by the fact that I have been able to consult with the poet himself at every stage of the work. Indeed, working with Tuvia has been a great pleasure and an even greater privilege. And so I end this postscript with profound gratitude to the poet – for his ongoing support of the project, for his gracious embrace of my renderings, for his gentle corrections and elucidations, for his kindness and faith in me throughout and, above all, for his poetry that has kept me company these last years and has enriched my days and nights.

xxxvi ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner Notes 1. A Short Long Life, 2006 [Hebrew]. Page references throughout are from this memoir. All passages from the memoir are my translations. 2. An accomplished pianist already from an early age, Jizreeli won the Israeli Chopin Prize in 1950 when she was only 18. Jizreeli traveled and performed with the Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra, and came to Kibbutz Merchavia with the Israeli Philharmonic Quartet to play the piano quintet by Brahms. Ruebner calls Brahms his “matchmaker.” 3. Amichai, born the same year as Ruebner, passed away in 2000. Pagis (1930–1986) was an intimate friend and colleague of Ruebner. Carmi was born in 1925 and died in 1994. Ruebner continues to live in Kibbutz Merchavia with his wife of 60 years, Galila. His daughter Miriyami raised a family of her own in Iceland, where she resides until today. His older son Idan is a Buddhist monk in Nepal; both Miriyami and Idan have maintained close contact with their parents. 4. “Poetry from Deep in the Fields” (“‫ )”שירה מעומק השדה‬by Omri Lio. See www. docunet.co.il. 5. It is worth noting that the move to composing his poems in Hebrew did not end Ruebner’s relationship with German. He began translating, from Hebrew into German (most notably, and to great acclaim, the works of Nobel Prize winner S.Y. Agnon), and from German into Hebrew. Ruebner also became a renowned researcher and scholar of German literature. 6. An additional element of relevance from the Moses story was the biblical leader’s great reticence to be God’s spokesperson; a similar reticence is expressed in Ruebner’s poetic “I.” His is a voice that struggles with speech and speaks for no one but itself. 7. The Hebrew original ends not with “eternity” but with “last minute.” Rendered literally, the final two lines would read “lives my little sister the eternity / of the last moment.” Thus, in Hebrew, the suspense is carried into the poem’s final line. 8. Iton 77, issue 100. A Literary Monthly in collaboration with Beit Berl, Tel Aviv (May 1988) 75 [Hebrew]. All renderings in this introduction of critical sources from Hebrew are mine. It is worth noting that Ruebner is a secular Jew. 9. The “you” is female – ‫את‬. The reference seems to be to wife and sister both. 10. Ruebner was General Director of the Jewish Agency in Zurich from 1963–1966. During those years, he lived in Zurich with his family and traveled extensively through Europe. 11. “I am alive,” writes Ruebner in A Short Long Life, “because when I was twelve or thirteen I joined the Jewish swimming club bkb (Bar-Kokhvah Bratislava)…. My parents wanted me to learn how to swim” (48). Through the swimming club, Ruebner joined Hashomer Hatzair youth movement, which led to his fleeing Slovakia in time to be saved. 12. Haaretz, Interview with Dalia Karpel, July 29th, 2009. 13. Oddly, the wars in Israel have all erupted in summer and early autumn months. 14. The reference to Moloch evokes the death of children in particular, sacrificed by

translating the poetry of tuvia ruebner ∙ xxxvii their parents to appease the ancient Ammonite god. The death of the young, particularly young men, is a resonant motif in Ruebner’s poetry 15. Ruebner is alluding in particular to the penultimate stanza of Goldberg’s famous and often-quoted poem “Pine.” The stanza reads as follows: “Perhaps only migrating birds know – / suspended as they are between earth and sky – / this heartache of two homelands.” See Lea Goldberg: Selected Poetry and Drama, 91. Translated by Rachel Tzvia Back (New Milford, CT: The Toby Press, 2005). 16. Haaretz, Interview with Dalia Karpel, July 29th, 2009. 17. Interview with Sari Shragar and Hanan Rotem, “Post-mortem – Haifa University,” January 26th 1972. Quoted in Hillel Barzel’s “Poetry as Connection: An Investigation of the Poetics of Tuvia Ruebner,” Alei Siakh 21–22 (1984) 49–63 [Hebrew]. 18. Hilda Doolittle (1886–1961), American poet, novelist and memoirist. The pen name H.D., under which Doolittle published most of her writings, was given to her by Ezra Pound. Tribute to Angels is the second part of H.D.’s epic post–World War II series Trilogy, published between 1944–1946. 19. Ludwig Strauss (1892–1953), German/Israeli scholar and writer, was a mentor and close friend of Ruebner’s. 20. I borrow the wonderfully evocative term of “always already in translation” from Phillip E. Lewis, in “The Measure of Translation Effects,” as quoted by José María Rodríguez-García in “Introduction: Literary into Cultural Translation,” Diacritics, Volume 34, Number 3/4 (Fall–Winter 2004) 27. 21. To date, eight collections of Ruebner’s poetry in German have been published. In his memoir, Ruebner epigraphically expresses some of his discomfort over Germany being the country that has embraced his work most avidly through the imagined response of his deceased friend and colleague Swiss playwright Friedrich Durrenmatt (1921–1990) to this popularity: “‘Grotesque,’ Durrenmatt would say, and he would be right” (69). 22. Offering an elegant and powerful argument for the importance of engaging not only in translation work but also in thinking about translation work, Esther Allen and Susan Bernofsky write the following: “Thinking about translation means thinking about the gaps in our literature and our ability to communicate…. It also means thinking about the gaps in our political and cultural discourses, asking ourselves what and who has been left out.” “Introduction: A Culture of Translation,” in In Translation: Translators on Their Work and What It Means (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013) xviii. 23. I am alluding here to Walter Benjamin’s striking notion of “the kinship of languages,” the notion that “…languages are not strangers to one another but are, a priori and apart from all historical relationships, interrelated in what they want to express.” From “The Task of the Translator,” 1923; translated by Harry Zohn, 1968. In Walter Benjamin’s Illuminations, edited and with an introduction by Hannah Arendt (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1968) 71–82. 24. See Robert Alter’s discussion of the biblical and liturgical in modern Hebrew poetry and his argument that “…allusion is not an occasional or even frequent elective device but in many texts is the warp and woof of the poem.…” In Alter’s

xxxviii ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner Hebrew and Modernity (Bloomington and Indiana: Indiana University Press, 1994) 10–11. 25. I have borrowed the phrase “a new music” from Eliot Weinberger, who develops this notion beautifully in the following passage: “…the primary task of a translator is not merely to get the dictionary meanings right – which is the easiest part – but rather to invent a new music for the text in the translation language, one that is mandated by the original.” See Weinberger’s “Anonymous Sources: On Translators and Translation,” in In Translation: Translators on Their Work and What It Means, 24. Benjamin’s phrase “the echo of the original” is from “The Task of the Translator,” 77. 26. Benjamin, “The Task of the Translator,” 74. 27. Of course, the mark on Jacob’s thigh is only one sign of the ways the night wrestling changes him. At night’s end, he is given a new name and Jacob is transformed – translated – into Israel. See Genesis 32:23–32. 28. The original Hebrew version of the anthology, entitled Be’et Barzel, was edited by Tal Nitzan and published by Xargol Press in 2005. I later learned that Ruebner’s four haiku-like texts were part of a series of ten poems entitled “One Plague and Another,” evoking and rewriting the ten plagues visited on the Egyptians before the Exodus. This series can be found in this volume on pages 194–197, and the longer poem (“Victim, Again”) opens the section “How Do We End that Which Has No End,” on pages 176–177. 29. Ruebner continues composing poetry; however, he has repeatedly declared that he will publish no additional book in his lifetime and that the poems he writes now are for his literary estate. 30. Section iv, composed of poems from Ruebner’s 1982 collection A Graven and A Molten Image, closes with the poem “Memory of a Woman in the Egyptian Wing,” from Ruebner’s earlier collection A Midnight Sun. Section vii, composed of poems from Ruebner’s 2002 collection Almost a Conversation, closes with the poem “Erase your traces,” from his 1982 collection. Information regarding the source books of poems in each section is provided in this volume’s endnotes.

A NOTE ON ORGANIZATION In the Illuminated Dark: Selected Poems of Tuvia Ruebner covers the seven decades of Ruebner’s poetic career, from his first poetry collection The Fire in the Stone published in 1957, to his last volume, titled Last Ones, published in 2013.29 The ten sections of the book are representative of different periods and publications in Ruebner’s poetic oeuvre and they proceed in a chronological trajectory. The opening section of the collection, “Testimony,” includes poems from Ruebner’s first two published collections, The Fire in the Stone (1957) and Poems Seeking Time (1961); seven of the sections that follow, sections 2, 4–5, and 7–10, include poems from a single poetry volume each.30 The third section of this book, “The Battles of the Night Left Behind,” assembles poems from four different Ruebner collections: As Long As (1967), Unreturnable (1970), Midnight Sun (1977) and And Hasteneth to His Place (1990). The poems in this section together touch upon Ruebner’s vision of war-ravaged Israeli landscapes, and introduce his first poems of personal loss experienced in his new homeland. The sixth section of this book, “How Do We End That Which Is Has No End,” congregates a selection of Ruebner’s protest poems from 2002 and onward. Various attributes and considerations governed the selection process of which poems to include in this collection, from a poem’s beauty and innovativeness to the marked centrality of a text in Ruebner’s unfolding oeuvre. Every attempt was made to include poems that reflect and represent the poet’s range of thematic and formal concerns. The ordering of the poems in each section was determined on the basis of the poems’ relationship to each other in their English renditions, with an eye and ear to the integrity of each section’s emerging tale. The book’s endnotes serve several purposes. First, the notes elucidate the many biblical and liturgical allusions woven through Ruebner’s texts by directing the reader toward the relevant source materials; the second purpose of the notes is to articulate significant aural elements at play in the Hebrew which have been lost or altered in the English. In addition, any pronounced deviations from the Hebrew original, whether in line and stanza length, or lexis changes, are addressed and explained in the endnotes. The notes also provide additional historical and biographic information when such information impacts directly on the reading of the poem. The images with which Ruebner’s ekphrastic poems are in conversation can be viewed at http://press.huc.edu/ekphrastic-poems-image-gallery/. Finally, a note on Ruebner’s untitled poems: in the Table of Contents, these untitled poems are identified by the poem’s first line in brackets. However, the poems themselves are marked only by a diamond symbol at page’s top, in order to recreate the opening spatial silence evoked by an absent title.

xxxix

I

Testimony

‫תעודה‬ ‫ֲאנִי ַק ָ ּים ְּכ ֵדי לוֹ ַמר‬ ‫ַ ּביִ ת זֶ ה ל ֹא ַ ּביִ ת‪,‬‬ ‫ִמ ׁ ְש ַטח ֲח ָר ִמים‪ ,‬צְ ִח ַיח ֶסלַ ע‪ַ ּ ,‬פ ַחד‬ ‫ׁ ָשם לְ יַ ד ַה ִּכ ָּכר‪ָ ,‬א ַמ ְר ִּתי ִּכ ָּכר?‬ ‫צִ ָ ּיה ְמ ֻר ֶ ּצ ֶפת‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי ַק ָ ּים ְּכ ֵדי לוֹ ַמר‬ ‫דֶּ ֶר‪ ‬זוֹ ל ֹא דֶּ ֶר‪,‬‬ ‫יִ ָּל ְפת ּו ָא ְרחוֹ ֶת ָיה‪ ,‬יַ ﬠֲ ל ּו ַ ּב ֲחלֻ דַּ ת ֲחלוֹ ם‬ ‫ִמן ַה ַ ּיﬠַ ר‪ַ ,‬הר ַהחוֹ ל‬ ‫ֲאנִי הוֹ לֵ ‪ָ ׁ ,‬שם‪ִ ,‬מי הוֹ לֵ ‪ֶ ׁ ?‬ש ָהיִ ִיתי‬ ‫הוֹ לֵ ‪ּ ְ ‬ב ׁ ַשﬠֲ לֵ י יֶ לֶ ד‪ּ ְ ,‬ב ׁ ֶש ֶמ ׁש‬ ‫ִחדָּ לוֹ ן‪ּ ְ ,‬ב ֶפ ׁ ֶשט יָ ַדיִ ם‪ׁ ,‬שוֹ ֵאל‪,‬‬ ‫הוֹ לֵ ‪ׁ ‬שוֹ ֵאל ּ ְפנֵי ָא ִבי וְ ִא ִּמי‬ ‫ֲאנִי ַק ָ ּים ְּכ ֵדי לוֹ ַמר‬ ‫קוֹ רוֹ ת ֲאבוֹ ַתי‪ֶ ּ ,‬פ ָחם‪,‬‬ ‫ֵא ֶפר‪ ,‬רו ַּח‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ִ ּבשְׂ ﬠָ ִרי ַהנּוֹ ׁ ֵשב‬ ‫ָאחוֹ ר‪ָ ,‬אחוֹ ר‪ ,‬רו ַּח לֵ ילִ ית‬ ‫ְ ּביוֹ ִמי ֲאנִי ַק ָ ּים ְּכ ֵדי לוֹ ַמר‬ ‫לְ קוֹ לָ ם ַה ֵּלילִ י ֵּכן‪ֵּ ,‬כן לְ ִבכְ יָ ם‪ֵּ ,‬כן‬ ‫לָ אוֹ ֵבד ְ ּב ֵבית ֵאינו ָּתם‪ ,‬לַ נּוֹ ֵפל ִמ ֵ ּצל ִקירוֹ ָתיו‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ּ ַפ ַחד קוֹ לִ י לוֹ ַמר ֵּכן‬ ‫ַ ּב ׁ ּ ֶש ַטח ָה ֵריק‪.‬‬

‫‪2‬‬

TESTIMONY I exist in order to say this house is not a house, place of confiscations, parched rock, fear there by the central square, did I say central square? Paved wilderness. I exist in order to say this road is not a road, clung to by its travelers, ascending on dream’s rust from the forest, the sand mountain where I walk, there, who is walking? There where I used to walk, a child in the sun of cessation, with outstretched arms, searching and searching for my father’s face my mother’s I exist in order to say these are the crossbeams and chronicles of my parents, coal, ash, wind of my sister in my hair blowing back and back, a night wind in my day I exist in order to say to their nighttime voices yes, yes to their weeping, yes to the lost in their house of abeyance, to the falling from its wall’s shadows on the fear in my voice saying yes in the emptiness.

3

‫♦‬

‫ְּכמוֹ קוֹ ל ְ ּבלִ י ֵהד‪,‬‬ ‫ֶ ּג ׁ ֶשם ְ ּבלִ י ﬠָ נָן‬ ‫לִ ּפֹל‪ ,‬לִ נְדּ ֹד‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ חוֹ ל ְ ּבלִ י חוֹ ף‬ ‫לְ ִה ְת ּ ַפ ֵ ּזר‬ ‫ﬠַ ד ַה ְ ּגבוּל ָה ַא ֲחרוֹ ן‬ ‫וְ ֵאין ְ ּגבוּל ָ ּבא ֶֹפק ָהעוֹ לֶ ה‬ ‫ְּכ ֻס ָּלם ְ ּבלִ י ֲחלוֹ ם‪,‬‬ ‫ִּכ ְפ ִר ָידה ְ ּבלִ י נ ְִפ ָרד‬ ‫ַה ְר ֵחק ֶאל ַה ׁ ּ ָשוְ א‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ﬠֵ ץ ֶאל כּ וֹ כַ ב ׁ ָש ָר ׁ ָשיו‪.‬‬

‫‪4‬‬

♦ Like an echoless voice, a cloudless rain falling, wandering like sand with no shore scattering to the final border and there’s no border on the horizon rising like a dreamless ladder, like a leave-taking with no one being left far off toward the nothingness like a tree toward its starred roots.

5

‫בין אלה ההרים‬ ‫ֵ ּבין ֵא ֶּלה ֶה ָה ִרים וְ ֵא ֶּלה ָהרוּחוֹ ת‪,‬‬ ‫ְ ּבחוֹ ף ַה ָ ּים ַה ֶ ּזה שְׂ ָפ ַתי ַה ְּמלוּחוֹ ת‬ ‫ִּתנ ְׁש ְֹמנָה‪ְ ּ ,‬פשׂ וּקוֹ ת‪ֵ ,‬ריחוֹ ׁ ֶשל יַ ﬠַ ר‬ ‫ם־פלִ יאוֹ ָתיו‪,‬‬ ‫ָא ֵפל וָ זָ ר ְ ּב ֵאלֶ ּ ְ‬ ‫ְ ּביַ ְרקוּתוֹ ֶא ְטבּ ֹל ְ ּבﬠֵ ינֵי־נַﬠַ ר‬ ‫וְ ﬠַ ל ִמצְ ִחי עוֹ דוֹ ָחרוּת ַה ָּתו‬ ‫ֲא ׁ ֶשר יִ ְפ ַּתח ְ ּבבוֹ א ָהﬠֵ ת ַה ׁ ּ ַשﬠַ ר‪,‬‬ ‫ׁ ָשם יַ ִ ּק ַירי ֻּכ ָּלם ְּכנו ִּסים יַ ְחדָּ ו‪.‬‬

‫‪6‬‬

AMONG THESE MOUNTAINS Among these mountains and these winds, at this sea-strand where my salt-covered lips breathe the far fragrance of the forest dark and strange in its silent wonders, I gaze with a boy’s eyes at its extravagant green, on my forehead still etched the mark that will one day open the gate where all my beloveds are gathered, and wait.

7

‫♦‬

‫ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר ׁ ֶש ֵאי ֶנ ּנ ּו זוֹ ֵרם עוֹ ד‬ ‫ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר ַה ּסוֹ גֵ ר ָּכ ֶאגְ רוֹ ף‬ ‫ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר ַה ִּמ ְת ּ ָפ ֵרק לֶ ﬠָ ָפר‬ ‫וְ ֶהﬠָ ָפר לַ ְּמ ָח ִטים‬ ‫ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר ָה ֵא ׁש ָה ִע ֶ ּו ֶרת‬ ‫ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר ַה ָּמתוֹ ק ל ֹא ִמ ּ ְפ ִר ָיחה‬ ‫ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר ַהדַּ ק ִּכילָ לָ ה‬ ‫ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר ַה ּקוֹ ֵרﬠַ ֶאלֶ ף ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‬ ‫וְ כָ ל ﬠַ יִ ן רוֹ ָאה ח ׁ ֶֹש‪‬‬ ‫ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר ַה ִּמ ְת ַ ּג ֵּמד ֵ ּבין שָׂ ָפה לְ שָׂ ָפה‬ ‫ַח ָ ּיה ֲאחוֹ ִתי ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה ֶאת נֶצַ ח‬ ‫ָה ֶרגַ ﬠ ָה ַא ֲחרוֹ ן‪.‬‬

‫‪8‬‬

♦ In the air that no longer flows in the air that clenches like a fist in the air that crumbles to dust and the dust to needles in the air of the fire blind in the air sweet-not-from-blossoms in the air thin as a cry in the air that tears at a thousand eyes and every eye sees darkness in the air that is dwindling between her lips my little sister lives the last minute’s eternity.

9

‫שכחה‬ ‫ל־כ‪ָ ׁ ‬שלַ ְח ָּת‪ֲ ,‬א ֹדנָי‪,‬‬ ‫לַ ﬠֲ צָ מוֹ ת ַרבּ וֹ ת ָּכ ָּ‬ ‫אוֹ ִתי‪ַ ,‬ה ְּמגַ ְמ ֵ ּגם‪ָ .‬היְ ָתה ִ ּבי רו ֲּח‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ ָּתה ֲאנִי עוֹ ֵמד ַ ּב ַ ּגיְ א ָה ַרע‬ ‫וּלְ ָבנוֹ ת וִ ֵיב ׁשוֹ ת ﬠֵ ינַי‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאלִ י‪ ,‬ו ָּמה א ַֹמר? ַה ׁ ּ ִשכְ ָחה‬ ‫עוֹ ָטה דְּ ָב ֶרי‪ …‬קוּמוּ! … ְּכמוֹ …‬ ‫ְ ּב ִפי חוֹ ֶב ֶטת לְ ׁשוֹ נִי זָ ָרה‪.‬‬ ‫ְּכ ֵב ָדה רו ִּחי ﬠָ לַ י ְּכרו ַּח ַה ָ ּק ִדים‪,‬‬ ‫ַמ ֲח ִריב‪ַ ,‬מ ְרדִּ ים‪,‬‬ ‫ָה ּה‪ֱ ,‬אל ִֹהים ַה ְמ ַב ֵ ּק ׁש ﬠַ ּמוֹ ‪,‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי נוֹ ֵפל ִא ֵּלם ﬠַ ל ַה ׁ ּ ְשלָ ִדים‪.‬‬

‫‪10‬‬

OBLIVION To these too many bones you sent me, Lord, me, the stutterer. Your spirit was within me. Now I stand in the Valley of Evil and my eyes are white and dry. My God, what am I to say? Oblivion veils your words… Arise!… As… In my mouth my foreign tongue flails about. My spirit is heavy upon me like an eastern wind, ravaging, enslumbering. Oh, God who desires and seeks out his people, I fall mute upon the bones.

11

‫אחותי הקטנה‬ ‫‪1‬‬

‫ַ ּב ֲהמוֹ ן ָהרו ַּח ַה ָ ּבהוּל לְ ָאן‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ָה ִא ּ ִטית‬ ‫את ָיה‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ְמצָ ִּ‬ ‫ֵ ּבין ַה ֵ ּז ִיתים ַ ּבדֶּ ֶר‪ָ ‬העוֹ לָ ה‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ﬠָ נָן‬ ‫את ָיה‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ְמצָ ִ‬ ‫ִהיא ְמ ַת ְע ְּתﬠָ ה ִ ּבי‪ ,‬ﬠָ ׁ ָשן לְ ָפנַי‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה‬ ‫בּ וֹ ﬠֶ ֶרת ְ ּבﬠֵ ינַי‪.‬‬ ‫‪2‬‬

‫ת־ה ַח ִ ּיים ﬠֲ רוּכִ ים‪:‬‬ ‫ׁ ֻשלְ ֲחנוֹ ַ‬ ‫י־האוֹ ָרה קוֹ ְר ִאים לָ אוֹ ְר ִחים‬ ‫ַּכדֵּ ָ‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ֻמ ּ ֶטלֶ ת ֵ ּבין ַה ּ ְפ ָר ִחים‪.‬‬ ‫קוֹ ל ָה ָא ִביב נ ׁ ְִש ָמﬠ ְ ּב ַא ְרצִ י‬ ‫ְ ּבגַ ּנֵי ָהרוּחוֹ ת יָ רֹק ֶהﬠָ נָן‪.‬‬ ‫י־ה ּ ְפ ִר ָיחה לְ ﬠֵ צִ י‬ ‫ּ ַפ ְר ּ ָפ ֵר ַ‬ ‫ִ ּב ְמעוּפוֹ ׁ ֶשל ֵר ָיחם ַה ָּל ָבן‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ֻמ ּ ֶטלֶ ת ֵ ּבין ַה ּ ְפ ָר ִחים‪.‬‬ ‫ֵי־אחוֹ ִתי נוֹ ְט ִפים‬ ‫ַאט ﬠַ ל ﬠֵ ינ ֲ‬ ‫יֵ ינוֹ ַ‬ ‫ת־ה ׁ ּ ֶש ֶמ ׁש ִמ ַּכדִּ ים ׁ ְשקו ִּפים‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ֻמ ּ ֶטלֶ ת ֵ ּבין ַה ּ ְפ ָר ִחים‪.‬‬ ‫‪3‬‬

‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה‪ ,‬לָ ּה ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ְ ּגדוֹ לוֹ ת‬ ‫ִ ּב ְ ּק ָרה ִ ּב ׁ ְשנ ִָתי‪.‬‬ ‫‪12‬‬

MY LITTLE SISTER

1 In the roar of the wind rushing toward where is my sister the slow-moving one I could not find her. Among the olive trees on the path ascending is my sister a cloud I could not find her. She plays tricks on me, is smoke before me my little sister burning in my eyes. 2 Life’s tables are set: The jugs of light beckon the guests, my sister is strewn among the flowers. The sound of spring is heard in my country, in the wind-gardens the clouds are green. Butterflies of blossomings alight on my tree with the flight of their white fragrance. My sister is strewn among the flowers. Sun-wines from clear vases slowly drip over my sister’s eyes. My sister strewn among the flowers. 3 My little sister, she of the large eyes visited me in my sleep.

13

‫נִכְ נ ְָסה לְ גו ִּפי וְ ׁ ָש ָטה דּ ו ָּמם‬ ‫ְ ּבנ ֲַהרוֹ ת דָּ ִמי‪.‬‬ ‫ָ ּבא ֶֹפל‪ּ ָ ,‬בא ֶֹפל‬ ‫דַּ ג־זָ ָהב ְ ּב ָד ִמי‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה דּ ו ָּמם ְ ּב ָד ִמי‬ ‫דּ ו ָּמם‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה לְ ﬠֵ ץ ָהיְ ָתה‬ ‫לְ ﬠֵ ץ ָהיְ ָתה ֲאחוֹ ִתי ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה‬ ‫וְ ׁ ָשלְ ָחה ֲא ִמ ָיר ּה ﬠַ ד ְ ּגרוֹ נִי‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה ֵמ ָהﬠֵ ץ ﬠָ לְ ָתה‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה צִ ּפוֹ ר ׁ ְשח ָֹרה‬ ‫ֵמ ָהﬠֵ ץ ﬠָ לְ ָתה ﬠַ ד ﬠֵ ינַי‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה‪ְּ ,‬כנ ָָפ ּה ַה ׁ ּ ְשח ָֹרה‬ ‫ְּכנ ָָפ ּה ַה ׁ ּ ְשח ָֹרה ﬠַ ל ﬠֵ ינַי‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִ ּצ ּפוֹ ר ַה ׁ ּ ְשח ָֹרה לֶ ﬠָ נָן ָהיְ ָתה‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה ֶּכﬠָ נָן ָהיְ ָתה‪.‬‬ ‫ֶהﬠָ נָן ְמכַ ֶּסה ֶאת ַח ַ ּיי‪.‬‬

‫‪14‬‬

She entered my body and wandered in the rivers of my blood silently. In the gloom and the gloom, a goldfish in my blood my little sister, mute and hushed in my blood. My little sister became a tree a tree she was sending treetop words into my throat. My little sister rose from the tree my little sister a blackbird rose from the tree toward my eyes. My little sister, her black wings black over my eyes. The blackbird became a cloud my little sister like a cloud become. The cloud that covers my life.

15

‫קולות‬ ‫ֲאנִי הוֹ לֵ ‪ָּ .‬ת ִמיד ֲאנִי הוֹ לֵ ‪ .‬לְ ָאן‬ ‫ֲאנִי הוֹ לֵ ‪ֵ ?‬אי ֶנ ּנִי ָּכאן‪.‬‬ ‫ֵמ ַאיִ ן ָהﬠֵ צִ ים ָה ֵא ֶּלה ְ ּביָ ִדי?‬ ‫ָה ֵא ׁש ַה ּזֹאת? ֵאינָם ׁ ֶש ִּלי‪ֵ .‬אינִי ׁ ֶש ִּלי‪ּ ִ .‬בכְ ִדי‬ ‫– ֲאנִי ְ ּב ִע ְקבוֹ ֶתי‪ ‬וְ לַ ׁ ּ ָשוְ א…‬ ‫ֲאנִי יוֹ ֵדﬠַ ‪ּ ְ ,‬בנִי‪ֲ ,‬אנִי ָה ָאב‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי מוֹ לִ י‪ ‬אוֹ ְת‪ְ ׁ ,‬שנֵינ ּו הוֹ לְ כִ ים יַ ְחדָּ ו‪.‬‬ ‫– ֵאינִי יָ ׁ ֵשן‪ֵ .‬אי ֶנ ּנִי ﬠֵ ר‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי יָ ׁ ֵשן‪ .‬לִ ִ ּבי ﬠֵ ר‬ ‫ַאיִ ל ָאחוּז ַ ּב ְ ּצלָ עוֹ ת ַה ׁ ּ ְשחֹרוֹ ת‬ ‫ִ ּג ְמ ּגוּם דּ וֹ ֵמם ִמ ְת ַא ֵּלם ֵ ּבין ּפֹארוֹ ת‬ ‫ַה ְ ּז ַמן ַה ִּמ ְס ַּת ֵ ּב‪ּ ְ ‬ביוֹ מוֹ וְ לֵ ילוֹ …‬ ‫ֵּכן‪ִ .‬ה ְננִי‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא!‬

‫‪16‬‬

VOICES I am walking. I am always walking. Where am I walking? I am not here. From where is this kindling in my arms? This fire? They are not mine. I am not mine. In vain – I am in your footsteps, in vain… I know, my son, I am the father. I lead you, the two of us walk together. – I am not asleep. I am not awake. I am asleep. My heart is awake a ram bound by its black ribs. A still stutter falls silent among the boughs of time entangled in its day and night… – Yes, I am here. No!

17

‫♦‬

‫ַרק ַה ָ ּי ִמים וְ ַה ּיוֹ נִים‪,‬‬ ‫ַרק ַה ְ ּק ָמ ִטים ׁ ֶש ַ ּב ּ ָפנִים‪,‬‬ ‫וְ ַרק ָהרו ַּח‪ַ ,‬ה ְ ּק ִריאוֹ ת‪,‬‬ ‫ַה ְּל ָבנוֹ ת ַה ּמוּזָ רוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַרק ַה ַח ְמ ִסין וְ ַה ּ ְשׂ ָר ִפים‪,‬‬ ‫ַרק ַהדְּ ָמעוֹ ת וְ ַה ְ ּצ ָד ִפים‪,‬‬ ‫ו ִּפי נוֹ ׁ ֵשק ֶאת ּ ִפי‪ּ ִ ‬ב ְמאֹד‪,‬‬ ‫וְ זֶ ה גָ לוּי וְ זֶ ה ַה ּסוֹ ד‪.‬‬

‫‪18‬‬

♦ Just the days and the doves, just the wrinkles by the eyes, just the wind, the calling out, cries unfamiliar and white. Just the heat and tree amber, just the broken shells and the bones, just my mouth kissing your mouth, this the revealed and this the unknown.

19

‫הלילה הזה‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ְ ּבכָ ל ַה ָ ּי ִמים ַח ֵ ּיינ ּו ֶּכ ָה ִרים‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ַּליְ לָ ה ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵה ָא ֵסף‪ּ ַ ,‬גיְ א‪.‬‬ ‫ָהיִ ינ ּו ַּכ ַ ּיﬠַ ר‬ ‫ַה ַּליְ לָ ה ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ﬠֵ ץ ֶא ָחד‪.‬‬ ‫רו ַּח וְ ׁ ֶש ֶמ ׁש‬ ‫ַסנְוֵ ִרים‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּב ַּליְ לָ ה ַה ֶ ּזה‪ַ ,‬ה ׁ ּש ֶֹר ׁש‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ְ ּבכָ ל ַה ָ ּי ִמים ָק ׁ ִשים‬ ‫ּגו ֵּפינ ּו ׁ ִש ְריוֹ ן‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ַּליְ לָ ה ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫לְ ל ֹא ְ ּגבוּל‬

‫‪20‬‬

THIS NIGHT As on all other days our lives were like the hills This night ingathering, a valley. We were like a forest This night one tree. Wind and sun whirling, blinding. This night, the root. As on all other difficult days our bodies are armored. This night unbordered

21

‫ילדים‬ ‫ׁ ְשנֵי יְ לָ ִדים לִ י‪ָּ :‬כחֹל וְ יָ רֹק‪,‬‬ ‫ׁשוֹ ְמ ִרים ֵהם לִ ְמ ַר ֲא ׁשוֹ ַתי‪.‬‬ ‫יְ ֵד ֶיהם ּ ַפ ְר ּ ָפ ִרים‪ּ ,‬גו ָּפם ֻס ָּלם‪:‬‬ ‫ַמלְ ֲאכִ ים יַ ﬠֲ ל ּו וְ יֵ ְרד ּו‬ ‫ֹאשי ֻמ ּ ָטל‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵאלֶ ם‪ּ ְ ,‬ב ֵאלֶ ם ר ׁ ִ‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ֶא ֶבן ֵ ּבין ﬠֵ שֶׂ ב וְ קוֹ ץ‪,‬‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינָיו צוֹ ְדדוֹ ת ַה ָ ּירֹק‪ַ ,‬ה ָּכחֹל‬ ‫ַה ָ ּירֹק‪ַ ,‬ה ָּכחֹל צוֹ ְדדוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ח ֶֹמט ַמ ִ ּביט ָ ּבן ָּת ֵמ ַּה ְמאֹד‪,‬‬ ‫ׁ ַשלְ דָּ ג חוֹ ׁ ְש ָבן דְּ גִ יגִ ים‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ְשנֵי יְ לָ ִדים סוֹ כְ כִ ים ﬠָ לַ י‪,‬‬ ‫ָּכחֹל וְ יָ רֹק‪ ,‬יָ רֹק וְ כָ חֹל‪:‬‬ ‫צְ חוֹ ק ָ ּגדוֹ ל‪.‬‬

‫‪22‬‬

CHILDREN Two children I have: blue-eyed and green, guardians by my head. Their hands are butterflies, their bodies ladders: angels ascend and descend silently, silently my head rests on a stone between thorns and weeds, his eyes hunt for the green, the blue the green, the blue they seek. A lizard looks at them in wonderment, a pelican thinks they are goldfish. Two children shelter me, green and blue, blue and green: What joy.

23

‫אב עם ילוד‬ ‫ָ ּבשָׂ ר מוּזָ ר‬ ‫רֹ‪ ‬לָ ַב ׁש ּגוּף‬ ‫יָ דוֹ רוֹ ׁ ֶש ֶמת‬ ‫נ ׁ ְִש ָּכחוֹ ת ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר‬ ‫ְּכ ָתב ַח ְר ֻט ִּמים‬ ‫ִמצְ חוֹ ַה ָ ּקמוּט‬ ‫ְּכ ִמי ׁ ֶשחוֹ ׁ ֵשב‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ַמה הוּא חוֹ ׁ ֵשב‬ ‫ֹאשי ַה ִח ּיוּ‪‬‬ ‫ְ ּבר ׁ ִ‬ ‫ֵ ּבין שְׂ ָפ ָתיו לַ ְבנ ּונִית‬ ‫ֲחלֵ ב ַה ׁ ּ ֵשנָה‬ ‫יָ ֵר ַח ׁשוֹ ֵאל‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ָמה ֲאנִי ָּכאן‬ ‫ְמﬠַ ט ָרכוּן‬ ‫ְּכﬠַ לְ וָ ה ﬠַ ל צִ ָּל ּה‬ ‫ְּכלַ ַח ׁש ﬠַ ל סוֹ ד‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם סוּמוֹ ת‬ ‫י־די‬ ‫ד־בלִ ַ‬ ‫נ ְִפ ָקחוֹ ת ﬠַ ְ ּ‬ ‫ָ ּבשָׂ ר ִמ ְ ּבשָׂ ִרי‬ ‫ַאל ִּת ְב ֶּכה ְ ּביָ ִדי‪.‬‬

‫‪24‬‬

FATHER AND INFANT Strange flesh embodied tenderness his hand inscribing old memories in the air His wrinkled forehead hieroglyphics as though deep in thought about what In my mind I see the smile of his lips with milky sleep white pearled a moon asks Why am I here hovering above like leaves over their shadow like a whisper over its secret His closed eyes suddenly open to infinity Oh flesh of my flesh in my arms don’t cry.

25

‫שיר משפחה‬ ‫ְ ּב ׁ ֶש ֶקט ֲאנִי ַחי ֵ ּבין‬ ‫ָהﬠֵ צִ ים ַה ְמלַ ְבלְ ִבים ו ֵּבין ָהﬠֵ צִ ים ַה ַּמ ּׁ ִש ִירים‪,‬‬ ‫ֵ ּבין ַה ִ ּצ ּ ָפ ְרנִים וְ ַה ְ ּצ ִריחוֹ ת‬ ‫ַא ְּת ﬠַ ל יָ ִדי ו ֵּמﬠָ לַ י‬ ‫שְׂ ﬠָ ֵר‪ַ ‬ה ּ ָפרוּﬠַ ָ ּברו ַּח‪,‬‬ ‫ִ ּבכְ ֵאב‪ּ ְ ,‬ב ִת ְקוָ ה‪ּ ְ ,‬ב ׁ ֶש ֶקט‬ ‫ֲאנִי ַחי ִמ ַּת ַחת לַ ַּמ ֲח ׁ ָשבוֹ ת‬ ‫ִא ָּת‪ֶ ,‬את יְ לָ ַדי‪ֶ ,‬את ַה ִ ּצ ּפוֹ ר וְ ֶאת ַהח ׁ ֶֹש‪‬‬ ‫ִמ ּתוֹ כִ י‪ִ ,‬מ ּתוֹ ‪ִ ‬א ִּמי וְ ָא ִבי ִמ ּתוֹ כִ י‬ ‫ֲאנִי ַמﬠֲ לֶ ה ִמ ִּלים‪,‬‬ ‫ﬠָ נָן‪ִ ,‬קינָה‪ ,‬נ ָָחה‪ַ ,‬א ְּת‬ ‫ְ ּב ׁ ֶש ֶקט ַח ַ ּיי‪ּ ִ ,‬בצְ ﬠָ ָקה‬ ‫ֲאנִי ַחי‪ ,‬ל ֹא עוֹ ד‬ ‫ִ ּבי‪ּ ָ ,‬ב ַא ֵחר‪.‬‬

‫‪26‬‬

A FAMILY SONG I live quietly between the blossoming and the shedding trees, between the birds and the screams, you by my side and above me your wild wind-swept hair, in sorrow, in hope, quietly I live under the memories with you, my children, the birds and the dark from within me, from within my mother my father me I bring forth words, cloud, lament, you in the quiet of my life, in a howl I live, no longer in me, in the other.

27

‫אחותי‬ ‫‪1‬‬

‫ָהלַ כְ ִּתי לְ ַח ּ ֵפשׂ לָ ‪ ‬דְּ מוּת‪,‬‬ ‫ﬠֶ ְדנָה ְ ּבלִ י גוּף‪,‬‬ ‫ּתוּגָ ה ְ ּבלִ י יָ ַדיִ ם וָ ֵמצַ ח‪,‬‬ ‫ָהלַ כְ ִּתי לְ ַח ּ ֵפשׂ ָא ִביב‬ ‫לָ ‪ ,‬צִ ּפוֹ ר ַה ְמ ַב ֶ ּק ׁ ֶשת ְּכלוּב‪,‬‬ ‫ָהלַ כְ ִּתי דֶּ ֶר‪ ‬לְ ַח ּ ֵפשׂ‬ ‫לִ צְ ﬠָ ַדיִ ‪,‬‬ ‫ַמ ָ ּזר לִ שְׂ ﬠָ ֵרך‪ָ ,‬ה ָארֹ‪,‬‬ ‫ׁ ְשמוּרוֹ ת לְ ﬠֵ ינַיִ ‪.‬‬ ‫‪2‬‬

‫ִעם ﬠֲ לִ ַ ּית לְ ָבנָה ׁ ְשלֵ ָמה ָּת ִמיד‬ ‫ַמ ׁ ְש ִחירוֹ ת ּ ְפנֵי ֲאחוֹ ִתי‪,‬‬ ‫צִ ּפוֹ ר ﬠֲ צו ַּבת ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‬ ‫ְ ּב ִא ָּלן ﬠֲ זָ בוּה ּו ַח ָ ּגיו‪.‬‬ ‫ָּת ִמיד ִעם ִחדּ ו ּׁש לְ ָבנָה‬ ‫ַמ ׁ ְש ִחירוֹ ת ּ ְפנֵי ֲאחוֹ ִתי‪,‬‬ ‫שְׂ ָפ ַתיִ ם ֵריקוֹ ת ְ ּבלִ י ִקדּ ו ּׁש‬ ‫ְמ ַמלְ ְמלוֹ ת ִמלּ וֹ ת צִ ּפוֹ ר‪.‬‬ ‫הוֹ ַה ׁ ּ ָש ַמיִ ם ַה ְ ּגבוֹ ִהים ָה ֵא ֶּלה‪,‬‬ ‫ָמה ַרב ִ ּב ַ ּק ׁ ְשנ ּו ֵמ ֶהם!‬ ‫עוֹ ד ְמﬠַ ט ִּת ּ ַט ׁ ְש ֵט ׁש דְּ מו ָּתם ָּכלִ יל‪,‬‬ ‫ְ ּבל ֹא דְּ ָמעוֹ ת‪.‬‬

‫‪28‬‬

MY SISTER

1 I went to find for you a form, tenderness with no body, sorrow with no hands no forehead, I went to find for you spring, a bird seeking a cage, I walked a long way to find your footsteps, constellations for your long hair, sanctuaries for your eyes. 2 Always when the full moon rises my sister’s face darkens, sad-eyed bird in the branches abandoned by its orbit. Always when the moon is renewed my sister’s face darkens, empty unblessed lips muttering bird-words. Oh these lofty skies, how much we’ve asked of them! Soon their image will be fully blurred, bearing no tears.

29

‫דוד הזקן‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינַי ָרא ּו יוֹ ֵתר ִמדַּ י‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ ִּמים ַר ִ ּבים ִמדַּ י ִה ִ ּגיע ּו ﬠַ ד נ ְַפ ׁ ִשי‪.‬‬ ‫ִ ּב ׁ ְש ִתי וָ ﬠֵ ֶרב גּוֹ ָרלוֹ ת ֲאנִי שָׂ רוּג‪.‬‬ ‫ֹא־ש ֵקטוֹ ת‪ ,‬יָ ַדי‬ ‫ַהגּוֹ ׁ ְש ׁשוֹ ת‪ַ ,‬הלּ ׁ ְ‬ ‫ֲא ׁ ֶשר יָ ְדע ּו ִא ְב ַחת ַה ֶח ֶרב‪ַ ,‬רﬠַ ד ֵמ ָית ִרים –‬ ‫ישי‪.‬‬ ‫ְמלַ ְמלְ מוֹ ת ﬠַ ָּתה ְ ּבח ׁ ֶֹש‪ֲ ‬ח ִר ׁ ִ‬ ‫ֲאנִי קוֹ ֵפא‪ .‬ﬠַ ד ע ֶֹמק נ ׁ ְִש ָמ ִתי‬ ‫ֲאנִי קוֹ ֵפא‪ַ .‬העוֹ ד ָא ִרים‬ ‫ﬠַ צְ ִמי ﬠַ ד אוֹ ר ַחם וְ נוֹ ׁ ֵשם ׁ ֶשל ּגוּף‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּש ּונ ִַּמית ׁ ֶש ְ ּי ַמ ְה ַמה מוֹ ִתי‬ ‫עוֹ ד לַ יְ לָ ה זֶ ה ְספוּג רו ַּח ֶה ָהרוּג?‬ ‫ְ ּב ֶה ֶבל ְּתנו ָּמ ָת ּה ָּתצוּף ַה ְּל ָבנָה‬ ‫ו ְּב ַר ָ ּק ִתי ָה ְרכ ּונָה‬ ‫ﬠַ ל שְׂ ﬠָ ָר ּה ַה ַחי ׁשוּב‬ ‫יַ ֲהל ֹם דָּ ָמן ׁ ֶשל ַה ִּמ ִּלים‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ְ ּביָ ִמים ְקדו ִּמים ָהי ּו ִ ּבי לִ ְת ִה ִּלים‪.‬‬

‫‪30‬‬

OLD KING DAVID My eyes have seen too much. Too many nations have overwhelmed my spirit. Through the warp and weft of destinies I am woven. Fumbling, my unquiet hands which once knew the sword’s slaughter, the strings’ quivering – mumble now in the silent darkness. I am freezing cold. To the depths of my soul I am frozen. Will I raise myself once more toward the light warm and breathing body of the Shunamit so it may keep my death at bay one more night drenched with the spirit of the dead? The moon floats in the mist of its slumber and in my head resting on her living hair will beat again the blood of words which were once long ago sweet psalms in me.

31

II

As Long As

‫♦‬

‫ְּכ ׁ ֶש ֵה ֵחל ּו ַה ּ ְפ ָסלִ ים לָ נוּﬠַ‬ ‫ִמ ָּמקוֹ ם לְ ָמקוֹ ם‪ִ ,‬מ ַ ּי ֶ ּב ׁ ֶשת לְ יַ ֶ ּב ׁ ֶשת‬ ‫ַח ְס ֵרי זְ רוֹ עוֹ ת וְ ַח ְס ֵרי ּ ָפנִים‬ ‫נִזְ ַּכ ְרנ ּו ַ ּב ָ ּי ִמים‬ ‫ָ ּב ֶהם ﬠָ ַמ ְדנ ּו ׁ ְשלו ֵּבי ַמ ָ ּבט‬ ‫ׁ ָשעוֹ ת אוֹ ׁ ָשנִים‬ ‫ֲחלִ ילִ ים לָ רו ַּח‬ ‫ל ֹא ָא ַמ ְרנ ּו דָּ ָבר וְ ֵה ַב ּנ ּו ִּכי דָּ ָבר ל ֹא ָא ַבד‬ ‫ְּכ ׁ ַשיִ ׁש ׁ ֶשל ֵא ׁש ַה ׁ ּ ָש ַמיִ ם ַהזּוֹ ְר ִמים‬ ‫וְ ַה ָ ּב ָרק ָהעוֹ ֵמד‬ ‫וְ יָ ַד ְענוּ‪ַ ,‬ה ׁ ּ ָשﬠָ ה ְמ ֻפ ֶּל ׁ ֶשת‬ ‫וְ ִא ׁיש ִמ ֵ ּבינֵינ ּו עוֹ ד ל ֹא ָהיָ ה ֵמת‪.‬‬

‫‪34‬‬

♦ When the statues started moving from place to place, continent to continent, armless and faceless, it was then we remembered the days we had stood with our gaze interlocked for hours and years flutes to the wind saying nothing, knowing that nothing was lost like the fiery marble of flowing skies and the transfixed lightning and we knew, the hours were stretched before us and not one of us was dead yet.

35

‫שם‪ ,‬אמרתי‬ ‫אתי ִמ ֵ ּב ִיתי לְ ַה ְראוֹ ת לְ ָבנַי ֶאת ְמקוֹ ם מוֹ צָ ִאי‪.‬‬ ‫יָ צָ ִ‬ ‫ׁ ָשם‪ָ ,‬א ַמ ְר ִּתי‪ָ ׁ ,‬שכַ ְב ִּתי ﬠַ ל ָה ָא ֶרץ‬ ‫ֶא ֶבן לִ ְמ ַר ֲא ׁשוֹ ַתי‪ ,‬נָמוּ‪ִ ‬מן ָהﬠֵ שֶׂ ב‬ ‫ַּכﬠֲ ַפר ָה ָא ֶרץ‬ ‫ַהכּ ֹל ׁ ָשם נ ׁ ְִש ַמר‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠָ ַב ְרנ ּו ֶ ּב ָה ִרים ו ַּב ְ ּיﬠָ רוֹ ת ׁ ֶש ָהי ּו‬ ‫ישים ָהי ּו ָר ִעים‪.‬‬ ‫ְמﬠָ רוֹ ת וְ ַה ַּמיִ ם נ ְִקו ּו ַ ּבדֶּ ֶר‪ ‬וְ ַה ְּכ ִב ׁ ִ‬ ‫ַה ְּמכוֹ נִית דִּ ְּלגָ ה ﬠַ ל ַהבּ וֹ רוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ָ ּבאוֹ ר ַהנּוֹ ֶטה ִה ַ ּג ְענ ּו לְ ִעיר מוֹ צָ ִאי‪.‬‬ ‫ָמה ָה ֲאוִ יר ַה ָּמתוֹ ק ַה ֶ ּזה? ׁשוֹ ֲאלִ ים ָ ּבנַי‪.‬‬ ‫ָמה ַה ּ ִט ַיח ַהנּוֹ ֵפל ֵמ ַה ִ ּקירוֹ ת?‬ ‫ישה ַ ּב ַחלּ וֹ ן‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאין דָּ ָבר‪ִ ,‬ה ִ ּג ָידה ַה ְ ּי ׁ ִש ׁ ָ‬ ‫ֶיה ַה ְ ּי ֵב ׁשוֹ ת‬ ‫ָּכאן ַ ּגם ֶהﬠָ ִתיד ﬠָ ָבר‪ .‬וְ ָסגְ ָרה ֶאת ﬠֵ ינ ָ‬ ‫ְּכעוֹ ף ָהעוֹ לֶ ה וְ קוֹ ֵפל ֶאת ְּכנ ָָפיו וְ צוֹ לֵ ל‪.‬‬ ‫ָּכאן נוֹ לַ ְד ִּתי‪ָ ,‬א ַמ ְר ִּתי לְ ָבנַי‪.‬‬ ‫הוֹ ַרי וּזְ ֵקנַי נוֹ לְ ד ּו ָּכאן ָקרוֹ ב‪.‬‬ ‫נוֹ לָ ִדים‪ָּ .‬כאן ָהיָ ה ַ ּביִ ת‬ ‫ָא ַמ ְר ִּתי לְ ָבנַי וְ ָהרו ַּח ﬠָ ְב ָרה‬ ‫ֵ ּבינִי ו ֵּבין ַה ִּמ ִּלים‪.‬‬ ‫ִ ּב ַ ּק ׁ ְש ִּתי לְ ַה ְראוֹ ת לְ ָבנַי ְמקוֹ ם מוֹ צָ ִאי‪ ,‬ו ָּמ ַתי‬ ‫נֹאכַ ל‪ׁ ,‬שוֹ ֲאלִ ים ָ ּבנַי‪ ,‬וְ ֵאיפֹה‬ ‫נָלוּן?‬

‫‪36‬‬

THERE, I SAID I left my home to show my children where I came from. There, I said, I lay on the ground a stone for a pillow, my head lower than the grass like the earth’s dust – everything is preserved there. We passed hills and forests that were caves, and water collected in pools along the way and the roads were bad. The car lurched over the ditches. In the waning light we reached the city of my birth. What is this sweet air? my children ask. What is that plaster falling from the walls? It’s nothing, said the old woman in the window. Here, also the future is past. And she closed her dry eyes like a bird that flies high, then folds its wings and dives. I was born here, I told my children. My parents and ancestors were born nearby. Everyone is born. Here was a house I told my children and the wind passed between me and the words. I wanted to show my children where I came from, and when will we eat, they asked, and where will we sleep?

37

‫איש יאמר‬ ‫ֹאמר לָ ּה‪ַ :‬א ְּת‬ ‫ִא ׁיש י ַ‬ ‫ֹאמר לָ ּה‪ַ :‬א ְּת‬ ‫י ַ‬ ‫וְ ֵאין ַמﬠֲ נֶה‪.‬‬ ‫ִהי‪ ,‬נ ְִהי‬ ‫אוֹ ְב ֶד ָיה‪ִ ,‬קינַת נְבוֹ כִ ים‬ ‫צֶ לֶ ם זִ ָּכרוֹ ן‪ָ :‬א ָדם ַחי וְ נוֹ ׁ ֵשם‬ ‫ֲח ִב ָיבה לַ ְ ּב ִר ּיוֹ ת‬ ‫ִא ּׁ ָשה כּ וֹ ְרﬠָ ה לָ לֶ ֶדת‪.‬‬ ‫ֵמעוֹ לָ ם ל ֹא יָ ַד ְענ ּו ֶאת צְ פוּנוֹ ֶת ָיה‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ ד עוֹ לָ ם ל ֹא נ ֵַדﬠ ֶאת קוֹ לָ ּה ַה ָ ּגלוּי‪.‬‬

‫‪38‬‬

SOMEONE WILL SAY Someone will say to her: You Will say to her: You and there’s no answer. Oh, the wailing of those who have lost her, lament of the bewildered. Image of a memory: a living, breathing person, creation’s beloved, a woman crouching in labor. We never knew her coded secrets. We’ll never know her unveiled voice.

39

‫היא היתה‬ ‫ִהיא ָהיְ ָתה ְק ַט ּנָה‪.‬‬ ‫ִהיא לָ ְב ׁ ָשה שִׂ ְמלָ ה ֲח ָד ׁ ָשה‪ִ ,‬היא ﬠָ נ ְָדה ִס ּנָר לָ ָבן‪.‬‬ ‫ִהיא נ ׁ ְָש ָמה ִ ּבכְ ֵבדוּת‪.‬‬ ‫ישה ֵּתה ַ ּב ֲח ַדר ָהאֹכֶ ל‪.‬‬ ‫ִהיא ִה ִ ּג ׁ ָ‬ ‫ֶרגַ ﬠ נ ְָטלָ ּה‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ﬠַ יִ ן ִמ ּתוֹ ‪ַ ‬ה ּ ָפנִים‪ְּ ,‬כמוֹ‬ ‫קוֹ ל ִמ ּתוֹ ‪ַ ‬ה ָ ּגרוֹ ן‪.‬‬ ‫ִהיא ל ֹא צָ ﬠֲ ָקה‪ִ .‬היא ָא ְמ ָרה‬ ‫ל ֹא טוֹ ב לִ י‪ ,‬ל ֹא טוֹ ב לִ י‪ ,‬יָ ד‬ ‫ְמ ַב ְ ּק ׁ ָשה לַ ֲחבֹק‬ ‫ֲאוִ יר‪ .‬ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם רוֹ אוֹ ת‬ ‫וְ ל ֹא‪ִ ,‬א ׁיש‬ ‫נוֹ ַתר לְ ַבדּ וֹ ַ ּב ֶח ֶדר ַה ָ ּבנוּי לִ ׁ ְשנַיִ ם‬ ‫ְּכח ׁ ֶֹש‪ ‬ﬠַ ל ּ ְפנֵי ְּתהוֹ ם‪ִ ,‬א ׁ ְש ּתוֹ‬ ‫ְ ּב ַד ְר ָּכ ּה לָ רו ַּח וְ לַ ַּמיִ ם‬ ‫נ ׁ ְָש ָמה ְ ּבזָ כְ ָר ּה‪ַ ,‬מה ֵ ּיﬠָ שֶׂ ה לָ ּה ְ ּב ׁ ָשﬠָ ה ׁ ֶש ָּכל‬ ‫ַה ּׁ ְש ָאר דְּ ָמ ָמה‬

‫‪40‬‬

SHE WAS She was small. She wore a new dress, had on a white apron. She was breathing heavily. She served tea in the dining hall. The moment excised her like an eye from a face, like a voice from the throat. She didn’t scream. She said I don’t feel good, don’t feel good, her hand grasping at air. Eyes seeing and not, a man left alone now in a room built for two like darkness over the deep, his wife on her way toward wind and water the soul upon remembering, what can be done for her now everything else is silence

41

‫מן הצל בﬠיני‬ ‫ַא ְּת ׁ ֶשצָ ﬠַ ְק ְּת ַ ּב ַּליְ לָ ה‪ֲ ,‬א ָבל‬ ‫ִה ּנ ְַח ְּת ֶאת יָ ֵד‪ ‬ﬠַ ל ַה ּ ֶפצַ ע‬ ‫ְמב ָֹהלָ ה‪ָ .‬הלַ כְ ְּת ַ ּבדֶּ ֶר‪ַ ‬ה ּיוֹ ְר ָדה‬ ‫רו ַּח ּ ִפ ְ ּז ָרה ﬠַ ל ּ ָפנַיִ ‪‬‬ ‫ְק ִריאוֹ ת צִ ּ ֳפ ִרים‪ .‬קוֹ לֵ ‪‬‬ ‫הוּא קוֹ לָ ּה‪ִ .‬מי זֹאת עוֹ לָ ה‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינַי ֶא ּ ָשׂ א ֶאל ֶה ָה ִרים‬ ‫ָה ְרחוֹ ִקים‪ָ ,‬ה ֲא ִד ׁ ִ‬ ‫ישים‪ַ ,‬ה ָּמ ׁ ְשלָ גִ ים‪ֶ ,‬אל ַה ַּמיִ ם ָה ַר ִ ּבים‬ ‫ַהנּוֹ ְפלִ ים‪ָ .‬ה ֲאנָחוֹ ת‪ָ ,‬ה ֲאנָחוֹ ת‪ֶ .‬אל ַה ְ ּיﬠָ רוֹ ת‬ ‫ֶאל ַה ְ ּיﬠָ רוֹ ת ָה ְרחוֹ ִקים‪ֶ ,‬אל ַה ְּמﬠָ רוֹ ת‬ ‫ַ ּב ְ ּיﬠָ רוֹ ת ַה ֵּלילִ ִ ּיים‪ִ .‬מי זֹאת עוֹ לָ ה‬ ‫ִמן ַה ֵ ּצל ְ ּבﬠֵ ינַי‪ ,‬ל ֹא עוֹ ד ִהיא‪ ,‬ל ֹא עוֹ ד‬ ‫ִהיא‪ַ .‬אף ַא ַחת‪ .‬ל ֹא‬ ‫ֵא ַדע‪ ,‬ל ֹא ֵא ַדﬠ ל ֹא ַא ַחת ֲאבו ָּדה‬ ‫ו ַּב ֵ ּצל ְ ּביָ ָד ּה‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ְשלו ָּחה ֶאל ּ ִפצְ ִעי ו ַּב ְ ּצﬠָ ָקה ַה ַ ּק ָּלה‪.‬‬

‫‪42‬‬

FROM THE SHADOW IN MY EYES You who shouted out in the night, but rested your hand on the wound frightened. You walked the downturned path winds scattering bird songs across your face. Your voice is her voice. Who is she who rises I lift my eyes to the hills the distant, the indifferent snow-covered hills, to the mighty waters falling, the sighs and sighs. To the forests the distant forests, to the caves in the night forests. Who is she who rises from the shadow in my eyes, no longer she, not she. No one. No I’ll not know not she who is lost and not the shadow in her hand stretched toward my wound and her small cry.

43

‫החרב‬ ‫ַה ּקוֹ ל ַה ָ ּצלוּל ָ ּבﬠֶ ֶרב‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ֶח ֶרב ְ ּביָ דוֹ‬ ‫חוֹ ֶר ֶתת לְ ַאט‬ ‫ָ ּב ֲא ֵפלָ ה ַה ּמו ֶּא ֶרת‬ ‫ָּתוֵ י ּ ָפנִים ֲא ׁ ֶשר ָא ַה ְב ָּת‪.‬‬ ‫ִמ ְת ַה ּ ֶפכֶ ת ַ ּב ָ ּבשָׂ ר ַה ַחי‪.‬‬

‫‪44‬‬

THE SWORD The crystal voice of evening. With sword in its hand it slowly carves in the illuminated dark the contours of a face that you loved. The sword turns and twists in the living flesh.

45

‫תן לי לראות את פניך‬ ‫ֵּתן לִ י לִ ְראוֹ ת ֶאת ּ ָפנֶי‪ֲ .‬אנִי ָרכוּן ָ ּברו ַּח‪ֲ ,‬א ָבל‬ ‫ֵאי ֶנ ּנִי רוֹ ֶאה ֶאת ּ ָפנֶי‪ .‬צֵ א ֵמ ַהח ׁ ֶֹש‪ ‬וְ ַהדְּ ָמ ָמה‪.‬‬ ‫קוֹ ל ּ ִפ ּצו ַּח ﬠֵ צִ ים נ ׁ ְִש ָמﬠ וְ ָה ֲא ָד ָמה ִמ ְת ַּכ ָּסה צִ ּנָה‪.‬‬ ‫ָאנָה ֲאנִי‪ּ ָ .‬בא ח ֶֹרף‪ַ .‬ה ׁ ּ ֶש ַטח ָה ֵריק ּ ָפתו ַּח לַ ּקֹר‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ְפ ַתח ֶאת ַהדֶּ לֶ ת ַה ְּסגו ָּרה‬ ‫ַא ָּתה ָהעוֹ ֵמד ָּכפוּף ַ ּב ַחלּ וֹ ן ִ ּבזְ רוֹ עוֹ ת קוֹ ְראוֹ ת לְ ﬠֶ זְ ָרה‪.‬‬

‫‪46‬‬

LET ME SEE YOUR FACE Let me see your face. I am bent to the wind, but I cannot see your face. Come out of the darkness and silence. The felling of trees can be heard and the ground is covered with frost. Where am I. Winter is coming. The empty space is bare to the cold. Open the closed door you who stand bowed at the window your arms calling out for help.

47

‫דג‬ ‫ִמי ׁ ָשם‬ ‫ׁ ָש ַמע?‬ ‫דָּ ג ַחי נִזְ ַרק לַ ַ ּי ָ ּב ׁ ָשה‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּבﬠַ ד ּ ִפיו ַה ּ ָפעוּר עוֹ ֵבר ָהרו ַּח‪.‬‬ ‫ַהכּ ֹל ׁ ָשכו ַּח‬ ‫ֵמא ֶֹפק ﬠַ ד א ֶֹפק‬ ‫לוֹ ֲח ׁ ִשים ַה ַּמיִ ם‪.‬‬

‫‪48‬‬

FISH Who there heard? A live fish tossed on land. The wind blows through its gaping mouth. From one horizon to the next all is forgotten whisper the Waters.

49

‫הרחיקי‪ ,‬לא‬ ‫ַה ְר ִח ִיקי‬ ‫ל ֹא ַּת ְח ְּת ִמי ּ ִפי ְ ּב ִפי‪‬‬ ‫ֲא ַד ֵ ּבר וְ יִ ְרוַ ח לָ ‪‬‬ ‫נ ׁ ְִשלָ ח וְ ׁ ָשב ָה ַרﬠַ ד‬ ‫צַ ﬠַ ד צַ ﬠַ ד ִ ּבי ִּתגְ ְ ּב ִרי ַּכ ָ ּים‬ ‫ְ ּב ׁ ֵש ֶפל נו ִּחי‪ִ ׁ ,‬שכְ ִבי‬ ‫ל ֹא ְּתכַ ִ ּבי‬ ‫ַא ִ ּביט ְ ּב ָפנַיִ ‪ִּ ,‬ת ְר ִאי‬ ‫ּ ְפנֵי ִּכעו ִּרי‬ ‫ֵא ׁש קוֹ לֵ ‪ּ ְ ‬בקוֹ ל ָהרו ַּח‬ ‫ּ ָפצוּﬠ ִ ּבי ַהכּ ֹל ּ ָפתו ַּח‪ַ .‬ה ְר ִח ִיקי‪ ,‬ל ֹא‬ ‫ַּת ּנ ִ‬ ‫ִיחי יָ ֵד‪ ‬ﬠַ ל ּגו ִּפי‪ִ ּ ,‬פי‪ ‬ﬠַ ל ָא ְפלוֹ ‪.‬‬

‫‪50‬‬

DISTANCE YOURSELF, DON’T Distance yourself don’t seal my mouth with your mouth I’ll speak and you’ll be relieved, the trembling dispatched and returned. Step by step you’ll increase in me like the sea, at low tide lie down, rest, don’t turn off the lights I’ll study your face, you’ll see my ugliness the fire of your voice in the voice of the wind the wounded in me wide open. Distance yourself, don’t lay your hand on my body, your mouth on its darkness.

51

‫קבורה‬ ‫ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו‪ֵ ,‬ר ִעי‪ִּ ,‬ת ְחיֶ ה‬ ‫ֲא ׁ ֶשר ָרא ּו ﬠֵ ינֶי‪‬‬ ‫לְ ֶרגֶ ל ַה ַ ּיﬠַ ר ַה ְּמ ֻע ּנָן‬ ‫ֲא ָד ָמה ּ ְפתו ָּחה וְ לַ ָחה‪ ,‬דַּ ם ﬠָ לִ ים‬ ‫י־ס ֶדר זֶ ה ׁ ֶש ַּל ֶט ַבע‬ ‫ָמ ׁ ְשלָ ‪ִ ,‬א ֵ‬ ‫ֶיה‪ ,‬וְ ל ֹא יִ ְהי ּו‬ ‫ְ ּב ׁ ָשﬠָ ה ׁ ֶש ָט ַמ ּנ ּו ּגו ָּפ ּה‪ ,‬יָ ֶד ָיה‪ָ ּ ,‬פנ ָ‬ ‫ֶאלָ א זֵ כֶ ר יָ ִמים וְ קוֹ ל‬ ‫ֲא ׁ ֶשר ׁ ָש ַמ ְע ָּת ַ ּגם ִּת ׁ ְש ַמע‬ ‫ַ ּב ָ ּי ִמים ַה ָ ּב ִאים ְ ּב ָד ְמ‪‬‬ ‫ו ְּב ַדם ָהﬠֵ צִ ים ַה ּסוֹ ﬠֵ ר ֵמﬠָ לֶ י‪‬‬ ‫וְ נוֹ ֵטף ﬠַ ל ּ ָפנֶי‪ ‬וְ ﬠַ ל יָ ֶדי‪ ‬ו ְּבﬠָ נָן ו ְּבכָ ל ַה ּנ ְִפ ָּתח‬ ‫ִמ ִ ּב ְפנִים‪ּ ַ ,‬ב ַ ּקיִ ץ ו ַּב ְּס ָתו ﬠַ ד ֲא ׁ ֶשר‬ ‫ִּת ׁ ְש ַּכח ַגּם ִּת ּׁ ָשכַ ח‪.‬‬

‫‪52‬‬

BURIAL Now, my friend, you’ll live what your eyes have seen at the foot of the cloud-covered forest earth open and damp, blood of leaves falling, nature’s disorder at the hour they buried her body, her hands, her face, now they’ll be only a memory of days gone by and the voice you heard you’ll hear in the coming days in your blood and the trees’ blood swirling above you and dripping on your face on your hands and in the clouds in all that opens from within, in summer and autumn until you forget are also forgotten.

53

‫יקיצה‬ ‫ֵאינִי ַמ ְת ִחיל‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ִשיר ַמ ְת ִחיל‬ ‫אוֹ ִתי‪ׁ ,‬שוּב‬ ‫ר־מה ִמ ְתרוֹ ֵמם ֵמ ַהחוֹ ל ַה ָּכ ֵבד‪ְ ,‬מעוֹ ֵפף‬ ‫דְּ ַב ָ‬ ‫וּכְ ָבר ׁ ָשל ֹׁש ׁ ָשנִים לְ ַא ְר ָ ּב ִעים‬ ‫ׁ ָשנִים ֵמﬠָ לַ י אוֹ ָתם ׁ ָש ַמיִ ם‪ּ ִ ,‬בי‬ ‫אוֹ תוֹ ִמ ְד ָ ּבר‪ ,‬לְ ﬠֵ ינַי‬ ‫ﬠֵ ץ ַה ּ ִפלְ ּ ֵפל ַה ְּמ ׁ ַש ּנֶה דּ ו ָּמם ִמ ְפﬠָ ם ו ִּמ ְפﬠָ ם‬ ‫וְ ַה ָ ּי ֵר ַח ׁ ֶשעוֹ לֶ ה ְ ּבעוֹ ְר ַקי‬ ‫וְ ַה ִ ּצ ּ ֳפ ִרים‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵקן וָ ֵקן ֲחבוּיִ ים ׁ ֶשל‬ ‫שְׂ ﬠָ ֵר‪‬‬ ‫אשוֹ נָה‬ ‫לָ ִר ׁ‬ ‫ָא ַמ ְר ִּתי ׁשוּב‬ ‫לָ ‪ ?‬לִ י? לְ ִמי?‬ ‫ִמ ִּלים ֵא ֶּלה ַה ַּמ ְת ִחילוֹ ת‬

‫‪54‬‬

AWAKENING I don’t begin my poem begins me, again something lifting from the heavy sand, fluttering And it’s already three years to forty years above me the same skies, in me the same desert, before my eyes the pepper tree from time to time changing silently and the moon that rises in my veins and the birds in the hidden nests of your hair For the first time I said again For you? For me? For whom? These words which begin

55

‫יקיצה )‪(2‬‬ ‫ַ ּב ׁ ּ ֵשנָה ַה ׁ ּ ְשח ּונָה ַה ּזֹאת ֲאנִי‬ ‫ַ ּבח ׁ ֶֹש‪ּ ְ ‬בלִ י שָׂ ָפה‬ ‫ֵהיכָ ן ַא ְּת‬ ‫ִמ ְס ַּת ֶּת ֶרת‬ ‫צִ ּפוֹ ר ﬠֲ שׂ וּיָ ה ֵא ֶפר‬ ‫ֵ ּבין ָהﬠֲ שָׂ ִבים ַה ְגּבוֹ ִהים‬ ‫ׁ ִש ָירה ָהיְ ָתה‬ ‫ִמ ְס ַּת ֶּת ֶרת ְ ּבﬠֵ ינַיִ ‪ָ ‬הﬠֲ גֻ לּ וֹ ת‬ ‫ׁשו ִּבי‪ׁ ,‬שו ִּבי ֵמ ַה ֶּמלַ ח ָה ָא ֵפל‬ ‫ְ ּב ִר ַיסיִ ‪ּ ְ ,‬ג ִעי‬ ‫ִ ּבי‪ַ ּ ,‬פﬠַ ם ַא ַחת עוֹ ד‬ ‫ׁ ְשﬠָ ֵר‪ָ ‬ה ָארֹ‪ַ ‬החוֹ זֵ ר ﬠַ ל ּ ָפנַי ְמכַ ֶּסה‬ ‫ַה ִאם הוּא ְמכַ ֶּסה ֵה ֵיטב ֶאת ּגו ֵּפ‪ָ ‬ה ָרזֶ ה‬ ‫ַ ּב ּקֹר ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ַא ְּת‬ ‫ֵא ֶפר וְ ﬠֵ ינֵי צִ ּפוֹ ר‬ ‫לְ ַאט‬ ‫ּפוֹ ַת ַחת ֶאת ﬠֵ ינַי ְ ּבקוֹ ל דְּ ָמעוֹ ת‬

‫‪56‬‬

AWAKENING (2) In this parched sleep I am in a wordless dark where you are hiding bird of ash in the high grass poetry used to hide in your round eyes Come back, come back from the dark salt on your lashes, touch me, one more time Your long hair before my eyes again covers does it cover your thin body in this cold You ash and bird eyes slowly opening my eyes with the sound of tears

57

‫♦‬

‫לִ ׁ ְשלוֹ ַח יָ ד ֶאל ּתוֹ ‪ָ ‬העוֹ לָ ם ֶּכﬠֶ ֶבד ָהאוֹ ֵחז‬ ‫ְ ּב ֶב ֶר‪ֲ ‬אדוֹ נוֹ ‪ֵּ .‬תן לִ י לָ גַ ﬠַ ת ְ ּבגַ ְר ֵ ּגר ו ְּבצֵ ל ׁ ֶשל ﬠָ לֶ ה‬ ‫ְ ּבכָ ל ַהנּוֹ ׁ ֵשם ָּכל ַה ּמו ָּאר ָה ָא ֵפל ַה ֶ ּזה ו ְּקצֵ ה ָּכל ֶאצְ ַ ּבע‬ ‫ַה ֵּלל‬ ‫ָר ִא ִיתי ַה ְר ֵ ּבה‪ָ ,‬ר ִא ִיתי ְמﬠָ ט‪ .‬ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו‬ ‫לִ ׁ ְשלוֹ ַח יָ ד ֶאל ַה ָ ּקרוֹ ב‪ַ ,‬ה ְּמב ָֹר‪ָ .‬האוֹ ר‬ ‫ַמנ ְִמי‪ ‬ﬠֵ ינַי ְ ּב ׁ ֶש ֶקט ַרב‪ ,‬רוּחוֹ ת ָ ּב ִאים ַ ּב ֲח ׁ ַשאי‬ ‫יש ּיוֹ ת‬ ‫ׁ ָש ִטים ﬠַ ל ֲא ָד ָמה ֲחרו ׁ ָּשה ַרגְ לֵ י ָא ָדם חוֹ לְ פוֹ ת ֲח ִר ׁ ִ‬ ‫ִ ּבכְ ֵאב אוֹ ֵהב‪ַ .‬אל ְּת ָס ֵרב‪ַ .‬אל־נָא ִּת ְס ּגֹר אוֹ ִתי‬ ‫ְ ּבתוֹ ך לִ ִ ּבי‪ֲ .‬אנִי ׁשוֹ לֵ ַח יָ ד –‬

‫‪58‬‬

♦ Reaching out into the world like a slave clutching at his master’s knee. Let me touch the grain, shade of the leaf, all that breathes, this whole lit-up darkness and every fingertip Praise I’ve seen much, I’ve seen little. Now reaching out toward what is near, what is blessed. Light lowers my eyes most quietly, winds arrive in secret sailing over the plowed land, man’s feet pass by silently with loving pain. Don’t deny me. Please, don’t close me up in my heart. I’m reaching out –

59

‫לך‪ ,‬אם תוכל‬ ‫לֵ ‪ִ ,‬אם ּתוּכַ ל‬ ‫ַ ּב ְ ּיﬠָ רוֹ ת ַהחו ִּמים‬ ‫ׁ ִשים ִמצְ ֲח‪ֶ ‬אל ַה ְ ּגזָ ִעים‬ ‫ל ֹא ִּתזְ כּ ֹר‪ִ ,‬אם ּתוּכַ ל‬ ‫ּ ַפﬠֲ ֵמי נ ְִרדָּ ף ַ ּב ַ ּיﬠַ ר‬ ‫ַה ֲאזֵ ן לַ ּנ ָ ַּקר‬ ‫ﬠָ לִ ים ְמכַ ִּסים‬ ‫עוֹ ד ְמﬠַ ט ַה ִּל ְבלוּב‬ ‫ַה ּנ ָ ִּצנִים ְּכ ָבר נ ְִר ִאים ָ ּב ָא ֶרץ‬ ‫דַּ ע‪ִ ,‬אם ּתוּכַ ל‬ ‫ִּכי ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו ָא ִביב‪ .‬ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו ַא ָּתה עוֹ ד נוֹ ׁ ֵשם‬ ‫ַ ּב ְ ּיﬠָ רוֹ ת ַהחו ִּמים‪.‬‬

‫‪60‬‬

GO, IF YOU CAN Go, if you can into the brown forests Rest your forehead against the tree-trunks Don’t remember, if you can the heartbeats of the hunted in the forest Listen to the woodpecker The leaves cover everything soon there will be blossoming First buds are already seen in the homeland Know, if you can that now it’s spring. Now you are still breathing in the brown forests.

61

‫‪‬‬

‫ׁ ִש ַירת ַה ִ ּצ ּפוֹ ר ַה ְ ּקפו ָּאה ׁ ֶשל ַה ַּליְ לָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫יָ ֵר ַח ֵאינוֹ נ ְִר ֶאה עוֹ ד‬ ‫יָ ֵר ַח‪ .‬דָּ ם לָ ָבן‬ ‫דָּ ֵבק ָ ּב ֲא ָד ָמה ָהﬠֲ ֻר ָּמה‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ָהי ּו לֵ ילוֹ ת ֲא ֵח ִרים‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאין לִ זְ כּ ֹר לֵ ילוֹ ת ֲא ֵח ִרים ׁ ֶש ָהי ּו‬ ‫ָמעוֹ ן לָ נ ּו ִמדּ וֹ ר לְ דוֹ ר ְ ּב ֶט ֶרם יֻ ְּלד ּו ָה ִרים‬ ‫ַה ְר ֵרי ַה ּקֹר וַ ﬠֲ צֵ י ַהדּ ֹק‬ ‫וְ ַה ּ ַפ ַחד וְ ַהכּ וֹ כָ ִבים ַהנּוֹ ָר ִאים‬ ‫ֵמﬠַ ל לֶ ָחזֶ ה ַה ָ ּגלוּי ַּכ ֲא ׁ ֶשר ֲאנ ְַחנ ּו ְ ּבﬠֵ ינֵי צִ ּ ֳפ ִרים‬ ‫ו ְּבגוּף ׁ ֶשל ׁ ִש ָירה ָא ַה ְבנ ּו ָא ַה ְבנ ּו‬ ‫ׁשוּב וְ ׁשוּב‬ ‫ֵאין לִ זְ כּ ֹר‪.‬‬

‫‪62‬‬

♦ The song of the frozen bird of the night. The moon no longer looks like a moon. White blood is glued to the naked earth. There were no other nights. There’s no remembering other nights that were for us a home, generation after generation, before hills were born the hills of the cold and the heavenly trees of fear and the terrible stars above the exposed chest while we in the birds’ eyes and in the body of song loved and loved again and again there’s no remembering.

63

‫♦‬

‫ָּכל עוֹ ד ַא ָּתה אוֹ ֵמר‬ ‫ִּכי סוֹ ף‪ִּ ,‬כי ֵאין יוֹ ֵתר‬ ‫ל ֹא כֵ ן ל ֹא ל ֹא‬ ‫דַּ י ְק ָרב‪ .‬יֵ ׁש‬ ‫ישה ּו אוֹ ֵמר‬ ‫ִמ ׁ ֶ‬ ‫ֲאנִי ׁשוֹ ֵמﬠַ ֶאת קוֹ לוֹ‬ ‫ישהוּ‪ִּ ,‬כי ַרב‬ ‫ׁ ֶשל ִמ ׁ ֶ‬ ‫ישה ּו אוֹ ֵמר‬ ‫ִּכי טוֹ ב‪ ,‬יֵ ׁש ִמ ׁ ֶ‬ ‫ישה ּו‬ ‫לֵ אמֹר יֵ ׁש ִמ ׁ ֶ‬ ‫ֲא ׁ ֶשר נוֹ ׁ ֵשם ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו‪.‬‬

‫‪64‬‬

♦ As long as you say it’s over, because there’s nothing left not no not yes just too much struggle, there’s Someone else saying I can hear someone’s voice, it is many it is good, there’s someone who will say there’s someone who is breathing now.

65

III

The Battles of the Night Left Behind

‫קרבות הלילה הותירו‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ֶקט ַה ּיוֹ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ל ּו נ ִָּתן לִ ׁישֹן ְמﬠַ ט‪.‬‬ ‫יוֹ ם‪ ,‬יוֹ ם וְ יוֹ ם‪ ,‬יוֹ ם ו ׁ ְּשנַיִ ם‪ ,‬יוֹ ם‬ ‫ו ׁ ְּשל ׁ ָֹשה יוֹ ם וְ ַא ְר ָ ּבﬠָ ה יוֹ ם וַ ֲח ִמ ׁ ּ ָשה‬ ‫יוֹ ם וְ ׁ ִש ׁ ּ ָשה וְ לַ יְ לָ ה ֶא ָחד –‬ ‫ַה ַה ָּכ ָרה ל ֹא ָחזְ ָרה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲח ָפצִ ים ֲא ָח ִדים ְ ּבלִ י ְ ּבﬠָ לִ ים‪.‬‬ ‫ּגו ִּפ ָ ּיה ְמיֻ ַ ּזﬠַ ת‪ ,‬נְﬠָ לִ ים ׁ ְשחוּקוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּב ׁ ּ ָש ָרב ַ ּגם ַה ֵ ּצל ַה ָ ּבלוּי ׁ ֶשל ﬠֵ ץ ֵא ָקלִ ּ ְיפט ַר ֲח ָמיו ְמ ֻר ִ ּבים‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ָשﬠָ ה ַק ָּלה‪ַ ,‬רק ׁ ָשﬠָ ה ַק ָּלה‪ ,‬לְ ַה ֲחלִ יף כּ ַֹח‪.‬‬ ‫ָהיָ ה ְמ ַח ֵ ּי‪ְּ ‬כ ׁ ֶש ּ ָפנ ּו ֵאלָ יו‪ .‬ל ֹא דָּ ַחק וְ ל ֹא ָהיָ ה דָּ חוּק‪.‬‬ ‫ִא ׁ ְש ּתוֹ ַ ּבח ֶֹד ׁש ָה ְר ִב ִיעי‪.‬‬ ‫זְ ִחילַ ת ּתוֹ לָ ִעים ֵאין סוֹ ף ַ ּב ִּמזְ ָ ּבלָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ָה ֲא ָד ָמה ָה ֲא ֻד ָּמה ִמ ְת ַה ּ ֶפכֶ ת ֶרגַ ﬠ ֶרגַ ע‪.‬‬ ‫ֶ ּג ֶתה ָח ׁ ַשב‪ַ ,‬א ַחר ּ ְפ ִט ָירתוֹ ִּת ְהיֶ ה יָ דוֹ אוּלַ י ּ ַפ ְר ּ ָפר‪.‬‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ֲחלוֹ ם ׁ ֶש ַא ָּתה נ ְִקלָ ﬠ בּ וֹ ‪ ,‬וְ ֵאין מוֹ צָ א‪.‬‬

‫‪68‬‬

THE BATTLES OF THE NIGHT LEFT BEHIND The quiet of day. If only sleep were possible. A day, a day and another day, a day and two, a day and three a day and four a day and five a day and six and one night – consciousness has not returned. A few possessions with no owners. A sweaty undershirt, worn-down boots. In the heat-wave even the faded shade of a eucalyptus tree is great mercy. A moment or two, no more, to restore energy. He used to smile when turned to. He never pressed, was never pressured. His wife is in her fourth month. Endless crawling of the worms in the dunghill. The red earth turns over moment by moment. Goethe thought, after his death his hand would become perhaps a butterfly. There are dreams you become entwined in, and there’s no way out.

69

‫ופני האם בכף‬ ‫וְ ִאם ַה ּ ַפﬠַ ם זֶ ה ְ ּבנָם ׁ ֶשל ַה ׁ ּ ְשכֵ נִים‬ ‫ֲא ׁ ֶשר ִמ ֶּמ ּנ ּו ל ֹא נוֹ ַתר ְמאוּם לֶ ﬠָ ָפר‬ ‫וְ ִאם ַה ּ ַפﬠַ ם זֶ ה ְ ּבנָם ׁ ֶשל ַה ׁ ְשכֵ נִים‬ ‫וְ ָהרו ַּח ל ֹא ﬠָ ַמד וְ ָהﬠֵ ץ ל ֹא נֶﬠֱ ַקר וְ ַה ֶּכלֶ ב נ ַָבח‬ ‫וְ ָא ַמ ְרנ ּו נוֹ ָרא נוֹ ָרא ֲה ֵרי זֶ ה‬ ‫נוֹ ָרא‪ּ .‬תוֹ ָדה לָ ֵאל‪ּ ְ ,‬בנָם ׁ ֶשל ַה ּׁ ְשכֵ נִים‬ ‫ָ ּברוּ‪ַ ‬ה ׁ ּ ֵשם‪ּ ֶ ,‬בן‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ְשכֵ נִים –‬ ‫ְּכלוּם ל ֹא ׁ ָשנִים‪ְּ ,‬כלוּם ל ֹא נ ְִמ ׁ ָש‪ָ ׁ ‬שנִים‬ ‫ָּכל ֶרגַ ﬠ ׁ ֶש ָהיִ ינ ּו ְּכרוּיִ ים‬ ‫ֹאמר ׁ ָשלוֹ ם לִ י‪ֲ ,‬אנִי ׁ ָשלֵ ם‪ְ ׁ ,‬שלוֹ ִמי טוֹ ב‬ ‫לַ ּקוֹ ל ׁ ֶש ָ ּיבוֹ א ֵמﬠֵ ֶבר לַ ַ ּקו וְ י ַ‬ ‫ﬠַ ד ׁ ֶש ּנִגְ זַ ר ַהכּ ֹל וְ נ ְֶח ַּת‪ ‬ו ְּבל ֹא ַר ֲח ִמים‬ ‫וְ הוֹ ָריו זְ ֵקנִים‬ ‫וְ זֶ ה ַה ּסוֹ ף‪ .‬וְ ֵאי‪ ‬לְ ַה ִ ּביט וְ ֵהם ְ ּבנֵי ָא ָדם‬ ‫ְמ ֻא ָ ּבנִים‪ .‬ו ַּב ּ ָפנִים ַה ּתוֹ הוֹ ת ְ ּבלִ י נִיﬠַ ּ ְפנֵי ַח ָ ּיה גּוֹ ְס ָסה ּ ְפנֵי ָה ָאב‬ ‫ו ְּפנֵי ָה ֵאם ׁ ֶש ֵאי ֶנ ּנָה עוֹ ד ֵאם וְ ֵאין לָ ּה ּ ָפנִים‪ּ ַ ,‬ב ַּכף?‬

‫‪70‬‬

THE MOTHER’S FACE IN THE PALM OF HER HANDS And if this time it’s the neighbors’ son of whom nothing is left for dust and if this time it’s the neighbors’ son and the winds didn’t stand still the trees weren’t uprooted the dog kept barking and we said its terrible terrible because it’s terrible. Thank god, the neighbors’ son thank god, the neighbors’ boy – nothing lasts an eternity, every second we were glued to the voice speaking from the other end of the line which would say I’m fine, I’m in one piece, I’m safe and sound until everything was mercilessly ripped to shreds and his parents are old and this is the end. How are we to look now they are stone people, and in their bewildered frozen faces, the face of a dying animal, the father’s face and the face of the mother who is no longer a mother, and no longer has a face, in the palm of her hands?

71

‫עיר זו‬ ‫עקודה על סלעיה‬ ‫ﬠֲ קו ָּדה ﬠַ ל ְסלָ ﬠֶ ָיה עוֹ לָ ה‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵא ׁש נִכְ ּ ֶפ ׁ ֶשת ְ ּבאוֹ ר ַה ָּת ִמיד‬ ‫ִעיר זוֹ הוֹ ִמ ָ ּיה‬ ‫חוֹ ָמה לִ ְפנִים חוֹ ָמה‬ ‫ּופֹה וָ ׁ ָשם ִמגְ דָּ ל‬ ‫ׁ ַשוְ ﬠָ ה דַּ ָ ּקה‬ ‫רו ַּח זֵ ִיתים ֲאפ ָֹרה‬ ‫ִעיר ָּכנָף ְקרוּﬠָ ה ֵ ּבין ָה ִרים נִכְ ֶס ֶפת‬ ‫ֵמא ֶֹדם ֶר ׁ ֶשת נִצְ ָח ּה‬ ‫לִ ְפר ַֹח‬ ‫ׁ ְשבוּיָ ה‬ ‫ִ ּב ׁ ְשﬠָ ִרים חוֹ ְרגִ ים ִ ּב ְפנוֹ ת ַה ּיוֹ ם‬ ‫לְ ִה ּ ָפ ַתח לְ ִה ּ ָפ ַתח‬ ‫ת־א ׁש ְ ּביָ דוֹ ַה ּׁ ְשח ָֹרה ׁ ֶשל ַה ַּמלְ ָא‪‬‬ ‫ֲחתו ָּמה ִמכְ וַ ֵ‬

‫‪72‬‬

THIS CITY [ JERUSALEM] Bound on Her Boulders Bound on her boulders a burnt offering in flames trampled by light of the daily sacrifice this teeming city, longing in its walls within walls scattered towers thin outcries grey wind of the olives torn among the hills yearned-for city of wings from her red thicket eternity blossoming imprisoned in gates straying at day’s end to open and open She is marked by a branding-iron in the Angel’s black hand

73

‫אבן רוצה לזרם‬ ‫ֶא ֶבן רוֹ צָ ה לִ זְ רֹם‬ ‫ﬠֵ ץ ַה ַ ּזיִ ת ְמ ַב ֵ ּק ׁש לְ ִה ְת ַא ֵ ּבן‬ ‫ְּכנ ִֵס ּיוֹ ת ׁשוֹ ֲאלוֹ ת ֶאת לִ ָ ּבן לָ עוּף‬ ‫ﬠָ נָן יוֹ ׁ ֵשב ﬠַ ל ַהר ַה ַ ּביִ ת‬ ‫ׁ ְש ָמ ׁשוֹ ת ָס ְבב ּו ַ ּבחוּצוֹ ת‪ָ ,‬הי ּו לְ קוֹ צִ ים‬ ‫ִמלְ ָחמוֹ ת ׁ ֶשﬠָ ְבר ּו ָ ּב ּה לַ ֲחלוֹ מוֹ ת‬ ‫ר־פנִים‬ ‫צְ לָ לִ ים ְמ ַה ְּלכִ ים ִ ּב ְמאוֹ ּ ָ‬ ‫דִּ ְמ ָמ ָת ּה ּ ַפﬠֲ מוֹ נִים ּ ַפﬠֲ מוֹ נִים‬ ‫ֶיה זוֹ ְרמוֹ ת‬ ‫ֲא ָבנ ָ‬ ‫ﬠֵ ץ ַה ַ ּזיִ ת ֶא ֶבן‬ ‫ַה ָ ּי ׁ ֵשן וְ לִ בּ וֹ ﬠֵ ר יוֹ ֵדﬠ ַ ּב ַּליְ לָ ה‬ ‫ִעיר ְּכ ֵב ָדה זוֹ עוֹ לָ ה לָ ׁשוּט ַ ּב ְּל ָבנָה‬

‫‪74‬‬

Stones Want to Flow Stones want to flow The olive tree wants to be stone Churches long to fly A cloud sits on the Temple Mount Suns wandered on her outskirts, became thorns Wars passed through and became dreams Shadows walk around with bright faces Her silence is bells and bells Her stones flow The olive tree is stone He who sleeps and his heart is awake knows how at night this heavy city ascends to walk with the moon

75

‫יום כמו לילה כמו‬ ‫יוֹ ם ְּכמוֹ לַ יְ לָ ה ְּכמוֹ‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ֶמ ׁש ֵא ׁש‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ְ ּבכִ י ְ ּבלִ י קוֹ ל ִעיר זוֹ ֵאיפֹה‬ ‫ֲאנ ְַחנ ּו ַ ּב ֲחלוֹ ם ְּכמוֹ אוֹ ר‬ ‫זָ רוּﬠַ ַמ ְק ּ ִפיא ֲא ָבנִים ֲא ָבנִים ﬠַ ד‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ נֶצַ ח ֶסלַ ﬠ ִעיר זוֹ‬ ‫ְמﬠָ רוֹ ת אוֹ ָ ּב ִּתים ְּכמוֹ‬ ‫ִע ִ ּיים ְּכמוֹ ָחצָ ץ ְּכמוֹ ﬠָ ָפר ﬠַ ד דַּ ק רו ַּח‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ָהיִ ינ ּו ָּכאן‬ ‫יוֹ ם אוֹ לַ יְ לָ ה‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ְ ּבלִ י קוֹ ל ְּכמוֹ ַ ּב ֲחלוֹ ם ַמ ָּמ ׁש ָהיִ ינ ּו‬ ‫ָּכאן ְמ ַה ְּלכִ ים ְ ּב ִעיר זוֹ זֵ כֶ ר‬ ‫ﬠָ מוּם ְ ּבכִ י ְּכ ָמבוֹ א ָח ׁשוּ‪ִ ‬ס ְמ ָטה‬ ‫ׁ ְשקוּﬠָ ה ְ ּב ִס ְמ ָטה ַח ִּכי‬ ‫ַח ִּכי ַאל ֵּתﬠָ לְ ִמי ַרק ֶרגַ ﬠ עוֹ ד ֶרגַ ﬠ ְּכמוֹ‬ ‫ַח ִ ּיים‬

‫‪76‬‬

Day Like Night Like Day like night like sunfire like voiceless cries this city where we live in a dream like sown lights freezing the stones eternal stones like rock-eternity this city caves or homes like ruins like gravel like unending wind-thin dust as though we were here day or night as though voiceless as in a dream we were really here wandering through this city remnants of muted cries like a dark entryway an alley sunken in the alley wait wait don’t vanish just one moment one more moment like Life

77

‫שמים שקטים ופתוחים‬ ‫ׁ ָש ַמיִ ם ׁ ְש ֵק ִטים ו ְּפתו ִּחים‬ ‫ֵמﬠַ ל ִעיר ׁ ֶש ָהיְ ָתה ֲא ֻח ַ ּזת ֱאל ִֹהים‬ ‫ֵמﬠַ ל ִעיר ׁ ֶש ָהיְ ָתה ֲא ֻח ָ ּזה‬ ‫ֵמﬠַ ל ִעיר ׁ ֶש ָהיְ ָתה‬ ‫ׁ ָש ַמיִ ם ּ ְפתו ִּחים ו ׁ ְּש ֵק ִטים‬

‫‪78‬‬

Quiet and Open Skies Quiet and open skies above a City God’s treasured possession above a City that was God-possessed above a City that was possessed above a City that was open and quiet skies

79

‫ירח וכוכבים אשר כוננתה‬ ‫ְ ּברו ִּרים ְּכמוֹ ִמ ְד ָ ּבר ָ ּב ֲא ֵפלָ ה‬ ‫ֵהם ַמ ׁ ְש ִק ִיפים ﬠָ לֵ ינוּ‪ :‬צֶ ֶדק‪ַ ,‬מ ְאדִּ ים וְ ַה ַ ּצ ָ ּיד‬ ‫– ל ֹא יָ כְ ל ּו לַ ﬠֲ צֹם ֶאת ﬠֵ ינָיו‪ .‬ﬠַ ל ַה ַ ּגב‪ַ .‬קו דָּ ם דַּ ק‪ָ ּ .‬פנָיו –‬ ‫הוֹ ְפכִ ים ּ ָפנֵינ ּו צֵ ל וָ צֵ ל וַ ֲא ָבנִים ׁ ְשבוּרוֹ ת‪.‬‬

‫‪80‬‬

MOON AND STARS THAT YOU CREATED As clear as the desert in darkness they look down on us: Jupiter, Mars and the Hunter – But they couldn’t close his eyes. There where he lies, on his back. Slender blood streak. And his face – transforms our face into shadows, shades and broken stones.

81

‫קיץ‬ ‫ַקיִ ץ קוֹ ֵרא לַ ּקוֹ צִ ים ֵא ׁש‬ ‫ֹאת־ש ַמיִ ם‬ ‫־אין־לוֹ ַמר־ז ׁ ָ‬ ‫ׁ ָשם ָ ּב ֵ‬ ‫ִמ ְת ַ ּגלְ ֶ ּגלֶ ת ִמ ְת־‬ ‫בּ וֹ ֶס ֶסת ַה ׁ ּ ֶש ֶמ ׁש‬ ‫ַה ּ ָשׂ דוֹ ת ָס ִביב צְ רו ִּבים‪ּ .‬פֹה ׁ ָשם‬ ‫ִּכ ְת ֵמי ִּת ָירס יָ רֹק ְּכמוֹ‬ ‫ּ ְפצָ ִעים ׁ ֶשלּ ֹא ִהגְ לִ ידוּ‪ .‬זֹאת ָה ֶא ֶמת‬ ‫ֵאין לְ כַ ֵחד ַּת ַחת ַה ָּל ׁשוֹ ן‬ ‫ַהבּ וֹ ﬠֶ ֶרת ַה ְּמ ׁ ֻש ְר ֶ ּב ֶבת ַּת ַחת‬ ‫ֵאי‪‬־קוֹ ְר ִאים־לָ זֶ ה ַה ּׁ ָש ַמיִ ם‬ ‫ַה ֵּמ ִתים‪ֵ ,‬אין לְ כַ ֵחד‪ַ ,‬ה ֵּמ ִתים‬ ‫ָה ַר ִ ּבים ִמ ְת ַר ִ ּבים ִמ ּיוֹ ם לְ יוֹ ם‬ ‫נ ָ ִּב ִטים ְ ּבﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‪ֵ ,‬אין לוֹ ַמר זֹאת‪ֵ ,‬מתוֹ ת‬ ‫וְ ֵאין לְ כַ ֵחד‪ָ .‬ה ַאלְ ָמנוֹ ת‬ ‫צְ ִעירוֹ ת‪ָ .‬אזְ נֵי ִא ָּמהוֹ ת‬ ‫ְּכ ֵבדוֹ ת‪ָ ּ .‬פנֵינ ּו‬ ‫ַה ִ ּצדָּ ה‪ .‬זֹאת ָה ֱא ֶמת‪ַ ,‬ה ִּמלְ ָח ָמה‬ ‫ֵאין לְ כַ ֵחד‪ ,‬טוֹ ֶר ֶפת‬ ‫עוֹ ד ַקיִ ץ עוֹ ד ַקיִ ץ‬ ‫ת־מוֶ ת‪ ,‬חוֹ לֶ ֶמת דָּ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ָ ּב ֲא ָד ָמה ְמ ׁ ֻש ַ ּגﬠַ ָ‬

‫‪82‬‬

SUMMER Summer calls forth its fire thorns and there in the can’t-be-called-a-sky the sun is spinning turning wallowing The fields all around are singed. Here and there are patches of corn green like open sores. This is the truth there’s no concealing it under the burning stuck-out tongue under the what’s-it-called sky The dead, there’s no denying it, the many dead are multiplying day by day, gazing with eyes that are, it-shouldn’t-be said, dead and there’s no denying. The widows are young. The mothers deaf. We turn our faces away. This is the truth, the War there’s no denying, devours another summer and then another in this death-demented, blood-dreaming land.

83

‫המדבר האחרון‬ ‫ָ ּבﬠַ ר‪ְּ .‬כמוֹ ְק ִריאוֹ ת ַקלּ וֹ ת‬ ‫ָה ֵא ׁש ְ ּבקוֹ צָ יו‪ְ .‬קצָ ת‬ ‫ִק ְרﬠֵ י קוֹ לוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ַחר ֻא ַּכל‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאין לְ ַה ְבדִּ יל ֵ ּבין חוֹ ל לְ חוֹ ל‬ ‫ֵאיפֹה‬

‫ִמי‬

‫ַמה‬ ‫ּ ְפנֵי ַה ִּמ ְד ָ ּבר ַה ְּמחוּקוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ִּת ְפ ַר ַחת דְּ ָמ ָמה‪.‬‬

‫‪84‬‬

THE LAST DESERT Burned. The fire in its thorns like faint callings. A few ragged voices. Then was devoured. There’s no distinguishing sand from sand Where

who

What The desert’s erased face. Silence breeding.

85

‫פיאטה רונדניני‬ ‫ֹאש‪ ‬לִ כְ ֵת ִפי‪ ,‬עוֹ ד יָ ִדי‬ ‫עוֹ ד ר ׁ ְ‬ ‫ָאנָה יָ ֶדי‪?‬‬ ‫עוֹ ד ׁ ְשנֵינ ּו ֶק ׁ ֶשת ַא ַחת‬ ‫עוֹ ד ַה ְ ּצﬠָ ָקה ָ ּב ֶא ֶבן‪ .‬עוֹ ד‬ ‫ַא ָּתה‬ ‫ַהחוֹ ֵמק‪ַ ,‬ה ּגוּף ַהחוֹ ֵמק‪ ,‬ל ֹא‬ ‫ל ֹא‬ ‫ְ ּבנִי‬

‫‪86‬‬

RONDANINI PIETÀ Still your head on my shoulder, still my hand where is your hand? Still the two of us one arc still the scream in stone. Still you slipping away, the body slipping away, no no my son

87

‫‪1983‬‬ ‫‪1‬‬

‫ַ ּביִ ת‬ ‫ל ֹא ַ ּביִ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ָחלָ ל‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ַש ְרווּל ַה ִ ּק ּ ֵטﬠַ יוֹ ֵדע‬ ‫ֶאת ַהחֹם‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ָהיָ ה בּ וֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫דְּ מוּת ֵאינ ָּה ַרק דְּ מוּת‪ָ .‬מחוּק מוֹ ִתיר ﬠֲ ֵקבוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ֵא ׁש ּפוֹ ַר ַחת ָ ּבﬠֵ ץ‪ .‬קוֹ ל‬ ‫סוֹ ֵבב ָ ּברו ַּח‪ .‬הוֹ לֵ ‪ ‬סוֹ ֵבב‬ ‫דּ ו ָּמה‪ּ ִ .‬ג ְמ ּגוּם‪ .‬יְ ָב ָבה‪.‬‬ ‫הוּא ׁ ֶש ַהכּ ֹל ָהיָ ה לְ ָפנָיו‬ ‫ַא ֲח ָריו‬ ‫ֶרגַ ﬠ ל ֹא ֻא ָּכל‪.‬‬ ‫‪2‬‬

‫לְ ָה ִבין‬ ‫ַמה ְּל ָה ִבין‬ ‫ֲאנִי ׁשוֹ ֵמﬠַ‬ ‫ֲאנִי נוֹ ׁ ֵשם‬ ‫ֲאנִי הוֹ לֵ ‪ ‬ﬠַ ל ׁ ְש ַּתיִ ם‬ ‫‪3‬‬

‫ַמה ּנָבוֹ ן‬ ‫שֶׂ כְ וִ י‬ ‫ַמ ְב ִחין ֵ ּבין יוֹ ם לְ לַ יְ לָ ה‬

‫‪88‬‬

1983

1 Home is not a home. A hollow. The amputee’s sleeve knows the warmth it once had. An image is not just an image. The erased leaves tracks. Flames blossom in the tree. A voice swirls in the wind. Whirling in silence. A stutter. A whimper. He who had everything before him after him every moment burns and burns. 2 To understand understand what I hear I breathe I walk on two 3 How clever is the rooster who distinguishes between day and night

89

‫‪4‬‬

‫לְ ַד ֵ ּבר‬ ‫לְ ַד ֵ ּבר –‬ ‫ֲאנִי חוֹ ֵפר וְ חוֹ ֵפר‬ ‫וְ ﬠָ ָפר ִעם ﬠָ ָפר ִמ ְת ַח ֵ ּבר‬ ‫‪5‬‬

‫ִמ ִּלים זוֹ נוֹ ת‬ ‫ַא ֲח ֵרי ַה ָּמוֶ ת‬ ‫אוֹ ְמרוֹ ת ָהלַ ‪‬‬ ‫ָא ַבד‬ ‫ִה ְס ַּת ֵּלק‬ ‫ח ֶֹרף‪ַ ,‬קיִ ץ‪ ,‬רו ַּח ָ ּבﬠֵ צִ ים‪ ,‬אוֹ ר‪ֲ ,‬אוִ יר‬ ‫‪6‬‬

‫ְ ּבנִי ׁ ֶש ָא ַבד‬ ‫ֶ ּבן זְ ק ּונַי‬ ‫ׁ ָשב‬ ‫ָמצָ א ַמ ְחבּ וֹ א‬ ‫ָסמוּי ְ ּבﬠֵ ינַי –‬ ‫ל ֹא ִּת ָירא ַרע‬ ‫יָ ַדי ﬠַ ל ּ ָפנַי‪.‬‬

‫‪90‬‬

4 To talk and talk – I dig and dig until dust unites with dust 5 Words are whores after the death they say He went Is lost Left Winter, summer, wind in the trees, light, air 6 My son who was lost my youngest son came back found a secret hiding place in my eyes – Fear no harm now my hands cover my face.

91

‫פרידה מידיד‬ ‫לדן פגיס‬ ‫ל ֹא ְ ּב ָרצוֹ ן ֲאנִי נ ְִפ ָרד ִמ ְּמ‪.‬‬ ‫ַאל ִּת ְת ַמ ְה ֵמ ַּה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲהל ֹא ֵאינְ‪ ‬אוֹ ֵהב לִ ְנסֹﬠַ ַ ּבח ׁ ֶֹש‪.‬‬ ‫צֵ רוּף ַמ ְפ ִּתיﬠַ ֵאי ֶנ ּנ ּו ַמ ְפ ִּתיﬠַ עוֹ ד‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ִפ ְתרוֹ ן ׁ ָשנוּן שׂ וֹ ֵרט ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר‪.‬‬ ‫ַמה ּ ַטﬠַ ם ְ ּב ִד ּמוּי ְמ ַח ֵ ּבר ׁ ָש ַמיִ ם וָ ָא ֶרץ?‬ ‫ְ ּב ָחרוּז ְמ ַז ֵ ּוג נ ְִפ ָר ִדים?‬ ‫ֵה ַיט ְב ָּת ִע ִּמי‪ֵ .‬ה ַיט ְב ִּתי ִע ְּמ‪?‬‬ ‫ַרﬠַ ׁש ַקל וְ חוֹ לֵ ף‬ ‫ׁ ְשנֵינ ּו ָהלַ כְ נ ּו יַ ְחדָּ ו ָּכל ֶא ָחד לְ ַד ְרכּ וֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫מוֹ ֵתנ ּו וְ ַח ֵ ּיינ ּו ְ ּביַ ד לָ ׁשוֹ ן‪.‬‬ ‫ָא ַמ ְרנ ּו ְ ּבלִ ֵ ּבנוּ‪ִ :‬אם ל ֹא נ ְַד ֵ ּבר ֶאל לֵ ב‬ ‫נ ִּפֹל ָחלָ ל‪.‬‬ ‫קוֹ ל ְּכמוֹ‬ ‫ﬠֲ זָ בוֹ דָּ מוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫ִמ ְת ַא ְפלֶ לֶ ת ִ ּג ְבﬠַ ת ַה ּמוֹ ֶרה‪.‬‬ ‫ַהר־ ַ ּגﬠַ ׁש ָּכבוּי ִמ ׁ ּ ֶש ְּכ ָבר ַה ָ ּי ִמים‪.‬‬ ‫ית־ה ְ ּק ָברוֹ ת ַה ָ ּק ָטן ְ ּבצַ לְ עוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫עוֹ ד נ ְִר ֶאה ֵ ּב ַ‬ ‫ַהר ִע ֵ ּק ׁש וְ ִא ֵּלם‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִאם הוּא ְמ ַב ֵ ּק ׁש לְ ַה ְמ ִריא‬ ‫ּגו ּׁש ָאפֹר זֶ ה‪ָ ,‬רחוֹ ק ִמ ִּל ְהיוֹ ת ְמפ ָֹאר‬ ‫ת־שלֶ ג?‬ ‫פוּגִ ׳יָ ָמה ִָז ִעיר‪ְ ,‬מ ֻא ָ ּבק‪ּ ְ ,‬בלִ י ּ ִפ ְס ַ ּג ׁ ֶ‬ ‫ָמה עוֹ ד אוּכַ ל לוֹ ַמר‪.‬‬ ‫ׁשוּב ֵאי ֶנ ּנִי רוֹ ֶאה ְמאוּם‪.‬‬ ‫‪92‬‬

FAREWELL FROM A FRIEND For Dan Pagis Not willingly do I bid you farewell. But don’t tarry. After all, you don’t like traveling in the dark. A surprising collocation is no longer surprising. A clever solution scratches at the air. What good is an image connecting earth and sky? In a rhyme coupling the separate? You graced my days. Did I grace yours? A small noise, then gone. We walked together each on his own path. Our deaths and our lives in the power of words. We said in our hearts: if we don’t talk to the heart we’ll fall among the fallen. A voice like the blood-less. Moreh Hill darkens. A volcano extinguished long ago. We’ll still see the small graveyard in its shadows. A mute and stubborn hill. Does it want to soar this gray lump, far from grand a tiny Fujiyama, dust-covered, no snow-cap? What else can I say. Again I see nothing.

93

IV

A Graven and A Molten Image

‫הנפילה‬ ‫י־ש ַמיִ ם‬ ‫ֵאצֶ ל ׁ ָשאגָ אל ִמ ׁ ְש ֵמ ׁ ָ‬ ‫הוּא נוֹ ֵפל‪ְּ .‬כנ ָָפיו ְּכלֶ ָהבוֹ ת ֵּכהוֹ ת‬ ‫סוֹ ְמרוֹ ת ֵמﬠַ ל ַ ּגבּ וֹ לל ֹא הוֹ ִעיל‪.‬‬ ‫הוּא ְּכמוֹ ֻע ָ ּבר ׁ ָשמוּט ֵמ ֶר ֶחם‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵאיזוֹ ְמ ִהירוּת‬ ‫ַהכּ ֹל חוֹ לֵ ף‪ ,‬הוֹ ֵפ‪ֲ ‬אוִ יר‪ּ ִ ,‬ביﬠָ ף‬ ‫ַה ַּנ ּנ ִָסים ַה ָּללוּ‪ָּ ,‬כל ָהﬠֲ יָ ָרה‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ִה ְת ַא ְּס ָפה לִ ְק ַראת ַה ַּמ ֲחזֶ ה‪ַ ,‬ה ּ ַפ ַחד‬ ‫הוֹ ִתיר ַ ּב ָּתוֶ ‪ֶ ׁ ‬ש ַטח ֵריק‪,‬‬ ‫זְ רוֹ עוֹ ת ׁ ְשלוּחוֹ ת‪ ,‬נ ׁ ִָשים כּ וֹ ְרעוֹ ת לָ לֶ ֶדת‪ֲ ,‬א ֵח ִרים‬ ‫ֵמ ִתים ִמ ְ ּצחוֹ ק – ְּכ ָבר ﬠֲ צו ִּמים ְּכמוֹ ﬠָ נָן‬ ‫ו ְּמכַ ִּסים ַח ָ ּייו ׁ ֶשעוֹ ד לְ ֶה ֶרף־ﬠַ יִ ן‬ ‫ׁ ָשם ֵמﬠַ ל‪ַ ,‬מ ָ ּזל מוּזָ ר‪,‬‬ ‫ּתוֹ ִעים ִ ּב ְמבוֹ ‪ ‬נ ְִפילָ תוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ָּככָ ה ֵאצֶ ל ְ ּב ֶרכֶ ל‪ָּ .‬כאן‬ ‫ַרק ֶרגֶ ל זְ ִע ָירה עוֹ ד ִמזְ דַּ ֶ ּק ֶרת ַמ ְעלָ ה‬ ‫ְ ּבעוֹ ד ׁ ֶש ַה ׁ ּ ְש ִנ ָ ּיה ְּכ ָבר ׁ ְשטו ָּפה ַ ּג ִּלים ְק ַט ּנִים‪.‬‬ ‫דַּ ָ ּיג ﬠָ סוּק ְ ּב ַח ָּכתוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּב ִמ ְפ ָרשִׂ ים ְ ּגדוֹ לִ ים נוֹ ַסﬠַ ת ֳא ִנ ָ ּיה‪.‬‬ ‫רוֹ ﬠֶ ה‪ּ ַ ,‬גבּ וֹ לַ ָ ּים‪ַ ,‬מ ִ ּביט ְ ּבﬠֵ ץ ִּכ ְב ֶפלֶ א ִמ ׁ ּ ָש ַמיִ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ִא ָּכר ַמ ְמ ׁ ִשי‪ּ ַ ‬ב ֲח ִר ׁישוֹ ‪ִּ ,‬כי ֵאין לְ ִה ׁ ְש ַּת ֵּמט‬ ‫ֵמ ִעצְ בוֹ נ ָּה ׁ ֶשל ֲא ָד ָמה ו ִּמ ּ ִט ְר ַחת ַה ּיוֹ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ִא ָיקרוֹ ס? ִמי?‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ֶש ֶמ ׁש ְּכ ָבר נוֹ ָטה‪ַ .‬ה ֲח ׁ ֵשכָ ה ְקרוֹ ָבה‪.‬‬

‫‪96‬‬

THE FALL In Chagall’s painting, he falls from heaven’s heights. His wings like dark flames stiffen from his back, to no effect. He is like a fetus dropped from the womb. How quickly it all passes by, becomes air, in a rush. Those dwarves, the whole village that has gathered to watch the spectacle, fear creating an empty space in the middle, arms outstretched, women crouching to give birth, others dying of laughter – they are already huge like a cloud covering his life that still for an instant up there, strange luck, wanders through the labyrinth of his fall. Not so in Brueghel. Here only a tiny leg still protrudes upward while the other is already being rinsed in small waves. A fisherman is busy with his rod. A ship with billowing sails passes by. A shepherd, his back to the sea, stares at a tree as though it were heaven’s wonder. A farmer continues his plowing, because there’s no avoiding the land’s toil and the day’s chores. Icarus? Who? The sun is already setting. Darkness draws near.

97

‫למה‬ ‫)גולגולת בדולח‪ ,‬אינדיאנית קדומה‪ ,‬המוזיאון הבריטי(‬ ‫ֻ ּגלְ ּגֹלֶ ת ַה ְ ּבדֹלַ ח צְ לוּלָ ה ְמאֹד‪.‬‬ ‫ְמלֶ אכֶ ת ַמ ְח ׁ ֶש ֶבת לְ ﬠֵ ָּלא וּלְ ﬠֵ ָּלא‪.‬‬ ‫ַּת ְרבּ וּת ַמיָ ה‪ִּ ,‬כ ְמ ֻד ֶּמה‪.‬‬ ‫ָהאוֹ ר נוֹ גֵ ﬠַ ָ ּב ּה וְ נ ְִבלָ ע‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠֶ צֶ ם ִ ּב ְדמוּת דִּ ְמﬠָ ה‬ ‫צָ ָרה צו ָּרה לַ דְּ ָמ ָמה‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאינ ָּה ְמ ׁ ִש ָיבה‪ֵ .‬אינ ָּה ׁשוֹ ֶאלֶ ת‪.‬‬ ‫לָ ָּמה ַא ָּתה נִגְ ָרר לִ ְראוֹ ָת ּה‬ ‫ְּכ ַס ֲהרו ִּרי‬ ‫ֲהלוּם ֲחלוֹ ָמ ּה?‬ ‫ֶיה נ ָ ִּבט ׁ ְשחוֹ ר‪.‬‬ ‫ֵמ ֲא ֻרבּ וֹ ת ﬠֵ ינ ָ‬ ‫ֵאיזוֹ ֲא ֵפלָ ה ׁ ֶש ֲא ִפלּ ּו ֲא ֵפלָ ה‬ ‫ֵאי ֶנ ּנ ּו ׁ ְש ָמ ּה‪.‬‬

‫‪98‬‬

WHY (Crystal Skull, Mesoamerican, British Museum) The crystal skull is crystal clear. A stunning work of art. Mayan, I believe. Light touches it and is swallowed up. Bone in the shape of a tear gives shape to silence. It answers no question. It asks none. Why are you drawn to look at it like a sleep-walker struck by its dream? From its eye sockets peers out a black flame. This is darkness that even darkness is not its name.

99

‫המצביא‬ ‫)מוזיאון האקרופוליס‪ ,‬אתונה(‬ ‫ַה ַּמצְ ִ ּביא לוֹ ֵט ׁש ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‪.‬‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ָ ּב ֶהן ָ ּב ָרק מוּזָ ר‪.‬‬ ‫ֹאש ַה ּנַﬠַ ר ִמ ּמוּלוֹ ְמ ָס ֵרב‪.‬‬ ‫ר ׁ‬ ‫שְׂ ָפ ָתיו ְקמוּצוֹ ת‪ ,‬לְ ָבנוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינָיו לְ ָבנוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫דָּ מוֹ נ ְִמלַ ט ִמ ֶּמ ּנוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ּגוּפוֹ נ ְִמלַ ט ִמ ֶּמ ּנוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ַּמצְ ִ ּביא ַה ָ ּגדוֹ ל צוֹ ֶפה לְ ֵמ ָרחוֹ ק‪:‬‬ ‫לַ ִּמ ְד ָ ּבר‪ ,‬לַ ּנֶצַ ח‬ ‫ﬠָ סוּק ְ ּב ִתכְ נוּן נִצְ חוֹ נוֹ ַה ּסוֹ ִפי‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ְ ּברוֹ נְזָ ה ׁ ֶשלּ וֹ ֶהﬠֶ לְ ָתה יְ ר ֶֹקת‪.‬‬ ‫ׁשוֹ ֵמר ָהאוּלָ ם ְמ ַנ ֵ ּגב ֶאת ָה ָא ָבק ִמ ִּלבּ וֹ ‪.‬‬

‫‪100‬‬

THE COMMANDER (Museum of the Acropolis, Athens) The Commander stares and stares. His eyes are strangely aglow. The head of the boy across from him declines. His lips are clenched, white. His eyes are white. His blood has fled him. His body has fled him. The Great Commander looks off into the distance: to the desert, to eternity, busy with plans for his final victory. His bronze is rusty. The hall’s guard wipes the dust from his heart.

101

‫הנﬠרים‬ ‫)אתונה(‬ ‫ָּת ִמיד ֵהם ְמ ַח ְ ּיכִ ים ַה ּנְﬠָ ִרים ַה ָּלל ּו‬ ‫וְ ַה ְ ּג ָב ִרים ׁ ֶש ֵאין לָ ֶהם ִ ּגיל‪.‬‬ ‫ֲא ִפלּ ּו ֵאינָם ֶא ָּלא טוֹ ְרסוֹ‬ ‫ֵיהם‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ָּתה ְמ ַד ֶּמה לִ ְראוֹ ת ֶאת ַה ִח ּיוּ‪ ‬ﬠַ ל ּ ְפנ ֶ‬ ‫ִימה ֶאל ּתוֹ ‪ ‬ﬠַ צְ ָמם‪.‬‬ ‫ֵהם ְמ ַח ְ ּיכִ ים ּ ְפנ ָ‬ ‫נ ְֻקדַּ ת ָּכ ְבדָּ ם ַמ ׁ ּ ֶשה ּו ִמ ַּת ַחת לַ ֵּלב‪.‬‬ ‫ֵהם הוֹ לְ כִ ים ְ ּבנו ָּחם וְ נ ִָחים ְ ּבלֶ כְ ָּתם‬ ‫י־מ ְפ ָּתן ֵא ֶּלה ׁ ֶשל ַה ֲחלוֹ מוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ׁשוֹ ְמ ֵר ִ‬ ‫אשוֹ ן ַ ּבבּ ֶֹקר יָ צָ א ַה ֵ ּבן ֶאת ָה ָא ֶרץ‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּביוֹ ם ִר ׁ‬ ‫ּ ָפנָיו לַ דְּ ָרכִ ים ַה ַּמ ְפלִ יגוֹ ת‪,‬‬ ‫לַ ַּמיִ ם ַה ִּמ ְת ּ ַפ ְּלגִ ים ַּת ְח ָּתיו‪.‬‬ ‫הוּא יִ ְפנֶה לְ כָ אן וּלְ כָ אן‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאין לָ ַדﬠַ ת ָמ ַתי יָ ׁשוּב‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּבת שְׂ חוֹ ק ֲחבוּיָ ה ִמ ַ ּבﬠַ ד לְ ָפנָיו‪.‬‬ ‫ֵיהן‪.‬‬ ‫ְמ ַה ְּלכוֹ ת ַא ָ ּגדוֹ ת לְ ִמינ ֶ‬ ‫ֵיהם ָה ֵריקוֹ ת רוֹ אוֹ ת ַ ּגם ַ ּבח ׁ ֶֹש‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינ ֶ‬ ‫ִמ ּ ְפנֵי ִעוְ רוֹ נָן ֵאין ָמנוֹ ס‪.‬‬ ‫ֵהן זוֹ כְ רוֹ ת ֶאת ַאיגֵ אוּס‪ַ ,‬ה ִּמ ְפ ָרשׂ ַה ׁ ּ ָשחוֹ ר‪.‬‬ ‫יְ ֵד ֶיהם ְקמוּצוֹ ת ָּכלְ ׁ ֶשהוּ‪ ,‬צְ מוּדוֹ ת לְ גו ָּפם‪.‬‬ ‫״ח ִ ּיים ֵהם ָמוֶ ת ו ָּמוֶ ת ַ ּגם הוּא ַח ִ ּיים״‬ ‫ַ‬

‫‪102‬‬

THE YOUTHS (Athens) They are always smiling, these youths and the men who are ageless. Even though they are only torsos you imagine you can see the smile on their faces. They are smiling inwardly. Their center of gravity is somewhere beneath the heart. They walk while resting, rest while walking these threshold dream-guardians. On Sunday morning the son left the country, heading towards distant paths, towards waters parting beneath him. He’ll go here and there. There’s no knowing when he’ll return. A small, half-hidden smile on his face. Tales of every type are starting to spread. Their empty eyes can see also in the dark. There’s nothing to do about the blindness. They remember Aegeus, the black sail. Their hands are clenched, held close to their bodies. “Life is death and death is also life”

103

‫החיוך‬ ‫ָּת ִמיד ֵהם ְמ ַח ְ ּיכִ ים ַה ּנְﬠָ ִרים ַה ָּלל ּו‬ ‫וְ ַה ְ ּג ָב ִרים ׁ ֶש ֵאין לָ ֶהם ִ ּגיל‪.‬‬ ‫ֲא ִפלּ ּו ֵאינָם ֶא ָּלא טוֹ ְרסוֹ‬ ‫ֵאין ַה ִח ּיוּ‪ָ ‬סר ֵמﬠֲ לֵ ֶיהם‪.‬‬ ‫ֵהם הוֹ לְ כִ ים ְ ּבנו ָּחם וְ נ ִָחים ְ ּבלֶ כְ ָּתם‬ ‫י־מ ְפ ָּתן ֵא ֶּלה ׁ ֶשל ַה ֲחלוֹ מוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ׁשוֹ ְמ ֵר ִ‬ ‫ַה ִּכ ָּכר ַ ּבחוּץ – ִמ ׁ ְש ַּכב ַח ָּמה‪.‬‬ ‫ָ ּב ֵּתי ַה ָ ּק ֶפה ַ ּב ֲחצִ י ַה ּג ֶֹרן הוֹ ִמים ֵמ ָא ָדם‪.‬‬ ‫ֵיהם‪.‬‬ ‫אוֹ ֲה ִבים צוֹ ֲח ִקים ְמ ַמ ְ ּזגִ ים ֶאת ּ ְפנ ֶ‬ ‫ֵיהם‪ַ .‬ה ּסוּס ָא ַבד‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּגם ּ ָפ ָר ׁש ֵ ּבינ ֶ‬ ‫ָראוּי לִ זְ כּ ֹר ַאף ֶאת ָה ִא ׁיש ַה ׁ ּשוֹ כֵ ַח לְ ָאן מוֹ לִ יכָ ה ַהדֶּ ֶר‪.‬‬ ‫ָמוֶ ת הוּא ֲא ׁ ֶשר רוֹ ִאים ָהﬠֵ ִרים‪ֲ ,‬א ָבל ַ ּב ׁ ּ ֵשנָה‬ ‫ַ‬ ‫״ח ֵ ּבק אוֹ ִתי ְקצָ ת וְ ַאל ַּת ֲחל ֹם ׁ ָשם‪,‬‬ ‫בּ וֹ א וְ נ ׁ ּ ֵַשק אוֹ ִתי‪ַ ,‬חיְ כָ ן ֶא ָחד!״‬

‫‪104‬‬

THE SMILE They are always smiling, these youths and the men who are ageless. Even though they are only torsos the smile never leaves their lips. They walk while resting, rest while walking these threshold dream-guardians. The square outside – the sun’s resting place. Cafes in a half-circle are crowded. Lovers are laughing, their faces entwined. There’s a horseman among them. The horse is lost. It’s worth remembering also he who forgot where the road leads. Death is what the wakeful see, but in sleep – “Embrace me a little and don’t dream there, come and kiss me, you smiling one!”

105

‫האסטלה‬ ‫)אתונה(‬ ‫ַה ּנ ְִפ ָטר נ ְִפ ָרד ִמן ַהנּוֹ ָתר ִ ּב ְת ִקיﬠַ ת יָ ד‬ ‫ְ ּבכָ ל ַה ַּמ ֵ ּצבוֹ ת )אוֹ ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ְ ּבכֻ ָּלן(‬ ‫מוֹ ׁ ִשיט ַה ֵּמת יָ ד לַ ַחי‪.‬‬ ‫ָּת ִמיד ַה ׁ ּ ְשנַיִ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ִא ׁיש ֵאינוֹ ְמ ַד ֵ ּבר‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּב ַמ ֶ ּצ ֶבת ֶק ֶבר ַא ַחת ִמן ַה ֵּמ ָאה ָה ְר ִב ִיעית‬ ‫ישי‪ֶּ :‬כלֶ ב ַחי‪.‬‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ַ ּגם ׁ ְשלִ ׁ ִ‬ ‫ָה ִא ׁיש ַה ּפוֹ נֶה וְ עוֹ ֵבר לִ ְהיוֹ ת צֵ ל‬ ‫יָ דוֹ ַה ּ ְפנוּיָ ה ַמצְ ִ ּביﬠָ ה ﬠָ לָ יו‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּב ֲה ֻמ ָּלה ַה ָ ּק ָמה ּ ִפ ְתאֹם ָ ּבאוּלָ ם ַה ָּמלֵ א ֲהמוֹ ן ַּת ָ ּי ִרים‬ ‫נָﬠ וְ נָד ִמ ָּמקוֹ ם לְ ָמקוֹ ם‬ ‫ישית ְּכ ׁ ַשיִ ׁש‪,‬‬ ‫ִמ ְתﬠַ ּ ֶט ֶפת‪ֲ ,‬ח ִר ׁ ִ‬ ‫ַה ְ ּי ָב ָבה ַהדַּ ָ ּקה‪.‬‬

‫‪106‬‬

THE GRAVESTONE (Athens) On all the tombstones, or almost all, the deceased bids farewell with an outstretched hand – the dead reaches out to the living. Always there are both. Neither speaks. On the tombstone of one grave from the fourth century there’s a third figure: a dog. The man who is leaving, becoming a shadow, points at it with his free hand. In the commotion suddenly astir in the hall full of tourists moving from place to place one can hear, quiet as marble, its thin whimper.

107

‫פנים‬ ‫)ארון מצרי‪ ,‬המוזיאון הבריטי(‬ ‫ָארוֹ ן ְ ּבתוֹ ך ֲארוֹ ן זְ כוּכִ ית‪ָ ּ .‬פתו ַּח‪ָ .‬חנוּט‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי עוֹ ֵבר ו ַּמ ִ ּביט‪ ,‬עוֹ ֵבר ו ַּמ ִ ּביט‪.‬‬ ‫ֲא ֵח ִרים עוֹ ְב ִרים ﬠַ ל ּ ָפנַי‪ ,‬ﬠַ ל יָ ִדי‬ ‫ָהמוֹ ן רוֹ ֵח ׁש דְּ ָמ ָמה‪ .‬נַﬠֲ ָרה שְׂ ﬠָ ָר ּה ֵא ׁש‪ִ .‬א ׁיש‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ַקב‪ .‬יָ ׁ ִש ׁיש ּ ָפנָיו ּ ְפנֵי ַמיִ ם ְקמו ִּטים‪ִּ .‬כ ָּתה‬ ‫ית־ס ֶפר‪ִּ ,‬כ ְמﬠַ ט ִּתינוֹ קוֹ ת‪ָ ּ .‬פנַי ֶאל‬ ‫ׁ ֶשל ֵ ּב ֵ‬ ‫ּ ְפנֵי ֶה ָחנוּט דּ ו ָּמם נ ָ ִּב ִטים ַ ּב ְ ּזכוּכִ ית ּ ָפנִים‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ּ ָפנִים‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵהﬠָ לֵ ם‬ ‫ָה ָא ֶרץ ַה ֲחלו ָּמה ﬠַ ל לַ ְח ָמ ּה וְ ִתירוֹ ׁ ָש ּה ּונ ְָה ָר ּה וְ אוֹ ָר ּה‬ ‫ְּכצֵ ל לָ ָבן‪ְּ ,‬כ ֵח ֶמת ֲחלוּלָ ה ַ ּב ִּמ ְד ָ ּבר‬ ‫ׁ ְש ֵא ִרית ְ ּגרו ָּמה‪ֻ ,‬מ ּ ָטל ָמה‪,‬‬ ‫ֶמלֶ ‪ַ ‬ה ֲחלוֹ מוֹ ת‪ ,‬צָ דוּף‪ַ ,‬מ ׁ ְש ִחיר ּ ָפנִים‪ ,‬מו ָּאר‬ ‫ִמ ָ ּזוִ ית ֻמ ְס ֶּת ֶרת ִמין ׁ ֶש ֶמ ׁש ַּת ְח ִּתית‬ ‫דֶּ ֶר‪ֵ ‬איזוֹ ׁ ִש ְמ ׁ ָשה‬ ‫ֲאנִי ַמ ִ ּביט ו ַּמ ִ ּביט‬

‫‪108‬‬

FACE (Egyptian sarcophagus, British Museum) An open sarcophagus inside a glass casement. A mummy. I walk by it and stare, walk by again and stare. Others pass by me, near me a crowd of rustling whispers. A girl with fire hair. A man on crutches. An old man with the face of wrinkled waters. A group of schoolchildren, almost babies. I face the face of the mummy silently looking out from the glass face to face With the disappearance of the dreamt-of land, with its breads and wines and rivers and light like white shadows, like the desert’s hollow rage, these skeletal remains are what remain, somewhat imposed, this King of Dreams, encrusted, face blackening, illuminated from a hidden angle, an underworld sun from a dark elsewhere shining on it through the pane I stare and stare

109

‫תמונה ודו־שיח‬ ‫)מכס ארנסט‪" ,‬כל העיר כולה"(‬ ‫ַה ָּמאוֹ ר ַה ָ ּק ָטן הוּא ַה ָּמאוֹ ר ַה ָ ּגדוֹ ל‪.‬‬ ‫ָה ֲאוִ יר ְר ִאי ׁ ֶשל ַמיִ ם ְמ ָא ְר ִרים‪.‬‬ ‫ָ ּבאוֹ ר ָה ָרע‪ּ ַ ,‬ב ׁ ּ ְש ִת ָיקה‬ ‫מו ֶּטלֶ ת ִעיר‪ ,‬נ ְָפלָ ה יְ ֵרכָ ּה‪ְּ ,‬כ ׁ ֶש ֶרץ ְמ ֻפ ָּתל‪.‬‬ ‫ֹאש ּה‪ָ ּ ,‬פחוּס‪ּ ְ ,‬בﬠַ יִ ן ְמ ֻא ֶ ּבנֶת‬ ‫ר ָׁ‬ ‫ם־שם ׁ ָש ַמיִ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ה־ש ָמ ׁ ָ‬ ‫נ ָ ִּבט ְ ּבﬠֵ ין ָה ֶא ֶבן ׁ ֶשל ַה ַּמ ׁ ּ ְ‬ ‫״איזֶ ה צְ ָב ִעים! ַּכ ָּמה ַח ּייִ ם!״‬ ‫״איזֶ ה צְ ָב ִעים‪,‬״ ָא ַמ ְר ְּת‪ֵ ,‬‬ ‫– ֵ‬ ‫״כמוֹ ‪,‬״ ָא ַמ ְר ִּתי ֶח ֶר ׁש ו ִּמ ְּת ׁשו ָּקה‬ ‫– ְּ‬ ‫״כמוֹ ַח ִ ּיים‪.‬‬ ‫ָרﬠַ ד קוֹ לִ י‪ְּ .‬‬ ‫צָ ִרי‪ ‬לָ זוּז‪ .‬יַ ִ ּק ָיר ִתי‪ ,‬צָ ִרי‪ ‬לְ ַאט‬ ‫לָ זוּז‪ .‬הוֹ לְ כִ ים ו ְּמכַ ִ ּבים‪ ,‬סוֹ גְ ִרים‪,‬‬ ‫סוֹ גְ ִרים אוֹ ָתנ ּו עוֹ ד ְמﬠַ ט‪.‬״‬

‫‪110‬‬

A PAINTING AND A CONVERSATION (after Max Ernst’s “The Entire City”) The lesser light is the greater light. The air is a mirror of cursed waters. In the evil light, in the silence the city sprawls, fallen to its haunches, like a twisted creeping thing. Its head, squashed, with a petrified eye gazes at the stone’s eye of the what’s-its-name-there sky. – “What colors,” you said, “what colors! How much life!” – “Like,” I said softly, my voice trembling with passion. “Lifelike. We must move, my dear, we must move on. They are turning off the lights, closing up, they’ll lock us in soon.”

111

‫סוס ורוכבו‬ ‫)סימונה מרטיני‪" ,‬ג'ודויצ'ו פוליאנו"(‬ ‫ָרכוּב ﬠַ ל ַ ּגב סוּס‪.‬‬ ‫ִ ּב ׁ ְשנוֹ ת ַה ׁ ּ ְשמוֹ נִים ׁ ֶשל ַה ֵּמ ָאה ָהﬠֶ שְׂ ִרים‬ ‫ָמה עוֹ שֶׂ ה אוֹ תוֹ ִא ׁיש ָרכוּב ﬠַ ל ַ ּגב סוּס?‬ ‫הוּא ִא ּ ִטי‬ ‫הוּא ִא ּ ִטי ְמאֹד‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאין ַטﬠַ ם לַ ֲחזֹר‪.‬‬ ‫ִע ּתוֹ ָתיו ְ ּביָ ָדיו ְּכמוֹ ׁ ְשכוֹ ת ׁ ְשמוּטוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ֲח ָריו חוֹ מוֹ ת‪ .‬לְ ָפנָיו חוֹ מוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּג ֵדרוֹ ת ְמ ֻחדָּ דוֹ ת וַ ֲחנִיתוֹ ת ﬠֲ זוּבוֹ ת ּפֹה וָ ׁ ָשם‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ָש ַמיִ ם ֲא ֵפלִ ים לִ ְבל ֹﬠַ ‪.‬‬ ‫אוֹ ר ָה ָא ֶרץ ִח ֵ ּור ַּכ ָּמוֶ ת‪.‬‬ ‫וַ ֲאנִי ֵאי ֶנ ּנִי‬ ‫ֶא ָּלא ְמ ַד ֵ ּבר‪.‬‬ ‫ֵמ ַאיִ ן רוֹ כֵ ב ָה ִא ׁיש ﬠַ ל ַ ּגב סוּס?‬ ‫לְ ָאן רוֹ כֵ ב ָה ִא ׁיש ﬠַ ל ַ ּגב סוּס?‬ ‫ֵאין ַטﬠַ ם לְ ַה ְמצִ יא ַּת ְח ִ ּביר ָח ָד ׁש‪.‬‬ ‫סוּס וְ רוֹ כְ בוֹ ‪ּ ֵ ,‬בין כּ ֹה וָ כֹה‪.‬‬ ‫הוּא ל ֹא ִה ְת ַקדֵּ ם ַ ּגם ל ֹא ּ ְפ ִסיﬠָ ה ַא ַחת‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּגם ל ֹא ִמ ָּכאן ﬠַ ד ָּכאן‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאין ַטﬠַ ם לַ ֲחזֹר ָ ּבאוֹ ר ַה ֶ ּזה‪.‬‬ ‫הוּא ַמ ִ ּביט נִכְ חוֹ ‪.‬‬

‫‪112‬‬

HORSE AND HIS RIDER (after Simone Martini’s “Guidoriccio da Fogliano”) Seated on the back of a horse. In the 1980s of the twentieth century what is a man doing on the back of a horse? He’s slow. He’s very slow. There’s no point in turning back. His days are in his hands like fallen reins. Behind him, walls. Before him, walls. Sharp-edged fences and abandoned spears all around. The sky is a swallowing darkness. The earth’s light is as pale as death. And I am not but speaking. Where is the man on the horse riding from? Where is he riding to? There’s no point inventing a new syntax. It’s a horse and his rider, any way you put it. He hasn’t advanced even a single step. Not even from here to here. In this light there’s no point in turning back. He stares straight ahead.

113

‫המכתב‬ ‫)ורמר‪" ,‬אשה קוראת מכתב"(‬ ‫ַמ ּ ַפת ָהעוֹ לָ ם ָ ּב ֶר ַקע‪ּ ַ ,‬ב ֵ ּצל‬ ‫עוֹ ֶמ ֶדת ִא ׁ ּ ָשה צְ ִע ָירה ׁ ְשקוּﬠָ ה‬ ‫– הוּא ָרחוֹ ק וְ ל ֹא‬ ‫ִהיא קוֹ ֵראת –‬ ‫ֻּכ ָּל ּה ְ ּבאוֹ ר‬ ‫ִמכְ ָּתב‬ ‫ַא ֲה ָבה‬

‫‪114‬‬

THE LETTER (after Vermeer’s “Woman in Blue Reading a Letter”) A map of the world in the background, in the shadows a young woman stands, immersed in thought – he is far and not she is reading – all in light a letter of love

115

‫רשומי מלאכים של פאול קליי וצבﬠ מים אחד‬

‫‪1‬‬

‫מלאך שכחן‬ ‫ַ ּגם ֲאנִי רוֹ צֶ ה לִ ְמצֹא ֵחן‬ ‫וּלְ עוֹ ֵפף לְ ִפי ָה ָא ְפנָה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ׁ ָשכַ ְח ִּתי‪...‬‬ ‫ְּכנ ַָפי ְמגַ ְמ ְ ּגמוֹ ת‬ ‫וְ ֵאי ֶנ ּנִי נָע‪.‬‬ ‫‪2‬‬

‫התקפה‬ ‫ל ֹא ׁ ֶש ַבח ל ֹא ַה ֵּלל‬ ‫ל ֹא ֵחן ל ֹא ָחכְ ָמה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי ַחי ַ ּב ֲחצוֹ ת ַה ֵּליל‬ ‫ְ ּבלֵ ב לִ ָ ּב ּה ׁ ֶשל ַח ָּמה‪.‬‬ ‫‪3‬‬

‫מבחן עמס‬ ‫ֹאשי ַרק ֶר ֶמז ׁ ֶשל ֶא ֶבן‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ר ׁ ִ‬ ‫וּכְ ָבר ֲאנִי ﬠַ ל ִ ּב ְר ַּכי‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי ְמנ ֶַּסה רוּם־ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‬ ‫ֹא־כ ַדאי‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי ַמלְ ָא‪ ‬ל ְּ‬

‫‪116‬‬

PAUL KLEE’S ANGELS: EIGHT DRAWINGS AND ONE WATERCOLOR

1 Forgetful Angel I too want to be adored and fly in the day’s fashion. But I’ve forgotten how… My wings stutter and I do not move. 2 Attack Not praise not glory Not wisdom not grace. I live in night’s midnight in the sun’s heart of hearts. 3 Weight-Bearing Test On my head just the hint of a stone and already I’m on my knees. I try haughtiness I am an angel, useless.

117

‫‪4‬‬

‫מלאך‪ ,‬מכﬠר ﬠדין‬ ‫ִה ְננִי ַמה ּׁ ֶש ִה ֵּננִי‪.‬‬ ‫ְּכלִ י ְמ ַב ֵ ּק ׁש ַה ֵּלל‪.‬‬ ‫לֵ ב ל ֹא ְמכֻ ָ ּון‪.‬‬ ‫ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ל ֹא נוֹ צַ ְר ִּתי‪ֵ .‬אי ֶנ ּנִי‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי ַמ ׁ ְש ִחיר‬ ‫וְ ַה ּׁ ֶש ַטח נ ִָקי וְ לָ ָבן‪.‬‬ ‫‪5‬‬

‫מלאך לא גמור‬ ‫ָק ַר ְע ִּתי ﬠֵ ינַי‪ .‬ל ֹא ָר ִא ִיתי‪.‬‬ ‫ֹאשי ַה ּמו ָּרם ֻמ ְר ָּכן‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּגם ר ׁ ִ‬ ‫ְּכנ ַָפי ְמ ַר ּ ְטטוֹ ת‪ֵ :‬א ׁש צָ ֶר ֶבת‪.‬‬ ‫ִימה –‬ ‫ְסבוּכוֹ ת וְ ַחדּ וֹ ת‪ ,‬צְ מוּחוֹ ת ּ ְפנ ָ‬ ‫ֲאנִי ִמשְׂ ָּת ֵר‪ְ ,‬מ ַק ְר ֵטﬠַ ‪ֲ .‬אנִי‬ ‫ֵאי ֶנ ּנִי מוּכָ ן‪.‬‬ ‫‪6‬‬

‫ספק מלאך‬ ‫)אנגלוס דוביוזוס(‬ ‫ֲאנִי טוֹ ﬠֵ ן? ֲאנִי ּפוֹ ֵרק‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי דּ וֹ גֵ ר ﬠַ ל ַה ָּס ֵפק‪.‬‬ ‫זִ כְ רוֹ ן ׁ ְשלִ יחוּת‪ ...‬ﬠָ נָן זוֹ ֵהר‪...‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי יוֹ ׁ ֵשב ו ְּמ ַה ְר ֵהר‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינַי ְקרוּעוֹ ת ְּכ ׁ ֶשל יַ נ ְׁשוּף‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּבכָ ל ַא ַחת ִא ׁישוֹ ן בּ וֹ ﬠֵ ר‪.‬‬

‫‪118‬‬

4 Angel, Still Ugly I am what I am. A vessel desiring praise. Unaligned heart. I was almost not created. I am not. I am blackening while the space is white and clean. 5 Unfinished Angel I tore out my eyes. I can’t see. Even my raised head is bowed. My wings quiver: fire burning. Entangled and honed, burgeoning inward – I fidget, twist and turn. I am not ready. 6 Dubious Angel Do I plead? I break free. I hatch doubt. Memory of a calling… Luminous cloud… I sit and ponder. My eyes are torn like an owl’s. In each one a pupil burns.

119

‫‪7‬‬

‫זה בוכה‬ ‫ﬠֲ ָננִים ָהי ּו לִ י ְּכנ ַָפיִ ם‬ ‫ְּכלִ יל ַהח ֶֹר ׁש ּ ָפ ַרח ְ ּבﬠֵ ינַי‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו ֲאנִי ֻמ ּ ָטל‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ דְּ ָמעוֹ ת לְ ַרגְ לַ י‪.‬‬ ‫‪8‬‬

‫מלאך‪ ,‬עוד לא‬ ‫ְקצָ ת ׁ ֶשל ֲאוִ יר‬ ‫ְקצָ ת ׁ ֶשל ﬠָ ָפר‬ ‫ְקצָ ת ׁ ָש ִביר‬ ‫ְקצָ ת ִמ ְתﬠַ ֵ ּק ׁש‬ ‫יָ ד? ָּכנָף?‬ ‫ְקצָ ת ִמ ְת ַ ּבלְ ֵ ּבל‬ ‫חוֹ ׁ ֵשב ִּכי ﬠָ ף‬ ‫הוֹ לֵ ‪ ‬וְ ׁ ָשח‬ ‫ְקצָ ת ִמ ׁ ּ ָשם‬ ‫ְקצָ ת ִמ ָּכאן‬ ‫דַּ ְ ּב ָרן ַמ ְח ׁ ָשן‬ ‫ל ֹא ְמת ָֹאם‬ ‫ׁ ָשב וְ ל ֹא ׁ ָשב‬ ‫נוֹ ׁ ֵשם וְ ל ֹא‬ ‫ל ֹא ִה ְס ַּת ַ ּי ְמ ִּתי ַ ּגם ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו‬

‫‪120‬‬

7 It Weeps Clouds have become my wings. In my eyes blossomed the red-bud tree. Now I am crestfallen like tears at my feet. 8 Angel, Not Yet A bit of dust

A bit of air

A bit stubborn

A bit fragile

A little confused

Hand? Wing?

Wandering about

Thinking he flies

A bit of here

A bit of there

Misaligned

Loquacious form-maker

Breathing and not

Returning and not

I am not yet finished even now

121

‫מלאך חדש‬ ‫ּ ָפנַי ְ ּבﬠָ ְר ּ ִפי‪ .‬לְ נֶגֶ ד ﬠֵ ינַי‬ ‫ִע ֵ ּיי ֲח ָרבוֹ ת‪ִ ,‬ע ֵ ּיי ֳח ָרבוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ִּת ְקווֹ ת זְ עוּמוֹ ת נ ְִתעוֹ ְפפוּ‪ֲ ,‬חרוּכוֹ ת‬ ‫צָ נְח ּו ֶאל ָהא ֶֹפל‪.‬‬ ‫נ ְִפלַ ְט ִּתי‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠָ לִ ִיתי‪.‬‬ ‫נוֹ לַ ְד ִּתי ׁ ֵשנִית‬ ‫ׁ ָשקוּף ְּכﬠָ ׁ ָשן‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ְ ּז ַמן ָה ִא ֵּלם‬ ‫נוֹ ׁ ֵשב ִמ ַ ּגן ִאילָ נוֹ ת ַה ַ ּילְ דוּת‪,‬‬ ‫דּ וֹ ֵחק ְ ּבלִ ִ ּבי ָה ִע ֵ ּק ׁש‪,‬‬ ‫ּפוֹ שֵׂ ק ֶאת ְּכנ ַָפי‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי נ ְִד ָחף ָאחוֹ ר לַ ָ ּבאוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ָמ ַתי יָ בוֹ א ַה ָ ּבא לְ כַ בּ וֹ ת ֵא ׁש ﬠֵ ינַי?‬

‫‪122‬‬

ANGELUS NOVUS My face is on my back. I see heaps and heaps of ruins. Tiny hopes were tossed aloft, scorched they plummeted into the dark. I was spewn out. I rose up. I was reborn translucent as smoke. Mute time blows from childhood’s pine groves, presses on my stubborn heart, spreads my wings. I am pushed back toward what is coming next. When will he come, the one to extinguish the fire in my eyes?

123

‫דומם‬ ‫ָחתוּל ׁ ָשחֹר‬ ‫ְ ּב ֶד ׁ ֶשא יָ רֹק‪.‬‬ ‫אטיס‪.‬‬ ‫דּ וֹ ֶמה‪ִ ,‬מ ׁ ּ ֶשל ַמ ִ‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ֵאי ֶנ ּנוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ַהדֶּ ׁ ֶשא ָרטֹב ִמ ֶ ּג ׁ ֶשם‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּ ַפ ְרוָ ה ְר ֻט ָ ּבה ֵמ ַהדֶּ ׁ ֶשא‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּ ְשׂ ﬠָ רוֹ ת דְּ ִביקוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּגוּף ֵח ֶמת ֲחלִ ילִ ים‬ ‫ּפוֹ לֵ ט ֶאת ֲאוִ יר ָה ָא ִביב‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ַחר ָּכ‪ ‬דּ וֹ ֵמם‪.‬‬

‫‪124‬‬

STILL LIFE Black cat in green grass. Like a Matisse. But not. The grass is wet from rain. The fur is wet from the grass. The hair is sticky. The body of bagpipes ejects the spring air. Then it is still.

125

‫צבﬠ מים שחרים‬ ‫)האנס הרטונג‪" ,‬קומפוזיציה"(‬ ‫נוֹ ף ְמ ֻק ּ ָטע‪ְּ ,‬כמוֹ ָּתפוּר ְק ָר ִעים ְק ָר ִעים‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּבקוֹ ל ל ֹא קוֹ ל יוֹ ְר ִדים ַה ַּמיִ ם ַה ׁ ּ ְשבו ִּרים‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ְפנֵי ֲאחוֹ ִתי ִה ְבלִ יח ּו וְ כָ ב ּו ֵ ּבין ֶה ָה ִרים‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ְ ּב ָק ִרים‪ ,‬יוֹ ם ַא ַחר יוֹ ם‪ְּ ,‬כמוֹ בּ וֹ רוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ֵיהם ֶא ֶבן‪ַ .‬אל ָּת ִרים‪.‬‬ ‫יְ ֵמי ַה ַ ּילְ דוּת ﬠֵ ינ ֶ‬ ‫ָה ֶא ֶבן ְמ ִק ָירה דְּ ָמעוֹ ת ׁ ְשחֹרוֹ ת‪.‬‬

‫‪126‬‬

THE COLOR OF BLACK WATERS (after Hans Hartung’s “Composition”) The landscape is torn, as though stitched from tatters. In a voice-not-a-voice fall the broken waters. My sister’s face among the hills flickered and disappeared. The mornings, day after day, are like deep pits. The eyes of childhood are stone. Don’t lift it. The stone drips black tears.

127

‫הזכרון‬ ‫ַ ּב ֲח ַדר ַהח ׁ ֶֹש‪ַ ‬ה ֵּלב‬ ‫ְמ ַפ ֵּת ַח‬ ‫עוֹ לָ ם ָמלֵ א ִ ּבצְ ָב ִעים‪.‬‬ ‫ת־מנוֹ ַח‪.‬‬ ‫ׁשוּב אוֹ ָת ּה צִ ּ ִפ ָ ּיה ַח ְס ַר ָ‬ ‫ֵ ּבין ּ ַפ ֵּסי ָה ַר ֶּכ ֶבת עוֹ לֶ ה ַה ָ ּירֹק ַה ָ ּב ִהיר‬ ‫ָה ַר‪ּ ְ ,‬בלִ י ַדﬠַ ת‪ֵ ,‬מנִיﬠַ‬ ‫ְּכנ ַָפיִ ם זְ ִעירוֹ ת ְּכ ִאלּ ּו לָ עוּף‪ ,‬זוֹ ֵחל‬ ‫לְ כָ ל ֶס ֶדק‪ִ ּ ,‬פ ְתאֹם ָאפֹר‪.‬‬ ‫ַאלְ ּ ִפית ׁ ֶשל ׁ ְש ִנ ָ ּיה ָא ָדם ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר‬ ‫)חלּ וֹ נוֹ ת ַה ַ ּביִ ת ַה ָּמט – לַ ֲהבוֹ ת ַה ׁ ּ ְש ִקיﬠָ ה(‬ ‫ַ‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ צִ ּפוֹ ר ׁ ִשכּ וֹ ר‪ָ ׁ ,‬שחֹר‪ֲ .‬א ָבל לְ ַמ ּ ָטה‬ ‫ָ ּב ְרחוֹ ב ﬠֵ ֶרב ַרב‪ַ ,‬הדָּ ם ִנ ָ ּגר ְ ּבכָ ל גּוֹ נָיו‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ַחר ָּכ‪ ‬נַﬠֲ ָרה ﬠֲ טו ָּפה ִ ּבשְׂ ﬠָ ָר ּה ִּכ ְב ֵא ׁש‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ֶר ַקﬠ ָר ִקיﬠַ ְ ּבצֶ ַבﬠ ﬠֲ צָ מוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ִהיא ִמ ׁ ְש ַּת ָהה‪ְּ ,‬כמוֹ ְּכלו ָּאה ִ ּבזְ כוּכִ ית‪.‬‬ ‫בּ וֹ ִאי‪ַ ,‬ק ָּלה‪ְּ ,‬כﬠָ נָן‪ ,‬קו ִּמי‪ ,‬צְ ִאי!‬ ‫ַא ַחר ָּכ‪ָּ ‬כל ֵא ֶּלה ׁ ֶש ֵאין לְ ַה ְבדִּ יל ְ ּב ַקלּ וּת ֵ ּבינָם‬ ‫לְ ֵבין רו ַּח‪ִּ .‬כ ְת ֵמי צֶ ַבע‬ ‫ָּכלִ ים‪ ,‬נ ְֶעלָ ִמים ָ ּב ֵאד‪ ,‬צַ ָ ּואר נָטוּי‪,‬‬ ‫יַ ד ּ ְפ ִר ָידה ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ְש ֵמי ﬠָ ׁ ָשן ְסגֻ ִּלים‪ַ ,‬א ַחר צְ ֻה ִ ּבים‪,‬‬ ‫ִמ ְת ּפוֹ ְר ִרים‪ .‬זוּג אוֹ ֲה ִבים‬ ‫ְמעוֹ ֵפף‪ַ ּ ,‬פ ְר ּ ָפ ִרים ׁ ֶשל ֵא ֶפר‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ַחר ָּכ‪ַ ‬ה ֶּס ֶרט נ ִָקי‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִאם ָק ָרה ַמה ׁ ּ ֶש ָ ּק ָרה?‬ ‫ַה ִאם ַמ ְמ ׁ ִשי‪ ‬לִ ְקרוֹ ת?‬

‫‪128‬‬

THE MEMORY In the darkroom the heart develops a world full of color. Again that same restless anticipation. Between the railroad tracks a light green grows the tender one, unknowingly, moves tiny wings as though to fly, crawling into every crevice, suddenly grey. For a millisecond there’s a man in the air (windows of the crumbling house – the flames of sunset) like a drunk bird, black. But below the street is crowded, blood flowing in its every hue. Then a girl wrapped in her hair as in fire against the backdrop of a bone-colored sky. She tarries, as though glass bound. Come, little bride, light as a cloud, rise and flee! Then, all the others who are not easily distinguished from the wind. Splashes of color becoming extinct, vanishing in the mist, a neck extended, a hand in the air waving farewell. A smoke sky of purple, after yellow, crumbling. A pair of lovers flying, ash butterflies. Then the film is blank. Did something happen? Is something still happening?

129

‫מגדל בבל )‪(1‬‬ ‫)פיטר בּ רויגל(‬ ‫ַה ִּמ ִּלים ְּכמוֹ צִ ּ ֳפ ִרים‬ ‫זְ ִעירוֹ ת ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט‬ ‫ֵאין לְ ַה ְב ִחין ׁ ָשם‬ ‫לְ ַמ ְעלָ ה ׁשוּם דָּ ָבר‬ ‫ַמ ׁ ּ ֶשה ּו ֵמ ִרים ַמ ׁ ּ ֶשה ּו נוֹ ֵפל‬ ‫ִקיר ַא ַחר ִקיר ּ ְפ ִעימוֹ ת‬ ‫ַה ֵּלב ֵטרוּף‬ ‫ִמ ְת ַהדֵּ ק ﬠָ נָן חוֹ נֵק‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ֶמ ׁש ַמ ֶּתכֶ ת ּפוֹ לֵ ַח‬ ‫ֹאשחוֹ ר‬ ‫ר ְׁ‬ ‫ַה ּ ְפ ָת ִחים זָ ִבים ֲא ֵפלָ ה‬ ‫ּגו ִּפים ְרחו ִּפים צְ לָ לִ ים‬ ‫ְּכנו ִּפים נ ְִט ָר ִפים נוֹ צוֹ ת‬ ‫ַה ִּמ ִּלים ִמ ְת ַה ּ ְפכוֹ ת‬ ‫ָ ּברו ַּח ַה ּיוֹ ֶר ֶדת? ָהעוֹ לָ ה?‬

‫‪130‬‬

THE TOWER OF BABEL (1) (after Pieter Brueghel) The bird-like words are tiny almost imperceptible there above where nothing something is lifting something falling wall after wall the heart is beating madness tightening a strangling cloud a metal sun cuts into a blacksummit the openings ooze gloom bodies hover winged shadows feather-blended the words tumbling in the descending wind? Ascending?

131

‫מגדל בבל )‪(2‬‬ ‫ַה ּקוֹ לוֹ ת ַה ְּכלו ִּאים ַ ּב ִּמגְ דָּ ל ָהאוֹ ֵבד ִ ּב ְמבוֹ אוֹ ָתיו טו ִּרים טו ִּרים‬ ‫ִע ְ ּו ִרים ּ ְפרוֹ זְ דוֹ ר ִמ ְס ַּת ֵ ּב‪ּ ִ ‬ב ְפרוֹ זְ דוֹ ר קוֹ ָמה ﬠַ ל קוֹ ָמה‬ ‫קוֹ ֶר ֶסת ֵאין מוֹ צָ א ֵאין‬ ‫לְ ָה ִבין ִמ ָּלה‬ ‫ֵהד‬ ‫ֲה ֵב ָרה‬ ‫ׁ ָשבוּר‬ ‫ַא ָּתה ּתוֹ ﬠֶ ה ְ ּבﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ִמ ְתרוֹ צְ צוֹ ת‬ ‫ִמ ּסוֹ ף ﬠַ ד סוֹ ף‬ ‫ֹאשוֹ ﬠֲ נַן‬ ‫ַה ִ ּבנְיָ ן ְ ּבר ׁ‬ ‫ָה ָא ָבק ַ ּג ְר ְ ּג ִרים ּפוֹ ְִר ִחים ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר זְ ִע ִירים‬ ‫קוֹ לֵ נ ּו ִה ְתﬠַ ֵ ּקל ַ ּב ִּמ ְסדְּ רוֹ נוֹ ת‪,‬‬ ‫נ ְֶעלַ ם ְ ּב ִפ ּנָה לַ ָחה‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ָש ַמ ְענוּ‪ָ ,‬הﬠֲ גו ִּרים ָחלְ פ ּו ֵמﬠַ ל‪.‬‬ ‫ָהﬠֲ גו ִּרים‪ַ ,‬ה ֲח ִסידוֹ ת‪ַ ,‬ה ַ ּז ְרזִ ִירים‪ַ ,‬ה ִ ּקיוִ ּיוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ִמ ּנַיִ ן ָּכל ַה ִּמ ִּלים ַה ָּללוּ?‬ ‫ְ ּב ָר ָקן ָ ּב ֲא ֵפלָ ה ִּכ ְב ַרק ְנח ׁ ֶֹשת ָקלָ ל‪.‬‬ ‫ִמגְ דָּ ל זֶ ה ﬠַ ז ִמדַּ ְע ֵּתנוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו עוֹ לָ ה ִמ ַּמ ֲח ׁ ַש ָּכיו ַמ ְנ ִ ּגינָה‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאיזוֹ ַמ ְנ ִ ּגינָה עוֹ לָ ה ִמ ַּמ ֲח ׁ ַש ָּכיו‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ׁ ָש ַמ ְענ ּו ֵמעוֹ ֵדנ ּו ַמ ְנ ִ ּגינָה ְּכמוֹ ָת ּה‪.‬‬

‫‪132‬‬

THE TOWER OF BABEL (2) The voices imprisoned in the lost tower in its entryways row after row are blind corridors entangled in corridors floor after floor falling with no exit no understanding a word echo syllable broken you stray with wild eyes from end to tower’s end cloud at its summit the dust is tiny seeds sprouting in the air our voice angles in the hallways, disappears in a damp corner. We heard, the cranes passed above us. The cranes, the storks, the starlings, the kiwis. Where are all these words from? Their glow in the gloom is like burnished bronze. This tower is bolder than our thoughts. Now a melody rises from its darkness. What melody rises from its darkness. We’ve never heard a melody like this.

133

‫מגדל בבל )‪(3‬‬ ‫״אנ ְַחנ ּו חוֹ ְפ ִרים ֶאת ּ ִפיר ָ ּב ֶבל״ )פרנץ קאפקא(‬ ‫ֲ‬ ‫קוֹ ל ִחבּ וּט‪ ,‬קוֹ ל דִּ ְרדּ וּר‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠָ ָפר‪.‬‬ ‫ח ֶֹמר‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠָ ָפר‪.‬‬ ‫ֶא ֶבן ﬠַ ל ֶא ֶבן‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאבוֹ ֵתינ ּו ִה ְת ִחילוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנ ְַחנ ּו ִה ְת ַחלְ נוּ‪.‬‬ ‫שַׂ ְמנ ּו ֶא ֶבן ﬠַ ל ֶא ֶבן‪,‬‬ ‫חוֹ ָמה ﬠַ ל חוֹ ָמה‪.‬‬ ‫״ק ּנֵנ ּו נָשִׂ ים ֵ ּבין כּ וֹ כָ ִבים‪.‬״‬ ‫ִ‬ ‫ַהח ׁ ֶֹש‪ ‬גּוֹ ֵבר‪.‬‬ ‫ָק ַר ְענ ּו ּ ְפ ָת ִחים לְ ַמ ְר ֵאה ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ָ ּברוּ‪ ‬בּ וֹ ֵרא ַמ ְר ֵאה ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‬ ‫וְ ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם רוֹ אוֹ ת ַמ ְר ֶאה‪.‬‬ ‫ְמ ַס ּ ְפ ִרים‪ ,‬ﬠָ נָן נ ָ ִּצב ֵמﬠָ לֵ ינ ּו וְ ֵאי ֶנ ּנ ּו עוֹ ֵבר‪.‬‬ ‫לְ ִח ׁישוֹ ת ַה ּנ ׁ ִָשים ִהנ ׁ ְִשימ ּו עוֹ ֵרנוּ‪,‬‬ ‫זַ ֲהרו ִּרים זְ ִע ִירים ַ ּב ֲח ׁ ֵשכָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫״מי ַא ְּת‪ִ ,‬מי?״‬ ‫ִ‬

‫‪134‬‬

THE TOWER OF BABEL (3) “We are digging the pit of Babel” (Franz Kafka) The sounds of beating, of rocks sliding. Dirt. Mortar. Dirt. Stone on stone. Our forefathers began this. We began this. We put stone on stone, wall on wall. “We’ll place our nest among the stars.” The darkness grows stronger. We broke open portals to see. Blessed is He who created sight and eyes to enrapture light. They say a cloud is stationed above us and will not move. The women’s whispers breathe life into our skin, small sparks in the dark. “Who are you, who?”

135

‫הסעודה האחרונה‬ ‫ַה ְ ּצ ָב ִעים דָּ הוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ָּתוֵ י ַה ּ ָפנִים ִמ ּ ַט ׁ ְש ְט ׁ ִשים‪.‬‬ ‫ֶט ְמ ּ ֶפ ָרה ﬠַ ל ִט ַיח!‬ ‫דְּ ָב ִרים ֲא ֵח ִרים ֶהﬠֱ ִסיק ּו ֶאת ַה ַ ּצ ָ ּיר‪ֲ .‬א ָבל‬ ‫עוֹ ד יוֹ ׁ ְש ִבים ֻּכ ָּלם לְ אוֹ תוֹ ׁ ֻשלְ ָחן‪,‬‬ ‫עוֹ ד נ ְִבצָ ﬠ ַה ֶּל ֶחם‪,‬‬ ‫עוֹ ד נ ֶ ִּצ ֶבת ַהכּ וֹ ס‪ ,‬עוֹ ד נוֹ ף ְ ּג ָבעוֹ ת ְּכ ַחלְ ַחל ַ ּב ַ ּגב‪.‬‬ ‫וְ גַ ם ִּכי ל ֹא יִ ְהיֶ ה‬ ‫ֶא ָּלא כּ ֶֹתל ָסדוּק ִעם ַּכ ָּמה ְּכ ָת ִמים‪,‬‬ ‫וְ גַ ם ִּכי ל ֹא יִ ְהיֶ ה‬ ‫ֶא ָּלא כּ ֶֹתל ָסדוּק ִעם ַּכ ָּמה ְּכ ָת ִמים‪,‬‬ ‫וְ גַ ם ִּכי יְ ֻט ְא ָטא ַהכּ ֶֹתל –‬ ‫ׁ ִש ְמעוֹ ן ָהיָ ה‪ ,‬יַ ﬠֲ קֹב ָהיָ ה‪ ,‬וְ כָ ל ַה ׁ ּ ְש ָאר‪ ,‬לְ ָת ִמיד‪.‬‬ ‫ָהרו ַּח ַההוֹ לֵ ‪ ‬סוֹ ֵבב סוֹ ֵבב ﬠַ ל ּ ְפנֵי ַה ּׁ ֶש ַטח ָה ֵריק‬ ‫נוֹ שֵׂ א צִ ְבﬠֵ ֶיהם ְּכמוֹ ֲא ַבק ַה ּ ְפ ִר ָיחה‪,‬‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ָא ָבק‪ּ ַ .‬גם ִּכי ָ ּבגַ ד ַהבּ וֹ גֵ ד‪,‬‬ ‫ַה ּנ ְִב ָ ּגד ל ֹא הו ַּקע‪ ,‬ל ֹא ָא ַבד‪.‬‬

‫‪136‬‬

THE LAST SUPPER The colors are faded. The faces are blurred. Tempera on plaster! Others things preoccupied the painter. But still they are all sitting at the same table, still the bread is cut, still the goblet stands, the blue-hued hills behind. And even if it’s nothing but a cracked wall with a few color stains, and even if the wall were swept clean – still Simon was there, James was there, and all the rest, forever. The wind swirling around the empty space carries their colors like pollen, like dust. And even if the betrayer betrayed, the betrayed is not cast out, not lost.

137

‫ההורדה מהצלב‬ ‫)רמבראנדט(‬ ‫שַׂ ק ֶק ַמח ﬠָ ֵב ׁש‪ ,‬נֹאד‬ ‫לָ ָבן‪ ,‬נָפו ַּח‪ַ ,‬ה ּמוֹ ׁ ִשיﬠַ‬ ‫ֹאש־‬ ‫מו ָּרד ִמן ָהﬠֵ ץ ַה ֻּמכְ ָּתם ָהר ׁ‬ ‫ֹאש נָפוּל‪ָ ׁ ,‬שמוּט ְּכמוֹ‬ ‫ל ֹא־ר ׁ‬ ‫ַּכדּ ו ּ‬ ‫ּר־פוֹ ֵרח זָ ִעיר‬ ‫ֲח ַסר ֲאוִ יר‪ֶ .‬א ָחד אוֹ ֵחז ִ ּבזְ רוֹ ﬠַ‬ ‫ַה ֻ ּב ָ ּבה ַה ְּכעו ָּרה ַה ּזֹאת‪,‬‬ ‫נוֹ ﬠֵ ץ ָ ּב ּה ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ְ ּב ִת ָּמהוֹ ן‪,‬‬ ‫ֶח ְמלָ ה וָ ַפ ַחד‪ֲ .‬א ֵח ִרים נוֹ שְׂ ִאים‬ ‫וְ נוֹ ְתנִים וְ לוֹ ְק ִחים ְ ּב ָפנִים‬ ‫ּתוֹ ִעים ֵ ּבין ַמ ְעלָ ה ו ַּמ ּ ָטה‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ָש ֵמן ﬠֲ טוּר ִמצְ נ ֶֶפת‬ ‫עוֹ ֵמד ו ִּמ ְתבּ וֹ נֵן‬ ‫ְמ ֻר ֶ ּצה ִמ ְּכ ֵרסוֹ ַה ַח ָ ּיה ׁ ֶשל ﬠַ צְ מוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ֶר ַקﬠ ָה ָר ִקיﬠַ ָה ָא ֵפל‬ ‫ִיח‬ ‫ִמ ְתכּ וֹ ֵפף ֶא ָחד‪ַ ,‬מ ּנ ַ‬ ‫לְ ַאט לַ ָּס ִדין לִ צְ נ ַֹח‪.‬‬ ‫ַהכּ ֹל ָא ֵפל ָס ִביב‪ּ ַ .‬גם ָהﬠֵ צִ ים‪.‬‬ ‫ַרק ַה ּגו ָּפה זוֹ ֶה ֶרת‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא‪ .‬ל ֹא ָּכ‪ .‬עוֹ ד ּ ַפﬠַ ם‪ֵ .‬מ ַה ְת ָחלָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ָ ּבשָׂ ר לָ ָבן וָ ַר‪ִּ ,‬כ ְמ ֻד ֶּמה‪,‬‬ ‫ַחי‪ ,‬נוֹ ׁ ֵשם‪ֵ ,‬מנִיﬠַ זְ רוֹ עוֹ ת‪,‬‬ ‫ֲא ִפלּ ּו אוֹ ֵהב‪ִ .‬מחוּץ לַ ִּמ ְס ֶ ּג ֶרת‪,‬‬ ‫יֵ ׁש לְ ׁ ַשﬠֵ ר יְ נִיחוּה ּו ְ ּבבוֹ ר‪.‬‬ ‫יְ נִיחוּהוּ? יָ נו ַּח? ְמנו ַּחת עוֹ לָ ִמים‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא‪ ,‬ל ֹא ָּכ‪.‬‬

‫‪138‬‬

DESCENT FROM THE CROSS (after Rembrandt) Moldy sack of flour, white wineskin, swollen, the Savior is removed from the stained wood, his headnot-head fallen, drooping like a small hot-air balloon airless. One man clutches his arm this ugly rag-doll, staring at it in wonder, in pity and fear. Others hold him passing him one to the next their gazes straying up and down. A fat man adorned in a turban stands to the side and observes, satisfied with his own living belly. Against the backdrop of the gloomy skies another stoops over, letting the sheet slowly drop. Everything around is dark. The trees too. Only the body shines. No, not exactly. Try again. From the beginning. Soft white flesh. As though living, breathing, moving its arms, even loving. Outside the frame, one guesses they’ll put him to rest in the ground. Put him to rest? Will he rest? Eternal rest. No. Not exactly.

139

‫ַהדְּ מוּת דְּ מוּת‪ֲ ,‬א ָבל‬ ‫ַרק לִ כְ אוֹ ָרה‪ַ .‬ה ַּמ ֲחזֶ ה יָ דוּﬠַ ‪,‬‬ ‫לִ כְ אוֹ ָרה‪ַ .‬הדְּ ֻמ ּיוֹ ת‪,‬‬ ‫ָהﬠֵ ץ ַהדָּ מוּם‪ָ ,‬ה ַר ִקיﬠַ‬ ‫צְ ָב ִעים‪ַ .‬ה ְ ּצ ָב ִעים צְ ָב ִעים –‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ִמ ּנַיִ ן וּלְ ָאן? ֲא ֵפלָ ה‪ַ .‬ה ְּתמ ּונָה‬ ‫ְּתלוּיָ ה ְ ּב ִמינְכֶ ן‪ָ .‬ר ִא ִיתי‪.‬‬ ‫ָר ִא ִיתי? ֲהל ֹא‬ ‫ֶיה‪,‬‬ ‫ִהיא ֵמ ֲאחוֹ ֶר ָיה‪ִ ,‬היא ִמ ְּל ָפנ ָ‬ ‫ִהיא ִמ ַּת ַחת ִהיא ֵמﬠַ ל לְ ַבדָּ ּה‬ ‫ַּכ ִ ּצ ּפוֹ ר ַה ּפוֹ ַר ַחת‬ ‫ְ ּב ֶה ֶבל ּ ֶפה ַא ֲחרוֹ ן‪ְ ,‬מ ַר ֶח ֶפת ֶרגַ ע‬ ‫ֵמﬠַ ל ּ ָפנִים ׁ ֶש ָהי ּו‬ ‫ֻמ ָּכרוֹ ת‪ ,‬וְ ל ֹא עוֹ ד‪ְ ,‬מ ֻד ָּמה‬ ‫לַ ּנ ׁ ְָש ָמה –‬

‫‪140‬‬

The figure is a figure, but only seemingly. The scene is well-known, presumably. The images, the still-bleeding wood, the dark-hued heavens. The colors in colors – but from where and whence? Darkness. The painting hangs in Munich. I saw it. I saw it? Isn’t it behind it, before it, it’s beneath it’s above on its own like a bird flying in a last empty breath, hovering for a moment above a face that was known, and no more, now imagined a soul –

141

‫זכר אשה במחלקה המצרית‬ ‫ֵאי‪ֶ ‬א ְמצָ א אוֹ ָת ּה ָ ּבﬠֲ יֵ פוּת ַה ּזֹאת‬ ‫ֵ ּבין ֲחלוֹ ם וְ ָה ִקיץ‬ ‫ֵ ּבין ָה ֲארוֹ נוֹ ת ַה ִּמצְ ִר ִ ּיים‬ ‫נֶﬠֶ לְ ָמה ָה ִא ׁ ּ ָשה ַה ָ ּז ָרה ַ ּב ָ ּק ָהל ַה ָ ּזר‬ ‫ֵאי‪ֶ ‬א ְמצָ א אוֹ ָת ּה‬ ‫ְ ּבﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ִמ ְת ַק ׁ ּ ְשרוֹ ת ִ ּב ְד ָמעוֹ ת ׁ ָשם ﬠָ ְמ ָדה‬ ‫בּ וֹ כָ ה ַ ּב ִּמ ְס ָּת ִרים ִ ּב ְראוֹ ָת ּה ִא ׁיש ִמצְ ִרי ֵמת‬ ‫ְמצֻ ָ ּיר ﬠַ ל ִמכְ ֵסה ֲארוֹ נוֹ‬ ‫ְ ּבﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ׁ ְשחֹרוֹ ת ִּכ ׁ ְש ֵק ִדים‬ ‫ﬠָ ְמ ָדה רוֹ ָאה ִ ּב ְד ָמעוֹ ת‬ ‫ֶאת ַה ּי ִֹפי ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫״בﬠֲ שִׂ ִירי ְ ּביוּלִ י ֶאלֶ ף ְּת ׁ ַשﬠ ֵמאוֹ ת וְ ׁ ִש ְב ִעים ְ ּב ׁ ָשﬠָ ה ַא ַחת־ﬠֶ שְׂ ֵרה ַ ּבבּ ֶֹקר״‬ ‫ָּ‬

‫‪142‬‬

MEMORY OF A WOMAN IN THE EGYPTIAN WING How will I find her despite this fatigue between wakefulness and dream she vanished among the Egyptian sarcophagi foreign woman in a foreign crowd how will I find her with her eyes welling up with tears there she stood secretly crying on seeing the dead Egyptian man drawn on his casket cover her eyes as black as almonds she stood there gazing through tears at all that beauty “On the tenth of July nineteen seventy at eleven o’clock in the morning”

143

V

Postcards From

‫הרחק‬ ‫‪1‬‬

‫ָהיִ ִיתי ַה ְר ֵחק‪.‬‬ ‫ָחזַ ְר ִּתי‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּנ ׁ ְָש ָמה ﬠַ ִּת ָיקה ְמאֹד‪ .‬יֵ ׁש אוֹ ְמ ִרים‬ ‫ַק ֶ ּי ֶמת לָ ﬠַ ד‪ֲ ,‬א ִפלּ ּו ְ ּבלִ י ּגוּף‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ַפﬠַ ם ָּכאן ּ ַפﬠַ ם ׁ ָשם וְ גַ ם ְ ּב ׁשו ָּמקוֹ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ַפﬠַ ם ָח ׁ ָשה ﬠַ צְ ָמ ּה ְ ּבטוֹ ב ו ַּפﬠַ ם‬ ‫ִהיא זָ ָרה לְ ‪ֲ ,‬אבו ָּדה‪ּ ַ ,‬גם לְ ﬠַ צְ ָמ ּה‪.‬‬ ‫ָק ׁ ֶשה לָ ַדﬠַ ת ֵאיפֹה ִהיא ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאין לִ ְראוֹ ת אוֹ ָת ּה‪ ,‬לִ ׁ ְשמֹﬠַ אוֹ ָת ּה‪ִ ,‬אי ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר‬ ‫לָ גַ ﬠַ ת ָ ּב ּה‪ ,‬לִ ְטעֹם אוֹ ָת ּה‪ ,‬לְ ָה ִר ָיח ּה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ַמה ַ ּיﬠֲ שֶׂ ה ַה ּגוּף ִ ּבלְ ﬠָ ֶד ָיה‪.‬‬ ‫‪2‬‬

‫ְ ּב ׁ ֶש ְּכ ָבר ַה ָ ּי ִמים ָא ַמ ְר ִּתי ִ ּבצְ חוֹ ק‬ ‫ת־אבוֹ ַתי‬ ‫ֲאנִי צֶ ֱאצָ א ׁ ֶשל ﬠֵ ץ‪ֲ ,‬אבוֹ ֲ‬ ‫ָהי ּו ﬠֵ צִ ים‪ֲ ,‬אנִי ַמ ְר ִ ּג ׁיש ֵה ֵיטב‬ ‫ַמה ֶ ּזה לִ ְהיוֹ ת ָּתקוּﬠַ ָ ּב ֲא ָד ָמה‪ּ ְ ,‬בלִ י יְ כֹלֶ ת לָ זוּז‪ּ ְ ,‬בעוֹ ד‬ ‫ֹאש לְ ַמ ְעלָ ה‪ ,‬נוֹ ׁ ֵשב ִעם ָהרו ַּח‬ ‫ָהר ׁ‬ ‫ו ַּמה ֶ ּזה לַ ﬠֲ מֹד ֵק ֵר ַח ִמכּ ֹל‬ ‫ַ ּב ְּכפוֹ ר ַה ָ ּק ֵרב‪.‬‬

‫‪146‬‬

FAR AWAY

1 I was far away. I came back. The soul is very old. There are those who say she exists forever, even without a body. Sometimes she’s here or there and sometimes nowhere. Sometimes she feels she is well and sometimes she’s a stranger to you, lost, even to herself. It’s hard to know where she is now. She can’t be seen or heard, it’s impossible to touch her, or taste or smell her. But what would the body do without her. 2 Once I said in jest I am the descendent of trees, my forefathers were trees. How well I know what it’s like to be stuck in the ground, unable to move while one’s head is up high, being blown with the winds, and what it’s like to stand bare and bald before the coming frost.

147

‫גלויה מפרשבורג־ברטיסלוה‬ ‫ְב ַר ִט ְיסלַ וָ ה ִהיא ּ ְפ ֶרשְׂ בּ ו ְּרג ִהיא ּפוֹ ז׳וֹ נִי‪.‬‬ ‫ִ ּב ׁ ְש ִבילִ י ִהיא ּ ְפ ֶרשְׂ בּ ו ְּרג‪.‬‬ ‫מוֹ ִרי‪ַ ,‬מר וו ְּרם ֵמ ָהﬠֲ ָמ ִמי‬ ‫הוֹ צִ יא ִמ ְּמגֵ ָרתוֹ ֶאת ַּתצְ לוּם ַה ִּכ ָּתה וְ ִהצְ ִ ּביﬠַ ‪:‬‬ ‫זֶ ה ָהיָ ה נָאצִ י וְ גַ ם זֶ ה וְ זֶ ה‪ַ .‬ההוּא‬ ‫ָהיָ ה ַאכְ זָ ִרי ִ ּב ְמיֻ ָחד‪ַ .‬ה ָּלה נ ַָפל ְ ּברו ְּסיָ ה‬ ‫וְ אוֹ תוֹ ֵ ּג ְר ׁשוּ‪ִ .‬מי ֵמ ַה ַּתלְ ִמ ִידים ַה ְ ּיהו ִּדים‬ ‫שָׂ ַרד וָ ַחי – ֵאינִי יוֹ ֵדﬠַ ‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ְפ ֶרשְׂ בּ ו ְּרג ָהיְ ָתה ִעיר ְּתלַ ת־לְ ׁשוֹ נִית‪ַ .‬ה ָּל ׁשוֹ ן ָה ְר ִב ִיעית‬ ‫ִהיא ַה ׁ ּ ְש ִת ָיקה‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִאם ָהי ּו ּ ַפﬠַ ם ְ ּגבוּלוֹ ת לָ רֹﬠַ ?‬ ‫ּ ְפ ֶרשְׂ בּ ו ְּרג ׁשוֹ כֶ נֶת לְ יַ ד ַהדָּ נו ָ ּּבה‪ּ ִ ,‬ב ְקצֵ ה ׁ ְשלוּחוֹ ת ַה ַ ּק ְר ּ ָפ ִטים‪.‬‬ ‫ית־ה ְּכנ ֶֶסת ׁ ֶשל ַה ּנֵיאוֹ לוֹ גִ ים‬ ‫ְ ּב ִק ְר ַבת ַה ָ ּק ֶת ְד ָרלָ ה ﬠָ ַמד ֵ ּב ַ‬ ‫ְ ּב ִסגְ נוֹ ן ָמאו ִּרי ָּכלְ ׁ ֶשהוּ‪ .‬לְ ַמ ּ ָטה שְׂ רוּﬠָ ה ִּכ ַּכר ַהדָּ גִ ים‬ ‫לְ ַמ ְעלָ ה ִה ְת ִחיל ְרחוֹ ב ַה ְ ּיהו ִּדים‪ַ .‬הדָּ נו ָ ּּבה זוֹ ֶר ֶמת ְּכמוֹ ָּת ִמיד‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי זָ ֵקן‪ֵ .‬אינִי יָ כוֹ ל לְ ִה ְת ַקדֵּ ם ֶא ָּלא לְ ַאט‪.‬‬ ‫ִ ּב ּ ְפ ֶרשְׂ בּ ו ְּרג נוֹ לַ ְד ִּתי‪ָ .‬הי ּו לִ י ֵאם‪ָ ,‬אב וְ ָאחוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ָהיְ ָתה לִ י‪ִּ ,‬כ ְמ ֻד ֶּמה‪ ,‬יַ לְ דוּת ְק ַט ּנָה ְמ ֻא ׁ ּ ֶש ֶרת ִ ּב ּ ְפ ֶרשְׂ בּ ו ְּרג‪.‬‬ ‫ל־כ ָּל ּה‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ַפﬠַ ם ָק ְפ ָאה ַהדָּ נו ָ ּּבה ָּכ ֻּ‬ ‫ַה ֶ ּקלְ ִטים ָ ּבנ ּו ָּכאן ִמ ְבצָ ר‪ ,‬וְ גַ ם נ ְִסיכֵ י‬ ‫מוֹ ַר ְביָ ה ַר ָ ּב ִתי‪ָ .‬הרוֹ ָמ ִאים ָק ְרא ּו לַ ָּמקוֹ ם‬ ‫ה־ב ָ ּי ִמים‪.‬‬ ‫ּפוֹ זוֹ נִיוּם‪ .‬זֹאת ִעיר ָ ּב ָא ַ ּ‬ ‫ה־ב ָ ּי ִמים ﬠַ ד ׁ ֶש ֵאינִי יוֹ ְדﬠָ ּה עוֹ ד‪.‬‬ ‫כּ ֹה ָ ּב ָא ַ ּ‬ ‫לְ ִה ְת ָראוֹ ת ֲאהו ָּבה‪ָ ,‬ק ׁ ֶשה לְ ׁ ַשﬠֵ ר‪.‬‬

‫‪148‬‬

A POSTCARD FROM PRESSBURG-BRATISLAVA Bratislava is Pressburg is Pozsony. For me it is Pressburg. My teacher, Mr. Wurm from the elementary school, pulled a class photo from his drawer and started pointing: “This one was a Nazi, and this one and that one too. This one was especially brutal. This one fell in Russia and that one was deported. Which of the Jewish pupils survived – I do not know.” Pressburg was a tri-lingual city. Its fourth language is silence. Were there once borders to evil? Pressburg lies adjacent to the Danube, at the edges of the Carpathian slopes. Near the Cathedral the Neologist Synagogue once stood built in some kind of Moorish style. Below is Fish Square, above is where the Street of the Jews began. The Danube flows as always. I am old. I can walk only slowly now. I was born in Pressburg. I had a mother, a father, a sister. I had, I believe, a small and happy childhood in Pressburg. Once, the Danube froze solid. The Celts built here a fortress, as did the princes of greater Moravia. The Romans called this place Possonium. This is an old old city. So old I barely know her anymore. Farewell, beloved, it’s unimaginable.

149

‫גלויה מששטין‪ :‬מדורות סתו‬ ‫ׁ ַש ׁ ְש ִטין‪ָ ,‬ס ֵפק ﬠֲ יָ ָרה ָס ֵפק ְּכ ָפר‪ְ ,‬קרוֹ ָבה לִ גְ בוּל מוֹ ַר ְביָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ְמקוֹ ם ﬠֲ לִ ָ ּיה לָ ֶרגֶ ל ׁ ֶשל נוֹ צְ ִרים‪ִ ,‬עם ְּכנ ִֵס ָ ּיה ְ ּגדוֹ לָ ה ו ְּמפ ֶֹא ֶרת‬ ‫ﬠֲ צֵ י ﬠַ ְרמוֹ ן ַ ּב ֲחזִ ָית ּה‪ִ ,‬מנְזָ ר ׁ ֶשל ִסילֶ זְ יָ אנִים‬ ‫ְקיוֹ ְס ִקים ְ ּגדו ׁ ִּשים ּ ִפ ְסלֵ י ְקדוֹ ׁ ִשים ו ַּמ ְמ ַּת ִ ּקים ִ ּב ֵימי ַחג וְ יָ ִריד‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּב ִ ּז ָּכרוֹ ן ֵאין זְ ַמן ﬠָ ָבר‪.‬‬ ‫ִּכ ַּכר ַה ׁ ּשוּק ְּכ ָבר ְמכֻ ָּסה ֶ ּבטוֹ ן‪ַ ,‬ה ְּמתוֹ ֵפף ּתוֹ ֵפף ﬠַ ל ּתֹף ַה ּ ַפח‬ ‫ַמכְ ִריז ְ ּבקוֹ ל ַח ְד ׁשוֹ ת ׁ ְשנַת ‪ 34‬אוֹ ‪ִ ,36‬מ ָּכל ָמקוֹ ם ְ ּב ֶט ֶרם‬ ‫ׁ ַש ׁ ְש ִטין נ ֶֶה ּ ְפכָ ה‪ .‬לִ ְפנֵי‬ ‫י ּונִי ‪.42‬‬ ‫ָאז נ ֶֶאלְ ָמה דּ ֹם ׁ ַש ׁ ְש ִטין‪ ,‬ל ֹא הוֹ צִ ָיאה ֶהגֶ ה ַּכ ֲא ׁ ֶשר‬ ‫ִה ְמ ִּתינָה ָה ַר ֶּכ ֶבת – ִמ ּ ְשׂ מֹאל לַ ְּכ ִב ׁיש‪ ,‬לְ יַ ד ֵ ּביתוֹ ׁ ֶשל‬ ‫את ִמ ִּכ ַּכר ַה ׁ ּשוּק ׁ ָשם עוֹ ֵמד‬ ‫ד״ר נוֹ בוֹ ֶמ ְס ִקי ִאם ָ ּב ָ‬ ‫ַה ַ ּביִ ת ׁ ֶשל ַה ַּס ִ ּבים‪ ,‬הוֹ ַרי וַ ֲאחוֹ ִתי ׁשוֹ ִהים ֶאצְ לָ ם‬ ‫)ה ִאם הוֹ לְ כִ ים ֵהם ﬠַ ל ִמזְ וְ דוֹ ֵת ֶיהם ָ ּב ֶרגֶ ל ֶאל ַה ַּת ֲחנָה‪ַ ,‬ה ִאם עוֹ ָדם‬ ‫ַ‬ ‫ַמ ְפנִים ֶאת ר ׁ ָ‬ ‫ֹאשם לְ ָאחוֹ ר לִ ְראוֹ ת ֶאת ﬠֵ ין ָהאוֹ כְ ָרה ׁ ֶש ַּל ַ ּביִ ת? –‬ ‫)ה ּיוֹ ם ֵאין לְ ַה ִּכיר( – וְ נ ְָסﬠָ ה צָ פוֹ נָה‪.‬‬ ‫ַ‬ ‫יִ ׁ ּשוּב ָק ָטן ְס ָת ִמי‪ ,‬לַ ְמרוֹ ת ּ ְפ ֵאר ַה ְּכנ ִֵס ָ ּיה‪ַ ,‬מ ׁ ְש ִמים ְ ּב ַס‪ַ ‬הכּ ֹל‪ .‬לִ נ ְׁשֹם בּ וֹ‬ ‫ִאי ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר‪ַ .‬הכּ ֹל ﬠָ ׁ ָשן‪ .‬ל ֹא כְ לוּם לְ ִה ְתבּ וֹ נֵן‪ַ .‬אף ל ֹא ֶא ָחד‬ ‫לִ ְק ׁשֹר שִׂ ָיחה‪ .‬ל ֹא כְ לוּם לִ כְ ּתֹב ﬠָ לָ יו‪.‬‬

‫‪150‬‬

A POSTCARD FROM SHASTIN: AUTUMN FIRES Shastin, half-village half-town, sits near the Moravian border. A place of Christian pilgrimage, with its huge ornate church, chestnut trees at the entrance, Silesian monastery, stalls full of saint figurines and sweets on feast days. There’s no past in its memory. The market square is already covered with concrete, the drummer drumming on the tin drum announces the news of ’34 or ’36, in any case from some time before Shastin was completely changed. Before June ’42. Then Shastin fell silent, uttered not a word when the train waited there – left of the road, beside the house of Dr. Novomesky if you came from the market square where the house of my grandparents stands, my parents and sister are staying with them (do they walk with their suitcases to the station, do they still look back to see the house’s ochre eye? – today unrecognizable) – then traveled north. An insignificant village, despite the grandeur of the church, dreary in the end. There’s no breathing there, everything is smoke. Nothing to see. Not a single person to talk to. Nothing to write about.

151

‫גלויה מבודפשט‬ ‫ְ ּבבּ ו ַּד ּ ֶפשְׂ ט ֲאנִי קוֹ ֵרא ﬠַ ל בּ ו ַּד ּ ֶפשְׂ ט‪ִ .‬ח ּקוּי ׁ ֶשל ִח ּקוּי‬ ‫אוֹ ֵמר ְקלָ או ְּדיוֹ ַמגְ ִריס‪ִ ,‬ח ּקוּיָ ּה ׁ ֶשל וִ ינָה‬ ‫ַה ְּמ ַח ָ ּקה ּ ָפ ִריס‪ָ .‬א ָדם שָׂ ֵמח )ל ֹא ָּת ִמיד( לִ ְקרֹא דְּ ָב ִרים‬ ‫אוֹ ָתם ָח ׁש ְ ּבﬠַ צְ מוֹ ‪ִ .‬עיר ִנ ּג ּונִים ׁ ֶשל צוֹ ﬠֲ נִים‬ ‫ית־ק ֶפה‪ִ .‬עיר נֵיאוֹ ־גּוֹ ִט ָיקה וְ נֵיאוֹ ֶ־רנ ֶַסנְס יַ ְחדָּ ו‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵב ָ‬ ‫ישים‪ָ ,‬מ ַתי‬ ‫ָמ ַתי אוֹ ְמ ִרים ָ ּב ּה ַמה ׁ ּ ֶש ַּמ ְר ִ ּג ׁ ִ‬ ‫ַמה ׁ ּ ֶש ָראוּי לוֹ ַמר? ַמה ָ ּב ּה צו ָּרה לַ ּנ ֶֶפ ׁש וְ ﬠַ ד ָמה‬ ‫ְסמוּיוֹ ת ֵהן ַהדְּ ָמעוֹ ת ׁ ֶש ַ ּבדְּ ָב ִרים?‬ ‫ַהדּ ּונָה ַ‬ ‫)הדָּ נו ָ ּּבה( ַה ְ ּגדוֹ לָ ה חוֹ צָ ה ָה ִעיר לִ ׁ ְש ַּתיִ ם‬ ‫)כ ָּמה יָ פוֹ ת‬ ‫ְ ּבגַ ן ַה ְּמצו ָּדה זוּגוֹ ת ׁ ֶשל צְ ִע ִירים ַּ‬ ‫ַה ַ ּבחוּרוֹ ת ָּכאן( ַמ ֲחלִ ִיפים ּ ָפנִים‪.‬‬ ‫ָה ְרחוֹ בוֹ ת ׁ ֶשל בּ ו ָּדה – זִ ָּכרוֹ ן ָרדוּם‪.‬‬ ‫ּפֹה ׁ ָשם ֵ ּבית יַ יִ ן‪ ,‬יֶ ֶרק‪ֶ ׁ ,‬ש ֶקט‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִ ּבנְיָ נִים ׁ ֶשל ּ ֶפשְׂ ט ַמﬠֲ ִמ ִידים ּ ָפנִים‪ִּ ,‬כי ֵאין ָ ּבם‬ ‫יַ ד ַה ְ ּז ַמן ַה ְּמ ַק ֵּלף ֶאת ֲחזִ יתוֹ ֵת ֶיהם‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ַּמיִ ם ַ ּב ּנ ָָהר ָּת ִמיד אוֹ ָתם ﬠַ צְ ָמם ָּת ִמיד ׁשוֹ נִים‪.‬‬ ‫ִעיר ֶּכ ֶפל ַה ּ ָפנִים‪ּ ִ .‬ב ְפנִים ֶא ָחד ֵמ ֲח ָד ֶר ָיה‬ ‫בּ וֹ ֵרר לוֹ ִא ְימ ֶרה ֶק ְר ֵטשׂ ִמלּ וֹ ָתיו‬ ‫לִ ְמצֹא ֶאת ַמה ׁ ּ ֶש ִּמ ְת ַח ֶ ּיה ֵ ּבינָן ו ַּבﬠֲ ָדן‪ ,‬לוֹ ַמר‬ ‫ֱא ֶמת לַ ֲא ִמ ָּת ּה‪.‬‬

‫‪152‬‬

A POSTCARD FROM BUDAPEST In Budapest I read about Budapest. An imitation of an imitation, says Claudio Magris, an imitation of Vienna imitating Paris. A man is happy (not always) to read things he felt himself. City of gypsy songs in the cafes. A city neo-gothic and neo-renaissance both. When does one speak here what one is feeling, and when what is supposed to be spoken? What is soul-shaped here, and how hidden are the tears of things? The large Duna (the Danube) cuts the city in two, in the Citadel garden young couples pass by (how beautiful are the young women here). The streets of Buda – a dormant memory. A few wine houses, greenery, quiet. The buildings of Pest pretend, as though time hasn’t stripped away their facades. The water in the river is always itself always different. A two-faced city. Inside one of its rooms Imre Kertesz is choosing his words with great care to find what can be revived between and for them, to speak the absolute truth.

153

‫גלויה מלונדון‬ ‫ֶאת ַה ְ ּגלוּיָ ה ַה ּזֹאת ֲאנִי כּ וֹ ֵתב ִמלּ וֹ נְדּ וֹ ן‪.‬‬ ‫לוֹ נְדוֹ ן ְ ּגדוֹ לָ ה ִמדַּ י ִ ּב ׁ ְש ִבילִ י‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי ִמ ְס ַּת ּ ֵפק ַ ּב ּנ ׁ ְַשיוֹ נַל ָ ּגאלֵ ִרי‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּנ ׁ ְַשיוֹ נַל ָ ּגאלֵ ִרי ְ ּגדוֹ לָ ה ִמדַּ י ִ ּב ׁ ְש ִבילִ י‪ֲ .‬אנִי ִמ ְס ַּת ּ ֵפק‬ ‫ַ ּבדְּ יוֹ ָקן ָהﬠַ צְ ִמי ׁ ֶשל ֶר ְמ ְ ּב ַרנְדְּ ט ִ ּב ְהיוֹ תוֹ‬ ‫ֶ ּבן ׁ ִש ׁ ּ ִשים וְ ׁ ָשלוֹ ׁש‪ַ .‬ה ַּת ֲא ִרי‪ ‬הוּא ‪1669‬‬ ‫ׁ ְשנַת ַח ָ ּייו ָה ַא ֲחרוֹ נָה‪ַ .‬ה ּיוֹ ם ֲאנִי‬ ‫״ה ְּתמ ּונָה‬ ‫ָ ּגדוֹ ל ִמ ֶּמ ּנ ּו ְ ּב ַא ַחת־ﬠֶ שְׂ ֵרה ׁ ָשנִים‪ַ .‬א‪ַ ‬‬ ‫ל ֹא יָ כְ לָ ה לִ ְהיוֹ ת צְ נוּﬠָ ה יוֹ ֵתר‪ַ ,‬ה ִח ּקוּר ָהﬠַ צְ ִמי‬ ‫ל ֹא נ ְִמ ָרץ יוֹ ֵתר‪,‬״ ָּכתוּב ַ ּב ָ ּק ָטלוֹ ג‪.‬‬ ‫ֲ‬ ‫)אנִי אוֹ ֵהב מו ָּבאוֹ ת‪ֶ ,‬א ְפ ׁ ָשר לְ ִה ְס ַּת ֵּמ‪ ‬ﬠֲ לֵ ֶיהן‬ ‫ָ ּב ִאים לִ ֵידי שִׂ ָיחה‪ּ ַ ,‬גם לַ ֲא ֵח ִרים יֵ ׁש ַמה לּ וֹ ַמר‬ ‫״ב ּפוֹ ְר ְט ֵר ִטים ִמ ׁ ּ ְשנוֹ ָתיו‬ ‫נוֹ צֶ ֶרת ֵמﬠֵ ין ּפוֹ לִ יפוֹ נְיָ ה(‪ּ ַ :‬‬ ‫ָה ַא ֲחרוֹ נוֹ ת הוּא ַמ ִ ּציג ֶאת ﬠַ צְ מוֹ ְּכצַ ָ ּיר וּכְ ָא ָדם ַה ִּמ ְתדַּ ֵ ּין‬ ‫ִעם ָהעוֹ לָ ם ְּכ ִמ ְת ָ ּג ֶרה בּ וֹ אוֹ נִכְ נָﬠ לוֹ ו ְּמוַ ֵּתר‪ּ ַ .‬בדְּ יוֹ ָקן‬ ‫י־שם ָ ּב ֶר ַקע‪.‬״ לוֹ נְדּ וֹ ן‬ ‫ַה ֶ ּזה‪ ,‬דּ וֹ ֶמה‪ֵ ,‬אין ָהעוֹ לָ ם ֶא ָּלא ֵא ׁ ָ‬ ‫ָה ִעיר ַה ּפוֹ לִ יפוֹ נִית ׁ ֶש ֲאנִי ַמ ִּכיר‪ֻּ ,‬כ ָּלה ָ ּב ֶר ַקע‪.‬‬ ‫׳ימס ּ ַפ ְרק‬ ‫ְט ָר ַפלְ ָ ּגר ְס ְקוֵ יר ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ְ ּבלִ י קוֹ ל‪ֵ ,‬סנְט ֵ ּג ְ‬ ‫ִעם צִ ּ ֳפ ֵרי ַה ַּמיִ ם וְ ַה ְ ּקיוֹ ְסק ַה ָ ּגדוֹ ל‪ ,‬וֶ ְס ְט ִמינ ְְס ֶטר‬ ‫ַה ּ ַפ ְרלָ ֶמנְט וְ צֵ ִ׳רינְג ְקרוֹ ס‪ֵ ,‬סנְט ּפוֹ ל‪ַ ,‬ה ּ ַטאו ֶּאר‬ ‫ַא ַחר ָּכ‪ַ ‬ה ֶּת ְמזָ ה ְ ּבכִ ּווּן לַ ָ ּים – ָ ּב ֶר ַקע‪ַ .‬ה ְּמזָ ִחים ַה ְ ּז ִע ִירים‬ ‫ַה ִ ּבנְיָ נִים‪ָ ,‬ה ֳא ִנ ּיוֹ ת וְ ַה ִּסירוֹ ת‪ּ ְ ,‬ג ִרינִיץ׳‪ַ ,‬ה ְ ּז ַמן ַה ְּמ ֻד ָ ּיק‪.‬‬ ‫ָהﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ַה ָּלל ּו‬ ‫ָהﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ַה ַ ּק ׁ ּשוּבוֹ ת‪ָ ,‬הﬠֲ יֵ פוֹ ת‪ַ ,‬ה ּיוֹ ְדעוֹ ת ַה ָּלל ּו‬ ‫רוֹ אוֹ ת ָּכל זֶ ה וְ ל ֹא רוֹ אוֹ ת‪ַ .‬רק ֶקנְווּד ַהאוּס רוֹ ֵמז עוֹ ד ֵמ ָרחוֹ ק‬ ‫וְ ַהדְּ יוֹ ָקן‪ֵּ ,‬ת ׁ ַשﬠ ׁ ָשנִים צָ ִעיר יוֹ ֵתר‪ַ ,‬ט ְבלַ ת צְ ָב ִעים ַ ּב ָ ּיד‪ ,‬ו ְּב ַמ ָ ּבט דּ וֹ ֶמה‪.‬‬ ‫)ה ִאם הוּא ַמ ֲאזִ ין לַ ְמ ַנ ֶ ּגנֶת ׁ ֶשל וֶ ְר ֶמר?(‬ ‫ַ‬ ‫״ה ֶ ּצ ַבﬠ ה ּונַח ְ ּב ַח ְסכָ נוּת ְ ּגאוֹ נִית‪.‬״‬ ‫ַ‬ ‫ַה ָ ּי ַדיִ ם ׁ ְשלוּבוֹ ת‪ ,‬אוֹ ֲחזוֹ ת זוֹ ָ ּבזוֹ ְ ּב ִר ְפיוֹ ן‪.‬‬ ‫ׁשוּב ֵאינָן רוֹ צוֹ ת לִ ְת ּפֹס דָּ ָבר אוֹ לְ ַה ֲחזִ יק בּ וֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫לוֹ נְדּ וֹ ן ְרחוֹ ָקה‪ֵ ,‬אינ ָּה ֶא ָּלא ְ ּגלוּיָ ה‪ֲ ,‬היִ י ׁ ָשלוֹ ם‪.‬‬ ‫‪154‬‬

A POSTCARD FROM LONDON I’m writing this postcard from London. London is too large for me. I content myself with The National Gallery. The National Gallery is too large for me. Rembrandt’s self-portrait when he was sixty three is enough for me. The year is 1669, the last year of his life. Today I am eleven years older than he was. But “the painting could not be more modest, the self-investigation more fervent,” states the catalogue. (I like quotations, one can depend on them in conversation, that others also have something to say, a type of polyphony created): “In the portraits from his last years he presents himself as a painter and person debating the world as it taunts him, or finally surrenders to him and gives in. In this portrait, it seems the world exists only as the backdrop.” London the polyphonic city that I know, all backdrop. Tralfagar Square is almost voiceless, Saint James Park with its water birds and large kiosk, Westminster, the Parliament and Charing Cross, Saint Paul’s, the Tower then the Thames on its way to the sea – backdrop. The tiny piers, the buildings, the boats and ships, Greenwich, the exact time. Those eyes the listening weary eyes, those knowing eyes that see it all and don’t see. Only Kenwood House hints already from a distance and the portrait, nine years younger, color palate in his hand, and with a similar look. (Is he listening to Vermeer’s musician?) “The paint was applied with genius economy.” His arms are crossed, holding each other lightly. They don’t want to reach for anything else anymore. Distant London, it is nothing but a postcard, farewell to you.

155

‫גלויה מתל־אביב‬ ‫ל־א ִביב ִעיר צִ ְבעוֹ נִית ְמאוֹ ד לְ ָבנָה‪.‬‬ ‫ֵּת ָ‬ ‫ִמ ׁ ְש ַּת ּנָה ָּכל ֶרגַ ﬠ וְ נ ׁ ְִש ֶא ֶרת ַמה ׁ ּ ֶש ִהיא‪.‬‬ ‫ל־א ִביב ִעיר נ ְִק ָ ּיה ְמלֻ כְ לֶ כֶ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ֵּת ָ‬ ‫זֶ ה ָּתלוּי ָ ּבﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ל־א ִביב ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט נְיוּ־יוֹ ְרק‪.‬‬ ‫ֵּת ָ‬ ‫ל־א ִביב וְ לֵ ב‬ ‫ְמיֻ ָחם ְמלַ ֵ ּקק ַה ָ ּים ֶאת יְ ֵרכֵ י ֵּת ָ‬ ‫ל־א ִביב לָ ָבן‪.‬‬ ‫ֵּת ָ‬ ‫ְ ּבנֵי ָא ָדם ָּכאן ֵאינָם ׁ ַש ָ ּיכִ ים לְ ִא ׁיש‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּגם ל ֹא לְ ﬠַ צְ ָמם‪.‬‬ ‫ל־א ִביב ִעיר קו ְּפ ָסאוֹ ת ו ְּת ִר ִיסים‪.‬‬ ‫ֵּת ָ‬ ‫ל־א ִביב ֵּת ַיא ְטרוֹ נִים‪ ,‬אוֹ ּ ֶפ ָרה‪ַ ,‬ה ִּתזְ מ ֶֹרת ַה ִפילְ ַה ְרמוֹ נִית‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵת ָ‬ ‫מוּזֵ יאוֹ נִים וְ יָ פוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫אוֹ ְמ ִרים ִּכי ַה ַּס ְרסו ִּרים רוֹ צִ ים לִ ְמכּ ֹר ֶאת יָ פוֹ‬ ‫)כ ַתב ﬠַ גְ נוֹ ן( ָהיְ ָתה‬ ‫וְ יָ פוֹ יְ ַפת יַ ִּמים ָּ‬ ‫זְ ַמן ַרב לִ ְפנֵי ֵּת ָ‬ ‫ל־א ִביב‪ .‬זְ ַמן ַרב‪ַ ,‬רב‪ַ ,‬רב‪.‬‬ ‫ֲא ִפלּ ּו ַאנְדְּ רוֹ ֶמ ָדה ִה ִּכ ָירה ֶאת נ ְֵמלָ ּה‬ ‫ְרתו ָּקה ֶאל ֶסלַ ﬠ ﬠַ ד ׁ ֶש ּ ֶפ ְר ֵסאוּס ָ ּבא‬ ‫וְ ׁ ִש ְח ֵרר אוֹ ָת ּה‪ׁ .‬שוּם ּ ֶפ ְר ֵסאוּס‬ ‫ל־א ִביב‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא יָ בוֹ א וְ יִ גְ ַאל ֶאת ֵּת ָ‬ ‫ֶרצֶ נְזֶ נ ְִטים ַר ִ ּבים ִמדַּ י ְמ ַא ְ ּי ִמים‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ְרחוֹ בוֹ ֶת ָיה‪ׁ ,‬שוֹ כְ ִבים ִעם נ ׁ ִָשים ַ ּב ֲח ָד ֶר ָיה‬ ‫ׁ ְשטו ֵּפי זֵ ﬠָ ה‪ְ .‬מ ׁשוֹ ֵרר ֶא ָחד ָּכ ַתב ִּכי‬ ‫ַא ֲה ַבת ַ ּבחוּרוֹ ֶת ָיה ֵ ּבין ַרגְ לֵ ֶיהן‪.‬‬ ‫ל־א ִביב‪.‬‬ ‫דָּ ָבר ָּכזֶ ה ַק ָ ּים ְ ּב ֵת ָ‬ ‫ִמי ׁשוֹ ֵמﬠַ ֶאת ִמי ָ ּב ַרﬠַ ׁש ַה ֶ ּזה?‬ ‫ל־א ִביב מוּצֶ ֶפת‪.‬‬ ‫ָח ֵמ ׁש דַּ ּקוֹ ת ֶ ּג ׁ ֶשם וְ ֵת ָ‬ ‫ֲאנ ׁ ִָשים זְ ֵקנִים ְּכ ׁ ֶשרוֹ צִ ים לַ ֲחצוֹ ת ְרחוֹ ב‬ ‫ַמ ְפ ׁ ִשילִ ים ֶאת ׁשוּלֵ י ִמכְ נ ְֵס ֶיהם‪ֲ .‬אנ ׁ ִָשים זְ ֵקנִים‬ ‫ל־א ִביב‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאינָם ׁשוֹ ְמ ִעים ֶאת ׁ ִש ַירת ְ ּבנוֹ ת ַה ָ ּים ְ ּב ֵת ָ‬ ‫ַמ ְפ ִס ָידנִים יוֹ ׁ ְש ִבים ְ ּבלִ י נִיﬠַ ְ ּב ָב ִּתים ְמפ ָֹא ִרים ִמ ְת ַק ְּל ִפים‬ ‫‪156‬‬

A POSTCARD FROM TEL AVIV Tel Aviv, a colorful city, is very white. She changes all the time and stays always what she is. Tel Aviv is a clean, dirty city. It depends on how you look at her. Tel Aviv is almost New York. The sea, in heat, licks at her thighs and her heart is white. People here belong to no one. Not even to themselves. Tel Aviv is a city of boxes and shutters. There are theatres in Tel Aviv, opera, the philharmonic, museums and Jaffa. They say that the pimps want to sell Jaffa though Jaffa, Belle of the Sea (wrote Agnon) existed a long time before Tel Aviv. A long, long time. Even Andromeda knew Jaffa’s port, bound there on her rock until Perseus came and freed her. No Perseus will come and redeem Tel Aviv now. Too many critics threaten her streets, sleep with women in her sweat-drenched rooms. A poet wrote that the love of her women is between their legs. That’s how it is in Tel Aviv. Who can hear anyone in all this noise? Five minutes of rain and Tel Aviv floods. Old people who want to cross the street have to wear the bottoms of their trousers rolled. Old people cannot hear the mermaids in Tel Aviv. Losers sit motionless in fancy, peeling houses

157

‫נוֹ ﬠֲ צִ ים ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ַ ּב ִּת ְק ָרה ﬠַ ד ׁ ֶש ַּמ ְפצִ יﬠַ ַה ׁ ּ ַש ַחר‪.‬‬ ‫ל־א ִביב?‬ ‫ַה ִאם יֵ ׁש ַמלְ ֲאכִ ים ְ ּב ֵת ָ‬ ‫ל־א ִביב‪.‬‬ ‫דְּ ָב ִרים נוֹ ָר ִאים ָקר ּו ְ ּב ֵת ָ‬ ‫ל־א ִביב‪.‬‬ ‫דְּ ָב ִרים נוֹ ָר ִאים קוֹ ִרים ְ ּב ֵת ָ‬ ‫ִמי ּ ִפ ֵּלל ׁ ֶש ָּכ‪ ‬יִ ְהיֶ ה?‬ ‫ל־א ִביב?‬ ‫ל־א ִביב ֵּת ָ‬ ‫ַה ִאם ֵּת ָ‬ ‫ל־א ִביב?‬ ‫ִמי ִה ְמצִ יא ֶאת ֵּת ָ‬

‫‪158‬‬

staring at the ceiling until dawn. Are there angels in Tel Aviv? Horrible things happened in Tel Aviv. Horrible things happen in Tel Aviv. Who ever imagined it would be this way? Is Tel Aviv really Tel Aviv? Who invented Tel Aviv anyway?

159

‫גלויה מאזור חברון‬ ‫ֶח ְברוֹ ן ִעיר ﬠַ ִּת ָיקה ְמאֹד‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ְב ָר ָהם ָא ִבינ ּו ִעם שָׂ ָרה ִא ׁ ְש ּתוֹ ְקבו ִּרים ָ ּב ּה‬ ‫אוֹ ְמ ִרים‪ .‬דָּ ָבר ָקדוֹ ׁש ְ ּב ֶא ֶרץ ַה ַח ָ ּיה ﬠַ ל ַה ָּמוֶ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּבבּ ֶֹקר אוֹ כְ לִ ים ְ ּב ֶח ְברוֹ ן ּ ִפ ָּתה וְ זֵ ִיתים וְ לַ ַ ּב ּנֶה ְ ּב ׁ ֶש ֶמן זַ יִ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ִ ּב ֵימי ַחג ׁשוֹ ֲח ִטים ָטלֶ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ַאנ ׁ ְֵשי ֶח ְברוֹ ן אוֹ ֲה ִבים ֶאת ַה ׁ ּ ְש ִח ָיטה‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִאם לָ ְמד ּו אוֹ ָת ּה ִמ ׁ ּ ִש ְמעוֹ ן וְ לֵ וִ י ְ ּבנֵי יַ ﬠֲ קֹב?‬ ‫זְ ַמן ַרב‬ ‫ﬠָ ַבר ֵמ ָאז‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּגם ֵא ְרע ּו ָּכל ֵא ֶּלה ִ ּב ׁ ְשכֶ ם‪ׁ ,‬שוֹ נִים ָהי ּו ּ ְפנֵי ַהדְּ ָב ִרים ְ ּבדו ָּרה‪ּ ִ ,‬ב ְס ִב ַיבת ֶח ְברוֹ ן‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּבדו ָּרה ֲח ֵס ִרים ַה ּיוֹ ם ׁ ְשל ׁ ָֹשה ָאבוֹ ת לְ יַ לְ ֵד ֶיהם‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאזוֹ ר ֶח ְברוֹ ן יָ דוּﬠַ לְ ׁ ִש ְמצָ ה‪ֵ :‬אזוֹ ר ְק ׁ ֵשה ע ֶֹרף‪.‬‬ ‫בּ ־‪ָ 1929‬רצְ ח ּו ְ ּב ֶח ְברוֹ ן ׁ ִש ׁ ּ ִשים ו ׁ ְּשמוֹ נָה ַּתלְ ִמ ֵידי יְ ׁ ִש ָיבה‪ִ ,‬א ׁיש ִא ׁ ּ ָשה וָ ַטף‪.‬‬ ‫הוֹ ֶק ֶבר ַא ְב ָר ָהם ָא ִבינ ּו )אוֹ ְמ ִרים(‪ָ ,‬א ִבינ ּו וַ ֲא ִב ֶיהם‪.‬‬ ‫הוֹ ַה ַח ָ ּילִ ים ַה ְ ּצ ִע ִירים ַה ּפוֹ ֲח ִדים‪ .‬הוֹ ָהﬠֲ שָׂ ָרה ְ ּב ַמ ְרס ‪.1998‬‬ ‫ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט יָ ֵרח ָמלֵ א‪ַ ,‬א‪ָ ‬היָ ה עוֹ ד אוֹ ר יוֹ ם‪ּ .‬פוֹ ﬠֲ לִ ים ֵמ ֵאזוֹ ר ֶח ְברוֹ ן‬ ‫נ ְָסע ּו ַה ַ ּביְ ָתה‪ּ ִ .‬בכְ ִב ׁיש ֶח ְברוֹ ן‪ּ ְ ,‬ב ַת ְרקו ִּמיָ א‪ ,‬יֵ ׁש ַמ ֲחסוֹ ם‪.‬‬ ‫לְ יַ ד ַה ַּמ ֲחסוֹ ם ﬠָ ְמד ּו ַח ָ ּילִ ים‪ .‬נ ַַהג ַה ְּמכוֹ נִית ִא ֵ ּבד ׁ ְשלִ ָיטה‪ְ .‬מכוֹ נִיתוֹ‬ ‫דָּ ֲה ָרה ֶאל ַה ַּמ ֲחסוֹ ם‪ְ .‬מ ַפ ֵ ּקד ַה ַּמ ֲחסוֹ ם‬ ‫נ ְִפ ַ ּגﬠ וְ נ ֱֶה ַדף לַ ִּכ ּווּן ַה ּנֶגְ ִדי‪.‬‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ַ ּגם ִ ּג ְר ָסה ַא ֶח ֶרת‪.‬‬ ‫ֲח ֵב ָריו ָס ְבר ּו ִּכי רוֹ צִ ים לְ ָד ְרסוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫ָק ׁ ֶשה לָ ַדﬠַ ת לְ ִמי לְ ַה ֲא ִמין וּלְ ָמה‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ָפ ְתח ּו ְ ּב ֵא ׁש ְּכ ֶה ֶרף־ﬠַ יִ ן‪.‬‬ ‫לְ ִפי ַההוֹ ָראוֹ ת‪ .‬לְ ִפי ַה ּ ְפ ֻקדּ וֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵאיזוֹ ְמ ִהירוּת זֶ ה ִמ ְת ַר ֵח ׁש‪ּ ְ .‬ב ֵאיזוֹ ְמ ִהירוּת‬ ‫ּפוֹ ׁ ְש ִטים צו ָּרה‪ ,‬הוֹ ְפכִ ים לְ ַא ֵחר‪:‬‬ ‫ְ ּבלִ י נִיﬠַ ‪ְ ּ ,‬פנֵי ֶ ּג ֶבס‪ ,‬ﬠֵ ינֵי זְ כוּכִ ית‪.‬‬ ‫אוֹ ַא ַחר ָּכך זְ רוֹ עוֹ ת ְרפוּיוֹ ת‪ׁ ,‬שוּב ִמ ִּלים ַ ּב ּ ֶפה‪ ,‬ל ֹא צְ ﬠָ קוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ֶא ְתמוֹ ל עוֹ ד ּ ִפ ָּתה וְ זֵ ִיתים וְ לִ ְפנוֹ ת בּ ֶֹקר אוּלַ י ִמ ׁ ְש ָ ּגל‪.‬‬ ‫‪160‬‬

A POSTCARD FROM THE HEBRON REGION Hebron is a very ancient city. Abraham our father with Sarah his wife are buried there so they say. A sacred thing in a land that lives on its dead. In the morning in Hebron they eat pita and olives and labane drenched in olive oil. On feast days they slaughter a lamb. The people of Hebron like the slaughtering. Did they learn it from Shimon and Levi the sons of Jacob? Much time has passed since then. Also in Nablus they ate pita and olives this morning, though things were different in Dura, near Hebron. In Dura today three fathers are missing. The Hebron region is notorious: stiff-necked and stubborn. In 1929 sixty-eight Jews were murdered in Hebron, man woman and child. Oh, the grave of our forefather Abraham (they say), our father and their father. Oh, the soldiers, young and frightened. Oh the tenth of March 1998. Almost a full moon night, but there was still the light of day. Laborers from near Hebron traveled home. On the Hebron road, at Tarkumiyah, there was a roadblock. Near the roadblock the soldiers stood. The driver lost control. His car sped toward the roadblock. The commander of the roadblock was hit and thrown to the opposite side. There are other versions told. His friends surmised that they wanted to run him down. It’s hard to know who to believe, and what. In a split-second, the soldiers opened fire. Following the protocol. Following their orders. How fast it all happens. How fast

161

‫ֶא ְתמוֹ ל עוֹ ד לוֹ גָ ִר ְית ִמים‪ִ ,‬ה ְסטוֹ ְריָ ה‪ ,‬נְﬠָ רוֹ ת ﬠַ ל שְׂ ַפת ַה ָ ּים‪ .‬ו ֶּפ ַתע‬ ‫ַה ְּכ ִב ׁיש ְמז ָֹהם ְּכ ָת ִמים ֲא ֻד ִּמים‪ַ .‬ה ָ ּי ֵר ַח ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ָמלֵ א‪ ,‬לָ ָבן ְּכﬠֶ צֶ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ִה ְתרוֹ צְ צוּת ָאנֶה וָ ָאנָה‪ְ ,‬ק ִריאוֹ ת‪ָ ,‬הלְ ָאה ִעם זֶ ה‪ַ ,‬א ַחר ָּכך ָה ֲא ָבנִים‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִאם ִמ ְת ַרבּ וֹ ת ָה ֲא ָבנִים? לְ ַאט לְ ַאט‪ֵ ,‬אין לַ ﬠֲ צֹר‪ָ ּ ,‬פרוֹ ת וְ ַרבּ וֹ ת ָה ֲא ָבנִים‪.‬‬

‫‪162‬‬

one form is stripped off, another put on: Unmoving, mask faces, glass eyes. Or later, slackened arms, again words in their mouths, no shouting. Yesterday more pita and olives in the early morning, maybe love-making. Yesterday more logarithms, history, girls on the beach. Then suddenly the road is stained red. The moon is almost full, bone white. Rushing around here and there, calling out, let’s get on with it, then stones. Are the stones multiplying? Slowly, unstoppable, the stones are being fruitful and multiplying.

163

‫גלויה מוינה‬ ‫זְ רוֹ ﬠַ ׁ ְשלו ָּחה ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר ַ ּגם לְ הוֹ ִריד‬ ‫מֹﬠַ ל־יָ ד – לְ ַה ְר ּפוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ֶפה ָמלֵ א צְ ָרחוֹ ת ְמ ֻס ָ ּגל ַ ּגם לְ ַד ֵ ּבר‪.‬‬ ‫צִ וְ חוֹ ת שִׂ ְמ ָחה ﬠֲ שׂ וּיוֹ ת לְ ִה ְת ַ ּגלְ ֵ ּגל ִ ּבשְׂ חוֹ ק‪.‬‬ ‫ת־ש ּנַיִ ם‬ ‫ל ֹא ְ ּב ֶהכְ ֵר ַח יֵ ׁש לְ נ ַּקוֹ ת ִמ ְד ָרכוֹ ת ְ ּב ִמ ְב ֶר ׁ ֶש ׁ ִ‬ ‫וְ ַאף־ﬠַ ּ ִ‬ ‫ל־פי־כֵ ן וִ ינָה ִעיר יָ ָפה ּונ ְִק ָ ּיה לְ ִמ ׁ ְש ִעי‬ ‫ַ ּבﬠֲ לַ ת ﬠָ ָבר ﬠָ ׁ ִשיר‪ַ .‬ה ְר ֵ ּבה מוּזִ ָיק ִאים‬ ‫ִה ְתגּוֹ ְרר ּו ָ ּב ּה‪ ,‬שַׂ ְח ָקנִים‪ ,‬סוֹ ְפ ִרים לָ רֹב‪.‬‬ ‫ִעיר ׁ ֶש ֵ ּי ׁש לָ ּה ַ ּב ֶּמה לְ ִה ְת ּ ָפ ֵאר‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּב ֶהלְ ְדנ ּ ְְפלָ ץ ְמ ַק ׁ ְש ְק ׁ ִשים ַהדְּ רוֹ ִרים‬ ‫ַה ֶה ְמיָ ה ָהﬠֲ מו ָּמה ְמקוֹ ָר ּה ַ ּב ְּתנוּﬠָ ה ָהﬠֵ ָרה‪.‬‬ ‫ְמ ַרצֵ ַח ֵאינוֹ צָ ִרי‪ ‬לְ ִה ְת ַ ּב ֵ ּי ׁש ִּכי‬ ‫ָהיָ ה ְמ ַרצֵ ַח‪ּ ַ .‬גם ַהדָּ נו ָ ּּבה‬ ‫לָ או דַּ וְ ָקא ְּכ ֻח ָּלה‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּטוֹ ב ְ ּבמו ָּבן ְמ ֻס ָ ּים ַמ ׁ ְש ִמים‪ָ ,‬ר ׁ ַשם ַק ְפ ָקא‬ ‫וּלְ ל ֹא נִחו ִּמים‪ֲ .‬היִ י ׁ ָשלוֹ ם‪.‬‬

‫‪164‬‬

A POSTCARD FROM VIENNA An outstretched arm can be dropped, a raised hand – lowered. A mouth full of screams can also speak. Screeches of joy may roll into laughter. One doesn’t necessarily have to scrub the pavements with a tooth-brush. And still, Vienna is a beautiful city, immaculate, with a rich and illustrious history. Many musicians lived here, actors, writers in abundance. A city that has much to be proud of. At the Heldenplatz the sparrows are chattering An indistinct hum emanates from the steady traffic. A murderer doesn’t have to be ashamed at having been a murderer. The Danube too isn’t necessarily blue. In a certain sense Good is charmless, wrote Kafka, and comfortless too. Farewell to you.

165

‫גלויה מירושלים‬ ‫יְ רו ׁ ָּשלַ יִ ם יָ צְ ָאה ִמירו ׁ ָּשלַ יִ ם וְ ִה ְס ַּת ְּל ָקה לָ ּה‪.‬‬ ‫זֶ ה ׁ ָשם לְ ַמ ְעלָ ה ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר‪ֲ ,‬הל ֹא ל ֹא יִ ָּתכֵ ן ׁ ֶש ּזֹאת יְ רו ׁ ָּשלַ יִ ם?‬

‫‪166‬‬

A POSTCARD FROM JERUSALEM Jerusalem took leave of Jerusalem and vanished. There, up in the air, there’s no way that could be Jerusalem?

167

‫גלויה מסיאנה‬ ‫ֲאהו ָּב ִתי‪ְ ,‬סיֶ אנָה‪ּ ְ ,‬ב ִט ְפטוּף ַא ְדמוֹ נִי‬ ‫ִּכ ַּכר ַה ֶ ּצ ֶדף‪ ,‬יָ צָ את זֶ ה ﬠַ ָּתה‬ ‫ֵמ ַה ּ ַפ ָּלצוֹ ּפו ְ ּּבלִ יקוֹ נ ְִפ ֶר ֶדת לְ ׁ ָשלוֹ ם‬ ‫ִמגּ׳וּידוֹ ִריצִ ׳יוֹ דַּ א פוֹ לִ ַיאנִי‬ ‫לִ ְפנֵי ַה ְ ּק ָרב ִעם ַק ְס ְטרוּצִ ׳יוֹ ַק ְס ְט ָר ַקנִי‪ֶ ׁ ,‬שבּ וֹ נ ַ ִּצח‪.‬‬ ‫דָּ ָבר ל ֹא נ ִָּכר בּ וֹ ‪ָ ,‬א ַמ ְר ְּת‪ִ ,‬מ ּנִצְ חוֹ נוֹ ־לֶ ﬠָ ִתיד‪.‬‬ ‫הוּא בּ וֹ ֵדק ִ ּב ּצו ִּרים ְ ּב ׁ ֶש ֶקט ַרב‬ ‫ָא ַמ ְר ְּת‪ ,‬לְ ַאט־לְ ַאט‪ַ .‬ה ּׁ ָש ַמיִ ם ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ׁ ְשח ִֹרים‬ ‫וְ ָהאוֹ ר ִח ֵ ּור‪ .‬אוֹ ר טוֹ ב לְ צִ לּ וּם‪ָ ,‬א ַמ ְר ִּתי‬ ‫ַמ ֲחזִ יק ַ ּב ַּמצְ לֵ ָמה ַח ְס ַרת ַהבּ ו ׁ ָּשה ֶאל מוּל‬ ‫ַה ִ ּקירוֹ ת ַהחוֹ שְׂ ִפים ֶאת סוֹ ָדם ׁ ִשכְ ָבה‬ ‫ַא ַחר ׁ ִשכְ ָבה‪ָ .‬א ַמ ְר ִּתי‪ַ ,‬א ְר ַ ּבﬠ ׁ ָשנִים ִמ ּק ֶֹדם‬ ‫ַמ ְר ִטינִי נָשָׂ א לְ ִא ׁ ּ ָשה ֶאת ִ ּב ּתוֹ ׁ ֶשל ֶמ ּמוֹ ֶמ ִּמי‪.‬‬ ‫ַמ ָ ּזל טוֹ ב‪ָ ,‬א ַמ ְר ְּת‪ֲ ,‬א ָבל לָ ָּמה‬ ‫ָּכל ַה ׁ ּ ְש ִת ָיקה ַה ּזֹאת? ַה ֶ ּג ׁ ֶשם ַה ַ ּקל ִס ּנֵן ֶאת ָה ִעיר‪.‬‬ ‫י־א ָּמנִים ׁ ֶשל ּ ַפﬠַ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּב ָ ּגלֶ ְריוֹ ת ִה ְת ַח ְ ּבא ּו ַר ֵ ּב ָ‬ ‫ַהכּ ֹל ָּכאן ֵמ ִאיר ְּכמוֹ ִמ ִ ּב ְפנִים‪ָ ,‬א ַמ ְר ִּתי‪ָ ,‬חזָ ק ְ ּב ַה ְר ֵ ּבה‬ ‫ִמן ַה ִח ָ ּורוֹ ן ׁ ֶשל ַמ ְעלָ ה‪ֲ .‬ח ֵב ִרים ֵמ ִתים‬ ‫ל־כך ַר ִ ּבים‪ ,‬ו ָּמה‬ ‫ָא ַמ ְר ְּת‪ָּ ,‬כ ָּ‬ ‫ֲאנ ְַחנ ּו עוֹ שִׂ ים ָּכאן? ִה ַ ּב ְט ִּתי ָס ִביב‪ֵ .‬ריק‬ ‫ֵריק וְ הוֹ לֵ ‪ֲ .‬א ָבל‪ָ ,‬א ַמ ְר ִּתי‪ַ ,‬ה ִאם ֶ ּב ֱא ֶמת‬ ‫ֲאנ ְַחנ ּו ָּכאן‪ַ ,‬ה ִאם ֶ ּב ֱא ֶמת‪ָ ,‬א ַמ ְר ִּתי‬ ‫ָהיִ ינ ּו ָּכאן?‬

‫‪168‬‬

A POSTCARD FROM SIENNA My beloved, Sienna, Shell Square in a red-hued drizzle – you’ve just left the Palazzo Pubblico bidding farewell to Guidoriccio da Fogliano before his battle with Castruccio Castracan, the battle he won. Nothing of the triumph to come, you said, shows on him. He’s checking fortifications, very quietly you said, one by one. The skies are almost black and the light is pale. A good light for photographing, I said holding my shameless camera up to the walls revealing their secrets layer after layer. Four years earlier, I said, Simone Martini took the daughter of Memo Memmi as his wife. Congratulations, you said, but why all this silence? The light rain cooled the city. The Masters from long ago hid in the galleries. Everything here is lit as though from within, I said, much stronger than the paleness above. So many friends are dead, you said, and what are we doing here? I looked around. Empty and emptier. But are we really here, I said? Were we ever, I said, really here?

169

‫טיוטה של גלויה בלתי אפשרית‬ ‫לִ כְ ּתֹב לָ ‪ֵ ‬מ ַה ָּמקוֹ ם ַה ֶ ּזה – ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ְמגֻ ָח‪.‬‬ ‫ֵמ ַה ָּמקוֹ ם ַה ֶ ּזה ל ֹא כּ וֹ ְת ִבים‪ׁ .‬שוּם דָּ ָבר ַהחוּצָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי ְמגֻ ָחך‪ֲ .‬אנִי כּ וֹ ֵתב‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ָּמקוֹ ם ַה ֶ ּזה ֵריק וְ ׁ ָשטו ַּח‪ִ ,‬אם ִּכי‬ ‫ל ֹא יָ ׁ ָשר‪ּ ַ .‬גם ׁ ְש ִבילִ ים יֵ ׁש בּ וֹ ‪ִ ,‬מ ָּמקוֹ ם‬ ‫לְ ָמקוֹ ם‪ּ ְ .‬ב ָקצֵ ה ּו צוֹ נ ְִפים סו ִּסים‪ֵ .‬מﬠֵ ֶבר‬ ‫ַח ּיוֹ ת עוֹ ד ּ ָפרוֹ ת‪ ,‬אוֹ ְמ ִרים‪ּ ִ ,‬בזְ כוּת ֲחלָ ָבן‪ֲ .‬א ָבל‬ ‫ְּכלָ ִבים לָ רֹב ִמ ְתרוֹ צְ צִ ים וְ רוֹ ְבצִ ים בּ וֹ ‪ ,‬וְ ֵהם‬ ‫נוֹ ְב ִחים ִמ ּ ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‪ּ ַ .‬גם ְ ּבנֵי ָא ָדם‬ ‫ְמ ַה ְּלכִ ים ָּכאן‪ ,‬אוֹ ַמה ׁ ּ ֶש ּנ ְִר ֶאה ָּכ‪ִ .‬מ ּתוֹ ‪ַ ‬ה ּ ִשׂ ִיחים‬ ‫ְמגִ יחוֹ ת ּ ְפנֵי ַמ ֵּסכוֹ ת‪ַ .‬ה ּגוּף לֵ ֶאה‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ְּכ ֵא ִבים ֲאטו ִּמים‪ֵ .‬אין ְמ ַד ְ ּב ִרים ﬠַ ל ַמה‬ ‫ׁ ּ ֶש ֵאין צ ֶֹר‪ ‬לְ ַד ֵ ּבר‪ַ .‬מה ׁ ּ ֶש ָהיָ ה ָהיָ ה וְ ֵאין צ ֶֹר‪‬‬ ‫לִ זְ כּ ֹר‪ַ .‬ה ָּמקוֹ ם דּ וֹ ֵאג לְ ַאנ ׁ ְֵשי ַה ָּמקוֹ ם‬ ‫ְ ּב ִמדָּ ה ׁ ֶשהוּא דּ וֹ ֵאג‪ .‬לַ ִ ּצ ּ ֳפ ִרים ֵאין לִ ְדאֹג‪:‬‬ ‫ֵיהן‬ ‫ֵהן ָ ּבאוֹ ת וְ הוֹ לְ כוֹ ת לִ ְרצוֹ נָן‪ .‬יֵ ׁש ֵ ּבינ ֶ‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ׁ ּ ָשרוֹ ת‪ִ .‬אלְ ָמלֵ א ָהיִ ית ָּכאן ָהיִ ית ׁשוֹ ַמﬠַ ת‬ ‫י ִֹפי ׁ ֶשל ׁ ִש ָירה‬

‫‪170‬‬

DRAFT OF AN IMPOSSIBLE POSTCARD Writing you from this place – it’s almost absurd. One doesn’t write from this place. At least nothing outgoing. I’m absurd. I’m writing. This place is empty and flat, though not straight. It also has pathways, connecting one area to another. At the edges of this place, horses whinny. And beyond there are still cows, kept alive for their milk, they say. Many dogs run around and lie about, barking joyfully. People too walk around here, or so it seems. Masked faces jump out from the bushes. The body is weary. Pain is sealed off. No one talks about what doesn’t need mentioning. What was was and there’s no need remembering. The place looks after the local people as much as it does. The birds have no cares: they come and go at will. There are those among them that sing. If you were here you would hear their beautiful song

171

‫השתניות‬ ‫ֵאי‪ַ ‬ה ׁ ּ ֶש ֶמ ׁש ִמזְ דַּ ֶ ּוגֶ ת ִעם ﬠָ נָן!‬ ‫ֵאיך ָהרו ַּח ְמ ׁ ַש ּנֶה צוּרוֹ ת ﬠֵ צִ ים!‬ ‫ֵר ַיח ֶ ּג ׁ ֶשם ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר!‬ ‫הוֹ ‪ָּ ,‬כל ַה ּ ִשׂ ְמ ָחה ַה ּזֹאת!‬ ‫ַ ּגם ַא ֲח ַרי‪.‬‬

‫‪172‬‬

TRANSFORMATIONS How the sun couples with a cloud! How the wind shifts the shapes of the trees! There’s the fragrance of rain in the air! Oh, all this joy! Even after me.

173

VI

How Do We End That Which Has No End

‫קרבן ושוב‬ ‫ֱהיוֹ ת ָק ְר ָ ּבן וְ ׁשוּב וְ ׁשוּב ָק ְר ָ ּבן –‬ ‫ֵאיזֶ ה ַּת ְפ ִקיד! ַ ּגם ָּכאן ַ ּגם ׁ ָשם‪.‬‬ ‫ָק ְר ָ ּבן מוֹ לִ יד ַמ ְק ִריב‪ַ ,‬מ ְק ִריב מוֹ לִ יד ַס ִּכין‬ ‫ַס ִּכין מוֹ לִ יד ּ ַפ ַחד‪ַ ּ ,‬פ ַחד‬ ‫מוֹ לִ יד שִׂ נ ְָאה‪ ,‬שִׂ נ ְָאה – ִר ׁ ְשעוּת‬ ‫ִר ְשעוּת ְּכמוֹ ַא ְר ֶ ּבה אוֹ כֶ לֶ ת ְמלוֹ א ַה ּ ֶפה‬ ‫ֶחלְ ָקה ַא ַחר ֶחלְ ָקה ׁ ֶשל ֶא ֶרץ‬ ‫ְמ ַד ֶּמ ֶמת ְּכמוֹ ַרגְ לָ יו ׁ ֶשל יֵ ׁש ּו ﬠַ ל ַה ְ ּצלָ ב‬ ‫ְמ ַדדָּ ה ﬠַ ל ַק ַ ּביִ ם‪ִ ,‬משְׂ ָּת ֶרכֶ ת‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ִּכ ְסאוֹ ת ַ ּגלְ ַ ּג ִּלים‪ ,‬סו ָּמא –‬ ‫ֲח ִמ ׁ ּ ָשה יְ לָ ִדים ְ ּב ַד ְר ָּכם לְ ֵבית ַה ֵּס ֶפר ְ ּב ַחאן י ּונֶס דָּ ְרכ ּו ﬠַ ל ַמ ׁ ּ ֶשהוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ִ ּבן ֶרגַ ﬠ ָהי ּו ָ ּבשָׂ ר ָקרוּﬠַ ‪ְ ,‬ס ַמ ְרטו ֵּטי ָ ּבשָׂ ר‪ .‬יֶ לֶ ד ׁ ִש ׁ ּ ִשי נוֹ ָרה ׁ ָשם ְ ּבאוֹ תוֹ ַה ּיוֹ ם‪,‬‬ ‫ﬠֶ שְׂ ִרים ו ׁ ְּשלוֹ ׁ ָשה ְ ּבנוֹ ֶב ְמ ֵ ּבר ַאלְ ּ ַפיִ ם וְ ַא ַחת‪ַ .‬ה ָ ּצ ָבא‪ ...‬בּ וֹ ֵדק‪ ...‬חוֹ ֵקר‪...‬‬ ‫ֵמאוֹ תוֹ ָמקוֹ ם‪ ...‬נוֹ ר ּו ּ ְפצָ צוֹ ת ַמ ְר ֵ ּג ָמה‪ַ ...‬מ ִ ּביﬠַ ‪ ...‬צַ ﬠַ ר‪ ...‬ﬠָ מֹק‪...‬‬ ‫ַה ּנ ְַחלִ ֵיאלִ י ׁשוּב עוֹ לֶ ה יוֹ ֵרד‪ ,‬עוֹ לֶ ה יוֹ ֵרד ְ ּבנ ְַדנ ֵַדת ֲאוִ יר‬ ‫ֹם־ה ָחזֶ ה נִגְ לָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּ ָפ ׁשוֹ ׁש ְמ ַפ ׁ ְש ּ ֵפ ׁש ַ ּב ּ ִשׂ ִיחים וְ גַ ם ָאד ֶ‬ ‫ִמי עוֹ ד ׁשוֹ ֵמﬠַ ַמ ׁ ּ ֶשה ּו ָ ּב ַרﬠַ ׁש ַהנּוֹ ָרא‬ ‫שִׂ נ ְָאה ו ַּפ ַחד וְ שִׂ נ ְָאה ו ַּפ ַחד‬ ‫ִ ּב ּזוּי שִׂ נ ְָאה ו ַּפ ַחד‬ ‫ֵאי‪ ‬לְ ַס ֵ ּים דְּ ָב ִרים ׁ ֶש ֵאין לָ ֶהם ִס ּיוּם?‬

‫‪176‬‬

VICTIM, AGAIN Being a victim, again and again a victim – what a job! Here and there both. A victim begets a victimizer, a victimizer begets a knife a knife begets fear, fear begets hatred, hatred – wickedness wickedness like locusts eats greedily parcel after parcel of a land bleeding like the feet of Jesus on the cross worthless, plodding along in wheelchairs, blind – In Khan Younis five children on their way to school stepped on something. In one second they became torn flesh, ragged flesh. A sixth child was shot there the same day, on the twenty-third of November 2001. The army…is checking… investigating…from that same spot…artillery fire was shot… expresses...deep… sorrow… The wagtail is again rising and falling, rising and falling on air currents the warbler is warbling in the bushes and the robin too has been spotted. Who else hears something in this terrible noise Fear and hatred and hatred and fear contempt of hatred and fear How do we end that which has no end?

177

‫קולות )‪(2‬‬ ‫)במחסום(‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ָשבוּי‬ ‫יָ ָדיו ְּכפוּתוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַרגְ לָ יו ְּכפוּתוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ְ ּי ִר ָ ּיה ְמ ִע ָיפה ֶאת ָּכל ַה ִ ּצ ּ ֳפ ִרים‪.‬‬ ‫ָק ׁ ֶשה לָ שֵׂ את‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ֶש ֶמ ׁש ֶא ֶבן לוֹ ֶה ֶטת‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ֵ ּצל ָקצָ ר ִמדַּ י‪.‬‬ ‫לָ ָּמה ִהיא נ ְִד ֶח ֶקת?‬ ‫לָ לֶ ֶדת? ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר?‬ ‫ישהוּ?‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ָּכאן ִמ ׁ ֶ‬ ‫ִאי ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר?‬ ‫ַא ָּתה זוֹ כֵ ר ֵאי‪ַ ‬מ ְמלִ ָיטה ִּכ ְבשָׂ ה?‬ ‫– ֲא ָבל זֶ ה ָ ּב ָא ִביב‬ ‫– ְמלַ ֶ ּק ֶקת לְ ַאט ֶאת ַה ׁ ּ ִשלְ יָ ה‬ ‫ן־רגַ ﬠ עוֹ ֵמד ַה ּ ָטלֶ ה ﬠַ ל ַרגְ לָ יו‬ ‫ו ִּב ֶ‬ ‫ֵאיזוֹ שִׂ נ ְָאה ָ ּבﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‬ ‫ֵאיזֶ ה צְ ﬠָ קוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫יֵ או ּׁש‪ָ .‬א ָדם ֵאינוֹ יָ כוֹ ל לִ ׁ ְשמֹﬠַ‬ ‫ֶאת ﬠַ צְ מוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ָש ַמיִ ם ְנח ׁ ֶֹשת‪.‬‬ ‫ָה ֲא ָד ָמה שְׂ רו ָּפה‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ׁ ַש ְרנ ּו ַה ְר ֵ ּבה ִּכילָ ִדים‬ ‫שִׂ ַח ְקנ ּו ְ ּבלַ ֲהרֹג‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאין צ ֶֹר‪ּ ְ ‬ב ִמ ִּלים ְ ּגבוֹ הוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַמה ֶ ּזה דָּ ם ְמ ִבינִים‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ֶשל יֶ לֶ ד ָ ּגדוֹ ל – ָמה ֲאנ ְַחנוּ?‬ ‫דַּ ם יֶ לֶ ד ָק ָטן‬ ‫‪178‬‬

VOICES (2) (at a West Bank roadblock) The prisoner His hands are bound. His legs are bound. The single shot scatters all the birds. It’s hard to bear. The sun is a scorching stone. The shade is too narrow. Why is she being pushed, pushing? In labor? Is that possible? Is there anyone here? How can this be? Do you remember how the ewe gives birth? – But that’s in spring – Slowly she licks away the placenta and instantly the lamb stands on its feet What hatred in the eyes what shouts. Despair. A man can’t hear himself. The sky is bronze. The land is burnt. We didn’t sing much as children we played killing games. There’s no need for fancy words. We know what blood is. Of a grown boy – but what are we? The blood of a little boy

179

‫עוד מפחד?‬ ‫אשוֹ ן‬ ‫ַמה ּנ ְִק ַרﬠ ִמ ּגו ְּפ‪ִ ‬ר ׁ‬ ‫ֹאש אוֹ לֵ ב?‬ ‫ר ׁ‬ ‫ַ ּגם יָ ד יָ ִמין אוֹ ֶרגֶ ל שְׂ מֹאל?‬ ‫ַס ֵּמן ִ ּבצְ לָ ב‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ ְפ ָּת? ִעם צִ ּ ֳפ ִרים אוֹ ְ ּבלִ י?‬ ‫ﬠֲ נֵה ֵּכן‪/‬ל ֹא‪.‬‬ ‫ְמ ַחק ֶאת ַה ְּמיֻ ַּתר‪.‬‬ ‫את ִמ־‬ ‫ָ ּב ָ‬ ‫ַס ֵּמן ִ ּבצְ לָ ב‪.‬‬ ‫ָהלַ כְ ָּת לְ ־‬ ‫ﬠֲ נֵה ֵּכן‪/‬ל ֹא‪.‬‬ ‫ִמ ׁ ְש ָקל‪ּ ,‬ג ַֹב ּה‪ ,‬צֶ ַבﬠ ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם?‬ ‫ְמ ַחק ֶאת ַה ְּמיֻ ָּתר‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאיל ּו ַמ ֲחלוֹ ת ָהי ּו לְ ‪?‬‬ ‫ֵאיל ּו ְּתרוּפוֹ ת ַא ָּתה לוֹ ֵק ַח?‬ ‫ﬠֲ נֵה ֵּכן‪/‬ל ֹא‪.‬‬ ‫ַס ֵּמן ִ ּבצְ לָ ב‪.‬‬ ‫ַס ֵּמן ִ ּבצְ לָ ב‪.‬‬ ‫ַס ֵּמן ִ ּבצְ לָ ב‪.‬‬ ‫ַס ֵּמן ִ ּבצְ לָ ב‪.‬‬ ‫דָּ ִתי? ִחלּ וֹ נִי? ָח ֵרד?‬ ‫ַס ֵּמן ִ ּבצְ לָ ב‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ָר ִא ָית עוֹ ד ֶאת ִ ּבנְ‪?‬‬ ‫ָהיָ ה ﬠַ ל־יָ ְד‪?‬‬ ‫ַמ ְר ִ ּג ׁיש נוֹ ַח?‬ ‫רוֹ צֶ ה לִ ׁ ְשאוֹ ל?‬ ‫ַמ ׁ ּ ֶשה ּו ל ֹא ָ ּברוּר?‬

‫‪180‬‬

STILL AFRAID? What was ripped from your body first head or heart? Right hand or left foot? Mark the box. Did you fly? With the birds or without? Answer yes or no. Cross out the extraneous. You came fromMark with an x. You went toAnswer yes or no. Weight, height, eye color? Cross out the extraneous. What illnesses did you have? What drugs do you take? Answer yes or no. Mark with an x. Mark with an x. Mark with an x. Mark with an x. Religious? Secular? Orthodox? Mark with an x. You never saw your son again? Was he beside you? Are you comfortable? Is there anything you want to ask? Is anything unclear?

181

‫הצפרים של אודרי‬ ‫צִ ּ ֳפ ִרים נ ְִפלָ אוֹ ת ׁ ֶשל ֵא ָימה‬ ‫ּ ָפ ְרח ּו ִמ ּתוֹ ‪ ‬יָ ֶד ָיה‬ ‫צוֹ לְ לוֹ ת ﬠַ ל ַט ְר ּ ָפן‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ְפד ּו אוֹ ִתי ּ ְפד ּו אוֹ ִתי‪ ,‬קוֹ ֵרא ַה ֵּלב ַה ָ ּק ָטן‪.‬‬ ‫ְקח ּו אוֹ ִתי ְקח ּו אוֹ ִתי‪ ,‬קוֹ ֵרא ַה ֵּלב ַה ָ ּגדוֹ ל‬ ‫צִ ּ ֳפ ֵרי ֲחלוֹ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ַּמ ּקוֹ ר ַ ּב ָּלהוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫דּ ֹם ָאדֹם! אוֹ ֶמ ֶרת צִ ּפוֹ ר ַ ּגן ָהﬠֵ ֶדן‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ֶש ֶמ ׁש צְ ֻה ָ ּבה?‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ֶש ֶמ ׁש ׁ ְשח ָֹרה?‬ ‫וְ אוֹ ֶס ֶפת ֶאת ְּכנ ֶָפ ָיה‪.‬‬

‫‪182‬‬

AUDREY’S BIRDS (after a painting by Audrey Bergner) These wondrous birds of terror took flight from her hands and dive toward their prey. Rescue me rescue me, cries the small heart. Take me take me, cries the large heart of dream birds. The beak of disasters. Red, stand ready! commands the Bird of Paradise Is the sun yellow? The sun is black! she says, gathering her wings inward.

183

‫איש עם בית‬ ‫)ציר לא ידוﬠ(‬ ‫ָה ִא ׁיש ִעם ַה ּ ֶפה ֶהﬠָ קֹם‬ ‫ָה ִא ׁיש ִעם ָהﬠַ יִ ן ָה ַא ַחת‬ ‫ﬠֵ ין יַ נ ְׁשוּף ﬠָ יֵ ף‬ ‫ָה ִא ׁיש ִעם ָה ַרגְ לַ יִ ם ַה ְ ּקצָ רוֹ ת ִמדַּ י‬ ‫ָה ִא ׁיש ַה ּיוֹ ׁ ֵשב ֵ ּג ֶאה ְּכבוּל ﬠֵ ץ‬ ‫ָה ִא ׁיש ָהﬠֵ צִ י ַה ֶ ּזה‪ּ ַ ,‬בﬠַ ל ַה ְ ּקלִ ּ ָפה ַה ְ ּצ ֻה ָ ּבה‬ ‫ַה ִאם הוּא ִא ׁיש ַה ִאם הוּא צֵ ל?‬ ‫ָה ִא ׁיש ַה ִּמ ְת ַח ֵ ּבא ְ ּבתוֹ ך ﬠַ צְ מוֹ‬ ‫ָה ִא ׁיש ַה ַּמ ֲחזִ יק ְּתמ ּונָה ְ ּביָ ָדיו‬ ‫ַ ּב ְּתמ ּונָה יֵ ׁש ַ ּביִ ת‪ּ ַ ,‬ביִ ת וְ סוּס‬ ‫ָה ִא ׁיש ִעם ֵ ּביתוֹ ַה ּנָטו ּׁש‬ ‫ַה ּ ָפלִ יט ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ל ֹא יָ זוּז עוֹ ד‪ ,‬ל ֹא יוּכַ ל עוֹ ד‬ ‫לָ קוּם וְ לָ לֶ כֶ ת‬ ‫וּלְ ָאן יֵ לֵ ‪‬‬ ‫ְּכ ׁ ֶש ַה ַ ּביִ ת ַרק ַ ּביִ ת ְמצֻ ָ ּיר?‬

‫‪184‬‬

MAN WITH A HOUSE (Unknown artist) The man with the crooked smile the man with one eye a tired owl eye the man with legs that are too short the man who sits there proud as a tree-stump this oaken man, with the yellow bark is he a man or a shadow? The man who is hiding himself within the man who is holding a picture in his hands in the picture is a house, a house and a horse the man with his abandoned house this refugee will move no more, he can no longer stand up and walk away and where would he go when his house is just a picture?

185

‫זה שנים‬ ‫זֶ ה ׁ ָשנִים‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ִּמ ְפלָ צוֹ ת ֵה ֵחלּ ּו ְמ ַה ְּלכוֹ ת ֵ ּבינֵינ ּו‬ ‫ְּת ִח ָּלה ל ֹא יָ ַד ְענוּ‪ָ ,‬ק ׁ ַש ְרנ ּו לָ ֶהן ְּכ ָת ִרים‬ ‫ִק ׁ ּ ַש ְטנ ּו אוֹ ָתן ְ ּב ִד ְב ֵרי ַה ֵּלל‪ֶ ,‬ה ֱאכַ לְ נ ּו אוֹ ָתן ּ ְפ ִרי ְמגָ ִדים‬ ‫ִס ְּמנ ּו ָ ּב ִתים‪ֲ ,‬אנ ׁ ִָשים נֶﬠֶ לְ מוּ‪ַ ,‬ה ִּמ ְפלָ צוֹ ת ִח ְ ּיכ ּו ְ ּבנִימוּס‪ָ ,‬מצְ א ּו‬ ‫ִּכ ְת ֵמי דָּ ם‪ ,‬ל ֹא יָ ְדע ּו דָּ ם ׁ ֶשל ִמי‪ְּ ,‬כלֵ י ַמ ׁ ְש ִחית ָ ּגנְחוּ‪ּ ְ ,‬בנֵי ָא ָדם‬ ‫נ ְִת ּ ַפ ֲחמ ּו צְ ִע ִירים‪ַ ,‬ה ִּמ ְפלָ צוֹ ת ִנ ְ ּגב ּו ּ ִפ ֶיהן ְ ּבגַ ב יָ ָדן‪ַ ,‬ה ֶּל ֶחם ִה ׁ ְש ִחיר‬ ‫וְ ִה ְת ַא ֵ ּבן‪ַ ,‬ה ֶ ּג ׁ ֶשם נ ֱֶא ַטם‪ַ ,‬ה ׁ ּ ָש ַמיִ ם נִכְ ְרכ ּו ַּתכְ ִריכִ ים‪ִּ ,‬תינ ֶֹקת נוֹ ְר ָתה‬ ‫לַ ּקוֹ צִ ים ל ֹא ִאכְ ּ ַפת‪ּ ַ ,‬גם ל ֹא לַ ַ ּבלְ יָ נִים‪ַ ,‬ה ִּמ ְפלָ צוֹ ת נ ְִט ְמעוּ‪ָ ׁ ,‬ש ְבר ּו ﬠֲ צָ מוֹ ת‬ ‫צוֹ ְפפ ּו ֻאכְ לו ִּסין וְ גִ דְּ רוּם‪ַ ,‬ה ֵ ּיאו ּׁש ָטוָ ה חו ִּטים‪ַ ,‬א ַחר ָּכך ֲח ָבלִ ים‪ַ ,‬א ַחר ָּכ‪‬‬ ‫י־ח ָבלִ ים‪ָ ,‬ה ֲאוִ יר ָמלֵ א ֵמ ֶהם‪ ,‬יֵ ׁש ׁ ֶש ָּתל ּו ﬠַ צְ ָמם‪ ,‬יֵ ׁש ׁ ֶש ָ ּק ְפצ ּו ִּמ ּקוֹ ָמה‬ ‫ַח ְבלֵ ֲ‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ַבﬠ אוֹ ׁ ְשל ׁ ִֹשים‪ֲ ,‬א ָח ִדים לָ ְקח ּו ַרﬠַ ל‪ ,‬יֵ ׁש ׁ ֶש ָאנְס ּו נ ׁ ִָשים ְ ּב ֶט ֶרם דְּ ָקרוּן‬ ‫ׁ ָש ַת ְקנוּ‪ְ ,‬מ ֻפ ָח ִדים אוֹ ְס ָתם ׁשוֹ ְת ִקים‪ֶ ,‬א ָחד ֵמ ִעיר ו ׁ ְּשנַיִ ם ִמ ִּמ ׁ ְש ּ ָפ ָחה ﬠָ זְ ר ּו‬ ‫ֹאש וְ לַ ﬠֲ נָה‬ ‫ֹאש וְ לַ ﬠֲ נָה ר ׁ‬ ‫לַ ֲחבוּלִ ים‪ִ ,‬א ָּמהוֹ ת קוֹ נְנוּ‪ּ ,‬פֹה וְ ׁ ָשם יְ לָ לָ ה‪ ,‬ר ׁ‬ ‫ִר ׁ ְש ְר ׁש ּו ִר ׁ ְש ְר ׁשוּ‪ֲ ,‬א ָבל ַה ּמוּזִ ָיקה‪ֵ ,‬אי‪ ‬לְ וַ ֵּתר ﬠַ ל ַה ּמוּזִ ָיקה‪ֲ ,‬א ָה ּה‪ ,‬ﬠַ ל‬ ‫ַה ּפוֹ ַת ַחת ּ ֶפ ַתח ְ ּב ֵאין־מוֹ צָ א‪ֵ ,‬אי‪ּ ַ ‬גם ﬠָ לֶ ָיה? ֵאיכָ ה‪ָ ,‬א ַמר ִא ׁיש‬ ‫ֶא ֶרץ הוֹ ֶפכֶ ת ַח ּ ָטאת‪ֶ ,‬א ֶרץ ֻא ְמלָ לָ ה אוֹ י‪ֲ ,‬א ֵח ִרים צָ ֲחק ּו צְ חוֹ ק ָחלוּל‬ ‫ַא ַחר ָּכ‪ ‬ﬠַ צְ ָמם ָהי ּו ֲחלוּלִ ים‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִּמ ְפלָ צוֹ ת ִה ְת ַרבּ ּו ְ ּבכָ ל ַה ׁ ּ ְשכָ בוֹ ת‪ּ ְ ,‬בכָ ל ַה ַּמﬠֲ ָמדוֹ ת‪ַ ,‬הדְּ ָרגוֹ ת‬ ‫בּ וֹ רוֹ ת נ ְִפﬠֲ ר ּו ּ ִפ ְתאֹם‪ַ ,‬ה ׁ ּשוּלַ יִ ם ָק ְרסוּ‪ֶ ,‬ה ָה ִרים נִזְ דַּ ְעזְ עוּ‪ׁ ,‬שוּם‬ ‫ﬠֶ זְ ָרה‪ׁ ,‬שוּם ﬠֶ זְ ָרה‪ ,‬ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם נ ּ ְִשׂ אוּ‪ ,‬נִשְׂ ְרפ ּו ַה ְ ּיﬠָ רוֹ ת‪ַ ,‬ה ּ ִשׂ ִיחים‬ ‫שְׂ דוֹ ת ַה ָ ּבר ַח ּיוֹ ת ַה ָ ּבר‪ָ ,‬ה ֵא ׁש ָאכְ לָ ה ֶאת ָהא ֶֹפק‪ַ ,‬ה ַּמיִ ם ִה ְתיַ ְ ּב ׁשוּ‪,‬‬ ‫ֵה ֵחלּ ּו לְ גָ ֵר ׁש ֶאת ִמי ׁ ֶש ָּמצְ א ּו לְ גָ ֵר ׁש‪ֵ ,‬איך לָ שִׂ ים לָ זֶ ה סוֹ ף‬ ‫וְ ֵאין סוֹ ף‬

‫‪186‬‬

IT’S BEEN YEARS It’s been years since the monsters started walking among us. At first we didn’t know, we crowned them with laurels, adorned them with praise, fed them the finest fruits. Houses were marked, people disappeared, the monsters smiled politely, bloodstains were found, no one knew whose, the tools of destruction groaned, humans were burned-to-coal still young, the monsters wiped their mouths on the back of their hands, bread blackened became stone, the rain stopped, the sky wrapped itself in shrouds, a baby girl was shot, the thorns didn’t care, neither did the revelers, the monsters blended in, broke bones, crowded populations together fencing them in, despair wove threads, then ropes, then roped agony, the air thick with it, there were those who hung themselves, those who jumped from the seventh or thirtieth floor, a few took poison, there were those who raped women before stabbing them, we were silent, afraid or just silent, one or two helped the battered, mothers wailed, cries scattering, rack and ruin wormwood and root rustling, rustling, but the music, how can we relinquish the music, oh, that which opens its mouth at the dead-end, how can we give up on it too? How, oh how, said the lamenting man does a land become sinful, oh miserable land, others laughed a hollow laugh then they themselves became hollow. The monsters multiplied, in every class, every rank and place, pits suddenly gaped open, eyes looked to the hills, forests burned down, the shrubs, the wildfields and wild animals, fires devoured the horizon, the waters dried up, they started deporting whomever they could deport, how oh how to end this when there is no end

187

‫הערות שוליים למסה על איוב‬ ‫‪1‬‬

‫ׁ ְש ַמע‪ ,‬זֶ ה ָא ָדם‪ ,‬זֶ ה‪.‬‬ ‫– ֵּכן‪ ,‬אוּלַ י‪.‬‬ ‫וְ אוּלַ י ל ֹא?‬ ‫– ִמי יוֹ ֵדﬠַ ‪.‬‬ ‫‪2‬‬

‫ִהצְ ַט ֵּמק‪ִ ,‬הצְ ַט ֵּמק‪ִ ,‬ה ְת ַּכדֵּ ר!‬ ‫ִמי יַ ִּכיר אוֹ ְת‪ ‬עוֹ ד?‬ ‫ֲה ֵרי ַא ָּתה ֵאינְ‪ַ ‬א ָּתה‪.‬‬ ‫‪3‬‬

‫ַאל ִּת ְב ַרח‪.‬‬ ‫ִמ ֵּמילָ א ַא ָּתה לְ ַבד‪.‬‬ ‫‪4‬‬

‫נ ְׁשֹ‪ֶ ‬את יָ ְד‪ַ .‬ה ְ ּצﬠָ ָקה‬ ‫ְ ּבלִ י קוֹ ל‪.‬‬ ‫‪5‬‬

‫ָא ַה ְב ָּת?‬ ‫ׁ ְשכַ ח‪ְ ׁ .‬שכַ ח‪.‬‬ ‫‪6‬‬

‫ַה ַּמ ִּכ ְיר‪ַ ‬ה ּיוֹ ם‬ ‫ל ֹא יַ ִּכ ְיר‪ָ ‬מ ָחר‪.‬‬

‫‪188‬‬

FOOTNOTES TO THE BOOK OF JOB

1 Listen, this is a human being, this. – Yes, maybe. Maybe not? – Who knows. 2 Become smaller and smaller, roll yourself into a ball! Who will know you now? After all, you are no longer you. 3 Don’t flee. Anyway, you’re alone. 4 Bite your hand. The soundless scream. 5 Did you love someone? Forget all about it. 6 He who knows you today will not know you tomorrow.

189

‫‪7‬‬

‫צֶ ֶדק אוֹ ﬠָ וֶ ל –‬ ‫ִמי טוֹ ﬠֵ ן?‬ ‫‪8‬‬

‫ָה ָא ָדם ׁ ָש ִמ ׁיש‬ ‫ַא‪ ‬ל ֹא ְּכ ָא ָדם‪.‬‬ ‫‪9‬‬

‫שְׂ ָר ָרה ֵאי ֶנ ּנָה ַ ּב ְר ָרנִית‪.‬‬ ‫ַאל ִּת ְהיֶ ה ְמ ֻפ ּנָק‪.‬‬ ‫‪10‬‬

‫ן־אמוּן י ּונֶה‪.‬‬ ‫ַהנּוֹ ֵת ֵ‬ ‫לֵ ב ַה ּ ֶפצַ ﬠ ָּכלֶ ה לְ ָדם‪.‬‬ ‫‪11‬‬

‫ָחכְ ַמת ַה ּ ָשׂ ָטן – ֵאינְ‪ ‬יוֹ ֵדﬠַ ?‬ ‫הוּא ְמ ׁ ַשכְ נֵﬠַ אוֹ ְת‪ֶ ׁ ‬ש ֵאי ֶנ ּנ ּו ַק ָ ּים‪.‬‬ ‫‪12‬‬

‫בתודה לאינגר כריסטנסן‬ ‫ַא ָּתה זוֹ כֵ ר ֶאת ַה ּ ְשׂ חוֹ ק?‬ ‫ֶאת ָה ַא ֲה ָבה?‬ ‫ֵהם ָהיוּ‪ֵּ ,‬כן‪ֵ ,‬הם ָהיוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ֶאת ׁ ְש ִקיעוֹ ת ַה ַח ָּמה ַ ּב ְּס ָתו?‬ ‫ָהﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ׁ ֶש ֵאינָן ֲח ֵדלוֹ ת?‬ ‫ֵהן ָהיוּ‪ֵּ ,‬כן‪ָ ,‬היוּ‪.‬‬

‫‪190‬‬

7 Justice or Injustice – depends who’s arguing the case. 8 The human being is of use. Just not as a human being. 9 Authority isn’t choosy. Don’t pamper yourself. 10 He who trusts will be tortured. Heart of the wound ends in blood. 11 The Devil’s shrewdness – don’t you know? He convinces you he doesn’t exist 12 With thanks to Inger Christensen Do you remember the laughter, the love? They existed, yes, they did. The autumn sunsets? The endless eyes? They existed, yes, yes.

191

‫ֶאת ַה ְּכ ָבשִׂ ים ַ ּב ִּמ ְרﬠֵ ה? ֶאת ַה ּ ְט ִָל ִאים ָ ּבﬠֵ שֶׂ ב?‬ ‫ֲאוִ יר ַה ֲה ָד ִרים? ַה ׁ ּ ַשﬠֲ ׁשו ִּעים ַ ּב ֲח ׁ ֵשכָ ה?‬ ‫ָהיוּ‪ָ ,‬הי ּו‬ ‫ֶאת ַה ֻ ּבלְ בּ וּל ַה ְּמ ֻמ ׁ ְש ָקף? ַאל ִּת ְהיֶ ה ֵח ֵר ׁש‪.‬‬ ‫ֶאת ֶה ָחלִ יל ִ ּבגְ רוֹ נוֹ ‪ָ ,‬הﬠַ לְ ﬠַ ִּלים ְ ּבﬠֵ ץ ַה ּ ֵפ ָקן?‬ ‫ָהיוּ‪ָ ,‬היוּ‪ֵּ ,‬כן‪ָ ,‬הי ּו‬ ‫ֵּכן ֵּכן ֵּכן ֵּכן ֵּכן ֵּכן‬ ‫‪13‬‬

‫ִמי ׁ ֶשעוֹ ֵמד ָ ּבזֶ ה עוֹ ֵמד ָ ּבזֶ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ִמי ׁ ֶש ֵאי ֶנ ּנ ּו עוֹ ֵמד – ֵאי ֶנ ּנוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִּמ ְתﬠַ ֵּלל ְ ּבלִ י ָק ְר ָ ּבן‬ ‫דָּ ָבר ֵריק הוּא‪ְ ,‬ס ָתם ּ ִפ ְט ּפוּט‪.‬‬ ‫ָ ּברוּ‪ַ ‬ה ׁ ּ ֵשם‪.‬‬

‫‪192‬‬

The sheep in the pasture? The lambs in the grass? The air of orange blossoms? The games in the dark? Yes, they existed, existed. The bespectacled songbird? Don’t play dumb and deaf. The flute in his throat, the small leaves in the pecan tree. They existed, yes, yes, they existed Yes yes yes yes yes yes 13 He who can endure, endures. He who cannot – does not. The victimless persecutor is an empty thing, pointless. Blessed be his name.

193

‫מכה ועוד מכה‬ ‫ן־פנִים‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ָּכחֹל לְ ַמ ְעלָ ה לְ ֶב ּ ָ‬ ‫ָ ּב ָאח ּו ַּכ ָּל ִנ ּיוֹ ת‪ַ ,‬ט ְבלַ ת־צְ ָב ִעים ַ ּגם יְ ֻר ָ ּקה ַ ּגם ֲא ֻד ָּמה‪.‬‬ ‫ָּכ‪ִ ‬מצְ ַט ֵ ּיר יוֹ ְמ‪ְּ ‬כמוֹ ְ ּבנִים־ל ֹא־נִים‬ ‫וְ קוֹ ל דְּ ֵמי ָא ִחי‪ ‬עוֹ לִ ים ֵאלֶ י‪ֶ ‬ח ֶר ׁש ִמן ָה ֲא ָד ָמה‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ְ ּצ ַפ ְרדְּ ִעים ַה ְ ּצ ַפ ְרדְּ ִעים ְ ּבכָ ל ָמקוֹ ם‪ּ ַ ,‬בכּ ֹל‬ ‫ק־פלַ ּ ְפלַ ּפ ﬠַ ד ֵאין לָ שֵׂ את‪.‬‬ ‫ְקוַ ְקוַ ּ ְ‬ ‫ֵאי‪ ‬לֶ ֱאטֹם ָאזְ נַיִ ם ִמ ּ ְפנֵי ַמבּ וּל ַה ּקוֹ ל‬ ‫ַה ַּמ ֲח ִר ׁיש ְ ּב ִק ׁ ְשקו ׁ ָּשיו ָא ׁ ָשם וָ ֵח ְטא?‬ ‫ִּכ ִּנים ְּכ ָב ׁשוּ‪ֶ ,‬א ֶרץ ַה ְ ּצ ִבי‪.‬‬ ‫ו ָּמצְ צ ּו דָּ ַמיִ ‪ִ .‬א ׁיש וָ ִא ׁיש ָּכ ׁ ַשל‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּנַﬠֲ שֶׂ ה ֵאין לְ ָה ׁ ִשיב‪ְּ .‬תיַ ְ ּב ִבי‪.‬‬ ‫נ ַָת ְּת ִ ּב ֵידי ַה ּ ַט ּ ִפילִ ים ֶאת ַה ִּמ ְמ ׁ ָשל‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠָ ֵרב ִע ְב ִרית ְ ּבלוֹ ﬠֲ זִ ית‪ַ .‬הכּ ֹל ֻמ ָּתר‪.‬‬ ‫ִמי ָּכאן יִ ְק ַ ּבﬠ ַמה ּטוֹ ב ָמה ַרע‪.‬‬ ‫ַרק ֵאצֶ ל ׁ ַש ְמ ָרנִים יִ ּקֹב ַהדִּ ין עוֹ ד ֶאת ָה ָהר‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנ ְַחנ ּו ָח ְפ ׁ ִש ִ ּיים‪ֵ ,‬ה ָידד‪ ,‬הו ָּרה!‬ ‫ֶא ְתמוֹ ל דָּ ָבר ׁ ֶשלּ ֹא ָ ּבא לָ עוֹ לָ ם‪ַ .‬ה ּיוֹ ם זֶ ה דֶּ ֶבר‪.‬‬ ‫ָהרוּג וְ עוֹ ד ָהרוּג יוֹ ם ַא ַחר יוֹ ם‪ ,‬יָ ִמים‪ ,‬יָ ִמים‪.‬‬ ‫ַמה ׁ ּ ֶש ּנ ְֶח ׁ ָשב ׁ ָשלֵ ם ָהיָ ה לְ ׁ ֶש ֶבר‬ ‫וְ ָאנ ּו ִמ ְת ַר ְ ּגלִ ים וַ ֲהמו ִּמים ו ִּמ ְת ַר ְ ּגלִ ים וַ ֲהמו ִּמים‪.‬‬

‫‪194‬‬

ONE PLAGUE AND ANOTHER The Blue above is bleached deep through. Anemones speckle the meadow green and red. Thus your days are painted in half-wakefulness half-sleep. And the blood of your brother cries out from the land silently. The Frogs the frogs are everywhere, in everything the ribbit ribbit ribbit pushing us past endurance. How can we seal up our ears from the flood of sound deafening with its chattering guilt guilt and sin? Lice have conquered you, Land of the Deer. And they’ve sucked your blood. Everyone has failed. What’s been done cannot be undone. Now weep and wail. For you’ve ceded rule and command to the leeches. Sweet-Swarming is Hebrew on a foreign tongue. All is allowed. What’s good and what’s bad – who’s to rule? Only among conservatives does the law still curse the hill. We are free to do as we wish, heydad and hurray! In Past Days, a thing unknown. Today, a pestilence. Another slain then another, day after day after day. What was once whole has become shards we adapt and are stunned and adapt and are stunned again.

195

‫ַה ֵּלב ׁ ָשחוּן‪ַ .‬הדָּ ם ַה ְמלֻ כְ לָ ‪ ‬זוֹ ֵר ַח‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ְּת‪ֲ ,‬אנִי‪ַ ,‬א ָּתה‪.‬‬ ‫ַמה ׁ ּ ֶשﬠָ שִׂ ינ ּו ַ ּגם ֵאל ָמלֵ א ַר ֲח ִמים ֵאינוֹ סוֹ לֵ ַח‪.‬‬ ‫ו ְּבהוּלִ ים ִמ ְתרוֹ צְ צִ ים ְ ּב ִעיר ׁ ֶשל ְ ּבﬠָ ָתה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאוִ יר ָהיָ ה לְ כַ דּ ו ִּרים ׁ ֶשל ֶק ַרח‪.‬‬ ‫ֵא ֶפר ָק ָפא ּ ְפתוֹ ִתים ּ ְפתוֹ ִתים‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּנ ׁ ְִשימוֹ ת ַה ֲחנוּקוֹ ת ׁ ֶשל ַה ֵּמ ִתים‬ ‫ַאט יְ כַ ּס ּו ַהכּ ֹל ְ ּב ֵא ֶפר ֶק ַרח‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ְר ֵּבה ָק ָרה‪ַ ,‬ה ְר ֵ ּבה קוֹ ֶרה ׁ ֶש ֵאין‬ ‫לוֹ ְּתקו ָּמה‪ֲ ,‬א ִפלּ ּו נ ֲַהפֹ‪ ‬עוֹ ֵרנוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ַא ֲח ֵרי ַא ְר ֶ ּבה ָּכל ׁ ֶש ָחבוּי ָהיָ ה ָ ּגלוּי לְ ﬠֵ ין‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ֶש ֶמ ׁש‪ .‬ﬠֲ ֻר ָּמה ִע ֵירנוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ָה ּה‪ַ ,‬הלְ וַ אי ׁ ֶשח ׁ ֶֹש‪ ‬יְ כַ ֶּסה ﬠֵ ינֵינוּ!‬ ‫לְ ָאן נ ְִב ַרח ִמ ּקוֹ ל לִ ֵ ּבנ ּו ַה ּטוֹ ﬠֵ ן‬ ‫ֲהל ֹא יָ ֵדינ ּו ׁ ֶש ׁ ּ ָש ְפכ ּו דָּ ֵמנוּ!‬ ‫לְ ָאן נ ְִב ַרח עוֹ ד ִמ ּ ָפנֵינוּ?‬ ‫זֹאת ל ֹא ָרצִ ינוּ‪ ,‬ל ֹא‪ ,‬זֹאת ל ֹא ָרצִ ינוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ִ ּבלְ ﬠֲ ֵד ֶיהם ָמה ָאנ ּו וּלְ ׁ ֵשם ַמה?‬ ‫ל ֹא ָּכ‪ָ ‬ח ׁ ַש ְבנוּ‪ .‬ל ֹא ָרצִ ינוּ‪ ,‬ל ֹא‪ ,‬זֹאת ל ֹא ָרצִ ינ ּו‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ָּכ‪ִּ ‬ת ְבלַ ﬠ ָה ֲא ָד ָמה‪.‬‬

‫‪196‬‬

The Heart is Parched. The dirty blood shines. You, me, he. What we have done even God, Full of Compassion, will not forgive. And the panicked run wild through the City of Terrors. The Air has Become ice bullets. Ash has frozen in every pale crumb. Slowly all will be covered in ice dust, those strangled breaths of the dead. Loathsome, what has happened, is happening, so much is unredeemable, even if we shed our skins. Like after the locusts, the hidden all bared to the sun’s eye. Our city, in naked sin. Oh Let the Darkness cover our eyes! Where can we flee from the sound of our hearts proclaiming: was it not our hands that spilt our blood! To where can we still run from ourselves? This Is Not what we wanted, no, no, not this. Without them, who are we and what is ours? We didn’t want this, no, not this, we didn’t think it would be like this: that the Land would devour and devour.

197

‫שאלה‬ ‫ַּכ ָּמה ׁ ָשנִים ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר‬ ‫ּי־מ ׁ ְש ָקל‬ ‫לִ ׁ ְשמֹר ﬠַ ל ׁ ִש ּוו ִ‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ּ ִפי ַה ְּתהוֹ ם?‬

‫‪198‬‬

A QUESTION How many years can one maintain one’s balance on the edge of the abyss?

199

VII

History

‫♦‬

‫ָא ִבי הו ַּמת‪.‬‬ ‫ִא ִּמי הו ְּמ ָתה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאחוֹ ִתי הו ְּמ ָתה‪.‬‬ ‫ָס ִבי הו ַּמת‪.‬‬ ‫ָס ָב ִתי הו ְּמ ָתה‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ְש ֵא ֵרי ְ ּבשָׂ ִרי הו ְּמתוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ֲח ֵב ִרים הו ְּמתוּ‪.‬‬ ‫נוֹ ֵב ַח ֶּכלֶ ב‪ .‬יֶ לֶ ד בּ וֹ כֶ ה‪ .‬רו ַּח נִלְ ְּכ ָדה ָ ּבﬠַ לְ וָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫דּ וֹ ִדי נ ַ ִּצל‪.‬‬ ‫דּ וֹ ָד ִתי נ ְ ִּצלָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠָ ָדה נ ֶֶה ְרגָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫לו ְּדוִ יג ֵמת‪.‬‬ ‫לֵ ָאה ֵמ ָתה‪.‬‬ ‫דּ וֹ ִדי ֵמת‪.‬‬ ‫יַ ְענ ְָקלֶ ה ֵמת‪.‬‬ ‫מוֹ ָרן נ ְֶעדָּ ר‬ ‫ׁ ְשמוֹ נֵה־ﬠֶ שְׂ ֵרה ׁ ָשנִים‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ְשמוֹ נֵה־ﬠֶ שְׂ ֵרה ׁ ָשנִים‬ ‫נ ְֶעדָּ ר מוֹ ָרן‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא לַ ֲח ׁשֹב! ל ֹא לַ ֲח ׁשֹב!‬ ‫ָדן ֵמת‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאיל ּו צְ ﬠָ קוֹ ת ׁ ָשם ַ ּבחוּץ‪ְ .‬מכוֹ נִית ִמ ׁ ְש ָט ָרה ְמיַ ֶּללֶ ת‪.‬‬ ‫דּ וֹ ָד ִתי ֵמ ָתה‪.‬‬ ‫וֶ ְרנֶר ֵמת‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ָ ּיה ֵמ ָתה‪.‬‬ ‫שְׂ ָמ ִמית ﬠַ ל ֶר ׁ ֶשת ַה ַחלּ וֹ ן‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאוָ ה ֵמ ָתה‪.‬‬ ‫נ ָָתן ֵמת‪.‬‬ ‫ֶא ְרנ ְֶסט ֵמת‪.‬‬ ‫עוֹ זֵ ר ֵמת‪.‬‬ ‫‪202‬‬

♦ My father was murdered. My mother was murdered. My sister was murdered. My grandfather was murdered. My grandmother was murdered. My kinsmen were murdered. My friends were murdered. A dog barks. A child cries. A wind is trapped in the leaves. My uncle was saved. My aunt was saved. Ada was killed. Ludwig died. Lea died. My uncle died. Yankeleh died. Moran is missing eighteen years. Eighteen years Moran has been missing. Inconceivable! Dan died. Those are shouts outside. A police car wailing. My aunt is dead. Werner is dead. Aya is dead. There’s a lizard on the window screen. Eva is dead. Natan is dead. Ernest is dead. Ozer is dead.

203

‫ישהוּ?‬ ‫ׁ ָשכַ ְח ִּתי ִמ ׁ ֶ‬ ‫ִ ּבלְ ַ ּבלְ ִּתי ֶאת ַה ֵּס ֶדר?‬ ‫ֲאנִי הוֹ לֵ ‪ ‬לְ ַמ ְר ָאה‬ ‫ַמ ִ ּביט‪:‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי עוֹ צֵ ם ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי ּפוֹ ֵק ַח ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ַמה לּ ֹא נָכוֹ ן?‬

‫‪204‬‬

Have I forgotten anyone? Have I confused the order? I go to the mirror and look: I close my eyes. I open my eyes. What’s wrong with this image?

205

‫אבי‬ ‫יוֹ ם־יוֹ ם ֶה ֱחלִ יף ֶאת ֲחלִ ָיפתוֹ‬ ‫ֻחלְ צָ תוֹ ‪ ,‬לְ ָבנָיו‪ּ ַ ,‬ג ְר ָ ּביו‪ ,‬נַﬠֲ לָ יו‪ֶ ,‬את ַהכּ ֹל‪.‬‬ ‫לָ נ ּו ׁ ָש ַמר ֱאמ ּונִים‪.‬‬ ‫יוֹ ם־יוֹ ם ַא ֲח ֵרי ׁ ֶש ָאכַ ל צָ ֲה ַריִ ם‪ָ ,‬היָ ה ְמנ ְַמנֵם‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ַ ּג ֵ ּבי ַה ַּס ּ ָפה ﬠֶ שֶׂ ר דַּ ּקוֹ ת ְ ּב ִד ּיוּק‬ ‫וְ אוּלַ י ׁ ְש ֵּתים־ﬠֶ שְׂ ֵרה‪ .‬הוּא ל ֹא ִה ְס ִּתיר ֶאת ַהחוֹ ר‬ ‫)ש ׁ ּ ָשה ִמדֵּ י יוֹ ם ְ ּביוֹ מוֹ (‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ָה ֶר ֶמץ ֵמ ַא ַחד ַה ִּסיגָ ִרים ׁ ֶשלּ וֹ ׁ ִ‬ ‫ׁשוּב שָׂ ַרף ָ ּב ָא ִריג ָה ַא ְנ ְ ּגלִ י‪ּ ְ .‬בנוֹ ָסף ﬠַ ל ֵאלֶ ה ַ ּגם ִע ׁ ּ ֵשן‬ ‫״מצְ ִר ּיוֹ ת״ )מוֹ נוֹ ּפוֹ ל ַה ּ ַט ָ ּבק ָהאוֹ ְס ְט ִרי(‬ ‫ַא ְר ָ ּב ִעים ִ‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ׁ ּ ָשלַ ף ִמ ֻ ּק ְפ ָסה דַּ ִ ּק ָיקה ְ ּבצֶ ַבﬠ ָּכתֹם‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ַפﬠַ ם לָ ָקה ְ ּב ַה ְרﬠָ לַ ת נִיקוֹ ִטין‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּב ִס ְפ ִר ָ ּיתוֹ ֵמ ֲאחוֹ ֵרי זְ כוּכִ ּיוֹ ת ﬠָ ַמד לְ צַ ד ַהיְ נֶה יוּלִ ֶיסס ׁ ֶשל ג׳וֹ יְ ס‪.‬‬ ‫ֹאש‪ ,‬אוֹ ִק ְ ּבלוֹ ַמ ָּתנָה?‬ ‫ַה ִאם ִהזְ ִמין ֶאת ַה ֵּס ֶפר ֵמר ׁ‬ ‫דַּ ְרכּ וֹ ַה ּיוֹ ִמית ל ֹא הוֹ ִבילָ ה אוֹ תוֹ ֶא ָּלא ﬠַ ד ִמשְׂ ָרדוֹ וְ ָחזֹר‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּביוֹ ם א׳ יָ כֹלְ ָּת לִ ְסמֹ‪ ‬ﬠָ לָ יו ְּכ ׁ ֶש ָ ּצﬠַ ד‪ַ ,‬מ ְ ּקלוֹ ְ ּביָ דוֹ‬ ‫ְ ּב ִמכְ נ ְֵסי נ ִֵיקבּ וֹ ֶקר ִקילוֹ ֶמ ֶטר אוֹ ׁ ְשנַיִ ם ﬠַ ד לַ ּ ֻפנְדָּ ק ַ ּב ַ ּיﬠַ ר‬ ‫״ט ּיוּל״‪.‬‬ ‫ר־כ‪ִ ‬‬ ‫ר־ה ַ ּב ְרזֶ ל‪ַ ,‬מה ׁ ּ ֶש ֻּכ ּנָה ַא ַח ָּ‬ ‫לְ יָ ד ְ ּב ֵא ַ‬ ‫יָ דוֹ ִה ְב ִט ָיחה ׁ ַשלְ וָ ה‪ ,‬ﬠֵ ינָיו – ﬠָ ִתיד טוֹ ב יוֹ ֵתר‪.‬‬ ‫לְ ֵאמוּן ְּכמוֹ ׁ ֶשלּ וֹ ל ֹא זָ כִ ִיתי ֵמעוֹ ִדי‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִאם ָח ׁ ַש ׁש ְ ּבלִ בּ וֹ ? ְּכבוֹ נֶה ָח ְפ ׁ ִשי נ ֱֶא ָמן‬ ‫ל ֹא ִ ּג ָּלה ֶאת סוֹ דוֹ ‪ .‬הוּא ָר ַקם ָּתכְ ִנ ּיוֹ ת‬ ‫וְ כִ ְמﬠַ ט ִהגְ ׁ ִש ָימן‪ .‬הוּא‪ֶ ׁ ,‬ש ּנ ַָסﬠ ָ ּב ַר ֶּכ ֶבת ַרק ִ ּבכְ ָסיוֹ ת‬ ‫וְ ָאכַ ל ֶסנ ְְדוִ יץ׳ ְ ּב ַס ִּכין ו ַּמזְ לֵ ג –‬ ‫יִ ְהיֶ ה לְ לוּלָ ן‪ ,‬יְ נ ֶ ַּקה זֶ ֶבל־עוֹ פוֹ ת ְ ּב ׁ ָש ֵבי צִ ּיוֹ ן!‬ ‫ַה ִּמלְ ָח ָמה ׁ ֶש ּ ָפ ְרצָ ה ִס ְּכלָ ה ֶאת ַהכּ ֹל‪.‬‬ ‫ִימה‬ ‫הוּא ﬠָ ַמד ְקצָ ת ַ ּב ַ ּצד וְ ִהזְ לִ יג דִּ ְמעוֹ ָתיו ּ ְפנ ָ‬ ‫ַּכ ֲא ׁ ֶשר נ ְִפ ַר ְדנ ּו ְ ּב ַת ֲחנַת ָה ַר ֶּכ ֶבת וְ ׁשוּב ל ֹא נוֹ ַתר ִמ ֶּמ ּנ ּו ֶא ָּלא‬ ‫נ ְִפנוּף ׁ ֶשל יָ ד‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ַפﬠַ ם ַא ַחת עוֹ ד ְר ִא ִיתיו ַ ּב ֲחלוֹ ם‪ּ ֻ :‬ב ָ ּבה לְ ָבנָה‬ ‫ֻּכלּ וֹ ﬠָ טוּף ֶ ּג ֶבס‪ִ ,‬הזְ דַּ ֵ ּקר ִ ּב ְמלֻ כְ ָסן ִ ּב ְמכוֹ נִית דְּ חו ָּסה‬ ‫‪206‬‬

MY FATHER Every day he changed his suit his shirt, his underwear, his socks, his shoes, everything. To us he was ever loyal. Every day after he ate lunch he would nap on the sofa for exactly ten minutes, maybe twelve. He didn’t hide the hole that an ember from one of his cigars (six a day) burnt again in his suit’s English fabric. In addition to those, he also smoked forty “Egyptians” (Austrian tobacco monopoly) he would pull out from a slender orange packet. Once he got nicotine poisoning. In his library behind the glass panes Heine stood beside Joyce’s Ulysses. Did he order the book ahead of time, or receive it as a gift? His daily path led him only to his office and back. On Sundays I could depend on him striding, walking-stick in hand, in his knickerbockers the kilometer or two to the village tavern near the iron-well, what was later called “a hike.” His hand promised peace, his eyes – a better future. No one has ever believed in me as he did. Was he afraid? As a faithful Freemason he never told his secrets. He made plans and almost fulfilled them. He, who always wore gloves when travelling by train and ate a sandwich with knife and fork – he would be a chicken farmer, clean the chicken-manure in Shavei Zion! The war that erupted thwarted everything. He stood a bit apart and shed tears only inward when we said good-bye at the train station, and then there was nothing left of him but the wave of a hand. Once I saw him again in a dream: a white doll completely wrapped in plaster, protruding sideways from a crowded car

207

‫ׁ ֶש ָ ּב ָאה ִמ ִּכ ּווּן ַהדָּ נו ָ ּּבה‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּיוֹ ם ִמ ְס ַּת ֵּכל הוּא ִ ּבי ֵמ ַה ִ ּקיר וְ ׁשוֹ ֵאל ְ ּבﬠֵ ינָיו‬ ‫ִאם ֵא ַדע‪ּ ֶ ,‬ב ֱא ֶמת ֵא ַדע‪ֶ ׁ ,‬ש ֵאין לְ ַה ְפ ִריד‬ ‫ֵ ּבין ַח ִ ּיים ו ֵּבין ָמוֶ ת‪ ,‬וְ כִ י לָ ׁשוֹ ן לְ ִע ִּתים ֵאי ֶנ ּנָה‬ ‫ֶא ָּלא ֲא ֵבלוּת ﬠַ ל ﬠֶ ְדנָה ׁ ֶש ָא ְב ָדה‪.‬‬

‫‪208‬‬

coming from the direction of the Danube. Today he gazes at me from the wall and asks me with his eyes if I know, do I really know, that one cannot separate life from death, and that language is sometimes nothing more than the mourning of lost tenderness.

209

‫אמי‬ ‫ֵמא ֶֹפל ִא ִּמי‬ ‫ַה ּמו ָּאר ֻּכלּ וֹ ְ ּבאוֹ ר לְ ָב ָב ּה‬ ‫אתי ֶאל אוֹ ר ָהעוֹ לָ ם‪.‬‬ ‫יָ צָ ִ‬ ‫ל ֹא יָ נ ְַק ִּתי ָחלָ ב ׁ ָשחֹר ִמ ׁ ּ ְש ֵדי ִא ִּמי‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא יָ ׁ ַש ְב ִּתי זְ ַמן ַרב ﬠַ ל ֵּכס ַה ָּכבוֹ ד ׁ ֶשל ִ ּב ְר ֶּכ ָיה‪.‬‬ ‫ִא ִּמי ַה ָ ּי ָפה נֶﬠֶ שְׂ ָתה צְ ִע ָירה ְּכ ׁ ֶש ּנָשְׂ א ּו ַה ׁ ּ ְשוָ ִרים‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ַ ּג ָ ּבם ָה ָר ָחב ֶאת ַה ַ ּקיִ ץ‪ֲ ,‬אוִ יר ָהﬠֶ ֶרב צִ ְרצֵ ר‬ ‫ַה ְ ּצ ַפ ְרדְּ ִעים נ ְָתנ ּו ֶאת קוֹ לָ ן ְ ּב ׁ ִשיר‪.‬‬ ‫ְּכלוּם ל ֹא ָהיְ ָתה ִָה ִעיר ְּכ ָמחוֹ ‪ ‬לָ ּה‬ ‫ו ֵּב ֵיתנ ּו – ְתחוּם ֶמ ְמ ׁ ַשלְ ָּת ּה – ְּכלוּב זָ ָהב?‬ ‫ָאז ל ֹא יָ ַד ְע ִּתי‪ַ .‬ה ּיוֹ ם ֲאנִי יוֹ ֵדﬠַ ‪:‬‬ ‫חוּט ַא ֲה ָבה ָק ׁ ַשר ֶאת לִ ִ ּבי ֶאל לִ ָ ּב ּה‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו ֵאי ֶנ ּנִי רוֹ ֶאה ֶא ָּלא צְ דו ִּד ָית ּה‬ ‫ְ ּב ִה ָירה‪ִ ,‬ח ֶ ּו ֶרת ֵ ּבין ַה ְּס ָפ ִרים ׁ ֶשﬠַ ל ַה ַּמדָּ ף‬ ‫שְׂ ָפ ֶת ָיה צֵ ל ׁ ֶשל ִח ּיוּ‪ֶ ׁ ‬ש ֵאינוֹ ְמ ַח ֵ ּי‪ִּ ,‬כ ְמﬠַ ט ֲאבו ָּדה‬ ‫ִהיא ׁ ְש ֵק ָטה ְמאֹד‪ ,‬נוֹ כַ ַחת ַרק ִּכ ְביָ כוֹ ל‪ַ ,‬מ ִ ּב ָיטה‬ ‫ֹא־פ ֵר ָדה?‬ ‫ַהעוֹ ֶד ּנָה ּפוֹ ֶרשֶׂ ת יָ ֶד ָיה ְּכמוֹ לְ ַח ְ ּב ֵקנִי לִ ְפ ֵר ָדה־ל ּ ְ‬

‫‪210‬‬

MY MOTHER From my mother’s darkness illuminated in full by the light of her heart I came into the light of the world. I didn’t nurse on black milk from my mother’s breasts. I didn’t sit for long in the honored seat of her lap. My pretty mother became young when the bulls carried the summer on their wide backs, the evening air chirping, the frogs lifting their voices in song. The city was but a boned bodice to her and our house – her kingdom – a golden cage? Then I didn’t know. Today I know: a thread of love tied my heart to hers. Now I cannot see but her fair profile pale among the books on the shelf, on her lips the shadow of an unsmiling smile, almost lost she’s very quiet, present only as if, watching – Is she still opening her arms as though to embrace me in farewell-not-farewell?

211

‫ליל ירח‬ ‫ֵאין ׁ ִשכְ ָחה‪.‬‬ ‫ַהכּ וֹ כָ ִבים ׁ ְשח ִֹרים‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאם לְ ָבנָה ֲאבו ָּדה ּתוֹ ﬠָ ה‬ ‫ִ ּב ְס ַב‪ַ ‬הח ׁ ֶֹש‪.‬‬

‫‪212‬‬

MOONLIT NIGHT There’s no forgetting. The stars are black. A lost mother, white, wanders through the night thicket.

213

‫תצלום‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ְ ּבגוֹ ן ַה ׁ ּ ָש ַמיִ ם ַ ּבח ֶֹרף‪.‬‬ ‫ֵא ֶפר‪ .‬ﬠָ נָן‪ .‬נְיָ ר‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ְ ּבצֶ ַבﬠ נְיָ ר ָאפֹר‬ ‫ְמ ֻק ָּמט ִק ְמﬠָ ה‪ ,‬נ ְִק ָרﬠ ְ ּב ַקלּ וּת‪ִ .‬ח ּיוּך‬ ‫ָר ֶפה‪ .‬ל ֹא ָ ּבﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‪ְ ׁ .‬שנֵי ַק ִ ּוים‬ ‫יוֹ ֵתר ֵּכ ִהים‪ ,‬לְ ַמ ּ ָטה‬ ‫ַ ּב ְ ּקצָ ווֹ ת ְקצָ ת ִמ ְתרוֹ ְמ ִמים‪.‬‬ ‫זָ וִ ית ְמ ׁ ֻש ּנָה‪ֶ ּ ,‬פה‬ ‫ְמ ַח ֵ ּי‪ ,‬נָצוּר‪ ,‬ל ֹא ּפוֹ צֶ ה‪ ,‬ל ֹא ֶהגֶ ה‪ ,‬ל ֹא כְ לוּם‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ֶה ֶבל‪ ,‬ל ֹא כְ לוּם‪ִ ּ .‬פי נְיָ ר ְמ ַח ֵ ּי‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּ ָפנִים‬ ‫ּ ְפנֵי נַﬠַ ר‪ִ .‬אם לְ ַד ֵ ּיק‪ִ ,‬מי‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ָהיָ ה נַﬠַ ר‪ֶ ׁ ,‬ש ָהי ּו לוֹ‬ ‫ּ ָפנִים‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ְפנֵי נַﬠַ ר ֲאפ ִֹרים‪ְ ּ ,‬פנֵי נְיָ ר‬ ‫מו ָּטלִ ים ﬠַ ל ׁ ֻשלְ ָחן ַמ ְב ִריק‪.‬‬ ‫ִ ּב ְמ ֵה ָרה יַ צְ ִהיב ּו‬ ‫י־שם‪ּ ָ ,‬בﬠֲ ֵר ָמה‪.‬‬ ‫ֵא ׁ ָ‬

‫‪214‬‬

PHOTOGRAPH Eyes the color of a winter sky. Ash. Cloud. Paper. Eyes the color of gray paper slightly wrinkled, easily torn. A weak smile. Not in the eyes. Two darker lines, lower down, turn up a bit at the edges. Strange angle, a sealed smiling mouth, soundless, not opening, nothing. No breath, nothing. A paper mouth smiling. The face is the face of a boy. More exactly, he who was a boy, he who had a face. The gray face of a boy, a paper face left lying on a polished table. Very soon it will yellow somewhere in the pile.

215

‫יום הזיכרון‬ ‫ֵהם עוֹ ְמ ִדים ֵ ּבין ָה ֲא ָבנִים‬ ‫ְּכ ִמי ׁ ֶש ֵאי ֶנ ּנ ּו יוֹ ֵדﬠַ לְ ָאן‪.‬‬ ‫ֵיהם נְמוֹ גוֹ ת‪ ,‬מו ְּת ׁ ֵשי זְ כִ ָירה‬ ‫ָה ָאבוֹ ת‪ְ ּ ,‬פנ ֶ‬ ‫ְּכﬠָ נָף ׁ ָשבוּר ָּתלוּי ֵמﬠֵ ץ‪ַ .‬ה ּנ ׁ ִָשים‬ ‫ֵיהן ּ ְפקוּחוֹ ת ְּכ ׁ ֶשל א ַֹח‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּבל ֹא ַר ֲח ִמים‪ ,‬ﬠֵ ינ ֶ‬ ‫ִא ָּמהוֹ ת ְמרוֹ ָקנוֹ ת ְּכמוֹ ָ ּבלְ ע ּו ְּתהוֹ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ִיח לְ גו ָּפם‬ ‫עוֹ ְמ ִדים זָ ִעים ְּכ ִאלּ ּו ִ ּב ְ ּק ׁש ּו לְ ָהנ ַ‬ ‫וְ לָ צֵ את לְ ָמקוֹ ם ַא ֵחר‪.‬‬ ‫הוֹ ‪ֶ ,‬א ֶרץ יָ ָפה‪ ,‬רוֹ ֶד ֶפת‬ ‫ִמ ּסוֹ ף ָהעוֹ לָ ם ﬠַ ד סוֹ ף ָהעוֹ לָ ם‬ ‫ְ ּב ׁ ִש ְט ֵחי ַה ָ ּצהֹב וְ יָ רֹק ְ ּבצִ לְ לֵ י ﬠֲ ָננִים ֵאלּ ּו ְ ּב ֵאלּ וּ‪.‬‬ ‫ֲא ִפלּ ּו ְ ּבקוֹ ץ וְ ַד ְרדַּ ר ְּת ַפ ִּתי‪ּ ִ ,‬בגְ ִדילָ ן ו ַּב ְר ָקן וָ חוֹ ַח‬ ‫לָ בוֹ א ְ ּבתוֹ כֵ ‪ ,‬לַ ְחדּ ֹר ﬠָ מֹק ﬠָ מֹק ֶאל ּתוֹ כֵ ‪‬‬ ‫ּגוּף ְ ּבגוּף ﬠַ ד־ל ֹא־יֵ ַדע‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאיזוֹ ַא ֲה ָבה נוֹ ָר ָאה ׁ ָשנָה ְ ּב ׁ ָשנָה‪ ,‬זִ ָּכרוֹ ן ׁ ֶש ֵאינוֹ ָח ֵדל‬ ‫ׁ ֶשנּוֹ כֵ ַח ָּת ִמיד ְּכמוֹ ּ ֶפצַ ﬠ נ ְִפ ָּתח וּפוֹ ֵר ַח ׁשוּב וָ ׁשוּב‬ ‫ָ ּב ָא ִביב ַה ַּמ ְט ִריף ֶאת ַהדַּ ﬠַ ת וּכְ ָבר נוֹ ֶטה‬ ‫לְ ַקיִ ץ ָקצוּר‪ ,‬לַ ֶּמ ְר ָח ִבים ַה ּ ְשׂ רו ִּפים ְ ּבאוֹ ר ׁ ֶש ֵאין לָ שֵׂ את‬ ‫וְ ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו ַהבּ ֹשֶׂ ם ַה ֶ ּזה ָ ּב ֲאוִ יר ׁ ֶש ּנ ְִמזַ ג ְ ּב ִמין ֵר ַיח‬ ‫ֵיהן ִהלְ ִ ּבינוּ‪.‬‬ ‫עוֹ לֶ ה ֵמ ָה ֲא ָד ָמה ו ֵּמ ָה ֲא ָבנִים ׁ ֶש ּ ְפנ ֶ‬ ‫הוֹ ‪ּ ֶ ,‬בן‪.‬‬

‫‪216‬‬

SOLDIERS’ MEMORIAL DAY They stand among the stones as though not knowing where to turn. The fathers, their faces melting, memory-weary like broken branches hanging from the tree. The wives pity-less, their eyes as wide open as the owl’s. The mothers are emptied as if they’ve swallowed an abyss. Others shudder as though wanting to shed their bodies and flee to somewhere else. Oh, beautiful country, pursuing us from one end of the world to the other in yellow and green fields in cloud shadows. Even with thorn and thistle, with nettle and briar, you seduce to enter you, to penetrate deep deep within you body into body to no end. What a terrible love, year after year, this ceaseless memory always tearing open the wound until it blooms again and again in this maddening spring becoming already shorn summer, to the burnt expanses in the unbearable light and now this aroma in the air mixes with the smell rising from the ground and from the pallid stones. Oh, my son.

217

‫ההיסטוריה‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ַמﬠֲ ָרבוֹ ן ִהיא אוֹ ֶה ֶבת ַה ְר ֵ ּבה ֲהרוּגִ ים‪.‬‬ ‫ָק ְר ָ ּבנוֹ ת‪ָ ,‬ק ְר ָ ּבנוֹ ת‪ִ ,‬היא ּתוֹ ַבﬠַ ת‪ּ ִ ,‬בלְ ﬠֲ ֵד ֶיהם‬ ‫ֵּכיצַ ד ֲא ָפ ֵאר ְמנ ְ ַּצ ִחים?‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ְמנ ְ ַּצ ִחים? ַא ָּתה ׁשוֹ ֵאל ו ַּמ ֲח ִר ׁיש‪.‬‬ ‫ִמי ׁ ֶש ּשׂ וֹ ֵרד הוּא ִ ּגבּ וֹ ר‪ .‬ו ִּמי ׁ ֶשﬠָ זַ ר לוֹ לִ שְׂ רֹד‬ ‫ׁ ְשמוֹ ָהלַ ‪ִ ‬עם ָהרו ַּח ַה ֵּמצֵ ן ֶאת ַה ַּל ַהט‬ ‫ה־ה ְ ּק ָרב‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ֶשרוֹ ֵבץ ﬠַ ל ּ ְפנֵי שְׂ ֵד ַ‬ ‫בּ ו ׁ ָּשה? ְּת ֵמ ָהה ַה ִה ְסטוֹ ְריָ ה‪ ,‬בּ ו ׁ ָּשה? ֵמעוֹ לָ ם ל ֹא ׁ ָש ַמ ְע ִּתי‪.‬‬ ‫דִּ ין וְ ֶח ׁ ְשבּ וֹ ן? ﬠֲ זֹב‪ֵ ,‬איזֶ ה ּ ָפתוֹ ס‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ְפנֵי ַה ִה ְיסטוֹ ְריָ ה ָק ִד ָימה‪ָ ,‬אחוֹ ָרה‪ ,‬לְ ָאן ַמ ָ ּב ָט ּה?‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ׁ ֶש ִהיא ִמ ַּת ֶּמ ֶמת ו ְּמ ַס ּ ֶפ ֶרת ִס ּפו ֵּרי ַס ְב ָּתא‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ָהיֹה ָהיָ ה‪ ,‬ﬠַ ל ָאבוֹ ת ו ָּבנִים‪ ,‬ﬠֲ לִ ילוֹ ת נ ְִפלָ אוֹ ת‪ְּ ,‬כ ִאלּ ּו ֵה ֵחל‬ ‫ר־מה ו ַּמ ְמ ׁ ִשי‪ ‬ו ַּמ ְמ ׁ ִשי‪– ‬‬ ‫דְּ ַב ָ‬ ‫דָּ ָבר ל ֹא ָק ָרה‪ּ ְ .‬ב ֶה ְבזֵ ק זִ ָּכרוֹ ן קוֹ ֵפא ׁ ֶש ָהיָ ה וְ נוֹ כֵ ַח‪.‬‬ ‫ַהדָּ ם הוּא אוֹ תוֹ ַהדָּ ם‪ַ .‬ה ָ ּבשָׂ ר אוֹ תוֹ ַה ָ ּבשָׂ ר‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ֻ ּגלְ ּגֹלֶ ת ל ֹא ִה ׁ ְש ַּת ּנ ְָתה‪ ,‬וְ ִאם – ָאז ִ ּב ְמﬠַ ט‬ ‫ֶיה נ ֶ ִּב ֶטת אוֹ ָת ּה ֲא ֵפלָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ו ִּמ ּתוֹ ‪ֲ ‬א ֻרבּ וֹ ת ﬠֵ ינ ָ‬ ‫ִהיא זוֹ ֶר ֶקת ׁ ֵשמוֹ ת ׁ ֶשל ַּכ ָּמה ְמלָ כִ ים‪ ,‬נ ַָהגֵ י ֵמרוֹ ץ‬ ‫כּ וֹ כְ ֵבי קוֹ לְ נוֹ ﬠַ ַאלְ מוֹ ִת ִ ּיים‪ּ ְ .‬בנֵי ָא ָדם ְס ָתם‬ ‫ֵאינָם ְמﬠַ נְיְ נִים ֶאת ַה ִה ְיסטוֹ ְריָ ה‪ַ ,‬אף ׁ ֶש ֵהם‬ ‫ְמ ֹזנ ָּה ַה ּיוֹ ִמי‪ַ .‬א ֲה ָבה? ִהיא ׁשוֹ ֶת ֶקת‪.‬‬ ‫ָהאוֹ ֲה ִבים ִמ ִ ּצדָּ ם ַ ּגם ֵהם ּפוֹ נִים לָ ּה ע ֶֹרף‬ ‫ִּכי ַמה ָּכל ַה ְ ּז ַמ ּנִים לְ ֻע ַּמת ָה ֶרגַ ﬠ ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ַּכ ֲא ׁ ֶשר ּגוּף וְ עוֹ ד ּגוּף נַﬠֲ שִׂ ים ּגוּף ֶא ָחד‪ֻּ ,‬כלּ וֹ נ ׁ ְִש ָימה‪.‬‬ ‫נ ׁ ְִש ָימה? – ַה ִה ְיסטוֹ ְריָ ה ׁשוֹ ֶאלֶ ת וְ ֶח ֶר ׁש צוֹ ֶח ֶקת צְ חוֹ ק ׁ ֶשל ְ ּב ָדיָ ה –‬ ‫ָמה ַא ָּתה ָסח‪.‬‬

‫‪218‬‬

HISTORY Like a good western, It loves its piles of dead. Victims and more victims, It demands, without them how will I glorify the Victors. Are there victors? you ask, and fall silent. He who survives is the hero. And he who helped him survive, his name will be lost with the wind that cools the heat crouching over the battle-field. Shame? History asks in wonder. Never heard of it. Accountability? Forget it, pathetic. Facing forward, backward, where does History gaze? There are those who say It feigns innocence, tells tall tales of Once Upon a Time, of fathers and sons, of wondrous feats, as though something began and goes on and on – but nothing happened. In a flash, memory freezes what was. The blood is the same blood. The flesh, the same flesh. The skull hasn’t changed, and if it has – then only a little, the same darkness still peers out of the eye-sockets. History bandies about the names of a few kings, race-car drivers, immortal movie stars. Regular people don’t interest History, even though they are its daily bread. Love? It falls silent. The lovers, for their part, turn their backs on It; after all what are eras and epochs in comparison to the single moment a body and another body become one, all breath. Breath? – History asks, quietly laughing its lying laugh – What are you talking about?

219

‫אחר־כך‬ ‫ַ ּב ֲאגַ ם ָה ֵא ֶפר‬ ‫ְמ ַר ְ ּצדוֹ ת ֶח ֶר ׁש‬ ‫ְ ּברו ַּח ֻמ ֶּכה יָ ֵר ַח‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינֵי ָהﬠֵ צִ ים ָה ִע ְ ּורוֹ ת‬ ‫אוֹ ׁ ֶש ָּמא ֵאלּ ּו‬ ‫נ ׁ ְִשימוֹ ת‪ ,‬נ ׁ ְִשימוֹ ת ִמ ְ ּז ַמן‬ ‫נ ׁ ְִש ָּכחוֹ ת‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ָּמא ׁ ְש ָאגוֹ ת‪ְ ,‬רצוּצוֹ ת‬ ‫ﬠַ ד דַּ ק‬ ‫ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט יְ לֵ ל־ל ֹא־קוֹ ל‬ ‫ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ַא ְדוַ ת ַ ּג ִּלים‪.‬‬

‫‪220‬‬

AFTER The trees’ blind eyes leap around silently in the ash lake in the moonstruck wind or are these the breaths, breaths from the then forgotten or maybe these are howls, crushed into thin nothing an almost soundless wailing almost the waves’ rippling.

221

‫אבל האור הזה‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ָהאוֹ ר ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ָהאוֹ ר ֵ ּבין־ﬠַ ְר ַ ּביִ ם ׁ ֶשל ְס ָתו‬ ‫אוֹ ר ַר‪ֶ ׁ ‬ש ֵאינוֹ רוֹ ֵמס ֶאת ָהﬠַ יִ ן‬ ‫ִמ ְס ַּת ּנֵן דֶּ ֶר‪ ‬ﬠַ לְ וָ ה ַמצְ ִה ָיבה‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ָהאוֹ ר ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ָהאוֹ ר ַה ְּס ָתוִ י ֶהﬠָ נֹג ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ָהאוֹ ר ַה ְּס ָתוִ י ֶהﬠָ נֹג ַה ְ ּז ַה ְב ַהב ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ַהחוֹ ֶסה וְ סוֹ כֵ ‪ַ ,‬ה ּנ ִָקי ֵמ ֶח ְמלָ ה‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ָשרוּי ﬠַ ל ַהכּ ֹל‬ ‫ַה ָ ּבא ִמ ׁ ּ ָשם וְ הוֹ לֵ ‪ ‬לְ ׁ ָשם‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ָהאוֹ ר‪ ,‬ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו‪ּ ָ ,‬ב ֶרגַ ﬠ ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫עוֹ ד ָּכאן ﬠַ ל ָה ָא ֶרץ ַה ָ ּק ׁ ָשה‬ ‫ַה ְ ּקרוּﬠָ ה‪ ,‬לִ ָ ּב ּה ָּכ ֵבד‪ַ ,‬ה ׁ ּשוֹ ָתה‬ ‫ֶיה‪ ,‬ﬠַ ל ָה ָא ֶרץ ַה ּ ְפצוּﬠָ ה‬ ‫דַּ ם ָ ּבנ ָ‬ ‫ָהאוֹ ר ַה ֶ ּזה ַה ּנ ֱֶא ָסף ֶאל לִ בּ וֹ‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ָה ָא ֶרץ ַהגּוֹ לָ ה לְ לֵ ילָ ּה‬

‫‪222‬‬

BUT THIS LIGHT But this light this dusk autumn light this soft light untrampling of the eye filters in through the yellowing foliage but this light this tender autumnal light this tender and golden autumnal light sheltering, free of pity spreading over everything coming from there and going there this light, now, in this moment still here on this hard land, this torn land of heavy heart, drinking the blood of her sons, this wounded land, this light converging inward towards its heart But the land wanders off into her exiled night

223

‫מדריך למשורר צעיר‬ ‫ַאל ִּת ְב ּגֹד ָ ּב ַר ְעיוֹ ן‬ ‫ׁ ְשמֹר ֱאמוֹ נִים לַ ּנָטו ּׁש‬ ‫ַה ְס ֵּכת לַ ַּמ ְנ ִ ּגינָה‬ ‫ְ ּב ָאזְ נַיִ ם ֲאטוּמוֹ ת‬ ‫ׁ ְש ַמﬠ ַ ּב ָ ּי ַדיִ ם‬ ‫ַה ֵ ּק ׁש ֶאת ַה ֶ ּקצֶ ב‬ ‫ְ ּבלִ י לְ ָהזִ יז ֶאצְ ַ ּבע‬ ‫ׁ ְשכַ ח ֶאת ַה ַּלﬠַ ג וְ ֶאת ַה ְ ּב ִדידוּת‬ ‫ׁ ְשכַ ח ֶאת ָה ֵא ׁש‪ְ ׁ ,‬שכַ ח ֶאת ָה ֵא ֶפר‬ ‫ֶאת לִ ְ ּב‪ְ ׁ ‬שכַ ח‬ ‫ְּכלָ א ֶאת קוֹ לְ ‪‬‬ ‫ׁ ְשכַ ח ִמי ַא ָּתה‬ ‫וְ תוּכַ ל לְ ַה ְת ִחיל‬ ‫ְ ּבזֵ ﬠַ ת ַא ּ ֶפי‪.‬‬

‫‪224‬‬

GUIDE FOR THE YOUNG POET Don’t betray the idea Be faithful to the forsaken Study the melody with sealed ears Listen with your hands Tap out the rhythm without moving a finger Forget the scorn and the loneliness Forget the fire, forget the ash Forget your heart Imprison your voice Forget who you are Now you can begin by the sweat of your brow.

225

‫אלשיר‬ ‫ַא ֲח ֵרי ׁ ֶש ִּס ַ ּי ְמ ָּת ׁ ִשיר וְ ַה ִּמ ִּלים ָמצְ א ּו ֶאת ְמקוֹ ָמן‬ ‫יש ּיוֹ ת ִמדַּ י‬ ‫ֵאינָן ל ֹא קוֹ לָ ִנ ּיוֹ ת ִמדַּ י וְ ל ֹא ֲח ִר ׁ ִ‬ ‫ַא ָּתה ָח ׁש ִּכי ּ ָפג ֵאיזֶ ה לַ ַחץ‪ִּ ,‬כי ּ ָפ ַר ְק ָּת עֹל‬ ‫וְ נוֹ ׁ ֵשם לָ ְרוָ ָחה‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ָּת ִמיד‪.‬‬ ‫לִ ְפﬠָ ִמים ַה ִּמ ִּלים ָקמוֹ ת ﬠָ לֶ י‪‬‬ ‫ׁ ָשבוֹ ת וְ נִכְ נָסוֹ ת ְ ּב‪ּ ְ ‬בלִ י ﬠֶ ְדנָה יְ ֵת ָרה‬ ‫גּוֹ ְרמוֹ ת לְ ‪ ‬לִ כְ אֹב ֶאת ַה ְּכ ֵאב ׁ ֶש ִה ְד ַמ ְמ ָּת ﬠַ ל ַה ּנ‪‬יָ ר‬ ‫נ ְִד ָחקוֹ ת‪ ,‬נ ְִד ָחסוֹ ת‪ ,‬נ ֱֶא ָספוֹ ת ֶאל ﬠַ צְ ָמן‬ ‫הוֹ ְפכוֹ ת לְ ֵמﬠֵ ין חוֹ ר ָשחֹר‬ ‫ְ ּב ִד ְמ ַמת ָמוֶ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ָּכ ַת ְב ָּת ﬠָ ׁ ָשן? ﬠָ ׁ ָשן מוֹ ֵחק ﬠָ ׁ ָשן‪.‬‬ ‫ָּכ ַת ְב ָּת ֵא ֶפר? ֵא ֶפר ְמכַ ֶּסה ﬠַ ל ֵא ֶפר‪.‬‬ ‫ָּכ ַת ְב ָּת ַר ֶּכ ֶבת? ַר ֶּכ ֶבת נִכְ נ ֶֶסת ְ ּב ַר ֶּכ ֶבת‬ ‫ְמנ ֶַּתצֶ ת אוֹ ָת ּה ְ ּבלִ י קוֹ ל‪.‬‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ְד ָב ִרים ׁ ֶש ַה ְּכ ָתב ִמ ְת ַּכ ֵ ּוץ ַּת ְח ָּתם‪.‬‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ׁ ִשיר ׁ ֶש ֵאי ֶנ ּנ ּו ׁ ִשיר‪.‬‬

‫‪226‬‬

NOTPOEM After you’ve finished a poem and the words have found their place speaking neither too noisily nor too quietly you feel a kind of relief, having cast off the yoke you breathe freely. Not always. Sometimes the words rise up to return and assault you, without excessive tenderness they cause you to feel again the pain you bled on the page they push and press, crowd into themselves become a type of black hole in a death-like silence. You wrote smoke? Smoke erases smoke. You wrote ash? Ash covers ash. You wrote train? Train crashes into train shatters it soundlessly. There are things under which writing shrinks. There’s a poem that’s not a poem.

227

‫♦‬

‫ַט ׁ ְש ֵט ׁש ִע ְקבוֹ ֶתי‪‬‬ ‫ְ ּבל ֶֹבן ל ֹא ְ ּגבוּל‬ ‫ַט ׁ ְש ֵט ׁש ִע ְקבוֹ ֶתי‪‬‬ ‫ַאל ֵּתﬠָ צֵ ר ﬠַ ל‬ ‫יַ ד ָה ֶא ֶבן‪ַ ,‬אל‬ ‫ּתוֹ ִתיר ִס ָימנִים‪ֵ ,‬רד‬ ‫ֶאל ָה ֲא ֵפלָ ה‪ ,‬וַ ﬠֲ לֶ ה‬ ‫ָ ּבﬠַ לְ וָ ה‪ֱ ,‬היֵ ה ָ ּב ּה‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ָהרו ַּח‬ ‫ׁ ְשכַ ח ֶאת ׁ ִש ְמ‪‬‬ ‫ֶאת יָ ֶדי‪‬‬ ‫זְ כֹר ֶאת ַה ַּמיִ ם‬ ‫נ ְִר ָ ּג ׁ ִשים ְס ִביב ָה ֶא ֶבן ׁ ֶש ִה ׁ ְשלַ כְ ָּת‬ ‫ר־כ‪‬‬ ‫ַ ּג ִּלים ַ ּג ִּלים‪ַ ,‬א ַח ָּ‬ ‫ְרגו ִּעים‬ ‫ְּכ ַב ְּת ִח ָּלה‬ ‫ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ָמ ְפ ׁ ָשט‬ ‫ֵא ֶּלה ָה ִר ׁ ּשו ִּמים ַמ ְר ִאים‬ ‫ֶאת ַּת ֲהלִ י‪ַ ‬ה ְ ּיצִ ָירה‪:‬‬ ‫אשית ַהכּ ֹל‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵר ׁ ִ‬ ‫ר־כ‪ַ ‬ה ִ ּו ּתוּר ﬠַ ל ּ ְפ ָר ִטים ַר ִ ּבים‬ ‫ַא ַח ָּ‬ ‫ֲא ִחיזָ ה ָ ּבזֶ ה ו ָּבזֶ ה‬ ‫ָּת ִמיד ּ ָפחוֹ ת‬ ‫ָּת ִמיד ֵריק יוֹ ֵתר‬ ‫הוּא ַהנּוֹ ֵתן‬ ‫ֱהיֵ ה ְּכמוֹ ָהרו ַּח‬ ‫ְמצַ ֵ ּיר ַ ּבחוֹ ל וּמוֹ ֶחה‬

‫‪228‬‬

♦ Erase your traces with borderless white blur your footprints don’t stop by the stone, don’t leave any signs, descend into the darkness, then rise in the leaves, be there like the wind Forget your name your hands remember the water swirling excitedly around the stone you tossed in wave after wave, then calm again as in the beginning Almost abstract These sketches show the creation process: In the beginning, everything then the slow surrender of so many details still clinging to this or that always less always emptier that which gives most Be like the wind which draws in the sand, then erases

229

VIII

Belated Beauty

‫יופי מאוחר‬ ‫אוּלְ ְט ָר ָמ ִרין‬ ‫ﬠָ מֹק־ﬠָ מֹק‬ ‫וְ ִאם ָח ֵפץ ָהאוֹ ר‬ ‫נִגְ לֶ ה סוֹ דוֹ ‪ָ :‬סגֹל‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠָ ַב ְר ִּתי ﬠַ ל ּ ָפנָיו‬ ‫וְ ׁ ַש ְב ִּתי‬ ‫ﬠָ ַב ְר ִּתי ﬠַ ל ּ ָפנָיו‬ ‫וְ ׁ ַש ְב ִּתי‬ ‫– ַמה‪ּ ְ ,‬בגִ ילִ י? –‬ ‫ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו נ ָ ִּבט ִ ּבי ְ ּב ַח ְד ִרי‪.‬‬ ‫לַ יְ לָ ה ָּכחֹל‬ ‫אוֹ ֵפף אוֹ ִתי‬ ‫וְ ֶא ֶבן ָה ֵא ׁש‬ ‫ֹא־שוֹ ַקﬠַ ת‬ ‫ׁ ֶשל ׁ ֶש ֶמ ׁש ׁשוֹ ַקﬠַ ת־ל ׁ‬ ‫ְ ּבא ֶֹפק נוֹ ֵדם‪.‬‬ ‫ַמ ְרכּ וּס רוֹ ְטקוֹ ִביץ׳ ִמדְּ ִבינ ְְסק‬ ‫ֵמ־‪ּ ְ 1914‬בארה״ב‬ ‫ַמ ְרק רוֹ ְתקוֹ‬ ‫צִ ֵ ּיר ְּת ִח ָּלה ַא ֶח ֶרת‬ ‫ִפיגו ָּר ִט ִיבית‪ִ ,‬עם ַק ִ ּוים לָ רֹב‬ ‫ﬠַ ד ׁ ֶש ָּמצָ א‬ ‫ִּכי ַה ּ ָפחוֹ ת הוּא ַה ּיוֹ ֵתר‬ ‫יָ ַדע‬ ‫ִּכי ֵאין ֻמ ְר ָּכב ֵמ ַה ּ ַפ ׁ ְשטוּת‬ ‫וְ כָ ל צִ ְבﬠֵ י ַה ֶ ּק ׁ ֶשת‬ ‫ֵיהם‬ ‫ו ַּמה ׁ ּ ֶש ֵ ּבינ ֶ‬ ‫ֵהם ַה ַח ִ ּיים‪.‬‬

‫‪232‬‬

BELATED BEAUTY Deep-deep ultramarine with light-longing its secret revealed: Purple. I walked past it returned walked past it again and returned – at my age? – Now, consider me in my room. A blue night surrounds me and the fire stone of a setting-not-setting sun sits silent on the horizon. Marcus Rotkovitch of Dvinsk from 1914 in America Marc Rothko painted differently at the beginning, figures, many lines, until he discovered that less is more and knew that nothing is more complex than simplicity and all the colors of the spectrum and what is between them is life.

233

‫וּכְ מוֹ ַה ְּס ָתו ְ ּבוֶ ְרמוֹ נְט‬ ‫ָא ַסף ְ ּב ֶט ֶרם ֵה ָא ְס ָפם‬ ‫צְ ָב ִעים ׁ ֶשל ַא ְר ָ ּב ִעים דּ וֹ רוֹ ת‬ ‫ִיחם ׁ ִשכְ ָבה ׁ ִשכְ ָבה‬ ‫וְ ִה ּנ ָ‬ ‫ִמ ׁישוֹ ר ﬠַ ל ַ ּגב ִמ ׁישוֹ ר‬ ‫ַה ְּמ ֻא ָ ּזן נ ׁ ְִש ַמת ַה ְּמ ֻא ּנָ‪‬‬ ‫וּכְ מוֹ ﬠַ לְ וָ ה ְ ּברו ַּח ﬠֶ ֶרב‬ ‫רוֹ ֲח ׁ ִשים ָּכל ַה ּקוֹ לוֹ ת‬ ‫ֶח ֶר ׁש ֶח ֶר ׁש‬ ‫קוֹ ׁ ְש ִרים שִׂ ָיחה‬ ‫ִמ ְתלַ ֲה ִטים ָּכל ַה ְ ּצ ָב ִעים‬ ‫גּוֹ נֵי ְ ּגוָ נִים ׁ ֶשל ֲא ֻד ִּמים‬ ‫ׁ ֶשל צְ ֻה ִ ּבים‪ ,‬חו ִּמים‪ְּ ,‬כ ֻח ִּלים‬ ‫ְּכ ֻת ִּמים וִ ֻיר ִ ּקים –‬ ‫ֵאיזֶ ה ַה ֵּלל לְ כָ ל ַה ַחי‬ ‫ׁ ֶשל ִמי ֲא ׁ ֶשר ּ ָפ ַתח וְ ִר ָידיו‬ ‫ׁ ָש ַפ‪ֶ ‬את ָּכל צִ ְבﬠֵ י ּגוּפוֹ‬ ‫ָה ַפ‪ ‬לְ צֵ ל לָ ָבן‪.‬‬

‫‪234‬‬

Like autumn in Vermont he collected before they were gathered up the colors of forty generations lay them layer by layer level over level horizontal breathing the vertical and like leafage in an evening breeze all the voices softly whispering whispering stitching together a conversation the colors aflame hues upon hues of red of yellows, browns and blues oranges and greens – what praise for all the living for he who opened his veins poured out all the colors of his body and became a white shadow.

235

‫בדרך לטבעון‬ ‫)נילי שחור(‬ ‫זֶ ה ָקסוּם‪ִּ ,‬ת ׁ ְש ְמ ִעי‪ֵ ,‬איזֶ ה ֶק ֶסם!‬ ‫ל ֹא יוֹ ם וְ ל ֹא לַ יְ לָ ה‬ ‫ׁ ְשל ׁ ָֹשה ְ ּברוֹ ׁ ִשים‬ ‫אוֹ ַא ְר ָ ּבﬠָ ה‬ ‫דְּ ָמעוֹ ת ׁ ֶש ָח ׁ ְשכ ּו‬ ‫ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ׁ ִשכְ ָחה‬ ‫ָא ְב ָדנִים ׁ ֶש ָהי ּו‬ ‫לְ ָאח ּו‬ ‫ֲח ָרדוֹ ת לְ כָ ֵרי דֶּ ׁ ֶשא‬ ‫ַמ ׁ ּ ֶשה ּו ָ ּב ִהיר‬ ‫ּפֹה וָ ׁ ָשם‬ ‫ַמ ׁ ּ ֶשה ּו ָסגֹל‬ ‫ַמ ְראוֹ ת ׁ ָש ַמיִ ם ְסגֻ ִּלים‬ ‫זְ ִעירוֹ ת‪ְ ׁ ,‬שלוּלִ ּיוֹ ת ׁ ֶשל אוֹ ר‬ ‫ַה ִ ּצ ּ ֳפ ִרים ִק ּ ְפל ּו קוֹ לוֹ ֵת ֶיהן‬ ‫נוֹ ף ׁ ֶש ֵּמﬠֵ ֶבר‬ ‫ָהרו ַּח נ ֶֶא ְס ָפה‬ ‫זֶ ה ִט ְבעוֹ ן?‬ ‫ִה ַ ּג ְענוּ?‬ ‫ַא ְּת ִא ִּתי?‬ ‫ַא ְּת עוֹ ד ִא ִּתי?‬

‫‪236‬‬

ON THE ROAD TO TIVON (after a painting by Nili Shachor) It’s magical, listen, it’s magic! Not day not night cypress trees, three maybe four are tears that have darkened almost forgetting the ruin that has become a meadow fears become green pastures something light a touch of something purple here and there mirroring slender purple skies, pools of light the birds have folded away their voices the landscape beyond which the wind is gathered up Is this Tivon? Have we arrived? Are you with me? Are you still with me?

237

‫השלמות‬ ‫ִאי ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר ִעם ַה ׁ ּ ְשלֵ מוּת ַה ּזֹאת‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ְשלֵ מוּת ֻמ ׁ ְשלֶ ֶמת ִמדַּ י‪.‬‬ ‫ָק ׁ ָשה ַּכ ָּמוֶ ת‪.‬‬ ‫מוֹ נַﬠַ ת ִמ ְּמ‪ ‬לִ נ ְׁשֹם‪.‬‬ ‫עוֹ שָׂ ה אוֹ ְת‪ְ ‬מגֻ ָח‪ּ ַ ‬ב ּ ֶפה ַה ּ ָפעוּר‪.‬‬ ‫ִאי ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר לֶ ֱאכֹל ִ ּב ׁ ְשלֵ מוּת‬ ‫לִ ׁ ְש ּתוֹ ת ִ ּב ׁ ְשלֵ מוּת‬ ‫לֶ ֱאהֹב ַא ֲה ַבת ְמתֹם‪.‬‬ ‫ֵמעוֹ לָ ם ל ֹא ָּכ ַת ְב ָּת דָּ ָבר ֻמ ׁ ְשלָ ם‪.‬‬ ‫זֶ ה ֵמצִ יק? – ַרק ִאם ַה ׁ ּ ְשלֵ מוּת‬ ‫נוֹ ׁ ֶש ֶפת ָ ּבע ֶֹרף‪ֱ :‬היֵ ה ְּכ ַמלְ ָא‪!‬‬ ‫– ָמה ַא ְּת יוֹ ַדﬠַ ת ﬠַ ל ַמלְ ָאכִ ים‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ַמלְ ָאכִ ים ַח ְס ֵרי ָּכנָף‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ַמלְ ָאכִ ים צְ ֵמ ִאים ְּכצִ ּ ֳפ ִרים ְ ּביוֹ ם ׁ ָש ָרב‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ַמלְ ָאכִ ים ַמ ִ ּז ִיעים לְ ַה ִ ּצילְ ‪ ‬וּבוֹ כִ ים‬ ‫ְּכ ׁ ֶש ֵאינָם ַמצְ לִ ִיחים‪.‬‬ ‫ָמה ַא ְּת יוֹ ַדﬠַ ת‪ְ ,‬סגו ָּרה ְ ּבﬠַ צְ ֵמ‪‬‬ ‫ָא ּנָא‪ִ ,‬עזְ ִבי‪ְ ,‬ס ִעי לְ ִסין‬ ‫ׁ ָשם ִּת ְת ּ ָפ ֲא ִרי ְ ּב ִר ְבבוֹ ת זִ ּקו ִּקים‬ ‫ִ ּב ְדמוּת ׁ ֶש ֵאין ָ ּב ּה ּ ְפגָ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ְר ִאי ַּכ ָּמה יָ ָפה ַה ֵ ּונוּס ִמ ִּמילוֹ‬ ‫ְּכ ׁ ֶשרו ַּח ַק ָּלה ְמלַ ּ ֶט ֶפת ֶאת זְ רוֹ עוֹ ֶת ָיה‪.‬‬

‫‪238‬‬

PERFECTION It’s impossible, this Perfection. This Perfection is too perfect. Hard as death. Stops your breath. Makes you look ridiculous, gape-mouthed as you are. You can’t eat in perfection or drink in perfection or love a perfect love. You’ve never written anything perfect. Does that bother you? – Only when Perfection breathes down my neck, demanding: Be like an angel! – But what does it know of angels there are wingless angels there are angels as parched as birds in a heat-wave there are angels sweating to save you and weeping when they fail. What does Perfection know of this, closed up in itself so please, leave, go to China, there you can flaunt yourself in a thousand firecrackers unblemished in nature. Just look at how beautiful Venus de Milo is when a light wind caresses her arms.

239

‫אולימפיאדה‬ ‫ַח ִ ּיים אוֹ ָמוֶ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ְּמנ ֵ ַּצ ַח שׂ וֹ ֵרד‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּמו ָּבס נ ְֶעלָ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ְשמוֹ ל ֹא יִ ָ ּזכֵ ר‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ְּמנ ֵ ַּצ ַח ֶמלֶ ‪‬‬ ‫לְ ׁ ָשﬠָ ה אוֹ לְ ׁ ָשנָה‬ ‫וְ אוּלַ י לָ נֶצַ ח ִ ּב ְדמוּת‬ ‫ָ ּג ִביﬠַ ַ ּב ֲארוֹ ן זְ כוּכִ ית‬ ‫לַ ּנְכָ ִדים וְ לַ ּנִינִים לְ ִה ְת ּ ָפ ֵאר‬ ‫ִאם יִ ְהי ּו נְכָ ִדים וְ נִינִים ׁ ֶש ִ ּי ְת ּ ָפ ֲארוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו‪ּ ָ ,‬ב ֶרגַ ﬠ ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ַה ֵּלב ּפוֹ ﬠֵ ם ְּכﬠֵ ֶדר סו ִּסים ׁשוֹ ﬠֵ ט ָ ּבﬠֲ ָר ָבה‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵמ ִאית ַה ׁ ּ ְש ִנ ָ ּיה ָהיָ ה ָמ ִהיר ִמ ִיריבוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫ְמ ִחיאוֹ ת ַּכ ּ ַפיִ ם ְּכ ִע ְרבּ וּל ֶאלֶ ף ֻּת ּ ִפים‪.‬‬ ‫ֵמ ַאיִ ן?‬ ‫ֲה ֵרי ָהעוֹ לָ ם ֵריק‪ֵ ,‬ריק‪ַ ,‬ה ְּמנ ֵ ַּצ ַח –‬ ‫ֵאין בּ וֹ ֵדד ִמ ֶּמ ּנ ּו – נ ָ ִּצב ְ ּברוּמוֹ‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ֵאי ֶנ ּנוּ‪.‬‬

‫‪240‬‬

OLYMPICS Life or death. The winner lives on. The loser vanishes. His name will be forgotten. The winner is king for an hour or a year and maybe forever in the shape of a chalice in the glass-paned cabinet for the grandchildren and their children to boast about if there will be grandchildren and their children to boast. But now, in this moment the heart beats like a herd of horses stampeding across the plains he was a hundredth of a second faster than his opponent. Hands clap like the whirl of a thousand drums. From where? After all, the world is empty, empty, and the winner – no one is more alone than him – stands at its zenith that isn’t.

241

‫ﬠל הזמן‬ ‫‪1‬‬

‫ַא ָּתה ׁשוֹ ֵאל אוֹ ִתי ﬠַ ל ַה ְ ּז ַמן?‬ ‫הוּא ל ֹא ָח ֵבר ׁ ֶש ִּלי‪ .‬לָ ָּמה לְ ַד ֵ ּבר ﬠַ ל ַה ְ ּז ַמן?‬ ‫ִּכי ֵאין לוֹ ּ ַפ ְרצוּף? ִּכי לְ עוֹ לָ ם ל ֹא יַ ִ ּביט‬ ‫ﬠַ יִ ן ְ ּבﬠַ יִ ן וּלְ ֶפ ַתﬠ יַ ֶּכה ו ִּמ ָ ּיד יִ ְטﬠַ ן‬ ‫ִּכי ֵאין ָּכמוֹ ה ּו לְ ַר ּ ֵפא ֶאת ַה ּ ֶפצַ ע?‬ ‫לוֹ ֵח ׁש ﬠַ ל ָאזְ נֶי‪ ‬נ ֶָחמוֹ ת ְק ַטנּוֹ ת‬ ‫ו ִּב ְמ ִחי יָ ד מוֹ ﬠֵ ‪ֶ ‬את ּגו ְּפ‪‬‬ ‫ו ַּמ ׁ ְשלִ י‪ ‬אוֹ ְת‪ ‬לְ ֵאיזוֹ זָ וִ ית ׁ ְשכו ָּחה?‬ ‫‪2‬‬

‫״מה ּ ִפ ְתאֹם?״ ַא ֲח ֵרי‬ ‫ַה ֵ ּבן‪ַ ,‬ה ֵ ּבן ַה ׁ ּשוֹ ֵאל ַ‬ ‫ִחבּ וּק ַה ּ ְפ ִר ָידה ָאז ִ ּבנ ְַמל ַה ְּתעו ָּפה ַה ָ ּזר –‬ ‫זֶ ה‪ ,‬זֶ ה ַה ְ ּז ַמן‪.‬‬ ‫זֶ ה ַה ְ ּז ַמן ָהעוֹ ֵמד וְ ֵאי ֶנ ּנ ּו זָ ז‪.‬‬ ‫זֶ ה ַה ְ ּז ַמן ְ ּבלִ י זְ ַמן‪.‬‬ ‫אוֹ י לְ כָ ל ַה ֲחכָ ִמים ַה ְּמנ ִַּסים לוֹ ַמר דְּ ָב ִרים‬ ‫ֲחכָ ִמים אוֹ ׁ ְשנ ּונִים‪.‬‬ ‫וַ י לְ כָ ל ַה ָחכְ ָמה ַה ּזֹאת‪.‬‬ ‫‪3‬‬

‫ֵאיזֶ ה ֲחלוֹ ם ָמתוֹ ק לְ ִמי ׁ ֶש ֵאי ֶנ ּנ ּו ַמ ֲחזִ יק ַמﬠֲ ָמד‬ ‫ַ ּב ָּמקוֹ ם ׁ ֶש ּנ ְִמצָ א בּ וֹ ‪ְ ,‬קצַ ר־רו ַּח‪ְ ,‬מ ַב ֵ ּק ׁש‬ ‫לָ צֵ את ֵמעוֹ רוֹ וְ תוֹ ֵקﬠַ ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ִ ּב ְמחוֹ ג ַה ׁ ּ ְש ִנ ּיוֹ ת‬ ‫ָה ָרץ ָרץ ָרץ ְּכמוֹ רוֹ ֵדף ֶאת צִ לּ וֹ‬ ‫ַרק ָהלְ ָאה‪ַ ,‬רק ָהלְ ָאה ִמ ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ַרק ָהלְ ָאה‪ָּ ,‬ת ִמיד ָהלְ ָאה‬ ‫ָּת ִמיד‪ָּ ,‬ת ִמיד‬ ‫לַ ָּמקוֹ ם ׁ ֶש ִּמ ֶּמ ּנ ּו ָ ּבא‪.‬‬

‫‪242‬‬

ABOUT TIME

1 You ask me about Time? He’s no friend of mine. Why bother talking about him, about faceless time? Because he never looks you straight in the eye, then suddenly strikes and claims right after there’s no one like him to heal all wounds? Because he whispers small consolations in your ear then with his own hands crushes your body and tosses you into some forgotten corner? 2 The son, the son asking “But what happened” right after the goodbye embrace back then in the foreign airport – that’s Time. That’s Time that stands still and never moves. That’s timeless Time. Alas and alack to all those wise men trying to speak wise and clever words. Oh woe, to all that wisdom. 3 What a sweet dream for he who cannot endure here where he is, restless, wanting to shed his skin, staring at the clock’s second-hand that runs and runs like one chasing his shadow onward, always onward away from here only onward, ever onward always and ever onward to the place it came from.

243

‫כל הסבל הזה‬ ‫ָּכל ַה ֵּס ֶבל ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ָּכל ַה ַ ּצﬠַ ר‬ ‫ָּכל ַה ֵּס ֶבל וְ ַה ַ ּצﬠַ ר ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫לַ ׁ ּ ָשוְ א‬ ‫ָּכל ָה ִא ָּמהוֹ ת‬ ‫ְמכֻ ָ ּוצוֹ ת ֲח ׁ ָש ׁש‬ ‫ָהﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ַה ְּסתוּרוֹ ת‬ ‫ָּכל ַה ּ ֵטרוּף ַה ׁ ּ ָשפוּי ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫לַ ׁ ּ ָשוְ א לַ ׁ ּ ָשוְ א‬ ‫ָה ָאבוֹ ת‪ָּ ,‬כל ָה ָאבוֹ ת ָה ֵא ֶּלה‬ ‫ַמ ְס ִּת ֵירי לִ ָ ּבם‬ ‫ַמﬠֲ ִמ ֵידי ּ ָפנִים‬ ‫לַ ׁ ּ ָשוְ א‬ ‫ָּכל ָה ָא ֶרץ ַה ּזֹאת‬ ‫ְמ ׁ ֻש ַ ּגﬠַ ת דָּ ם‬ ‫לַ ׁ ּ ָשוְ א‪ ,‬לַ ׁ ּ ָשוְ א‬ ‫ַה ּ ָפנִים ַה ְ ּצ ִע ִירים ֲאפ ֵֹרי ִע ּתוֹ ן‬ ‫אוֹ י ּ ְפנֵי ַה ּנְﬠָ ִרים ַה ִ ּצ ְבעוֹ ִנ ִ ּיים‬ ‫אוֹ י ﬠַ ל ׁ ֶש ִ ּצ ְבﬠָ ם דָּ ָהה‬ ‫ַה ְ ּצחוֹ ק ַה ְּמצֻ ָּלם‪ַ ,‬ה ּנְﬠָ רוֹ ת וְ ַה ּנ ׁ ִָשים ַה ְ ּצ ִעירוֹ ת‬ ‫ַה ִחבּ ו ִּקים ַה ּנ ׁ ְִשיקוֹ ת‬ ‫לַ ׁ ּ ָשוְ א‪ ,‬לַ ׁ ּ ָשוְ א‬ ‫דָּ ם ׁשוֹ ֶתה דָּ ם‬ ‫ַה ַח ִ ּיים ַה ּפוֹ ְר ִחים ַה ְּכמו ׁ ִּשים ָה ֵא ֶּלה‬ ‫אוֹ י ַה ָ ּבשָׂ ר ַה ּנִשְׂ ָרף‬ ‫לַ ׁ ּ ָשוְ א‬ ‫ָּכל ָה ֲא ַבדּ וֹ ן ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ָּכל ָה ֲא ַבדּ וֹ ן ַה ִע ֵ ּור ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫אוֹ י‪ ,‬אוֹ י‬

‫‪244‬‬

ALL THIS SUFFERING All this suffering all the sorrow all this suffering and sorrow in vain all the fear-clenched mothers their eyes disheveled all this sane madness in vain in vain the fathers, all these fathers hiding their hearts pretending in vain all this blood-crazy land in vain, in vain the young faces a newspaper-grey oh the colorful faces of youth oh their faded colors their photographed laughter, the girls and the young women the kisses and hugs in vain, in vain blood drinking blood these withering blossoming lives oh the burnt bodies in vain all this destruction all this blind ruin Oh, oh

245

‫יוסל‪ ,‬יוסל‬ ‫)יוסל ברגנר(‬ ‫יוֹ ְסל יוֹ ְסל‪ֵ ,‬איפֹה ַא ָּתה?‬ ‫ׁשוּב ִמ ְס ַּת ֵּתר ְ ּב ַת ֲחנַת ָה ַר ֶּכ ֶבת‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ְּתקוּﬠָ ה ְּכמוֹ ַמ ְס ֵמר ַ ּב ֵּלב?‬ ‫ׁשוּם זִ יﬠַ ׁשוּם נִיﬠַ ‪.‬‬ ‫ַרק ָהעוֹ ְר ִבים ְ ּבקוֹ ל צָ רוּד‬ ‫ְמ ׁ ַש ֲח ִרים לַ ּ ֶט ֶרף‪.‬‬ ‫ַהחוּם ָ ּבלַ ﬠ ֶאת ָה ָאדֹם‪ֶ ,‬את ַה ָ ּצהֹב‬ ‫ְמﬠַ ט ֵמ ַה ָּסגֹל‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ָשחֹר ָ ּבלַ ﬠ ֶאת ַהכּ ֹל‪.‬‬ ‫ַמה ַּתﬠֲ שֶׂ ה ִעם ָחלָ ל לְ ַרגְ לֶ י‪‬‬ ‫וְ ﬠֵ ינֶי‪ְ ּ ‬פרוּעוֹ ת?‬ ‫ַמ ָ ּזל ׁ ֶש ֶ ּזה הוּא‪.‬‬ ‫ַמ ָ ּזל ׁ ֶש ַא ָּתה וַ ֲאנִי‬ ‫״הלּ וֹ יוֹ ְסל״‬ ‫ַ‬ ‫״טוֹ ֶ ּיבער ַיא ׁש״‬ ‫ִעם ַה ָ ּים ׁ ֶש ִּמ ׁ ְש ַּתﬠֲ ׁ ֵשﬠַ ֵמ ֲאחוֹ ֵרי ַ ּג ֵ ּבנ ּו‬ ‫ַּת ַחת ׁ ָש ַמיִ ם ְמ ׁ ַשﬠַ ְמ ִמים ֵמרֹב ְּתכֵ לֶ ת וּכְ חוֹ ל‬ ‫לְ ַב ּסוֹ ף עוֹ ְמ ִדים ֲחבו ִּקים‪.‬‬

‫‪246‬‬

YOSL, YOSL (after a pencil drawing by Yosl Bergner) Yosl oh Yosl, where are you? Hiding again in the train station that is stuck in your heart like a nail? Nothing moves, all is frozen. Only the hoarse-voiced ravens set off for their prey. The brown has swallowed the red, the yellow, a bit of the purple. Black has swallowed everything. What will you do with that chasm at your feet and your wild eyes? How lucky it’s him. How lucky that it’s you and me “Hallo, Yosl” “Toy’ber yoash, my deaf friend” With the sea frolicking behind our backs under a sky bored to tears with all that blue finally we are in each other’s arms.

247

‫ליל ירח )‪(2‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי יוֹ ֵדﬠַ ִּכי ֵאינוֹ‬ ‫ֶא ָּלא ֲחלוֹ ם‬ ‫וְ כַ ֲחלוֹ ם יָ עוּף‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ַה ִּת ְקוָ ה ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה ַה ּזֹאת‬ ‫ַה ִּת ְקוָ ה ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה ַהנּוֹ ֶאלֶ ת ַה ּזֹאת‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ֵאי ֶנ ּנָה ּפוֹ ֶס ֶקת‬ ‫ִּכי ְ ּבבוֹ א ַה ּיוֹ ם נ ּ ִָפגֵ ׁש‬ ‫ַ ּב ַ ּצד ָה ָא ֵפל ׁ ֶשל ַה ָ ּי ֵר ַח‬ ‫ְּכ ֵאב ֵאי ֶנ ּנ ּו ְמכַ ּ ֵפר ﬠַ ל‬ ‫ַמ ֲח ׁ ָשבוֹ ת ֵמ ַרע‬ ‫וְ ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו לַ יְ לָ ה וְ ַא ָּתה ָח ֵסר‬ ‫ו ָּמ ָחר יוֹ ם וְ ַא ָּתה ָח ֵסר‬ ‫ָחכְ ָמ ְת‪ֲ ‬ח ֵס ָרה‪ ,‬קוֹ לְ ‪ֵ ‬אי ֶנ ּנ ּו‬ ‫ַא ֲה ָב ְת‪ּ ְ ‬בכִ י לִ ְפנִים ִמ ְ ּבכִ י‬ ‫ַא‪ ‬ל ֹא יִ ְר ַחק ַה ּיוֹ ם וְ ֶא ְהיֶ ה‬ ‫ֵמﬠֵ ֶבר לָ זֶ ה‪ ,‬וַ ֲחלוֹ ם יִ ְהיֶ ה‬ ‫ֲחלוֹ ם ִמ ׁ ְש ַּת ֶהה‬ ‫וְ ַא ָּתה וַ ֲאנִי‬ ‫ַ ּב ַ ּצד ַה ׁ ּ ֵשנִי ׁ ֶשל ַה ָ ּי ֵר ַח‬ ‫נ ְִהיֶ ה ִא ְּת‪ ‬וְ ִא ִּתי‬ ‫וְ ַא ָּתה ִא ִּתי‬ ‫לְ ָת ִמיד‪ ,‬לְ ָת ִמיד‬ ‫ְ ּבנִי‪ּ ְ ,‬בנִי‬

‫‪248‬‬

MOONLIT NIGHT (2) I know it’s nothing but a dream and as a dream will flee but this small hope this small foolish unceasing hope that one day we’ll meet on the dark side of the moon pain does not appease the darkest thoughts now it’s night and you are missing tomorrow will be day and you’ll be missing your wisdom is missing, your voice missing your love a weeping deeper than tears wept but the day is not far off when I’ll be beyond this, and the dream lingers you and me on the other side of the moon we’ll be with you and with me you and me as one forever my son, my son

249

‫מצילה‬ ‫ׁ ִש ַירת ַהבּ ֶֹקר ׁ ֶשל ַה ּצו ִּפ ּיוֹ ת ְּכמוֹ ָק ׁ ְשר ּו ֶאת ְ ּגרוֹ נָן‪.‬‬ ‫ַּכלְ בּ וֹ ׁ ֶשל ַה ׁ ּ ָשכֵ ן ָה ָרגִ יל לִ נְבּ ַֹח ﬠַ ל ָּכל עוֹ ֵבר ﬠַ ל ּ ָפנָיו‬ ‫ִא ֵּלם ְּכ ֵמת‪ .‬יִ ְמיוּם ַה ֲחתוּלָ ה‬ ‫נִצְ ַרד ﬠַ ד ֵאין לִ ׁ ְשמֹﬠַ ‪ַ .‬ר ַח ׁש ָהרו ַּח ִה ְת ַא ֵ ּבן‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ְש ִת ָיקה ַהגּוֹ ֶר ֶפת‬ ‫ַה ׁ ּ ְש ִת ָיקה ַהזּוֹ לֶ לֶ ת ָּכ ַא ְר ֶ ּבה‬ ‫ַה ְּמכַ ָּלה ַה ִ ּבלְ ִּתי נ ְִר ֵאית‬ ‫ְמכַ ָּלה ֶאת ַהכּ ֹל‬ ‫ְמכַ ָּלה ַמה ׁ ּ ֶש ָהיִ ִיתי‬ ‫ְמכַ ָּלה ַמה ׁ ּ ֶש ֶא ְהיֶ ה‬ ‫ְמכַ ָּלה ֶאת ַה ִ ּגלְ בּ ֹﬠַ ‪ְ ,‬מכַ ָּלה ֶאת ָהﬠֵ ֶמק‬ ‫ֶאת ַה ׁ ּ ְש ִקיעוֹ ת ַה ְ ּו ֻרדּ וֹ ת‪ַּ ,‬ת ּפוּז ַהבּ ֶֹקר‬ ‫ְמכַ ָּלה צו ִּפ ּיוֹ ת‪ְ ,‬מכַ ָּלה ֲחתוּלָ ה‬ ‫ְמכַ ָּלה ֶאת ַהדֶּ ׁ ֶשא‪ֶ ,‬את ַה ֶּכלֶ ב ַה ָּל ָבן‬ ‫ְמכַ ָּלה ֶאת ַה ַחי ו ְּמכַ ָּלה ֶאת ַה ֵּמת‪.‬‬ ‫ָמה ַהדְּ מוּת ׁ ֶשﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו נִכְ נ ֶֶסת לַ ֶח ֶדר?‬ ‫ֵאיזֶ ה אוֹ ר ְמ ַסנְוֵ ר חוֹ ֵדר דֶּ ֶר‪ַ ‬הדֶּ לֶ ת ַה ּ ְפתו ָּחה!‬ ‫ֲאנִי אוֹ ֵמר‪ּ ָ :‬גלִ ילָ ה? ֵּכן‪ֵּ ,‬כן‪ ,‬זֹאת ָ ּגלִ ילָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ֵשם ְּכמוֹ ְמצִ ָּלה‪.‬‬

‫‪250‬‬

CHIMES The morning songs of the humming-birds sound as though their throats are tied. The neighbor’s dog that barks at every passer-by is as mute as the dead. The cat’s mewing is so hoarse it’s inaudible. The wind’s rustling has turned to stone. This sweeping silence as gluttonous as the locusts devouring the unseeable devours everything devours what I was devours what I’ll be devours the mountain, the valley devours the pink-hued sunsets, the morning orange devours the hummingbird, the cat devours the white dog, the grass devours the living and the dead. What is the figure that now enters the room? What blinding light penetrates through the open door! I say: Galila? Yes, yes, it’s Galila. A name like chimes.

251

‫ג׳אקומטי‪ :‬איש צוﬠד‬ ‫)ליטוגרפיה ‪(57/200‬‬ ‫הוֹ לֵ ‪ ‬הוֹ לֵ ‪‬‬ ‫לְ ַאט‬ ‫לְ ַאט‬ ‫ל ֹא‬ ‫יֵ ָר ֶאה‬ ‫ִהזְ ִקין‬ ‫ִהצְ ִהיב‬ ‫יִ ָ ּבלַ ע‬ ‫ַ ּב ׁ ּ ֶש ַטח‬ ‫ָה ֵריק‬ ‫ַ ּב ִּמ ְד ָ ּבר ַה ַּמ ִ ּקיף‬ ‫ן־אמ ּונָה‬ ‫– אוֹ ֵמר ְק ַט ֱ‬ ‫ו ַּמ ֲח ִר ׁיש‪.‬‬

‫‪252‬‬

GIACOMETTI: WALKING MAN (Lithograph 57/200) He walks and walks slowly slowly becoming in visible he’s grown old has yellowed will be swallowed up in the empty space of the surrounding desert – says he of little faith and falls silent.

253

‫הזקן והיופי‬ ‫ָּכל ַה ּי ִֹפי ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ֵאיזֶ ה י ִֹפי‬ ‫ֵאיזֶ ה י ִֹפי לַ ﬠֲ מֹד מוּל‬ ‫ָּכל ַה ּי ִֹפי ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ל־כ‪ ‬יָ ֶפה‬ ‫ָּכ ָּ‬ ‫ַ ּגם ְ ּבﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ﬠֲ צוּמוֹ ת‬ ‫וְ גַ ם ְ ּבﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ְקרוּעוֹ ת‬ ‫ָּכל ַה ּי ִֹפי ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ּ ַפס דַּ ק ָּכתוֹ ם זָ הֹב דַּ ק עוֹ ד יוֹ ֵתר דַּ ק ׁ ָשחֹר‬ ‫הוֹ ֵאיזֶ ה אוֹ ר נ ְִפלָ א‬ ‫הוֹ ֵפ‪ ‬לְ ֵא ֶפר‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינַי ָהרוֹ אוֹ ת‬ ‫ּ ָפחוֹ ת ָּת ִמיד ּ ָפחוֹ ת‬ ‫ַח ִ ּיים ָּכאן‬ ‫ַח ִ ּיים ָּכאן וְ ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו וְ כָ ל זֶ ה‬ ‫לִ ְחיוֹ ת‬ ‫ֵאיזֶ ה י ִֹפי לִ ְחיוֹ ת‬ ‫לַ ְמרוֹ ת ָּכל‬ ‫זֶ ה‬ ‫ָּכל ַה ּי ִֹפי ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫לַ ְמרוֹ ת לַ ְמרוֹ ת‬ ‫ַמה‬ ‫ָּכל‬ ‫זֶ ה‬ ‫אוֹ ֵמר ַה ּי ִֹפי‪:‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי ֲאנִי‬ ‫ֶא ְהיֶ ה ֲא ׁ ֶשר ֶא ְהיֶ ה‬

‫‪254‬‬

THE OLD MAN AND BEAUTY All this beauty Such beauty How beautiful to stand before All this beauty So beautiful With eyes shut tight Or even ripped open All this beauty A thin stripe of orange then gold even thinner then black thinner still Oh what wondrous light Becoming ash My eyes seeing Less always less Of life here Living here and now and all this Life What beauty it is living Despite Despite all This All this beauty Despite despite What is All This Says Beauty: I am I I am that I am

255

‫היום האחרון בים הצפוני‬ ‫ּ ְפנֵי ַהדְּ ָב ִרים ֵהם ַרק ּ ְפנֵי ַהדְּ ָב ִרים‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ָ ּב ִתים עוֹ ְמ ִדים ְּכמוֹ ְקלִ ּפוֹ ת ֵריקוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַהנּוֹ ף נָמוֹ ג ַ ּבﬠֲ ָר ֶפל ְ ּב ִהיר־ﬠַ יִ ן‪.‬‬ ‫ִאם ִּת ְתﬠַ ּ ֵטף בּ וֹ ֵּתﬠָ לֵ ם ָּכלִ יל‪.‬‬ ‫״בגַ ן ָהﬠֵ ֶדן‪,‬״ ָּכך ָא ְמר ּו ַחכְ ֵמי ַה ָּמאיָ ה‬ ‫ְּ‬ ‫״בנֵי ֱאנוֹ ׁש ְּכ ָבר נוֹ לָ ִדים ֵמ ִתים‪.‬״‬ ‫ְּ‬ ‫ת־א ְתמוֹ ל‬ ‫ִמי עוֹ ד זוֹ כֵ ר ֶאת ַסﬠֲ ַר ֶ‬ ‫ְּכ ׁ ֶש ִה ְר ִּת ָיחה ֶאת ַה ָ ּים ְּכמוֹ יוֹ ָרה‪ִ ,‬ה ׁ ְשלִ יכָ ה‬ ‫נ ְַח ׁשוֹ לָ יו נֶגֶ ד חוֹ ַמת ַהחוֹ ף‪ַ .‬ה ּיוֹ ם‬ ‫ַה ָ ּים ﬠָ צַ ר נ ׁ ְִשימוֹ ָתיו‪ְ ,‬ר ִאי ָרגוּﬠַ לְ כִ ּ ַפת ﬠָ ִבים‪.‬‬ ‫ַרק ַה ּ ִשׂ ְמ ָחה‪ּ ְ ,‬גרו ָּטה ׁ ֶשל ִמ ְפ ָרשִׂ ית‬ ‫י־שם ָ ּבא ֶֹפק ַה ְּמ ֻפ ְק ּ ָפק‪.‬‬ ‫עוֹ ד ְמנ ַָּסה לָ ׁשוּט‪ֵ ,‬א ׁ ָ‬

‫‪256‬‬

LAST DAY AT THE NORTH SEA The surface of things is only the surface of things. The houses stand like empty peelings. The view melts in a light-eyed fog. If you wrap yourself in it you’ll vanish entirely. “In paradise,” the Mayan sages would say, “Humans are born already dead.” Who even remembers yesterday’s storm that boiled the sea like a kettle, tossing torrents against the shore’s walls. Today the sea holds its breath, placid mirror to domed clouds. Only happiness, a broken-down sailboat, still tries to sail on, somewhere there at the doubtful horizon.

257

‫שיר‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו נ ְִב ָרא יָ רֹק‬ ‫ִּכ טוֹ ב‪ִּ ,‬כי טוֹ ב‪.‬‬ ‫וְ נ ֲַחלִ ֵיאלִ י ְמ ַהנ ְֵהן ְ ּבמוֹ זְ נָבוֹ‬ ‫ִ ּב ְמ ִעילוֹ ָה ֲא ַפ ְר ּ ַפר‪ֲ ,‬א ֻפדָּ תוֹ ַה ְ ּצ ֻה ָ ּבה‬ ‫ִּכי ׁשוּב ָחזַ ר וְ ׁשוּב יַ ֲחזֹר‬ ‫ַה ְּמנ ֵַּתר ﬠַ ל ְּכלוֹ נ ְָסאוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ְש ֵּתי לְ ָטאוֹ ת יֶ ׁ ְשנָן ֵאינָן‬ ‫נִצְ נוּץ ׁ ֶשל ׁ ֶש ֶמ ׁש‪ ,‬ו ִּמ ְב ָרח –‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ִ ּי ְת ָ ּב ַר‪‬‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ׁ ֶשבַ ח ַמﬠֲ שֵׂ ה יָ ָדיו‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠֵ ץ ַה ּ ֶפ ָקן ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו ַמ ׁ ּ ִשיר‬ ‫ו ְּמנ ֵ ַּקד ֶאת ָה ֲאוִ יר‬ ‫וַ ﬠֲ ָננִים ְמ ׁשוֹ ְב ִבים‬ ‫נ ְַפ ׁשוֹ ׁ ֶשל ְּכחוֹ ל נ ְִד ָהם‬ ‫וְ ׁ ִשיר ֵמ ׁ ִשיב ַ ּגם ְ ּב ׁ ִש ְברוֹ‬ ‫לֵ ב ָא ָדם ﬠַ ל ָא ָדם וְ כֵ ן ﬠַ ל ל ֹא‪.‬‬

‫‪258‬‬

POEM But now green has been created and it is good, it is good. A wagtail in its grey coat and yellow vest nods its tail in agreement as the prancing bird on picket posts has returned and will return yet again. Two lizards are here-and-gone sun glimmer, fugitive bliss – May he be blessed for his creations’ glory. Now the pecan tree sheds its leaves green-verses punctuating the air and mischievous clouds seduce the soul of a stunned blue and a poem brings back, also in its brokenness, a heart to a heart, and to what is not.

259

IX

But What Would We Do Without Poems

‫אי אפשר‬ ‫ִאי ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר לוֹ ַמר ׁ ִש ָירה ׁשוּב וְ ׁשוּב‪.‬‬ ‫ר־שילֶ ר‪ַ ,‬ה ְמ ׁשוֹ ֶר ֶרת ַה ֻּמ ְפלָ ָאה‬ ‫ֶאלְ זֶ ה לַ ְס ֶק ׁ ִ‬ ‫”כמוֹ עוּגָ ה‬ ‫ָא ְמ ָרה ﬠַ ל ֶא ֶרץ יִ שְׂ ָר ֵאל ׁ ֶש ִהיא ְּ‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ִאי ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר לִ ְחיוֹ ת ַרק ֵמעוּגוֹ ת‪.‬״‬ ‫דְּ ָב ִרים ַר ִ ּבים ִמדַּ י ֵאינָם נ ְֶח ָרזִ ים עוֹ ד‪.‬‬ ‫״כמוֹ ״‬ ‫וְ יֵ ׁש ׁ ֶש ַה ּנ ֶֶפ ׁש נוֹ ַקﬠַ ת ִמ ּׁ ֶש ַפﬠ ַה ְּ‬ ‫ו ִּמ ּמוּזִ ָיקה ַהגּוֹ נ ֶֶבת ֶאת ָהאֹזֶ ן ַא ֲח ֵרי ָּכל ַה ְ ּזוָ ﬠָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫יֵ ׁש דְּ ָב ִרים ׁ ֶש ֵאינָם ִמ ְס ַּתדְּ ִרים ְ ּב ֶקצֶ ב‬ ‫וְ קוֹ ֵפי ַה ּקוֹ ל ְמ ַק ּ ְפצִ ים ְ ּבכָ ל ָמקוֹ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ַא‪ַ ‬מה ּנַﬠֲ שֶׂ ה לְ ל ֹא ׁ ִש ִירים?‬ ‫ֲהנ ְִתלֶ ה ִּכנּוֹ רוֹ ֵתינ ּו‬ ‫וְ נ ְִב ֶּכה? ו ַּמה ּנַﬠֲ שֶׂ ה ִעם ַה ּנ ׁ ְָש ָמה‬ ‫ַמה ּנַﬠֲ שֶׂ ה ִעם ְרﬠַ ב ַה ּנ ׁ ְָש ָמה‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ִא ׁיש ֵאינוֹ יוֹ ֵדﬠַ ִמי ִהיא ו ַּמה ִהיא וְ ֵאיפֹה ִהיא‬ ‫ַמה ּנַﬠֲ שֶׂ ה ִעם ָה ָרﬠָ ב לַ ִּמ ִּלים ַה ּנְכוֹ נוֹ ת‪ ,‬לַ ּׁ ֶש ֶקט ׁ ֶש ֵ ּבין ַה ִּמ ִּלים‬ ‫לַ ִּמ ִּלים ׁ ֶש ֵהן ׁ ֶש ֶקט?‬ ‫ַמה ּנַﬠֲ שֶׂ ה ִעם ָה ָרﬠָ ב ַה ֶ ּזה ׁ ֶש ֵאין לְ ַהשְׂ ִ ּביעוֹ ?‬

‫‪262‬‬

ONE CANNOT One cannot recite poetry over and over again. The great poet Else Lasker-Schüler said of the State of Israel that “it’s like cake, but one cannot live on cake.” Too many things don’t rhyme any more. And the spirit abhors the abundance of “like”s and the somber music that steals the ear after every horror. There are things that won’t fit into any rhythm and aping voices jump around everywhere. But what would we do without poems? Shall we hang up our lyres and weep? What would we do with the soul, with the soul’s hunger which no one knows who or what it is and where, what would we do with the hunger for the right words, for the silence between words, for the words that are silence? What would we do with this hunger that will not be sated?

263

‫מונולוג של השירה‬ ‫ֲאנִי ִמ ְת ַח ְ ּב ָאה ִמ ּ ְפנֵי ﬠַ צְ ִמי וְ לוֹ ֶב ׁ ֶשת ּ ְפרוֹ זָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫שְׂ ֵמ ָחה ְ ּב ֶחלְ ִקי לִ ְהיוֹ ת לְ ל ֹא ּתוֹ ﬠֶ לֶ ת‬ ‫ֲאנִי ְמ ַט ֶ ּילֶ ת ִאינְקוֹ גְ נִיטוֹ ‪ ,‬נ ְִט ַמﬠַ ת ֶ ּב ָהמוֹ ן‬ ‫ַההוֹ ֶמה וְ רוֹ ֵח ׁש ִעם צְ ִריחוֹ ת ּ ִפ ְרסוֹ מוֹ ת‬ ‫וְ ִה ׁ ְש ַּת ּ ְפכוּת ְטרו ָ ּּבדו ִּרים‪.‬‬ ‫נ ִָעים ַה ּקוֹ ל ַה ָּמתוּן‪ַ ,‬ה ָ ּג ִמ ׁיש‪ֶ ׁ ,‬של ׁשוּרוֹ ת ֲא ֻרכּ וֹ ת‬ ‫ַא ֲח ֵרי ִה ְתנ ּ ְַפלוּת ֶא ָחד ַ ּגס־רו ַּח וְ ֵריק ׁ ֶש ָ ּק ַרﬠ ֶאת‬ ‫ארי וְ כָ ל ַה ֲחרוּזִ ים ִה ְת ַ ּגלְ ְ ּגל ּו ַ ּב ּ ִטיט ו ָּב ֶר ֶפ ׁש‪.‬‬ ‫ָהﬠֲ נָק ִמ ַ ּצ ָ ּו ִ‬ ‫ָא ַמר ִמי ׁ ֶש ָא ַמר‪ :‬לִ ַ ּבת ַה ּׁ ִשיר ִהיא ּ ְפרוֹ זָ ה‪ .‬וְ ֵאין ֱאמ ּונָה ְ ּבלִ י ָס ֵפק‪.‬‬ ‫)כל ְּכבוֹ ִדי ּ ְפנ ָ‬ ‫ﬠֲ לו ָּמה ַ ּב ִּל ָ ּבה ָּ‬ ‫ִימה( ֲא ַח ֶ ּיה ֶאת ַה ַחי‬ ‫ִּכי ׁ ֶש ַבﬠ ּ ָפרוֹ ת ָרזוֹ ת ַה ִּמ ִּלים ִ ּבלְ ﬠָ ַדי‪.‬‬

‫‪264‬‬

POETRY’S SOLILOQUY I hide from myself in the clothes of prose. Happy to be useless me I wander incognito, getting lost in the crowd of teeming and screaming ads and troubadorean effusions. How pleasant is the moderate and flexible voice of long lines after the attack of the rude and vapid one who ripped the necklace from my neck and all my pearled rhymes rolled into the dirt and grime. Someone once said: The heart of poetry is prose. And there’s no such thing as faith without doubt. Hidden at the core (all my glory inward), I live my life, for words would ever be the seven thin cows without me.

265

‫אל הירח‬ ‫יָ ֵר ַח‪ִ ,‬א ׁיש זָ ֵקן‪ָ ,‬מה‪ָ ׁ ,‬שכְ ח ּו ׁ ִש ְמ‪?‬‬ ‫ָא ַבד ﬠָ לָ יו ֶּכלַ ח? ַס ַהר‪ַ ,‬רק ַס ַהר?‬ ‫ָּכל ָהרֹ‪ָ ‬הלַ ‪.‬‬ ‫אוֹ ְמ ִרים‪ַ ,‬א ָּתה ָרזֶ ה‬ ‫ָרזֶ ה‬ ‫ִמ ּיוֹ ם‬ ‫לְ יוֹ ם‬ ‫ּפוֹ ֵחת‬ ‫ל ֹא יִ ּׁ ָש ֵאר ִמ ְּמ‪ּ ַ ‬גם ּ ְפ ִסיק‬ ‫יִ ַ ּקח אוֹ ְת‪ָ ‬הא ֶֹפל‪.‬‬ ‫ַּת ְר ֶאה לָ ֶהם ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו‬ ‫ַּת ְר ֶאה ׁ ֶשהוּא צָ ַדק‪ ,‬זֶ ה ׁ ֶש ָא ַמר‬ ‫ַ ּגם לְ ַמ ְר ֶאה נוֹ ׁ ָשן יֵ ׁש ֶרגַ ﬠ ׁ ֶשל ֻה ֶּל ֶדת‪.‬‬ ‫ֲהל ֹא ָמצְ א ּו לְ ֶפ ַתﬠ ְ ּבגו ְּפ‪ַ ‬ה ְמיֻ ָ ּב ׁש‬ ‫ָמקוֹ ר ׁ ֶשל ַמיִ ם! עוֹ ד ֶּת ֱחזֶ ה‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ִּת ְת ַּכ ֶּסה ְ ּביֶ ֶרק ְּכמוֹ‬ ‫ַהכּ וֹ כָ ב ׁ ֶש ָּלנ ּו ַא ֲח ֵרי ַה ּיוֹ ֶרה‪.‬‬ ‫ֶה ֶבל יָ רֹק ְּת ִח ָּלה‪ִּ ,‬כ ְמﬠַ ט ֲחלוֹ ִמי‬ ‫וְ ַא ַחר ָּכ‪ֲ ‬א ִפלּ ּו‬ ‫ְמ ׁ ֻש ָ ּבץ ּ ְפ ָר ִחים‪.‬‬ ‫הוֹ יָ ֵר ַח‪ּ ְ ,‬גוִ ָ ּיה ִמ ְת ַ ּגלְ ֶ ּגלֶ ת‬

‫‪266‬‬

TO THE MOON Moon, Old Man, what, have they forgotten your name? Are you obsolete? A crescent, just a crescent? All softness gone. They say you’re skinny skinnier from day to day diminishing there’ll be nothing left of you not even a comma, darkness carrying you away. Show them now show them he was right, he who said even the antiquated has a moment of rebirth. After all, they suddenly found on your dried-up body a water source! You’ll see soon you’ll be covered in green like our planet after the first rain. First a patch of green, almost dream-like and then even flower fields. Oh Moon, you spinning corpse

267

‫לא בכל יום‬ ‫ל ֹא ְ ּבכָ ל יוֹ ם ַא ָּתה ִא ִּתי ְ ּבנוֹ כְ חוּת ﬠֵ ָרה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי ﬠָ סוּק ְ ּבכָ ל ִמינֵי דְּ ָב ִרים‪ְ ,‬ט ֵפלִ ים וְ ל ֹא ְט ֵפלִ ים‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ְר ֵ ּבה ׁ ָשנִים ָחלְ פ ּו ֵמ ָאז ְר ִא ִיתי‪– ‬‬ ‫ﬠֶ שְׂ ִרים וְ ׁ ֶש ַבע‪ּ ְ ,‬ב ָקרוֹ ב ﬠֶ שְׂ ִרים ו ׁ ְּשמוֹ נֶה‬ ‫לְ ַמ ְעלָ ה ִמ ּׁ ְשנוֹ ת דּ וֹ ר‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ְ ּבכָ ל יוֹ ם‪ַ ,‬א‪ ‬דַּ י ׁ ֶש ַּמ ּׁ ֶשהוּ‪ֵ ,‬איזוֹ זו ָּטה‪ֵ ,‬איזֶ ה ל ֹא־כְ לוּם‬ ‫יַ זְ ִּכיר אוֹ ְת‪ ,‬וְ ל ּו ֵמ ָרחוֹ ק‪ ,‬וְ ׁשוּב ַא ָּתה ִא ִּתי‬ ‫יֵ ׁש וְ כָ ל ָּכ‪ִ ‬א ִּתי ﬠַ ד‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ְ ּבכִ י ְמזַ ﬠֲ זֵ ﬠַ ֶאת ָּכל ּגו ִּפי‪ָּ .‬ת ִמיד ׁ ָש ַמ ְר ִּתי זֹאת ֵ ּבינִי לְ ֵבינִי‪.‬‬ ‫זֹאת זִ ְקנ ִָתי ׁ ֶש ָּכ‪ ‬כּ וֹ ֶת ֶבת‪.‬‬ ‫ִח ַ ּב ְק ִּתי אוֹ ְת‪ָ ׁ ‬שם ְּכ ׁ ֶש ּנ ְִפ ַר ְדנ ּו ִ ּבנ ְַמל ַה ְּתעו ָּפה ׁ ֶשל ח ֶֹרף‬ ‫ּ ְפ ֵר ָדה ׁ ֶש ִ ּב ְבשָׂ ִרי ְּכ ִמכְ וַ ת ֵא ׁש‪ָ ׁ .‬ש ַאלְ ָּת ”לָ ָּמה?״‬ ‫ִּכי ַמ ּׁ ֶשה ּו נָכְ ִרי ִהגְ נִיב ﬠַ צְ מוֹ ֵ ּבינֵינ ּו ַא ֲח ֵרי ַה ִּמלְ ָח ָמה ָה ֲארו ָּרה‪.‬‬ ‫ָ ּב ָ‬ ‫את ׁשוֹ נֶה ֵאלֵ ינ ּו ִמ ּׁ ֶש ָהיִ ָית ק ֶֹדם‪ ,‬וַ ֲאנִי ָמתו ַּח וְ לָ חוּץ‬ ‫וְ ל ֹא יָ כוֹ ל לְ ִה ְת ַר ֵּכז ו ַּמצְ ּפ ּונִי ֵמצִ יק ׁ ֶש ּׁ ְשנַת ַה ּׁ ַש ָ ּבתוֹ ן‬ ‫ָהלְ כָ ה לָ ִריק‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ ד ָמה ֲאנִי ֵמצֵ ר‪ ,‬נ ִָחם‪ ,‬ﬠַ ד ָמה ֲאנִי נ ִָחם ׁ ֶשלּ ֹא ֵה ַבנ ְִּתי‬ ‫ֶמה ﬠָ ַבר ﬠָ לֶ י‪ּ ִ ‬בלְ ﬠָ ֵדינוּ‪ ,‬וְ נ ַָהגְ ִּתי ְ ּב ֻח ְמ ָרה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי זָ ֵקן‪ ,‬זָ ֵקן ְמאֹד‪ֵ ,‬אינִי קוֹ ֵבל‪ֲ ,‬א ָבל ַא ָּתה ָח ֵסר‬ ‫ַא ָּתה ָח ֵסר לִ י‪ָ ,‬ח ֵסר ָח ֵסר ָח ֵסר לִ י‪ּ ִ ,‬בנְיָ ִמין ׁ ֶש ִּלי‬ ‫ְ ּבנִי ַה ָ ּצ ִעיר מוֹ ָרן‪.‬‬ ‫ֶח ְמלָ ה ﬠַ צְ ִמית ְ ּבזוּיָ ה‪ַ .‬א ֲה ָב ְת‪ ‬אוֹ כֶ לֶ ת אוֹ ִתי ַחי‪.‬‬

‫‪268‬‬

NOT EVERY DAY Not every day are you with me with full presence. I’m busy with all kinds of things, insignificant and not. Many years have passed since last I saw you – twenty-seven, soon twenty-eight more than forever. Not every day, but it’s enough for something, some nothing to recall you, even from a distance, and then again you are here, so much with me until weeping shakes my whole body. I’ve always kept this to myself. It is my old age writing this now. I embraced you there when we parted at the winter airport, a leave-taking seared into my flesh. You asked “why?” for something foreign had wormed its way between us after that cursed war. You returned to us different from what you had been before, but I was tense, unable to concentrate, troubled by the sabbatical that had come to nothing. How sorry I am, how deeply repentant, for not understanding what you went through without us, for responding severely. I am old now, very old, I’m not complaining, but I miss you I miss you, I miss and I miss you, my Benjamin, my youngest son Moran. Self pity is contemptible. But your love is eating me alive.

269

‫יד‬ ‫ּ ָפאוּל ׁ ְש ַטיְ נֶר‪ּ ַ ,‬ב ּׁשוֹ ֵמר ַה ָ ּצ ִעיר‪ִ ׁ ,‬ש ְמ ׁשוֹ ן‪ ,‬ל ֹא לִ זְ ַמן ַרב‪ָ ,‬היָ ה ְ ּבלוֹ נ ְִדינִי‬ ‫”א ִרי״ ֻמ ְב ָהק‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּבﬠַ ל ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ְּכ ֻחלּ וֹ ת‪ָ ,‬היָ ה לוֹ ֵס ֶבר ָ‬ ‫הוּא ָהיָ ה שׂ וֹ ֵרד‪ָ ,‬היָ ה בּ וֹ ַמ ּׁ ֶשה ּו ָ ּב ִהיר‪ַ ,‬מ ּׁ ֶשה ּו ֵמ ִאיר‬ ‫ַ ּבﬠַ ל לֵ ב זָ ָהב‪ ,‬אוּלַ י לִ בּ וֹ ׁ ֶש ִה ִ ּג ַּיה ַהחוּצָ ה‪ָ .‬היָ ה ִמ ְת ַח ֵּמק‪ֲ ,‬א ָבל ִא ּמוֹ‬ ‫ָהיְ ָתה ַאלְ ָמנָה‪ ,‬לְ בו ׁ ָּשה ׁ ְשחוֹ ִרים ָּת ִמיד‪ִ ,‬א ּׁ ָשה ֲאצִ ילָ ה‪ּ ְ ,‬ג ֶב ֶרת ׁ ְש ַטיְ נֶר‬ ‫ַ ּגם ׁ ִש ְמ ׁשוֹ ן ָהיָ ה ָאצִ יל‪ ,‬הוּא ל ֹא ָרצָ ה לְ ﬠָ זְ ָב ּה‪.‬‬ ‫אתי לָ ָא ֶרץ ַה ּזֹאת‬ ‫ַ ּגם אוֹ ִתי ל ֹא ﬠָ זַ ב ﬠַ ד ׁ ֶשﬠָ זַ ְב ִּתי ֲאנִי אוֹ תוֹ ו ָּב ִ‬ ‫ָ ּב ּה זָ ַקנ ְִּתי ו ָּב ּה ֲאנִי רוֹ ׁ ֵשם ֶאת ַהדְּ ָב ִרים ָה ֵא ֶּלה‪.‬‬ ‫הוּא ּ ָפ ַרשׂ ָחסוּתוֹ ﬠָ לַ י‪ִ ׁ ,‬ש ְמ ׁשוֹ ן יְ ִד ִידי‪.‬‬ ‫ָהיָ ה ﬠַ ִּליז וְ יָ ַדﬠ דְּ ָב ִרים ׁ ֶש ֲאנִי ל ֹא יָ ַד ְע ִּתי‪ ,‬נָבוֹ ן ִמ ֶּמ ּנִי‪ ,‬ל ֹא ָהיָ ה חוֹ לְ ָמנִי‪.‬‬ ‫מ ַאיִ ן‬‫ְ ּב ַא ַחד ַה ָ ּי ִמים‪ְּ ,‬כ ָבר ָהיִ ינ ּו ְמנֻדִּ ים‪ֵ ,‬ה ִביא‪ַ ,‬ה ּׁ ֵשד‪-‬יוֹ ֵדﬠַ ֵ‬ ‫ֶא ְקדּ וֹ ַח יָ ׁ ָשן וְ ַת ְחמ ֶֹשת וְ יָ ִרינ ּו ְ ּב ָמקוֹ ם ֵריק ֵמ ָא ָדם‪,‬‬ ‫וְ ָח ַרכְ ִּתי ֶאת יָ ִדי‪.‬‬ ‫ֶח ׁ ְשבּ וֹ ן ׁ ֶש ָּל ַמ ְדנ ּו ׁ ְשנֵינ ּו ֵאצֶ ל מוֹ ֶרה ּ ְפ ָר ִטי‬ ‫ִיס ֵתנ ּו –‬ ‫– לְ ָב ֵּתי ַה ֵּס ֶפר ְּכ ָבר נ ֶֶא ְס ָרה ְּכנ ָ‬ ‫ָּת ַפשׂ הוּא ְ ּב ַקלּ וּת‪ֲ ,‬אנִי ְ ּבק ִֹשי‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּבﬠֲ רֹב יָ ַמי ל ּו ַא‪ ‬יָ כֹלְ ִּתי לְ ַהﬠֲ ִמיד יָ ד לָ ָא ָדם ַה ָ ּב ִהיר ַה ֶ ּזה ׁ ֶש ּנָמוֹ ג ֶ ּבﬠָ ׁ ָשן‬ ‫וְ ֵאין לְ ֵאל יָ ִדי ֶא ָּלא ַמ ֵ ּצ ָבה ַק ָּלה‪ ,‬וְ ִהיא כּ ֹל ַמה ּׁ ֶש ִּלי‪ ,‬יָ ד ׁ ֶשל ְּכ ָתב‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי רוֹ ֶאה אוֹ ְת‪ֵ ,‬רﬠַ נְעו ַּרי‪ֲ ,‬אנִי ׁשוֹ ֵמﬠַ ֶאת צְ חוֹ ְק‪.‬‬

‫‪270‬‬

MEMORIAL Paul Steiner, from the Youth Movement, known as Shimshon for awhile, was blond, blue-eyed, had classic “Aryan” features. He would have survived, he had that fair look, seemed always illuminated as if his golden heart shone outward. He could have got away, but his mother was a widow, always dressed in mourning black, a noble woman, Mrs. Steiner, Shimshon was noble too, and he wouldn’t leave her. He didn’t leave me either, until I left him and came to this country where I’ve grown old and write down these things now. He watched over me, my friend Shimshon. He was joyful and knew things I didn’t know, he was wiser than me, wasn’t a dreamer. Once, when we were all already outcasts, he brought, who knows from where, an old pistol and ammunition and we fired a few rounds in an abandoned place and I burnt my hand. As for the mathematics we learned together with a private tutor – the schools had already banned us – he learned with ease while I struggled. Now in my darkening days if only I could erect a memorial to that fair-haired boy who faded away in the smoke but my hands can offer only this small monument, an inked epitaph. I see you, beloved friend of my youth, I hear your laughter still.

271

‫גלויה משם‪ :‬כמעט שיחה‬ ‫ֵהם ְ ּבנֵי ָא ָדם‪.‬‬ ‫– ֱא ֶמת‪.‬‬ ‫ַמ ְר ֵאה ָהﬠֵ צִ ים ׁשוֹ נֶה ִמ ּׁ ֶש ָהיָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫– צֶ ַבﬠ ַה ּׁ ָש ַמיִ ם ׁשוֹ נֶה‪.‬‬ ‫”בנֵי ָא ָדם״ – צְ לִ יל מוּזָ ר‪.‬‬ ‫ְּ‬ ‫– ֵר ַיח מוּזָ ר‪.‬‬ ‫זֶ ה ּו זֶ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ִמי ְמ ַד ֵ ּבר ﬠַ ל צֶ ֶדק‪.‬‬ ‫– וְ ַה ְ ּזﬠָ קוֹ ת?‬ ‫ַה ִאם ָמוֶ ת – ָמוֶ ת?‬ ‫וְ ַהיְ לָ ִדים?‬ ‫ָמה ﬠַ ל ַהיְ לָ ִדים?‬ ‫– י ִֹפי ִ ּבלְ ִּתי נ ְִת ּ ָפס לֶ ָה ִרים‪ָ ׁ ,‬שם‪ֵ ,‬מﬠֵ ֶבר‪.‬‬

‫‪272‬‬

A POSTCARD FROM THERE: ALMOST A CONVERSATION They’re human beings. – True. The look of the trees is different from what it was. – The color of the sky is different. “Human beings” – sounds strange. – There’s a strange smell. That’s it. Who’s talking about justice. – And the screams? Is death – death? And the children? What of the children? – An unimaginable beauty to the hills, there, beyond.

273

‫תצלום שחור־לבן‪ ,‬קיץ ‪1939‬‬ ‫ִה ּנֵה ֵהם ֻּכ ָּלם‪ַ ,‬ח ְב ֵרי ְּתנוּﬠַ ת ַה ּנֹﬠַ ר ִ ּב ְסלוֹ ַב ְקיָ ה‬ ‫ַה ִּמ ְס ַּת ְּכלִ ים ׁ ִש ְב ִעים ׁ ָשנָה ַהיְ ׁ ֵשר ֶאל ּתוֹ ‪ ‬ﬠֵ ינַי‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא‪ ,‬ל ֹא ֻּכ ָּלם‪ ,‬יֵ ׁש צוֹ ֲח ִקים זֶ ה ֶאל זֶ ה‪ֶ ,‬א ָחד‬ ‫עוֹ ֵסק ְ ּב ֶדגֶ ל ְק ַטנ ְַטן‪ ,‬ו ַּבחו ָּרה ַא ַחת ְמ ִס ָ ּבה‬ ‫ֹאש ּה‪ַ .‬ה ַ ּיﬠַ ר ׁ ֶש ָ ּב ֶר ַקﬠ ֶה ֱא ִפיר ֻּכלּ וֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫ֶאת ר ׁ ָ‬ ‫ֶאת ַה ּׁ ֵשמוֹ ת ֲאנִי זוֹ כֵ ר ַרק ְ ּב ֶחלְ ָקם‪.‬‬ ‫לְ ַמ ְעלָ ה ַא ְמנוֹ ן‪ִ ׁ ,‬ש ְמ ׁשוֹ ן‪ַ ,‬א ַחר ָּכ‪ֵ ‬אלִ י‪ּ ָ ,‬ב ִהיר ְמאֹד‪,‬‬ ‫ֹאשוֹ‬ ‫וִ יהוֹ ׁ ֻשﬠַ ‪ ,‬חוֹ לְ ָמנִי ְמﬠַ ט‪ּ ֵ ,‬ג ְר ׁשוֹ ן‪ִ ,‬מ ְט ּ ַפ ַחת ﬠַ ל ר ׁ‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ְס ָפ ַרדִּ י אוֹ ִאינ ְִדיָ אנִי‪ָ ,‬מצוֹ ָהרוֹ צֶ ה לְ ִה ְס ַּת ֵּתר‬ ‫דו ְ ּּבקוֹ – ִח ּיוּ‪ ‬ו ִּמ ׁ ְש ָק ַפיִ ם‪.‬‬ ‫לְ ַמ ּ ָטה‪ּ ַ ,‬ב ּׁשו ָּרה ָה ִר ׁ‬ ‫אשוֹ נָה ַא ָ ּיה וְ שִׂ ְמ ָחה‪.‬‬ ‫ְמﬠַ ט ֵמﬠֲ לֵ ֶיהן ָ ּב ֶא ְמצַ ﬠ ִמיכָ ֵאל וְ גַ ְב ִר ֵיאל‪ַ ,‬ח ִ ּיים‬ ‫ֶחצְ יוֹ נוֹ ﬠָ ז וְ ֶחצְ יוֹ ָרהוּי‪ ,‬וְ גַ ם ֲאנִי לְ ל ֹא ֻחלְ צָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ַאף ל ֹא ֶא ָחד ל ֹא ִה ְס ַּת ֵּלק ִמ ָּכאן‪ַ .‬אף ל ֹא ֶא ָחד‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנ ְַחנ ּו ְ ּב ִט ּיוּל‪ּ ְ ,‬ב ֶפ ֶסק־זְ ַמן‪ ,‬שְׂ ֵמ ִחים‪.‬‬ ‫ָּכל ֶהﬠָ ִתיד לְ ָפנֵינוּ‪.‬‬

‫‪274‬‬

BLACK & WHITE PHOTOGRAPH, SUMMER 1939 Here they are, all of them, the Youth Movement members in Slovakia, seventy years staring into my eyes. No, not all of them – there are a few laughing to each other, one boy is busy with a little flag, and one of the girls is turning her head away. The forest in the background has turned entirely grey. I remember only some of their names. In the top row there’s Amnon, Shimshon, then fair-haired Eli, and Yehoshua, a bit of a dreamer, Gershon with a bandana on his head like a Spaniard or Indian, there’s Matso who wants to hide and Dubko with his glasses and smile. In the bottom row, Aya and Simcha, a bit above them in the middle, Michael and Gavriel, Haim half-bold, half-hesitant, and I’m there too, shirtless. Not one got away. Not even a single one. We are on a school trip, on a break, happy. The entire future is before us.

275

‫חשבתי שלא אכתוב עוד גם לא שורה אחת על המוות‬ ‫והוא היה חזק ממני‬ ‫ַה ּׁ ָשﬠָ ה ָהיְ ָתה ׁ ֵש ׁש לִ ְפנוֹ ת ﬠֶ ֶרב‪.‬‬ ‫ָה ֲאוִ יר ָהיָ ה ָה ִביל‪ָ .‬היָ ה יוֹ ם לוֹ ֵהט‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ָ ּב ִּתים לְ ַמ ּ ָטה ְּכמוֹ ְמצֹﬠֲ ֵפי ﬠֲ ָר ֶפל‪.‬‬ ‫ְּכﬠָ נָן זַ ְרזִ ִירים ִּכ ּס ּו ֶאת מוֹ ְרדוֹ ת ִ ּג ְבﬠַ ת ַה ּמוֹ ֶרה‬ ‫ישים‪.‬‬ ‫ַאלְ ֵפי צְ ִע ִירים‪ּ ַ ,‬גם ְ ּבנֵי ֲח ִמ ּׁ ִשים ו ַּמ ְעלָ ה‪ּ ַ ,‬גם יְ ׁ ִש ׁ ִ‬ ‫ֲח ִמ ּׁ ָשה־ﬠָ שָׂ ר אוֹ טוֹ בּ ו ִּסים ﬠָ ְמד ּו ְ ּב ׁשו ָּרה זֶ ה לְ יַ ד זֶ ה‬ ‫ו ֵּמאוֹ ת ְמכוֹ ִנ ּיוֹ ת ְ ּב ׁ ֵש ׁש לִ ְפנוֹ ת ﬠֶ ֶרב‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ָר ִא ִיתי ְמאוּם לְ ַבד ִמ ְ ּצ ִפיפוּת ׁ ֶשל ּגו ִּפים‪.‬‬ ‫ְקבוּצוֹ ת ְקבוּצוֹ ת ﬠָ ְמד ּו ֻּכ ְמ ּתוֹ ת ֲא ֻד ּמוֹ ת‪ֲ ,‬חבו ִּקים‪.‬‬ ‫ָהי ּו ׁ ֶש ַ ּג ָ ּבם ִה ְת ַּכ ֵ ּוץ‪ִ ,‬ה ְר ּ ָפה‪ִ ,‬ה ְת ַּכ ֵ ּוץ‪ִ ,‬ה ְר ּ ָפה‪,‬‬ ‫ָהי ּו ׁ ֶש ֶר ֶטט ָרץ ָ ּבם‪.‬‬ ‫קוֹ ל ﬠָ מֹק ִסלְ ֵסל ִנ ּג ּונִים נוּגִ ים‪.‬‬ ‫־כ ּ ָפה ִהנ ְִמי‪ֶ ‬את קוֹ לוֹ וְ ָא ַמר לְ ִא ׁ ְש ּתוֹ ‪:‬‬ ‫ִא ׁיש חוֹ ֵב ׁש ִּ‬ ‫”ב ַח ִ ּיים ׁשוּם דָּ ָבר ֵאינוֹ ׁ ָשלֵ ם ֶ ּב ֱא ֶמת‪ׁ ,‬שוּם דָּ ָבר‪.‬״‬ ‫ַּ‬ ‫נ ׁ ְִש ְמע ּו ִמ ִּלים לָ רֹב‪ ,‬לִ ְפﬠָ ִמים נ ְִק ְטעוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ָהיָ ה יוֹ ם לוֹ ֵהט‪ֲ ,‬א ָבל ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו נ ׁ ְָש ָבה רו ַּח ְמ ׁ ִש ַיבת נ ֶֶפ ׁש‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִּמ ִּלים ﬠָ ל ּו וְ צָ נְח ּו לַ ַ ּק ְר ַקﬠ ְּכמוֹ ְקלִ ּפוֹ ת ֵריקוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ֹא־מתו ִּקים‪ִ ,‬ה ְת ַנ ְ ּג ׁש ּו‬ ‫ִרגְ ֵבי ֲא ָד ָמה נ ְֻק ׁ ִשים‪ ,‬ל ְ‬ ‫ִעם ִקיר ָהﬠֵ ץ‪ּ ְ .‬בבַ ת ַא ַחת נ ְָס ָקה יְ ָב ָבה‬ ‫וְ ִה ְת ַ ּגלְ ְ ּגלָ ה ְ ּב ִמין קוֹ ל ְמ ׁ ֻש ּנֶה ׁ ֶשל ַח ָ ּיה‪.‬‬ ‫ישה ּו ִ ּב ֵ ּק ׁש ְמ ִחילָ ה ֵמ ַה ֵּמת‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ַחר ָּכ‪ ‬דְּ ָמ ָמה‪ִ .‬מ ׁ ֶ‬ ‫ַה ֲח ׁ ֵשכָ ה יָ ְר ָדה וְ עוֹ ד ﬠָ ְמד ּו ׁ ָשם‪ ,‬ל ֹא יָ ְדע ּו לְ ִה ּנ ֵָתק ֵמ ַה ָּמקוֹ ם‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ַה ְ ּברוֹ ׁ ִשים ַהנּוֹ ָת ִרים ַא ֲח ֵרי ַה ִּמ ָיתה ָה ִא ּ ִטית ׁ ֶש ּ ָפ ׁ ְש ָטה ָ ּבם‪.‬‬

‫‪276‬‬

I THOUGHT I WOULDN’T WRITE EVEN ONE MORE LINE ON DEATH BUT IT WAS STRONGER THAN ME It was six o’clock, early evening. The air was heavy. It had been a scorching day. The houses below were shrouded in haze. Like a cloud of starlings they covered the slopes thousands of youngsters, middle-aged, the old too. Fifteen buses stood in a row one next to the other and hundreds of cars, it was six in the early evening. I could see nothing but the crowdedness of bodies. The red-bereted soldiers stood in small groups, wrapped in each others’ arms. There were those whose backs tensed up, relaxed, tensed again, relaxed, and those through whom deep tremors passed. A low voice trilled somber songs. A religious man said softly to his wife: “Nothing is really whole in life, nothing.” Innumerable words were spoken, some cut-off in the middle. It was a scorching day, but then a cooling wind blew. The words lifted and fell back to the ground like empty peelings. Hard clods of earth, not sweet, hit the plank of wood. All at once a keening rose and whirled around in a strange animal-like voice. Then, silence. Someone asked forgiveness of the dead. Darkness fell, and still they stood there, not knowing how to leave, like the cypress trees still standing even after a slow death has begun to spread through them.

277

‫עברית‪ ,‬אהובתי‬ ‫ַח ִ ּיים ׁ ְשלֵ ִמים ְ ּביַ ַחד‬ ‫ֲח ִמ ּׁ ִשים ׁ ָשנִים? ׁ ִש ּׁ ִשים? ַּכ ָּמה?‬ ‫ֵמעוֹ לָ ם ל ֹא ָהיִ ינ ּו ְּכאוֹ ָת ּה ּ ְפ ַקﬠַ ת‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ַרק ִא ְב ַחת ַה ֶח ֶרב ַמ ִּת ָירה‪.‬‬ ‫ִיתי לָ ‪ ‬ע ֶֹרף‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ָפנ ִ‬ ‫ּ ָפנִית לִ י ע ֶֹרף‬ ‫ו ְּד ֵב ִקים זֶ ה ְ ּבזוֹ ַּכ ַּמגְ נֶט וְ ַה ּק ֶֹטב‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ַה ָ ּי ֵר ַח וְ ַה ֵ ּגאוּת‪.‬‬ ‫נ ִָט ִיתי לִ נ ְִט ּיוֹ ַתיִ ‪ִ ,‬ק ַ ּבלְ ִּתי ֶאת דִּ ין ְ ּגזֵ רוֹ ַתיִ ‪‬‬ ‫ׁ ָש ַאלְ ִּתי לְ ׁ ָש ָר ׁ ַשיִ ‪‬‬ ‫ִ ּג ְמ ַ ּג ְמ ִּתי‪ ,‬דָּ ַמ ְמ ִּתי‪ּ ִ ,‬ב ַ ּק ׁ ְש ִּתי‪ ,‬לָ ַח ׁ ְש ִּתי‬ ‫וְ ַא ְּת ְמכֻ ּנ ֶֶסת ְ ּבﬠַ צְ ֵמ‪ ‬וְ ל ֹא ָר ִאית‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ ד ׁ ֶש ְּל ֶפ ַתﬠ נ ְִפ ַּת ְח ְּת ְּכשָׂ ֶדה ָ ּברו ַּח‬ ‫ﬠַ ד ׁ ֶש ָ ּב ַקﬠ קוֹ לֵ ‪ִ ‬מ ְ ּגרוֹ נִי‪.‬‬

‫‪278‬‬

HEBREW, MY LOVE It’s been a lifetime together. Fifty years? Sixty? How many? We were never like that coiled knot only the slash of the sword could undo. I turned my back on you. You turned your back on me though still we pulled toward each other like magnets to the pole like the moon and the tides. I conjugated at your will, I accepted your grammared sentences I queried your roots, I stuttered, became silent, I begged and whispered, and you, turning inward, saw nothing. Until suddenly, you opened up wide like a field in the wind and your voice burst forth from my throat.

279

‫נוכח אישה בוכייה של פיקאסו‬ ‫ֵא ׁ ֶשת יִ ּסו ִּרים ְ ּבכוֹ ַבﬠ ָאדֹם‬ ‫ׁ ְשבו ָּרה ִּכ ְר ִאי‬ ‫ַה ְּכ ֵאב צִ ֵ ּיר ֶאת ּ ָפנַיִ ‪ּ ְ ‬ביָ רֹק ו ְּבצָ הֹב‬ ‫ִמ ּ ִפי‪ֶ ׁ ‬ש ָ ּי ַרד ְּתהוֹ מוֹ ת – ֳא ִנ ָ ּיה ְטרו ָּפה –‬ ‫נֶﬠֱ ֶת ֶקת צְ ﬠָ ָקה ִא ֶּל ֶמת ְּכל ֶֹבן‬ ‫נֶגֶ ד ַה ּׁ ֶש ֶקר נֶגֶ ד ַה ֶה ֶרג‬ ‫נֶגֶ ד ָהﬠָ וֶ ל ׁ ֶש ַּל ָּמוֶ ת‬ ‫ו ְּד ָמעוֹ ת ְּכ ֵבדוֹ ת ָּכ ֶא ֶבן‬ ‫ֵאינָן ִמ ְת ַח ּׁ ְשבוֹ ת ְ ּביָ ַדיִ ‪‬‬ ‫נוֹ ְפלוֹ ת ﬠַ ל ַא ְד ַמת ַּתלְ אוּבוֹ ת ְסחו ָּטה‬ ‫ׁשוֹ ֲאלוֹ ת ֶאת ַה ּׁ ְשחוֹ ר‪.‬‬ ‫ְּכלוּם ל ֹא יָ ַד ְע ְּת ׁ ֶש ַה ּי ִֹפי ְמכַ ֶּסה‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ַה ִּמ ְפלֶ צֶ ת ׁ ֶשבּ וֹ ‪ ,‬וְ ﬠֵ ינַיִ ‪‬‬ ‫כּ וֹ כָ ִבים ְּכבוּיִ ים?‬

‫‪280‬‬

BEFORE PICASSO’S WEEPING WOMAN Tortured woman in a red hat shattered like a mirror pain has painted your face in yellow and green from your mouth sunk to the ocean’s depths – ravaged ship – a scream mute as whiteness rises against the lies against the killing against death’s injustice and tears heavy as stone heedless of your hands fall to the scorched, depleted earth seeking blackness. Did you know nothing of how beauty hides the monster within it, and your eyes are extinguished stars?

281

‫בזקנתי‬ ‫יָ ַמי לְ ַאט נוֹ ׁ ְש ִרים ִמ ֶּמ ּנִי ְּכמוֹ ֵמﬠֵ ץ ַמ ׁ ְשלִ י‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִּמ ִּלים סוֹ גְ רוֹ ת ﬠָ לַ י וְ ֵהן ִא ְּלמוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ִּמ ִּלים ָה ִא ְּלמוֹ ת ִמ ְת ַח ּנְנוֹ ת ְ ּב ֶאלְ ָמן‪:‬‬ ‫ּ ְפ ַתח לָ נ ּו ׁ ַשﬠַ ר ְ ּבﬠֵ ת נ ְִעילַ ת ׁ ַשﬠַ ר‪ֱ ,‬היֵ ה לָ נ ּו לְ ֶפה‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאי‪ֶ ‬א ְהיֶ ה לָ ֶהן לְ ֶפה‬ ‫וְ כָ ל ַח ַ ּיי ָהי ּו ִח ּפוּשׂ ִמ ִּלים ַח ּיוֹ ת‬ ‫וִ ֵימי נְעו ַּרי צָ ִפים וְ עוֹ לִ ים‬ ‫ִיתי ְמאֹד‪ִּ ,‬כי ָה ֵאלֶ ם‬ ‫ִּכי ֲאנִי ﬠָ נ ִ‬ ‫הוּא ֵהד ַה ּקוֹ לוֹ ת ׁ ֶש ֵּמﬠֵ ֶבר‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי יוֹ ׁ ֵשב לִ ְפנֵי ַה ּׁ ַשﬠַ ר‬ ‫ֹאשוֹ ׁ ֶשל ׁשוֹ ֵמר ַה ּׁ ַשﬠַ ר ֻּכלּ וֹ ִה ְק ִר ַיח‬ ‫ר ׁ‬ ‫ַ ּגבּ וֹ ָּכפוּף וְ כוֹ ֵאב‪ ,‬ﬠֵ ינָיו ָּכה ּו‬ ‫ָאזְ נָיו ָּכ ְבד ּו ﬠַ ד ְמאֹד‪.‬‬ ‫הוּא ְמלַ ְמלֵ ם ֶאל ּתוֹ ‪ ‬זְ ַקנ ְַקנּוֹ ַה ְמ ֻד ְבלָ ל‬ ‫”א ׁ ֶֹשר לָ ׁ ִשיר‪ ,‬א ֶֹשר לָ ׁ ִשיר‪.‬״‬

‫‪282‬‬

IN MY OLD AGE My days slowly fall from me as from an autumn tree. The words close in on me and they are mute. The mute words in their muteness beg: Open for us a gate at the hour of the gate’s closing, be for us a mouth. But how will I be for them a mouth when my whole life has been a search for living words and my youthful days surface, rise up, for I was greatly afflicted, and the muteness is the echo of voices from beyond. I sit before the gate. The gatekeeper’s head is bald his back is bent and aching, his eyes are dim his ears barely hear. He is murmuring into his scraggly beard “Poems are happiness, happiness.”

283

‫תמיהה‬ ‫ַא ֲח ֵרי ָּכל ַמה ּׁ ֶש ָהיָ ה‬ ‫ִאם ַא ָּתה עוֹ ד ְמ ֻס ָ ּגל לִ ׁ ְשמֹﬠַ ֶאת ַה ּׁ ַש ְחרוּר‬ ‫ֶאת ָהﬠֶ ְפרוֹ נִי ַה ְמצֻ ָ ּיץ ַה ׁ ְש ֵּכם ַ ּבבּ ֶֹקר וְ ַה ֻ ּבלְ בּ וּל וְ ַה ּצו ִּפית‬ ‫ַאל ִּת ְת ַמ ּה ׁ ֶש ּ ִׂש ְמ ָחה ִהיא לִ ְראוֹ ת ﬠֲ ָננִים נ ּ ִָׂש ִאים ָ ּברו ַּח‬ ‫לִ ׁ ְש ּתֹת ֶאת ָק ֶפה ַהבּ ֶֹקר‪ ,‬לָ ַדﬠַ ת לְ ַב ֵ ּצﬠַ ֶאת ָּכל צָ ְרכֵ י ַה ּגוּף‬ ‫לָ לֶ כֶ ת ַ ּב ּׁ ְש ִבילִ ים ְ ּבלִ י ַמ ֵ ּקל‬ ‫וְ לִ ְראוֹ ת ֶאת ַה ְ ּצ ָב ִעים לוֹ ֲה ִטים ַא ֲח ֵרי ַה ּׁ ְש ִקיﬠָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ֶ ּבן ָא ָדם ְמ ֻס ָ ּגל לָ שֵׂ את ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ַהכּ ֹל‬ ‫וְ ִא ׁיש ֵאינוֹ יָ כוֹ ל לָ ַדﬠַ ת ָמ ַתי וְ ֵהיכָ ן‬ ‫ַּתכְ נִיﬠַ אוֹ תוֹ ַה ּ ִׂש ְמ ָחה‪.‬‬

‫‪284‬‬

WONDER If after everything that has happened you can still hear the blackbird, the tufted lark at dawn, the bulbul and the honey-bird – don’t be surprised that happiness is watching the clouds being wind-carried away, is drinking morning coffee, being able to execute all the body’s needs is walking along the paths without a cane and seeing the burning colors of sunset. A human being can bear almost everything and no one knows when and where happiness will overcome him.

285

X

Last Ones

‫עולם מופלא‬ ‫ֲא ִפלּ ּו ִּת ְמצָ א ֶאלֶ ף ִסבּ וֹ ת לְ ִה ְת ַנ ֵ ּגד — ָהעוֹ לָ ם ֻמ ְפלָ א‪.‬‬ ‫ֹאמר‪ :‬נוֹ לָ ִדים ְּכ ֵדי לָ מוּת — ֵאיזֶ ה זָ דוֹ ן!‬ ‫ּת ַ‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ﬠַ ד ָאז — ָהעוֹ לָ ם ֻמ ְפלָ א‪.‬‬ ‫ֻמ ְפלָ א ַ ּב ֶּמה ׁ ֶשהוּא ְמגַ ֶּלה ו ַּב ֶּמה ׁ ֶשהוּא ַמ ְס ִּתיר‪.‬‬ ‫ֻמ ְפלָ א ְ ּב ָב ְראוֹ יוֹ ם ַא ַחר יוֹ ם ו ֻּמ ְפלָ א ְ ּב ָק ְטלוֹ לַ יְ לָ ה ַא ַחר לַ יְ לָ ה‬ ‫ְ ּב ַה ְפצִ יﬠַ ַה ַח ָּמה ֶאת ָהעוֹ ר ַה ָ ּק ִריר‪ַ ,‬הדַּ ק ׁ ֶשל ַה ּׁ ַש ַחר‬ ‫ו ִּב ׁ ְש ִקיﬠָ ָת ּה ְ ּבכָ ל צִ ְבﬠֵ י ַה ֶ ּק ׁ ֶשת‪.‬‬ ‫ֻמ ְפלָ א ׁ ֶש ַא ָּתה ֵמ ִקיץ ַ ּבבּ ֶֹקר ַחי ו ֻּמ ְפלָ א ׁ ֶש ּגו ְּפ‪‬‬ ‫ִה ִ ּגיﬠַ לְ גִ יל ֻמ ְפלָ ג ָּכזֶ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ֻמ ְפלָ א ׁ ֶש ּׁ ִש ּנֵי ַה ּטוֹ ֵרף ִננְﬠָ צוֹ ת ְ ּב ִד ּיוּק ִ ּב ְבשַׂ ר ַה ּנ ְִט ָרף‬ ‫ו ְּב ָרכָ ה ו ְּקלָ לָ ה חוֹ ְבקוֹ ת זוֹ ֶאת זוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫אשית ֶס ּ ְפ ֶט ְמ ֶ ּבר‪ְּ ,‬כחוֹ ָמה ׁ ֶשל ֲאוִ יר — ל ֹא ֻמ ְפלָ א?‬ ‫וְ ַה ּיוֹ ֶרה‪ְּ ,‬כ ָבר ְ ּב ֵר ׁ ִ‬ ‫)פ ָרה ֻמ ְפלָ ָאה‪ֵ ,‬אין לְ ַהכְ ִח ׁיש(‬ ‫משה ַר ֵ ּבנ ּו ּ ָ‬ ‫וְ ָר ִא ָית ֶאת ּ ָפ ַרת ׁ ֶ‬ ‫ֵאי‪ִ ‬ט ּ ְפ ָסה ﬠַ ד ְקצֵ ה ֶה ָחצָ ב ְּ‬ ‫)כ ִאלּ ּו ִה ְד ִ ּב ָיקה ֶאת ּ ִפ ְס ַ ּגת‬ ‫ֶאל ַק ּ ִפ ָיטן ְ ּביוֹ ֶס ִמ ִיטי אוֹ ֶאת ַה ִ ּקיר ַה ְ ּצפוֹ נִי ׁ ֶשל ָה ַאיְ גֶ ר‬ ‫ָ ּב ַאלְ ּ ִפים ַה ֶ ּב ְרנ ִָאים( וְ ל ֹא ִא ְ ּב ָדה ַ ּגם ל ֹא נ ְֻקדָּ ה ַא ַחת ִמ ַ ּג ָ ּב ּה?‬ ‫ֲהל ֹא ֻמ ְפלָ א הוּא ׁ ֶש ּגו ׁ ֵּשי ֵא ׁש וְ גו ׁ ֵּשי ֶק ַרח ִמ ִּל ְפנֵי ְט ִרילְ יוֹ ן ׁ ָשנִים‬ ‫ְמצִ יצִ ים ﬠָ לֶ י‪ְּ ‬כﬠֵ ינֵי שַׂ ְח ָקנִים דֶּ ֶר‪ ‬חוֹ ר ְ ּב ָמ ַס‪ַ ‬ה ָ ּב ָמה‬ ‫נִצְ נוּצִ ים נִצְ נוּצִ ים?‬ ‫ו ֻּמ ְפלָ א‪ֻ ,‬מ ְפלָ א ׁ ֶש ִּמ ּתוֹ ‪ָ ‬ה ֲא ָד ָמה בּ וֹ ְק ִעים ִ ּג ְבעוֹ לִ ים יְ ֻר ִ ּקים זְ ִע ִירים‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ּסוֹ ָפם ַה ֶּל ֶחם ׁ ֶש ַא ָּתה וַ ֲאנִי אוֹ כְ לִ ים‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ֻחדּ וֹ ׁ ֶשל ַס ִּכין‪.‬‬

‫‪288‬‬

A WONDROUS WORLD Even if you find a thousand reasons to protest – the world is wondrous. Say: We are born to die – what wickedness! But until then – what a wondrous world. Wondrous in what is reveals and in what it conceals. Wondrous in its creation day after day and wondrous in its destruction night after night, in the sun breaking through the chilled, thin skin of dawn and in its setting in all the rainbow colors. Wondrous that you wake up alive in the morning and wondrous that your body has reached this illustrious age. Wondrous that the teeth of the predator fasten precisely on the flesh of his prey and blessing and curse embrace each other. And the first rain, already in early September, like a wall of air – isn’t that wondrous? And you’ve seen how the ladybug (a wondrous lady, there’s no denying) climbed to the top of the hyacinth (as though she ascended the peak of El Capitan in Yosemite or the northern wall of the Eiger in the Bernese Alps) and didn’t lose even a single spot from off her back. Isn’t it wondrous how clumps of fire and ice from a trillion years ago peek at you like the eyes of actors through a hole in the backstage curtain sparkling and sparkling? And wondrous, wondrous that from out of the earth burst slender green stalks that in the end will be bread you and I eat on the edge of a knife.

289

‫לידידי‬ ‫ָא ַמ ְר ָּת‪ֲ ,‬אנִי רוֹ צֶ ה לִ ְחיוֹ ת עוֹ ד ַא ְר ָ ּב ִעים ׁ ָשנָה‪.‬‬ ‫ָא ַמ ְר ִּתי‪ ,‬לָ ָּמה ל ֹא? ֶא ְחיֶ ה ַ ּגם ֲאנִי‪ַ .‬א ָּתה‬ ‫ֶ ּבן ‪ֲ ,79‬אנִי ִמ ְת ָק ֵרב לְ ־‪ .90‬לָ ָּמה לְ ִה ּ ָפ ֵרד?‬ ‫ֲה ֵרינ ּו יְ ִד ִידים‪ ,‬ו ַּמה לּ ֹא עוֹ שֶׂ ה יָ ִדיד לְ יָ ִדיד?‬ ‫ֲא ָבל נ ְִחיֶ ה ְ ּבפִ ּזוּר נ ֶֶפ ׁש‪ ,‬ל ֹא נ ְִת ַמ ֵ ּקד ִ ּבכְ לוּם —‬ ‫ֲהל ֹא ָּכל נ ְֻקדָּ ה ִהיא ָמוֶ ת‪.‬‬ ‫נ ְִת ּ ַפ ֵזּר ֶ ּבﬠָ לִ ים‪ּ ִ ,‬ב ְתנוּﬠָ ה ו ְּברֹגַ ע‪ּ ְ ,‬בכַ נ ְֵפי צִ ּ ֳפ ִרים‬ ‫ַ ּב ּי ֶֹב ׁש ו ַּב ֶ ּג ׁ ֶשם‪ ,‬נ ָׁשוּט ַק ֵּלי דַּ ﬠַ ת ִעם ָהﬠֲ ָננִים‪ּ ְ ,‬ב ִע ָ ּקר‬ ‫ִעם ֵא ֶּלה ַה ְּל ַבנ ַ ְּב ּנִים‪ַ ,‬ה ּׁ ְשקו ִּפים‪.‬‬ ‫ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ׁ ָשכַ ְחנ ּו ֶאת ַמכְ אוֹ ֵבינ ּו וְ זוֹ כְ ִרים ֶאת ׁ ְשעוֹ ת ַה ּ ִׂש ְמ ָחה‪.‬‬ ‫נ ִּׁשֹב ִעם ָהרו ַּח‪ ,‬נָזִ יז חוֹ לִ ּיוֹ ת‪ ,‬נְכַ ֶּסה ָּכלִ יל ֶאת זֵ כֶ ר ַה ְ ּזוָ ﬠָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫נ ְִטבּ ֹל ַ ּב ָ ּים‪ ,‬נ ִֵּתן ֶאת ﬠֵ ינֵינ ּו ְ ּבכָ ל ָה ָראוּי לָ ֵתת בּ וֹ ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם‬ ‫ֹאהב ְּכ ִפי ׁ ֶש ֵּמעוֹ לָ ם ל ֹא ָא ַה ְבנוּ‪ ,‬נֹאכַ ל ֵאצֶ ל רו ֶּטנ ֶ ְּב ְרג‪ִּ ,‬כי‬ ‫נ ַ‬ ‫ׁ ִש ְבחוֹ ְ ּב ִפי כּ ֹל‪ ,‬נ ׁ ְִש ֶּתה יֵ ין סט‪ֶ .‬א ִמילְ יוֹ ן ּ ְפ ֶר ְמיֵ ר ְק ִרי‪1924 ,‬‬ ‫אוֹ לְ ִפי ְ ּב ִח ָיר ְת‪ ,‬נַﬠֲ שֶׂ ה ַח ִ ּיים‪ְּ ,‬כמוֹ ׁ ֶשאוֹ ְמ ִרים‪ְ ,‬מ ׁ ֻש ָ ּג ִעים‬ ‫לָ ָּמה ל ֹא?‬ ‫ֲהל ֹא יֵ ׁש ַ ּגם דְּ ָב ִרים נ ְִפלָ ִאים ָ ּבעוֹ לָ ם ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ָאז לָ ָמה ַא ֵחר?‬

‫‪290‬‬

TO MY FRIEND You said, I want to live another forty years. I said, why not? I’ll live too. You’re 79, I’m nearing 90. Why part? After all we’re friends, and what won’t friends do for each other? But we’ll live absent-mindedly, we won’t focus on a thing – as every point is death. We’ll scatter ourselves among the leaves, in motion and tranquility, in birds’ wings, in dryness and rain, we’ll sail light-headed with the clouds, above all those whitish, transparent ones. We’ve almost forgotten our pains and remembered our hours of joy. We’ll blow with the wind, we’ll move our bones, we’ll obscure all memory of horror. We’ll swim in the sea, we’ll gaze at whatever is worthy of being gazed at we’ll love like we’ve never loved, we’ll dine at Rotenberg’s, as he’s praised by all, we’ll drink St. Emilion Premier Cru, 1924 or as you choose, we’ll have, as they say, a crazy time why not? After all, there are still wonderful things in this world so why any other?

291

‫העורבים רוצים‬ ‫ָהעוֹ ְר ִבים רוֹ צִ ים לְ ַהצְ ִמ ַיח‬ ‫נוֹ צוֹ ת לְ ָבנוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ֲהיַ ﬠֲ לֶ ה ְ ּביָ ָדם?‬ ‫ַה ּׁ ִש ָירה ְמ ַב ֶ ּק ׁ ֶשת‬ ‫לְ הוֹ ִריד ֵמﬠַ צְ ָמ ּה ׁ ִש ָירה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲהיַ ﬠֲ לֶ ה ְ ּביָ ָד ּה?‬ ‫ַה ּ ֶפה ַה ְמ ֻע ָ ּקם ְמ ַב ֵ ּק ׁש‬ ‫לַ ְחסֹם ֶאת ַה ְ ּזﬠָ ָקה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲהיַ ﬠֲ לֶ ה ְ ּביָ דוֹ ?‬ ‫ַה ִ ּז ָּכרוֹ ן ְמ ַב ֵ ּק ׁש לִ ְהיוֹ ת‬ ‫ּתוֹ לַ ﬠַ ת ֶ ּג ׁ ֶשם וּלְ ֵהﬠָ לֵ ם ָ ּב ֲא ָד ָמה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲהיַ ﬠֲ לֶ ה ְ ּביָ דוֹ ?‬ ‫ַה ְמﬠַ ּנֶה רוֹ צֶ ה‬ ‫לְ ִה ָ ּק ֵרא ָק ְר ָ ּבן‪.‬‬ ‫ֲהיַ ﬠֲ לֶ ה ְ ּביָ דוֹ ?‬ ‫ַה ֵּלב עוֹ ֵרג לִ ְהיוֹ ת ִמ ׁ ְש ַּכן ַה ְ ּב ִהירוּת‬ ‫ָה ַא ֲה ָבה לִ ׁ ְשכּ ַֹח ֶאת ֶח ׁ ְשכַ ת ַה ֶ ּבכִ י‪.‬‬ ‫ֲהיַ ﬠֲ לֶ ה ְ ּביָ ָדם?‬

‫‪292‬‬

THE CROWS WANT The crows want to grow white feathers. Will they manage to? Poetry wants to shed from itself poetry. Will it manage to? The crooked mouth wants to block the shout. Will it manage to? Memory wants to be a rain-worm and disappear into the earth. Will it manage to? The torturer wants to be called a victim. Will he manage to? The heart longs to be the dwelling-place of clarity, love to forget the gloom of weeping. Will they manage to?

293

‫בּ רויגל‪ :‬הציידים בשלג‬ ‫ים־אפ ִֹרים ְּכמוֹ ֶק ַרח‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ָש ַמיִ ם יְ ֻר ִ ּק ֲ‬ ‫”מגֵ ן ְּכנֶגֶ ד ִמי ׁ ֶש ְּמ ַב ֵ ּק ׁש ֶאת ﬠֶ זְ ָר ָתם‪.‬״‬ ‫ָ‬ ‫ֹאש‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ַ ּצ ָ ּי ִדים חוֹ זְ ִרים ֲחפוּיֵ י ר ׁ‬ ‫ׁ ְשלָ לָ ם ׁשוּﬠָ ל ָחלוּל‪.‬‬ ‫ֹאש ֻמ ְר ָּכן‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּגם ַה ְּכלָ ִבים הוֹ לְ כִ ים ְ ּבר ׁ‬ ‫ַה ֲחנִיתוֹ ת ְּכ ֵבדוֹ ת ִמדַּ י‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּמוֹ ָרד ַ ּב ּׁ ֶשלֶ ג ֶהﬠָ מֹק ָּתלוּל ִמדַּ י‪.‬‬ ‫ָה ֵא ׁש ַה ְמבֹﬠֶ ֶרת ּפוֹ נָה ע ֶֹרף‪.‬‬ ‫לשת ַה ַ ּצ ָ ּי ִדים ֵר ִיקים ַּכ ֵ ּצל‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ְש ׁ ֶ‬ ‫ָה ִרים לְ ָבנִים ְמ ׁ ֻש ָּננִים‪ .‬שְׂ דוֹ ת ׁ ֶשלֶ ג‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאיזֶ ה ְּכ ָפר ִּכ ְמﬠַ ט ל ֹא־נ ְִר ֶאה‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאיזוֹ ﬠֲ גָ לָ ה זְ ִע ָירה ִעם סוּס‪.‬‬ ‫ַמ ֲחלִ ִיקים ְק ַטנ ְַט ּנִים ﬠַ ל ּ ְפנֵי ַה ֶ ּק ַרח‪.‬‬ ‫עוֹ ְר ִבים ְ ּבתוֹ ‪ ‬ﬠֵ צִ ים ֵק ְר ִחים‪.‬‬ ‫ֹאש ּה ֲאגֻ דַּ ת זְ ָר ִדים‪.‬‬ ‫ִא ּׁ ָשה‪ ,‬ﬠַ ל ר ׁ ָ‬ ‫ׁ ְש ֵּתי נ ׁ ִָשים ו ִּמזְ ֶחלֶ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַמ ָ ּבט ל ֹא נ ׁ ְִשלָ ח‪.‬‬ ‫ִא ׁיש ֶחלְ קוֹ ְמ ֻס ָּתר ִעם ַמ ְקלֵ ﬠַ ‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ ְקﬠַ ק‪ּ ,‬גוּף ְּכמוֹ ֵחץ וָ ֶק ׁ ֶשת‪ ,‬חוֹ ֵתר לִ ׁ ְשבּ ֹר ֶאת‬ ‫ִקיר ָה ֲאוִ יר ַה ָ ּקפוּא‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאי‪ ‬לְ ִה ָּמלֵ ט ֵמ ַהנּוֹ ף ָה ִא ֵּלם ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ֵאי‪ִ ‬מ ְּכפוֹ ר ַה ְ ּב ִדידוּת ׁ ֶשל ִּכ ּׁ ָשלוֹ ן‪.‬‬

‫‪294‬‬

BRUEGHEL: THE HUNTERS IN THE SNOW A sky grey-green as ice. “A silver shield against those seeking its aid.” The hunters return, covered heads bowed. Their catch a hollow fox. Also the dogs walk with lowered heads. The spears are too heavy. The slope is too steep in the deep snow. The burning fire has turned its back on them. Three hunters as empty as shadows. Jagged white hills. Snow fields. An all-but-invisible village. A small carriage and horse. Tiny skaters on the ice. Ravens in the bald trees. A woman, a bundle of twigs on her head. Two women with a sled. Looking nowhere. A half-hidden man with a rifle. A magpie, body like a bow and arrow, trying to break through the wall of frozen air. How are we to flee from this mute landscape, from this frozen loneliness of failure.

295

‫התראות בוונציה‬ ‫ָמוֶ ת ְ ּבוֶ נֶצְ יָ ה? ָּת ֵאי עוֹ ֶפ ֶרת? ֶ ּג ׁ ֶשר ָה ֲאנָחוֹ ת? ִמ ְ ּז ַמן ﬠָ ְבר ּו ִמן ָהעוֹ לָ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ת־קבו ָּרה ׁ ָש ִטים? ַרק ְ ּביָ ִמים קוֹ ְד ִרים ׁ ֶשל ח ֶֹרף‪.‬‬ ‫ַהגּוֹ נְדוֹ לוֹ ת ַּכ ֲארוֹ נוֹ ְ‬ ‫וֶ נֶצִ יָ ה ׁשוֹ ַקﬠַ ת? ֵּתﬠָ לֵ ם? ִמי ְמנ ֵ ַּבא ׁ ְשחֹרוֹ ת לְ י ִֹפי ַחי‪ֵ ,‬אין ְּכמוֹ תוֹ ?‬ ‫וֶ נֶצִ יָ ה ִ ּביזַ נ ְִטית‪ ,‬גּוֹ ִתית‪ֶ ,‬רנ ֶַסנ ְִסית‪ִ ,‬היא ָ ּברוֹ ִקית‪ְ ,‬קצָ ת ַה ׁ ְש ּ ָפﬠָ ה‬ ‫ׁ ֶשל ַה ִּמזְ ָרח‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ַפﬠֲ מוֹ נֵי ַה ָ ּצ ֳה ַריִ ם‪ֵ ,‬א ֶּלה ַא ַחר ֵא ֶּלה — ָה ִעיר ֻּכ ָּל ּה דִּ נְדּ וּן —‬ ‫ֵה ׁ ִשיט ּו ֶאת וֶ נֶצְ יָ ה ֶאל ָה ֳא ִנ ָ ּיה ו ָּב ּה ְ ּבנֵי ֵ ּב ִיתי‪.‬‬ ‫ֵהם נ ְִפנְפ ּו ִמן ַה ִּס ּפוּן‪ֲ ,‬אנִי ֲאלֵ ֶיהם ֵמ ַהחוֹ ף‪ִ ,‬מ ֵ ּקץ ׁ ָשﬠָ ה ַק ָּלה ֻּכ ָּלנ ּו ׁשוּב ְ ּביַ ַחד‪.‬‬ ‫ְּכבוֹ ד ָה ַא ְריֵ ה ִ ּב ֵ ּק ׁש לָ ֶר ֶדת ִמ ְּמרוֹ ם ﬠַ ּמוּדוֹ וְ לַ ֲחל ֹק ִע ָּמנ ּו ֶאת שִׂ ְמ ָח ֵתנ ּו‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ָחכַ ‪ּ ְ ‬ב ַד ְע ּתוֹ ‪ֶ ׁ ,‬שלּ ֹא נ ֶָאה לִ ְנהֹג ָּכ‪ּ ְ ‬ב ִס ְמלָ ּה ׁ ֶשל ִעיר‪ ,‬וְ הוּא וִ ֵּתר‪.‬‬ ‫לְ ֻע ָּמתוֹ ֵה ֵחל ַא ְרמוֹ ן ַהדּ וֹ גִ ‘ים ִ ּב ְמל ֹא ָּכ ְבדּ וֹ‬ ‫לִ ְרקֹד ַקלּ וֹ ת ﬠַ ל ﬠַ ּמו ָּדיו ַהדַּ ִ ּק ִיקים‬ ‫וְ ַה ְ ּק ׁ ָשתוֹ ת‪ּ ,‬תוֹ ְמכָ יו‪ ,‬ל ֹא ִ ּגלּ ּו ִה ְת ַנ ְ ּגדוּת‪.‬‬ ‫ִא ׁיש ִמ ְּל ַבדֵּ נ ּו ל ֹא שָׂ ם לֵ ב לְ כָ ‪.‬‬ ‫)אינִי זוֹ כֵ ר עוֹ ד ֵאי‪ֶ (‬אל ַה ּ ִפ ָיאצָ ה ַה ְ ּק ַט ּנָה‬ ‫ִה ְמ ׁ ַשכְ נ ּו וְ ִה ַ ּג ְענ ּו ֲח ִמ ׁ ְש ֵּתנ ּו ֵ‬ ‫ְ ּב ֵאר ְ ּב ַטבּ ו ָּר ּה וּלְ צִ דָּ ּה ָה ַאכְ ַסנְיָ ה ׁ ֶש ָּלנוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ָה ַא ְר ָ ּבﬠָ ה עוֹ ד ׁ ִשכּ וֹ ִרים ִמן ַה ַּמ ָּסﬠ ו ֵּמ ָה ִעיר ָהﬠֲ שׂ וּיָ ה ֵמח ֶֹמר‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ֲחלוֹ מוֹ ת ﬠֲ שׂ וּיִ ים ִמ ֶּמ ּנוּ‪ִ ,‬ה ִ ּביט ּו ִ ּבי‪ֲ ,‬אנִי ָ ּב ֶהם‪ ,‬צָ ַח ְקנוּ‪.‬‬ ‫יוֹ ם ׁ ֶש ֻּכלּ וֹ שִׂ ְמ ָחה‪.‬‬ ‫ָהיִ ינ ּו ׁשוּב ְ ּביַ ַחד‪ָּ ,‬כל ַה ֲח ִמ ּׁ ָשה‪.‬‬

‫‪296‬‬

A MEETING IN VENICE Death in Venice? Leaden Chambers? The Bridge of Sighs? All long gone from the world. The gondolas as floating burial caskets? Only in the gloomy days of winter. Venice is sinking? Will disappear? Who is prophecizing doom for unparalleled, living beauty? Venice the Byzantine, Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, with a touch of the East. The bells of noon, one after another – the entire City tolling – set Venice asea, toward the ship that carried my family. They waved at me from the deck, I at them from the shore, a short while later we were all together again. The Honorable Lion wanted to descend from his pillar heights to share in our joy but reconsidered, thinking it unseemly to behave thus with the City’s symbol. In contrast, the Doge’s Palace, in all its splendor, started dancing lightly on its slender pillars, its supporting arches offering no resistance. Only we noticed. We continued on our way and arrived all five of us (I don’t remember how) at the little Piazza with a well at its navel and our inn at its edges. The four of them still drunk from their journey and from the City made of such stuff as dreams are made of, looked at me, I at them, and we all laughed. A day abounding with happiness. We were together again, all five of us. Immersed in its dream Venice sails on bright waves toward the ship. The

297

‫ׁ ְשקוּﬠָ ה ַ ּב ֲחלוֹ ָמ ּה ׁ ָש ָטה וֶ נֶצְ יָ ה צְ לוּלַ ת ַ ּג ִּלים לִ ְק ַראת ָה ֳא ִנ ָ ּיה‪.‬‬ ‫ארקוֹ קוֹ ְרנִים ִמ ּתוֹ ‪ַ ‬ה ַּמיִ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ִק ְמרוֹ נֵי ַסן ַמ ְ‬ ‫‪ַּ ,CASA D’ORO‬ת ְח ָרה ׁ ֶשל ֶא ֶבן‪ ,‬זְ ֻה ָ ּבה יוֹ ֵתר‪.‬‬ ‫ַ ּב ְרטוֹ לוֹ ֵמאוֹ קוֹ לֵ יאוֹ נִי‪ָ ּ ,‬פ ָר ׁש ֵ ּג ֶאה‪ֵ ,‬אינוֹ עוֹ זֵ ב ֶאת ַק ְמ ּפוֹ ַסן ג‘וֹ ַבנִי ֶא ּ ָפאוֹ לוֹ ‪ֵ .‬אינִי ׁשוֹ ֵמﬠַ ‪,‬‬ ‫ישים יוֹ ְר ִדים ִ ּב ֵידי ׁ ְשנֵי ְ ּג ַב ְר ָּתנִים ﬠַ ל זוֹ ג‬ ‫ַא‪ּ ְ ‬בטוֹ רוֹ ֶדל אוֹ ְרלוֹ גִ יוֹ ֲאנִי רוֹ ֶאה ֶאת ַה ּ ַפ ּ ִט ׁ ִ‬ ‫ַה ּ ַפﬠֲ מוֹ ן‬ ‫ִ ּב ׁ ְש ֵּתים־ﬠֶ שְׂ ֵרה ﬠַ ל ַהדַּ ָ ּקה‪ָ .‬ה ֳא ִנ ָ ּיה עוֹ גֶ נֶת‪.‬‬ ‫אשוֹ ן יוֹ ֵרד ְ ּב ִריצָ ה ֶאל זְ רוֹ עוֹ ַתי ְ ּבנִי ַה ָ ּק ָטן —‬ ‫ִר ׁ‬ ‫ִמי דִּ ֵ ּבר ָּכאן ﬠַ ל ָמוֶ ת?‬

‫‪298‬‬

domes of San Marco shine from the water. Casa D’Oro, stone lace, is more golden still. Bartolomeo Colleoni, noble horseman, never leaves the Campo San Giovanni e Paolo. I can’t hear, but in Torre dell’Orologio I can still see the hammers in the hands of two gentleman falling on the bell’s husk at exactly noon. The boat anchors. First to rush off the boat and into my arms is my youngest son – who spoke here a word on death?

299

‫אברהם‬ ‫זָ ַב ְח ִּתי‪.‬‬ ‫ְ ּבלִ ִ ּבי‬ ‫זָ ַב ְח ִּתי‪.‬‬ ‫דָּ ַמי ִ ּב ְד ֵמי ָה ָהר‬ ‫ׁ ְשתו ִּקים ָּכ ֶא ֶבן‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּיוֹ ם ָּכ ָבה‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי‬ ‫ל ֹא ָאב‪.‬‬ ‫ָאב ְ ּבלִ י ֵ ּבן ל ֹא ָאב‪.‬‬ ‫ָר ָהם‪ָ .‬ר ָהם‬ ‫ִמן ַה ָּמקוֹ ם ַה ֶ ּזה‬ ‫ֵאין‬ ‫ׁ ִש ָיבה‪.‬‬

‫‪300‬‬

AVRAHAM I slaughtered. In my heart I slaughtered. My blood in the mountain’s blood is as silent as stone. Day is done. I am no av no father. Father with no son is no Av. Raham. Raham from this place there is no returning.

301

‫אב‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ׁ ֵשנָה ְ ּבלִ י ﬠַ ְפﬠַ ּ ַפיִ ם‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ קוֹ ל ְ ּבלִ י צְ לִ יל‬ ‫ֶאצְ ָ ּבעוֹ ת ְ ּבלִ י יָ ד‬ ‫ָאב ׁ ֶש ְ ּבנוֹ ָא ַבד‬ ‫ִמ ְת ַא ֵּלם לְ ַאט‪.‬‬

‫‪302‬‬

FATHER Like a lidless sleep like a soundless voice fingers with no hand the father of a lost son slowly becomes mute.

303

‫בלי שם‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ﬠַ לְ וָ ה ֻמ ׁ ְשלֶ כֶ ת ָ ּברו ַּח‪.‬‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ְק ָר ִעים ׁ ֶשל נוֹ ף‪.‬‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ יִ ְב ַבת לַ יְ לָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ִעוְ רוֹ נוֹ ָה ָאדֹם ׁ ֶשל ַה ַּס ַהר‪.‬‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ ְּתהוֹ ם ַא ְר ַ ּבﬠ לִ ְפנוֹ ת בּ ֶֹקר‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא ְּכמוֹ‬

‫‪304‬‬

UNTITLED Like leaves driven in the wind. Like tattered remnants of a scene. Like a night’s sobbing. Like the moon’s red blindness. Like the abyss of four in the morning. Not like

305

‫נטוש‬ ‫נ ּ ַֻט ׁ ְש ִּתי‪.‬‬ ‫ָה ַר ֶּכ ֶבת נ ְָסﬠָ ה וְ נ ְָסﬠָ ה וְ נ ְָסﬠָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫ִהיא ָ ּג ְמﬠָ ה ֲא ָרצוֹ ת ְ ּב ַטאק ַטאק ַטאק‪.‬‬ ‫ָהיְ ָתה ְמלֵ ָאה נְבו ַּאת לֵ ב‪.‬‬ ‫ל ֹא נ ׁ ְִש ֲאר ּו ִמ ֶּמ ּנִי ֶא ָּלא ּ ָפנַי וְ גו ִּפי‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ָפנַי ִה ְת ַק ּׁש ּו וְ ָרזוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ַּכ ָּמה ׁ ִש ֵּלם ָא ִבי ְּכ ֵדי לִ ְנטֹש אוֹ ִתי‬ ‫ֵמרֹב ַא ֲה ָבה לִ ְנטֹש אוֹ ִתי‪.‬‬ ‫לָ ְקח ּו ֶאת ֵ ּביתוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫לָ ְקח ּו ֶאת ְּכבוֹ דוֹ ֶאת ְּת ִמימוּתוֹ ‪.‬‬ ‫ִא ִּמי וַ ֲאחוֹ ִתי ָ ּבכוּ‪ַ .‬ה ִּת ְקוָ ה ָה ְפכָ ה ְמגֻ ֶחכֶ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּׁ ָש ַמיִ ם ִה ׁ ְש ַּת ּנוּ‪.‬‬ ‫ֵמרֹב אוֹ ר ָרא ּו ﬠֵ ינַי ׁ ְשחוֹ ר‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ַ ּק ְר ַקﬠ ָ ּבﬠֲ ָרה ִמ ַּת ַחת לָ ַרגְ לַ יִ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ַה ּׁ ֵשנָה נ ְִמלְ ָטה ִמ ֶּמ ּנִי‪ּ ִ ,‬ב ְק ׁ ָשה לַ ֲחזֹר ַה ַ ּביְ ָתה‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאיזֶ ה צְ חוֹ ק‪ֵ .‬הם ל ֹא יָ ְדע ּו ָמה‬ ‫ֵהם ל ֹא יָ ְדע ּו ְּכלוּם ל ֹא יָ ְדע ּו‬ ‫ל ֹא יָ כְ ל ּו לָ ַדﬠַ ת ׁ ָשנָה וְ ָח ְד ׁ ַשיִ ם וְ ל ֹא יָ כְ ל ּו‬ ‫ל ֹא לָ ַדﬠַ ת וְ ל ֹא כְ לוּם ַמ ּׁ ֶשה ּו ִ ּג ְמ ֵ ּגם ִ ּבי‬ ‫ׁ ִש ְב ִעים ׁ ָשנָה ִ ּג ְמ ֵ ּגם ִ ּבי ַמה ֶ ּזה עוֹ זֵ ר‬ ‫ָה ִריק הוּא ִריק ִאלְ ָמלֵ א ָהיָ ה ִריק‬ ‫ָהיָ ה ִמ ְת ַמ ֵּלא ַ ּב ָּמה ָהיָ ה ִמ ְת ַמ ֵּלא‬ ‫ַ ּב ָּמה? ִ ּב ְד ָמעוֹ ת?‬

‫‪306‬‬

ABANDONED I was abandoned. The train traveled on and on and on. It swallowed up countries one two three. It was full of foreboding. Nothing was left of me but my body and my face. My face hardened and grew thin. How much did my father pay to abandon me from an abundance of love abandoning me. They took his home. They took his honor his innocence. My mother and sister wept. Hope became absurd the skies changed. From so much light my eyes saw darkness. The ground underfoot burned. Sleep fled from me, begged to go home. What a joke. They didn’t know what they didn’t know nothing they didn’t know couldn’t know a year and two months and they couldn’t not know anything something stuttered in me seventy years stuttered in me what good does it do this emptiness is emptiness if it weren’t emptiness it would fill up with what would it fill up with what? With tears?

307

‫הוא‬ ‫הוּא ּתוֹ ֵקף אוֹ ִתי‪.‬‬ ‫ָּכל ַה ְ ּז ַמן הוּא ּתוֹ ֵקף אוֹ ִתי‪.‬‬ ‫ִיח לִ י‪.‬‬ ‫הוּא ֵאינוֹ ַמ ּנ ַ‬ ‫ַ ּגם ל ֹא ַ ּב ַּליְ לָ ה‪.‬‬ ‫הוּא ִמ ְתיַ ּׁ ֵשב ﬠַ ל לו ַּח לִ ִ ּבי‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי חוֹ לֵ ם ﬠָ לָ יו‪.‬‬ ‫ָהיִ ִיתי זוֹ ֵרק אוֹ תוֹ ‪ְ ,‬מ ַח ֵּסל אוֹ תוֹ‬ ‫ֹאש‪.‬‬ ‫ָהיִ ִיתי ׁשוֹ ֵבר לוֹ ֶאת ָהר ׁ‬ ‫ַא ַח ָּ‬ ‫ר־כ‪ ‬הוּא ִמ ְת ַח ּנֵף ְּכמוֹ ָחתוּל‪:‬‬ ‫ׁ ַשלְ וָ ה‪ָ ׁ ,‬שלוֹ ם נִצְ ִחי‪ ,‬הוּא לוֹ ֵח ׁש‪ ,‬דְּ ִא ָ ּיה ַק ִּלילָ ה‬ ‫ץ־אין־ ְ ּגבוּלוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫לְ ֶא ֶר ֵ‬ ‫ל ֹא עוֹ ד ֶא ָחד‪ ,‬לְ ַבד‪.‬‬ ‫אוּלַ י‪ .‬אוּלַ י ָּכ‪ .‬אוּלַ י ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר ׁ ֶש ָּכ‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאי ֶנ ּנִי רוֹ צֶ ה לַ ְח ׁשֹב ﬠָ לָ יו‪.‬‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ֲאנִי חוֹ ׁ ֵשב‪.‬‬ ‫ִאי ֶא ְפ ׁ ָשר לָ ַדﬠַ ת ֵאי‪ ‬הוּא ֶ ּב ֱא ֶמת‪.‬‬ ‫לְ ִה ְתיַ דֵּ ד ִא ּתוֹ ?‬ ‫הוּא ַמ ְפ ִריﬠַ לִ י ְ ּבעוֹ ִדי קוֹ ֵרא ֵס ֶפר‪.‬‬ ‫ֲאנִי יוֹ ׁ ֵשב לִ ְפנֵי ַה ַ ּביִ ת ו ַּמ ֲאזִ ין לְ צו ִּפית‬ ‫וְ ִה ּנֵה‪ ,‬הוּא מוֹ ִפיﬠַ ‪.‬‬ ‫ַרק ְ ּבכָ ְת ִבי ﬠָ לָ יו הוּא זוֹ נ ֵַח אוֹ ִתי‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ָּתה ׁשוֹ ֵאל ֵאי‪ ‬קוֹ ְר ִאים לוֹ ?‬ ‫הוּא‪.‬‬ ‫זֶ ה ׁ ְשמוֹ ‪ .‬הוּא הוּא‪.‬‬ ‫ַּכ ָּמה יָ פוֹ ת ַה ּנ ְַסטו ְּרצִ ּיוֹ ת וְ ַה ּנו ִּר ּיוֹ ת‬ ‫ָ ּבאוֹ ר ָה ַר‪.‬‬

‫‪308‬‬

HE He attacks me. He attacks me all the time. He won’t leave me alone. Not even at night. He sits on the tablet of my heart. I dream of him. I would toss him away, finish him off break open his head. Afterwards he comes purring and placating like a cat: Tranquility, eternal peace, he whispers, an easy flight to the land-with-no-borders. Not one more, alone. Maybe. Maybe this way. Maybe it’s possible this way. I don’t want to think about him. But I do. There’s no knowing what he’s really like. Should I befriend him? He bothers me while I’m reading a book. I sit by my house, listening to the honey-sucker bird and there he appears. Only when I write about him does he leave me be. You ask what his name is? He. That’s his name. He is he. How beautiful are the nasturtiums and the buttercups in the gentle light.

309

‫אם‬ ‫ִאם ְּת ָת ֵאר לְ ﬠַ צְ ְמ‪ ‬ל ֹא‬ ‫)א ָּתה ְמ ֻס ָ ּגל? ו ְּבﬠֶ צֶ ם‪ ,‬לְ ׁ ֵשם ָמה?(‪ ,‬ל ֹא‬ ‫לִ ְהיוֹ ת ַק ָ ּים ַ‬ ‫לְ ַה ְר ִ ּג ׁיש נ ְִרדָּ ף‪ ,‬ל ֹא לְ ַפ ֵחד‪ ,‬ל ֹא‬ ‫לִ ְהיוֹ ת ַ ּגלְ מוּד‪ ,‬ל ֹא‬ ‫לָ חו ּׁש ִקנ ְָאה‪ ,‬זִ ָּכרוֹ ן ל ֹא‬ ‫לִ ְק ׁשֹר ִ ּבכְ ֵאב‪ ,‬ל ֹא‬ ‫לַ ְח ׁשֹב ﬠַ ל ַמה ּׁ ֶש ָא ַבד‪ּ ִ ,‬בכְ לָ ל ל ֹא‬ ‫לַ ְח ׁשֹב‪ ,‬ל ֹא טוֹ בוֹ ת וְ ל ֹא‬ ‫ָרעוֹ ת‪ ,‬ל ֹא לְ ַהﬠֲ לוֹ ת ﬠַ ל ַהדַּ ﬠַ ת ׁ ְשגִ ּיוֹ ת ׁ ֶש ּׁ ָשגִ ָית‪ ,‬ל ֹא‬ ‫ִּכ ׁ ְשלוֹ נוֹ ת‪ ,‬ל ֹא ַהכְ ָרעוֹ ת ֻמ ְטעוֹ ת וְ ל ֹא‬ ‫לְ ַה ְר ֵהר ׁשוּב וָ ׁשוּב ְ ּבח ֶֹסר ַהבּ ו ׁ ָּשה‪ ,‬ל ֹא‬ ‫לְ ַא ֵ ּבד ﬠֶ ׁ ְש ּתוֹ נוֹ ת ִ ּבגְ לַ ל ִאי־צֶ ֶדק אוֹ ﬠָ וֶ ל‪ ,‬ל ֹא‬ ‫לִ ְרצוֹ ת‪ ,‬ל ֹא לְ ַב ֵ ּק ׁש דָּ ָבר‪ ,‬ל ֹא‬ ‫לִ כְ סֹף‪ ,‬ל ֹא לָ חו ּׁש ֶח ְסרוֹ ן ָּכלְ ׁ ֶשה ּו — אוֹ ָאז‬ ‫)ת ֵאר לְ ﬠַ צְ ְמ‪ (‬ﬠָ שׂ וּי לִ ְהיוֹ ת ַהלּ ֹא כְ לוּם‬ ‫ָּ‬ ‫ְמקוֹ ם נ ֶֹפ ׁש ָח ִביב אוֹ ל ֹא‬ ‫לִ ְהיוֹ ת‪.‬‬

‫‪310‬‬

IF If you imagine not existing (can you? and actually, what for?), not feeling persecuted, not being afraid, not being alone, not feeling jealousy, memory not being tied to pain, not thinking about what’s been lost, not thinking at all, not good things not bad, not pondering mistakes you’ve made, not failures, not wrong decisions and not thinking again and again on the shamelessness, not losing your mind because of an injustice or wrongdoing, not wanting, not wanting a thing, not desiring, not feeling lack of any sort – or then (just imagine) the nothing may be a pleasant place to rest or not to be.

311

‫אם בתי‬ ‫לש‬ ‫ב־ב ָקרוֹ ב ׁ ִש ּׁ ִשים וְ ׁ ָש ׁ‬ ‫ֵאי‪ַ ‬רק ַה ּיוֹ ם ִמ ֵ ּקץ ׁ ִש ּׁ ִשים ׁ ָשנָה‪ּ ְ ,‬ב ָקרוֹ ְ ּ‬ ‫יָ צָ את ֵמ ַה ִּמ ְס ֶ ּג ֶרת ׁ ֶשﬠַ ל ׁ ֻשלְ ָחנִי‬ ‫וְ ֵהﬠַ ְר ְּת אוֹ ִתי לְ נוֹ ְראוֹ ת מוֹ ֵת‪‬‬ ‫ל־כ‪ִ ‬א ֶּל ֶמת‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאם ִ ּב ִּתי‪ָּ ,‬כ ָּ‬ ‫ֵאי‪ִ ‬ה ְתנ ּ ֵַפל ִמן ַה ַּמ ֲא ָרב ַה ּנ ָָבל ַה ָ ּז ֵקן‬ ‫ָח ַמד ֶאת ּגו ֵּפ‪ַ ‬ה ָ ּצ ִעיר‪ַ ,‬ה ָ ּצ ֵמא לְ שִׂ ְמ ָחה‬ ‫וְ ׁ ָש ַפ‪ ‬ﬠָ לָ יו ֵא ׁש‪ֵ ,‬א ׁש‪ֵ ,‬א ׁש‬ ‫וְ ל ֹא ָמצָ את מוֹ צָ א ִמ ֵ ּבין ַה ּׁ ְש ָב ִרים‬ ‫לְ כו ָּדה ְּכמוֹ צִ ּפוֹ ר־יַ ﬠַ ר ִ ּבשְׂ ֵר ַפת יַ ﬠַ ר‬ ‫ִהצְ ָט ַר ְפ ְּת לַ ֲאחוֹ ִתי‪ִ ,‬הצְ ָט ַר ְפ ְּת לְ הוֹ ַרי‪.‬‬ ‫לְ ָאן ִחלְ ֲחלָ ה ַה ְ ּזוָ ﬠָ ה‬ ‫לְ ֵאיזֶ ה ְמﬠָ רוֹ ת מ ִֹחי‪ִ ,‬ק ְפלֵ י לִ ִ ּבי‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ּׁ ָשם יָ ׁ ְש ָבה ַ ּב ִּמ ְס ּתוֹ ר ָּכל ַה ּׁ ָשנִים ָה ֵא ֶּלה‬ ‫ִ ּבי ׁ ֶש ּנ ׁ ְִש ַא ְר ִּתי ַחי‬

‫‪312‬‬

THE MOTHER OF MY DAUGHTER How is it that only today sixty, almost sixty-three, years later you stepped out of the frame on my desk and woke me to the horrors of your death, mother of my daughter, ever silent. How he attacked you from the ambush, that old villain coveting your young body thirsty for joy and poured on it fire, fire, fire and you found no way out from among the broken pieces trapped like a forest-bird in a forest fire you joined my sister, you joined my parents. Where did that terror penetrate to what caverns of my brain, folds of my heart where did it sit in hiding all these years in me who lived

313

‫איזו שמחה‬ ‫ֵאיזוֹ שִׂ ְמ ָחה! נִין נוֹ לַ ד לָ נ ּו — וְ ֵאיזֶ ה נִין!‬ ‫ֹאש ְּכיָ ֵר ַח ׁ ֶש ִה ְת ַא ֵחד ִעם ַה ּׁ ֶש ֶמ ׁש‪.‬‬ ‫ָ ּגדוֹ ל ְּכמוֹ ׁ ְש ִתיל ׁ ֶשל ֶס ְקווֹ יָ ה‪ ,‬ר ׁ‬ ‫ﬠֵ ינַיִ ם ָּכחֹל ﬠָ מֹק‪ָ ,‬א ַמ ְר ִּתי‪ִ ,‬עם ׁ ֶש ֶמץ חוּם‪ְּ .‬כמוֹ יַ ֲהלוֹ ִמים ֵּכ ִהים ׁ ֶשל‬ ‫ֵא ׁש ְּכ ֻח ָּלה‪ָ ,‬א ַמ ְר ְּת‪ִ .‬ע ּ ְׂש ֵבי ַהדֶּ ׁ ֶשא ֵה ֵחלּ ּו לִ ְרקֹד‪ ,‬יַ ְר ָ ּגזִ ים‪ִ ,‬קיכְ לִ ים ו ֻּבלְ בּ וּלִ ים‬ ‫ֹאש ּה‬ ‫ן־הן ׁ ֶשל ר ׁ ָ‬ ‫ן־ה ֵ‬ ‫ּ ָפ ְתח ּו ְ ּב ַמ ְק ֵהלָ ה‪ ,‬דּ וּכִ ַיפת ֵהגִ ָיבה ְ ּב ֵה ֵ‬ ‫ַה ֶּכלֶ ב ַה ָּל ָבן ֵה ִרים ֶאת ְקצוֹ ת ּ ִפיו‪ֲ ,‬ה ֵרי הוּא ְמ ַח ֵ ּי‪ !‬וְ ַה ֲחתוּלָ ה ַה ּ ַפ ְר ִסית‬ ‫ְ ּב ִת ְס ּפ ֶֹרת ַקיִ ץ ﬠָ שְׂ ָתה ּ ַפ ְרצוּף ׁ ֶשל ׁ ְש ֵאלָ ה‪ :‬לְ שִׂ ְמ ָחה ַמה ּזֹה עוֹ שָׂ ה?‬ ‫ל ֹא יָ ַד ְע ִּתי ׁ ֶש ִהיא ְ ּב ִק ָיאה ַ ּב ְּמקוֹ רוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ּ ְפנֵי ַה ְ ּב ִר ּיוֹ ת ִה ְת ַ ּב ֲהר ּו ּ ִפ ְתאֹם‪ְּ ,‬כ ִאלּ ּו ל ֹא ָהיָ ה עוֹ ד לְ ָמה לִ ְדאֹג‬ ‫ל ֹא נ ׁ ְִש ְמﬠָ ה ֲא ִפלּ ּו ל ֹא ִס ֶירנָה ַא ַחת ַ ּב ְּכ ִב ׁיש ַה ָ ּקרוֹ ב‪ַ ,‬ה ְּמכוֹ ִנ ּיוֹ ת ָ ּגלְ ׁש ּו‬ ‫ְּכמוֹ שָׂ ח ּו ְ ּב ַמיִ ם וְ גַ ם ַה ּׁ ָש ַמיִ ם ׁ ָשט ּו ְ ּב ׁ ַשלְ וָ ה ֵמ ִא ֵ ּיי ַה ְמ ֻא ּׁ ָש ִרים‬ ‫לְ ִא ֵ ּיי ַה ְמ ֻא ּׁ ָש ִרים‪ַ ,‬ה ְ ּברוֹ ׁש ַה ָּכחֹל ַקד ַקלּ וֹ ת ָ ּברו ַּח ו ִּב ְר ִאי ָה ֲאוִ יר ִה ׁ ְש ַּת ְ ּקפ ּו ַר ְב ַס ָ ּבא‬ ‫ְמ ַח ֵ ּבק ַר ְב ַס ְב ָּתא וְ נוֹ ׁ ֵשק ﬠַ ל ּ ִפ ָיה ְּכ ֶבן ﬠֶ שְׂ ִרים‪.‬‬

‫‪314‬‬

WHAT JOY What joy! A great-grandson is born unto us – and what a great grandson! Large as a sequoia tree, head like a moon that married the sun. Deep blue eyes, I said, with a touch of brown. Like dark diamonds of blue fire, you said. The blades of grass have begun to dance, the bulbuls and warblers have all broken into song, a hoopoe has answered with the nod-nod-nodding of her head, the white dog has turned up the edges of his mouth, he’s smiling! And the Persian cat in a summer haircut has a querying expression: “And this mirth, what doth it accomplish?” I didn’t know she was learned in the Jewish sources! The faces of all living creatures have suddenly brightened, as though there’s nothing more to worry about not even a single wailing siren can be heard from the nearby road, the cars flow as though swimming in water and the skies also sail peacefully from the Isles of the Blessed to the Isles of the Blessed, the araucaria tree bows gently in the wind and in the air’s mirror one can see a great-grandfather embracing a great-grandmother and kissing her on the mouth as though he were a boy of twenty.

315

‫בהפציע‬ ‫ְ ּב ַה ְפצִ יﬠַ ַה ּׁ ֶש ֶמ ׁש ֵמﬠַ ל ִ ּג ְבﬠַ ת ַה ּמוֹ ֶרה‬ ‫וְ ַה ִ ּגלְ בּ ֹﬠַ ִמ ְתﬠַ ְר ֵטל ֵמﬠַ ְר ִפ ֵּלי בּ ֶֹקר ְּכ ִאלּ ּו ָהיָ ה ַאנ ּ‬ ‫ַאפו ְּרנָה‬ ‫וְ ָהﬠֵ ֶמק ִמ ְת ַ ּג ֶּלה ְ ּב ַבת ַא ַחת ְ ּבכָ ל יָ ְפיוֹ ָה ֲא ִב ִיבי‬ ‫וַ ֲאנִי יוֹ ׁ ֵשב ו ַּמ ְק ׁ ִשיב לַ ּׁ ָשקוֹ ן ֵמ ַה ּ ַפ ְר ִט ָיטה ַה ּׁ ְש ִנ ָ ּיה ׁ ֶשל ַ ּבא‪‬‬ ‫וְ ׁ ַשﬠַ ר ַא ַחר ׁ ַשﬠַ ר נ ְִפ ָּתח וְ ֵאין ׁשוֹ ֵמר נוֹ ָרא ִמ ּקוֹ ְדמוֹ ַ ּב ּ ֶפ ַתח‬ ‫וּלְ ַאט ֲאנִי ַמ ּׁ ִשיל ִמ ֶּמ ּנִי ֶאת יִ צְ ִרי ָה ַרﬠ וְ ֶאת ַאכְ זְ ִר ּיו ִּתי ָה ֱאנוֹ ׁ ִשית‬ ‫וְ תוֹ ֶפ ֶסת ֶאת ְמקוֹ ָמם ֵמﬠֵ ין ֶח ְמלָ ה‪ֶ ,‬ח ְמלָ ה ﬠַ ל ָּכל ַה ַ ּק ָ ּים‬ ‫וְ ָרצִ ִיתי לוֹ ַמר‪ּ ַ :‬גם ﬠַ ל ַהלּ ֹא ַק ָ ּים‪ִּ ,‬כי ֲה ֵרי ֻּכ ָּלנ ּו נִדּ וֹ נִים‪.‬‬ ‫וּלְ ֶפ ַתﬠ נ ְִר ֶאה לִ י צִ ְבﬠָ ן ׁ ֶשל ַה ָח ְט ִמ ּיוֹ ת ַה ּׁ ָשנָה ָאדֹם‬ ‫ׁ ֶשעוֹ ד ל ֹא ָר ִא ִיתי ָּכמוֹ הוּ‪.‬‬ ‫הוֹ ‪ָּ ,‬כל ָה ֲא ָרצוֹ ת ׁ ֶש ָ ּזכִ ִיתי לִ ְראוֹ ת ִמ ַּמﬠֲ ָרב ﬠַ ד ִמזְ ָרח‬ ‫ַה ִּכ ָּכרוֹ ת ַה ְ ּק ַטנּוֹ ת ַה ַּמ ְמ ִּתיקוֹ ת סוֹ ד‪ַ ,‬ה ּ ִפנּוֹ ת ָה ִא ְּלמוֹ ת‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ֵאינָן ְמגַ לּ וֹ ת ִמי ָ ּבא ֵמﬠֶ ְב ָרן‪ַ ,‬ה ְ ּג ׁ ָש ִרים‪ְ ,‬ק ַט ּנִים ִּכגְ דוֹ לִ ים‬ ‫וְ ַה ַּמיִ ם ַהזּוֹ ְר ִמים ִא ּ ִט ִ ּיים ַּכ ּנֶצַ ח וּזְ ִריזִ ים ְּכ ִמשְׂ ֲח ֵקי ַמ ֲחבוֹ ִאים‬ ‫אוֹ ׁשוֹ צְ ִפים ְ ּבבוֹ ָאם ֵמ ֶה ָה ִרים ָה ְרחוֹ ִקים‪ֵ ,‬מ ַה ִה ָימלָ יָ ה אוֹ ֵמ ַה ּ ַט ְט ָרה‪.‬‬ ‫וְ ִה ּנֵה ַה ִּמלְ ָחמוֹ ת ַה ַ ּק ָ ּימוֹ ת ָּת ִמיד ִה ׁ ְש ִּתיק ּו ֶאת ﬠַ צְ ָמן ָּכלִ יל‬ ‫לִ כְ בוֹ ד ׁ ִשיר זֶ ה ׁ ֶשהוּא ׁ ִשיר ּתוֹ ָדה‬ ‫ּתוֹ ָדה ﬠַ ל ׁ ֶש ַא ֲה ָב ִתי נֶﬠֶ נ ְָתה ְ ּב ַא ֲה ָבה וְ ל ֹא נ ׁ ְִש ַא ְר ִּתי לְ ַבדִּ י ְ ּבזִ ְקנ ִָתי‬ ‫ֵיהן בּ וֹ הוֹ ת‬ ‫ּתוֹ ָדה ﬠַ ל ׁ ֶשלּ ֹא ָּכל ַה ּ ָפנִים ׁ ֶשעוֹ ְברוֹ ת ﬠַ ל ּ ָפנַי ﬠֵ ינ ֶ‬ ‫ּתוֹ ָדה ׁ ֶש ָּכ‪ ‬וְ תוֹ ָדה ׁ ֶשעוֹ ד ָהיִ ִיתי ְמ ֻס ָ ּגל לוֹ ַמר ָּכל זֹאת‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאין ִ ּב ְרצוֹ נִי לְ ִה ּ ָפ ֵרד‪ּ ְ .‬ברוּכִ ים ַה ָ ּב ִאים ַא ֲח ַרי‪.‬‬

‫‪316‬‬

WITH DAY BREAKING With day breaking in sunlight over the hills and the Gilboa mountain rising from morning mists as if it were the Annapurna and the valley revealing itself all at once in its full spring beauty and me sitting here and listening to the chaconne from Bach’s second partita and gate after gate opening with no guard worse than his predecessor at the entrance slowly I shed all ill-will and human cruelties a kind of compassion taking their place – compassion for all that exists and, I wanted to say, also for what doesn’t, for we are all sentenced. Suddenly, the color of the hibiscus flower this year is a red I’ve never seen before. Oh, all the lands I’ve seen from west to east the little piazzas sweet with their secrets, the silent corners never revealing who is on the other side, the bridges, small and large alike the waters flowing as slowly as eternity, as fast as in a game of hide-and-seek or streaming torrential from the distant mountains, the Himalayas or Tatras. And then there are the wars existing always that have quieted themselves entirely in honor of this song which is a song of thanks and praise, thanks that my love was answered with love and I wasn’t left alone in my old age thanks that not every face passing by has staring eyes thanks for that and thanks I’m still able to say all this. I don’t want to say good-bye. Welcome to all who come after me.

317

‫נוסח בקט‬ ‫ַא ָּתה כּ וֹ ֵתב?‬ ‫ל ֹא‪ֲ .‬אנִי ל ֹא‪.‬‬ ‫ָאז ִמי כּ וֹ ֵתב?‬ ‫ִמ ּנַיִ ן לִ י?‬ ‫ָאז ִמי ִאם ל ֹא ַא ָּתה?‬ ‫לָ ָּמה ֲאנִי?‬ ‫ישה ּו ַ ּב ֶח ֶדר?‬ ‫יֵ ׁש עוֹ ד ִמ ׁ ֶ‬ ‫ֵאי ֶנ ּנִי רוֹ ֶאה‪.‬‬ ‫ָמ ַתי ֵּכן?‬ ‫ֵּכן‪ָ ,‬מ ַתי?‬ ‫ֶאמֹר ַא ָּתה‪.‬‬ ‫ִ ּבזְ ַמן ׁ ֶשעוֹ ד ָהיִ ינ ּו ְ ּבנֵי ָא ָדם‪.‬‬ ‫ו ַּמה ֲאנ ְַחנ ּו ﬠַ כְ ׁ ָשו?‬ ‫ֵּכן‪ַ ,‬מה‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ַחר ָּכל ַה־‬ ‫ַא ָּתה רוֹ צֶ ה ַמה?‬ ‫שִׂ ְמ ָחה‪ ,‬לִ גְ רֹם שִׂ ְמ ָחה‪.‬‬ ‫הוֹ ‪ֵּ ,‬כן‪ ,‬שִׂ ְמ ָחה‪.‬‬ ‫ׁ ֶש ִ ּישְׂ ְמח ּו ְקצָ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ַמה?‬ ‫ﬠַ ל ַמה ׁ ָש ַא ָּתה כּ וֹ ֵתב‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאינְ‪ׁ ‬שוֹ ֵמﬠַ ?‬ ‫ַמה?‬ ‫ֶאת ַה ִה ְת ַאלמוּת‪.‬‬ ‫ׁשוֹ ְמ ִעים ִה ְת ַאלמוּת?‬ ‫ִמי ׁ ֶש ַּמ ְק ׁ ִשיב‪ׁ ,‬שוֹ ֵמﬠַ ‪.‬‬ ‫ֵאיזוֹ ִה ְת ַאלמוּת?‬ ‫ׁ ֶשל ַה ִּמ ִּלים‪ַ .‬ה ִּמ ִּלים ַהדּ וֹ ְממוֹ ת‪.‬‬ ‫ִמי יָ כוֹ ל ָהיָ ה לָ ַדﬠַ ת‬ ‫ֵּכן‪.‬‬ ‫‪320‬‬

AFTER BECKETT Do you write? No. Not me. Then who writes? How would I know? Then who if not you? Why me? Is there anyone else in the room? I can’t see. When yes? Yes, when? You tell me. When we were still human beings. And what are we now? Yes, what. After all the You want what? Happiness, to bring happiness. Oh, yes, happiness. That they might be a little happy. About what? About what you’ve written. Can’t you hear? What? The becoming mute. You can hear something becoming mute? The one who listens, hears. What is becoming mute? The words. The silent words. Who could have known Yes.

321

‫ַמה ִמ ִּלים יְ כוֹ לוֹ ת לְ חוֹ לֵ ל‪.‬‬ ‫ֵּכן‪ִ .‬מי‪.‬‬ ‫ְ‬ ‫ַה ַ ּקיִ ץ הוֹ לֵ ך וְ דוֹ ﬠֵ ‪.‬‬ ‫ָ ּברו ְּך ַה ּׁ ֵשם‪.‬‬ ‫ַא ָּתה עוֹ ד ַ ּבלּ ֹא ׁ ֶש ְּל‪?‬‬ ‫ל ֹא‪.‬‬ ‫ְ‬ ‫ְמ ֻא ָחר‪ .‬צָ ִריך לוֹ ַמר ׁ ָשלוֹ ם‪.‬‬ ‫ִמ ְס ַּת ֵ ּבר‪.‬‬ ‫ֲא ָבל ח ׁ ֶֹש‪.‬‬ ‫יֵ ׁש ְ ּב ֵר ָרה?‬

‫‪322‬‬

What words can make happen. Yes. Who. The summer is fading. Thank god. You are still in your no? No. It’s late. We have to say good-bye. Seems so. But the darkness. Is there any choice?

323

NOTES The untitled epigraph poem is from Ruebner’s tenth poetry collection ‫כמעט‬ ‫( שיחה‬Almost a Conversation, 2011). Biblical citations in these notes are from the Jewish Publication Society (JPS) translation unless otherwise indicated.

I / TESTIMONY The poems in this section are from Ruebner’s first two collections, ‫האש באבן‬ (The Fire in the Stone, 1957) and ‫( שירים למצוא עת‬Poems Seeking Time, 1961), with the exception of “This Night,” taken from Ruebner’s 1970 collection ‫אין‬ ‫( להשיב‬Unreturnable). TESTIMONY Line 3: The word here rendered as “parched” – ‫ – צחיח‬is a hapax legomenon in the Hebrew Bible, appearing only in Ezekiel 24:7–8. In these two verses, the word is collocated both times with the word “rock” – ‫צחיח סלע‬. [LIKE AN ECHOLESS VOICE] Line 8: Genesis 28:12: “And [ Jacob] dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven; and behold the angels of God ascending and descending on it.” AMONG THESE MOUNTAINS Line 6: The Hebrew word tav/‫תו‬, rendered here as “mark,” appears a single time in the Hebrew Bible, in Ezekiel 9:4. Line 7: The line echoes the verse ‫פתח לנו בעת נעילת שער כי פנה יום‬/petach lanu sha’ar, be’et ne’ilat sha’ar, ki fanah yom (“open for us a gate, at the hour the gate is sealed, for the day has turned”) – from the Yom Kippur liturgy. The verse is sung during the ne’ilah service, the final service of the fast day. OBLIVION Lines 1–4: Cf. Ezekiel 37:1–5. Line 6: The imperative “Arise” is in the plural form. MY LITTLE SISTER Cf. The Song of Songs.

325

326 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner VOICES Cf. Genesis 22:1–14, the story of the Akedah, the Binding of Isaac. [ JUST THE DAYS AND THE DOVES] Line 6 literally reads as “just the tears and the shells.” Changes in lexis were inserted to recreate the strong rhythms and music of the Hebrew. THIS NIGHT This poem is built on the structure of the Four Questions from the Haggadah, the liturgy for the Passover seder. In the Haggadah, the four-part answer to the leader’s question “What makes this night different from all other nights?” repeats the formulaic response of “…on all other nights, we [did something]; this night we [do something different]….” The Four Questions are traditionally recited by the youngest person at the Passover feast. CHILDREN Lines 3–4: Cf. Genesis 28:10–12. Line 6: Cf. Hosea 10:8; Isaiah 32:13. FATHER AND INFANT Line 19: Cf. Genesis 2:23. MY SISTER Section 2, Line 7: The reference to “unblessed lips” (‫שפתיים בלי קדוש‬/ sefatayim beli kiddush) alludes to the ceremonial blessing over the wine recited on the Sabbath and holidays, and to the blessing over wine recited under the bridal canopy at the traditional marriage ceremony. OLD KING DAVID First published in the 1961 collection Poems Seeking Time, this poem was significantly revised by Ruebner for his 2005 anthology Traces of Days: New & Selected Poems. It is the revised version which is used here. For the biblical episode referenced, see 1 Kings 1:1–4. Final line: King David is commonly credited with composing the 150 poems and prayers that together constitute the Book of Psalms.

Notes ∙ 327

II / AS LONG AS The poems in this section are all from Ruebner’s book ‫( כל עוד‬As Long As, 1967). SOMEONE WILL SAY Line 6: For “image of a memory,” tzelem zikharon/‫צלם זיכרון‬, see Genesis 1:27: “And God created man in his own image, in the image of God [tzelem elohim/‫ ]צלם אלוהים‬created He him.….” SHE WAS Line 4: The “dining hall” reference is to the communal eating arrangement once the norm in kibbutz life. Line 14: For “like darkness over the deep” see Genesis 1:2. FROM THE SHADOW IN MY EYES Lines 6 and 11: For “Who is she who rises” see Song of Songs 3:6 and 8:5. Line 7: For “I lift my eyes to the hills” see Psalm 121:1. THE SWORD The title and final line of the poem together evoke the turning sword (‫החרב‬ ‫ )המתהפכת‬placed outside the Garden of Eden to prevent entry. Cf. Genesis 3:24: “[God] drove the man out, and stationed east of the Garden of Eden the cherubim and the fiery ever-turning sword, to guard the way to the Tree of Life” (New Jewish Publication Society translation). Line 5: The Hebrew phrase asher ahavta/ ‫אשר אהבת‬, rendered here as “that you loved,” evokes God’s words to Abraham when instructing him to sacrifice his son Isaac on the hilltop. See Genesis 22:2: “Take now thy son, thine only son, whom thou lovest [‫]אשר אהבת‬....” DISTANCE YOURSELF, DON’T The “you” in the poem is female. AWAKENING (2) In Ruebner’s collection As Long As, two separate poems are titled “Awakening”; the first appears on page 8 of that collection, and the second on page 53. To avoid confusion, I’ve added a number “2” to the second “Awakening” poem.

328 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner [AS LONG AS] This eponymous poem stands as the epigraph poem to Ruebner’s 1967 collection. Line 8: For “and it is good,” ki tov/ ‫כי טוב‬, see Genesis 1:3–4. The ki tov formula is repeated six times in the creation process; see also Genesis 1:10, 12, 18, 21, 25. The biblical tone of the poem is also accentuated by the construction of the words immediately following “and it was good”: ‫“( אומר לאמור‬to say”).

III / THE BATTLES OF THE NIGHT LEFT BEHIND “The Mother’s Face in the Palm of Her Hands” is from the 1967 collection ‫כל‬ ‫( עוד‬As Long As). “This City” and “Summer” are from ‫( אין להשיב‬Unreturnable, 1970), and “1983” and “Farewell from a Friend” are from ‫ואל מקומו שואף‬ (And Hasteneth to His Place, 1990). The remaining poems in this section are all from the collection ‫( שמש חצות‬Midnight Sun, 1977). THIS CITY [ JERUSALEM] The word “Jerusalem” does not appear in the Hebrew original; it was added here to elicit the immediate recognition of “this city” as Jerusalem, in keeping with the Hebrew reader’s experience. The 1970 version of this poem included an additional opening section, omitted from the 2005 New & Selected collection. It is the later version of the poem that is given here. SECTION 1: BOUND ON HER BOULDERS The word “city” in Hebrew is gendered female Lines 1–2: The words olah/‫ עולה‬and tamid/‫ תמיד‬closing these two lines and standing juxtaposed to each other are both technical biblical terms relating to daily sacrifices. Ruebner is intertwining them and punning on their different usages. Cf. for example Exodus 29:42 and Numbers 28:31, olat tamid/ ‫( עולת תמיד‬the daily burnt offering); Leviticus 6:6, esh tamid/‫( אש תמיד‬a perpetual fire shall be kept burning) and Exodus 27:20, liha’alot ner tamid/‫להע־‬ ‫( לות נר תמיד‬for the kindling of lamps continually). Line 3: The single Hebrew adjective used to describe the city, homiyah/‫הומיה‬, means noisy or bustling. However, a second denotation of the word is “longing,” and the line clearly alludes to the Israeli national anthem “Hatikvah” which describes the Jewish soul as homiyah/‫ – הומיה‬yearning, for 2,000 years, to return to Zion.

Notes ∙ 329 SECTION 2: STONES WANT TO FLOW Line 11: “He who sleeps and his heart is awake” – Cf. Song of Songs 5:2: “I sleep but my heart is awake. Listen! My lover is knocking” (New International Version translation). In the biblical verse, the speaking voice is female. SECTION 4: OPEN AND QUIET SKIES Lines 2–3: These two lines are a single line in the Hebrew original, encompassed in the phrase achuzat elohim/‫אחוזת אלוהים‬. This phrase – rendered here first as “God’s treasured possession,” then as “God-possessed” – evokes two separate meanings in Hebrew: God’s estate or mansion (from the noun achuzah/‫)אחוזה‬, and “in the grip of God” (from the root ‫א ח ז‬, meaning “to clutch or hold fiercely”). RONDANINI PIETÀ The reference here is to the unfinished marble sculpture Michelangelo worked on from the 1550s until the last days of his life. The sculpture is housed in the Castello Sforzesco in Milan, though it stood for many years in the Palazzo Rondanini in Rome, from which it took its name. In the sculpture, a standing Mary is grasping the dead body of Jesus as it seems to slip toward the ground. In his memoir Ruebner quotes the following passage by art critic Lutz Heusinger describing the sculpture thus: “The intermingling of mother and son becomes more and more complete, until one cannot know who is holding whom; is the mother holding the lean corpse of her son or is the son holding up the falling woman. Both of them are in great need of help; both stand before the world and the Creator as supplication and lament.” See A Short Long Life, 104. Ruebner included an earlier and longer version of this poem in his 1967 collection As Long As. 1983 Section 1: The final stanza of this section appears on a plaque on a statue by Israeli sculptor Shoshanah Heiman (1923–2009), in memory of Ruebner’s lost youngest son, Moran. The statue stands near the Kibbutz Merchavia dining hall. The final line of this alludes, through the Hebrew phrase lo ukal/ ‫לא אוכל‬, to the unconsumed burning bush. Cf. Exodus 3:2. Section 3 alludes to the prayer recited each morning by observant Jews: “Blessed are You O Lord who has given the rooster the understanding to distinguish between night and day.”

330 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner FAREWELL FROM A FRIEND Hebrew poet Dan Pagis was Ruebner’s closest poetic colleague and life-long friend. Pagis passed away in 1983, after a battle with cancer. Ruebner writes that “it wouldn’t be the absolute truth to say I continue talking to Dan…but neither would it be a lie. The dead are not mute if we aren’t deaf.” A Short Long Life, 121. Line 11: See Proverbs 18:21. Line 16: Moreh Hill overlooks the Jezreel Valley and Ruebner’s home in Kibbutz Merchavia. For a biblical reference to the hill, see Judges 7:1.

IV / A GRAVEN AND A MOLTEN IMAGE With the exception of “Memory of a Woman in the Egyptian Wing” (which is from Midnight Sun), all the poems in this section are from Ruebner’s 1982 collection ‫( פסל ומסכה‬Pesel U’masekha), here rendered as A Graven and A Molten Image. The collocation of pesel/‫( פסל‬idol, statue, graven image) and masekhah/‫( מסכה‬a molten image) is used four times in the Hebrew Bible, each time in the prohibition of idolatry. See Deuteronomy 27:15, Judges 17:3–4, Nahum 1:14. Ruebner’s entire collection Pesel U’masekhah is composed of ekphrastic poems. A list of the artworks with which each poem is in conversation appears at the end of the Hebrew collection Pesel U’masekhah. These attributions have been attached here to the English and Hebrew poetic texts where necessary for identification; the attributions, when used, are as Ruebner noted them. WHY Ruebner states that he wrote this poem on the poetry of Dan Pagis. Ruebner credits Pagis – who was imprisoned as a child in a Ukranian concentration camp before fleeing and making his way to Palestine – with writing “poetry of unparalleled power” on the Holocaust. THE YOUTH Final stanza: The reference is to the Athenian King Aegeus and his son Theseus. As the tale is told, when Theseus returned from slaying the Minotaur, he forgot to change his ship’s black sail to a triumphant white one, as instructed. His father, keeping anxious watch from the high cliffs for his son’s return, saw the black sail and, thinking his son dead, plunged into the sea. The sea is thereafter named for him – the Aegean.

Notes ∙ 331 THE SMILE Line 12: In “Death is what the wakeful see, but in sleep – ,” Ruebner is alluding to a fragment of Heraclitus’. A PAINTING AND A CONVERSATION Line 1: The terms “lesser light” and “greater light” allude to the Genesis creation story. Cf. Genesis 1:16: “And God made the two great lights: the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night; and the stars.” HORSE AND HIS RIDER The full and formal identification of the painting behind this poem is “Equestrian Portrait of Guidoriccio da Fogliano,” Palazzo Pubblico, Sienna. Also cf. Jeremiah 51:21: “And with thee will I shatter the horse and his rider, and with thee will I shatter the chariot and him that rideth therein.” ANGELUS NOVUS The angel in this Klee watercolor, painted in 1920, was famously described by Walter Benjamin in his 1940 essay “Theses on the Philosophy of History”: …[the] Angelus Novus shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.” Benjamin owned the painting, which then came into the possession of Gershom Scholem. The painting now hangs in The Israel Museum in Jerusalem. THE MEMORY Line 16: For “Come, little bride, light as a cloud…” cf. Song of Songs 4:8. Ruebner’s original line has ‫( קלה‬qalah: “light” as in “weight,” “ease,” or “little one,” female) as a homophonic exchange for ‫( כלה‬kallah: “bride”). The Hebrew reader will hear “bride” even as the visual marker is “light one.”

332 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner

V / POSTCARDS FROM All the poems in this section are from ‫( שירים מאוחרים‬Latter Day Poems, 1999). FAR AWAY The Hebrew word for soul, neshama/‫נשמה‬, is gendered female. A POSTCARD FROM PRESSBURG-BRATISLAVA Ruebner was born and raised in Pressburg-Bratislava, Slovakia. The city was annexed to neighboring Austria by Nazi Germany in 1938. The deracination of the Jewish population of Pressburg-Bratislava – approximately 15,000 people – began in 1941, with thousands of Jews sent to ghettos in other parts of Slovakia, and culminated in mid-1942 with the deportation of hundreds of Jews to the Auschwitz-Birkenau and Majdanek death camps. A POSTCARD FROM SHASTIN: AUTUMN FIRES Ruebner’s mother was from Shastin, and Ruebner and his sister would spend a month every summer at his grandparents’ house there. In his memoir Ruebner writes that it is Shastin “…that comes to me most often. The sky there, and time too, were wider and slower.” Ruebner’s detailed descriptions of Shastin – his grandparents’ home, the houses and people, the nature of the days there – occupy pages in the memoir. See A Short Long Life, 35–39. As the laws and edicts against the Jews became increasingly more severe, Ruebner’s parents and sister moved from Pressburg to the grandparents’ house in Shastin in the summer of 1941, hoping to enjoy greater freedom there. It is from Shastin that they were deported to Auschwitz in June 1942. A POSTCARD FROM BUDAPEST Line 8: “the tears of things” is from Virgil, lacrimae rerum in the original Latin. See The Aeneid Book I, line 464. Interestingly, the line appears at the beginning of an early example of ekphrastic verse, where Aeneas describes a mural depicting scenes from the Trojan War. A POSTCARD FROM TEL AVIV Line 14: Hebrew writer S.Y. Agnon wrote the following of Jaffa, the ancient port city abutting on modern-day Tel Aviv: “Jaffa, belle of the seas, ancient city. Japheth, son of Noah, built it and gave her his name. But of all the Greek beauty of Japheth, all that remains is what human beings can’t remove from her….” (translated by Barbara Harshav). Lines 16–19: Legend has it that an outcropping of rocks near the port of Jaffa is where Greek Andromeda was chained (as punishment for her mother’s

Notes ∙ 333 boasting of Andromeda’s great beauty). The Medusa-slaying Perseus rescued and wed her. Lines 27–29: Ruebner is alluding to T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”: “I grow old…I grow old… / I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled” and “I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. // I do not think that they will sing to me.” A POSTCARD FROM THE HEBRON REGION Line 2: Tradition has it that all the biblical patriarchs and matriarchs, with the exception of Rachel (who is buried near Bethlehem), are buried in the Cave of Machpelah (“cave of the doubled tomb”) in Hebron, also known as Cave of the Patriarchs. Cf. Genesis 23:7–20, which describes Abraham’s purchase of the site in order to bury his recently deceased wife Sarah there. The site is sacred to Jews and Muslims alike. In 1994, Jewish settler Baruch Goldstein went on a shooting spree at the site, resulting in the death of 29 Muslims, who were at prayer. Since then, Jewish and Muslim entrance into and worship in the cave has been strictly separated, regulated, and heavily guarded. Line 12: The phrase “stiff-necked” (‫)קשה עורף‬, meaning stubborn, is used six times in the Bible as an epithet describing the Israelites. Cf. for example Exodus 33, verses 3 and 5. Final Line: Cf. Genesis 1:28: “And God said to them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth….” A POSTCARD FROM VIENNA Line 5: In his memoir, Ruebner notes that Vienna, home of the most illustrious European composers, writers and painters, was the first city where Jews were forced to scrub the pavements with toothbrushes. It was there, he writes, where Jews encountered humiliations greater than in any German city. See A Short Long Life, 123.

VI / HOW DO WE END THAT WHICH IS HAS NO END The poems “Victim, Again,” “Still Afraid?,” “Footnotes to the Book of Job” and “One Plague and Another” are from ‫( כמעט שיחה‬Almost a Conversation, 2002). The poems “Voices (2)” and “Audrey’s Birds” are from ‫( יופי מאוחר‬Belated Beauty, 2009). The poems “Man with a House,” “It’s Been Years” and “Question” are from ‫( שירים סותרים‬Contradictory Poems, 2011). The poems from Almost a Conversation in particular reflect the period when

334 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner the Israeli-Palestinian peace talks broke down entirely, and the second intifadah began (October 2000 and onward). VICTIM, AGAIN Line 11: Khan Younis is a Palestinian city and refugee camp in the southern part of the Gaza Strip. The refugee camp was established in 1948 and initially held 35,000 refugees, mostly from the Be’er Sheva area. The number of refugees (including descendants) registered with UNRWA is currently 72,000. Before and also after the 2005 unilateral Israeli disengagement from the Gaza Strip, Khan Younis has been the site of frequent raids by the IDF (Israel Defense Forces); ensuing battles in the densely populated area have resulted in the deaths of children and other innocent civilians. VOICES (2) In the original Hebrew, this poem is titled “Voices.” The number “2” was added in order to distinguish this poem from an earlier poem by Ruebner, bearing the identical title. See pages 16–17. Final Line: “The blood of a child” is an allusion to Hayim Nachman Bialik’s iconic poem “On the Slaughter” (“‫)”על השחיטה‬, which was written in response to the Kishinev Pogroms of 1903. The well-known lines which Ruebner is referencing are: And cursed is he who says “Avenge!” Such revenge, vengeance for the blood of a small child, Satan has not yet created. STILL AFRAID? Line 4: Literally, “mark with a cross.” Line 21: The Hebrew term for an Orthodox Jew, hared/‫( חרד‬or, more commonly, haredi), also means “fearful.” Both denotations are resonant in this line. AUDREY’S BIRDS The artist Audrey Bergner (b. 1927), wife to artist Yosl Bergner (b. 1920), was born and raised in Australia, lived for many years in Europe, and has lived in Israel for over fifty years. Both Audrey and Yosl have been lifelong friends with Ruebner. The painting which this poems speaks to hangs above Ruebner’s dining table. IT’S BEEN YEARS Line 11: The Hebrew original ‫חבלי־חבלים‬, here rendered as “roped agony,” plays on the strong sound similarity between chevel (rope) and cheivel

Notes ∙ 335 (agony). The possessive term ‫( חבלי‬agony of) is most commonly used in the collocation ‫( חבלי־לידה‬birth throes) and ‫( חבלי־משיח‬pre-Messianic tribulations). Line 16: “How, oh how” – ‫ – איכה‬alludes to The Book of Lamentations, known in Hebrew simply as ‫ איכה‬after the text’s first word. Cf. Lamentations 1:1. FOOTNOTES TO THE BOOK OF JOB: Section 12: Inger Christensen (1935–2009), Danish poet, novelist and essayist, was the most prominent poetic experimentalist of her generation. Section 13: For the final line of the poem, cf. Job 1:21 and 2:9. ONE PLAGUE AND ANOTHER The ten poems in this series each refer to one of the Ten Plagues visited on Egypt (Exodus, chapters 7–12). As this series relies heavily on word similarities and end-rhymes, certain words have been added or changed in the English renderings in order to evoke similar sound patterns. “The Blue above is bleached deep through” Final line: Cf. the story of Cain and Abel, particularly Genesis 4:8–10. “Lice have conquered you, Land of the Deer” The phrase “the Land of the Deer” is a biblical appellation for the Land of Israel, accentuating its beauty and glory. See Daniel 11:16. “Sweet-swarming is Hebrew on a foreign tongue” The poem opens with the word arev/‫ – ערב‬meaning “pleasant” or “sweet,” as in a sweet voice (cf. Song of Songs 2:14). The same three root letters, ayin, resh, bet (‫)ע ר ב‬, combine to make the word arov/‫ערוב‬, the fourth plague, a swarm of wild beasts. The line accentuates the sound similarity between the two words. Line 3: The line alludes to the Samaritans’ belief that Mount Gerizim is the sacred and blessed site, as opposed to the neighboring Mount Eval (both mountains overlook the Palestinian city of Nablus, the biblical Shechem). Cf. Deuteronomy 27. The biblical chapter instructs the Israelites to follow the law upon entering the land, and lists the sins for which a person will be cursed. “The Heart is Parched. The dirty blood shines.” Line 2: The Hebrew original is “you [female]), me, you [male].” The second “you” was changed here to “he” to evoke the gendered address.

336 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner Line 3: “God, Full of Compassion” (El male rachamim/‫ )אל מלא רחמים‬are the opening words of the Hebrew prayer for the dead. “Loathsome, what has happened, is happening, so much” In the Hebrew original, the opening word of the poem, harbeh/‫הרבה‬, meaning “many” or “so much,” has a strong sound similarity with the the Hebrew word for locusts – arbeh/‫ – ארבה‬which appears in the third line of the poem and is the eighth plague in the Exodus story. In a similar fashion, the word “loathsome” opens the English version in order to evoke and anticipate the first syllable sound of the word “locusts” that appears two lines later. Final line: The word “sin” was added to recreate the rhyme in the original. “Oh Let the Darkness cover our eyes!” Line 3: Cf. Deuteronomy 21:7: “Our hands have not shed this blood” (“‫ידינו‬ ‫)”לא שפכו את הדם הזה‬. Ruebner changes the lo/‫“( לא‬no” or “not”) of the biblical verse into halo/‫ הלא‬meaning, “indeed [it is]” or “is it not the case?”

VII / HISTORY All the poems in this section, with the exception of the final one, are from Ruebner’s collection ‫( כמעט שיחה‬Almost a Conversation, 2002). [MY FATHER WAS MURDERED] In this poem, Ruebner references well-known Hebrew and Israeli scholars and writers, all of whom were close friends and colleagues. The references include: Ludwig Strauss (German/Israeli scholar and writer, 1892–1953), Lea Goldberg (Hebrew poet, 1911–1970), Yaakov (Yankeleh) Shabtai (Israeli novelist and playwright, 1934–1981), Dan Pagis (Israeli poet and Holocaust survivor, 1930–1986), Ernst Natan (German/Israeli composer and lecturer, returned to Germany and died there), Werner Kraft (German/ Israeli scholar and writer, 1896–1991), Ozer Rabin (Israeli poet, 1921–1999) and Yehoshua Lakner (Slovakian/Israeli composer, relocated to Switzerland and died there, 1924–2003). Of Ludwig Strauss and Werner Kraft, Ruebner writes, “I owe them my poetic and spiritual existence” (59). The two German writers, immigrants like Ruebner (though of an older generation), became his mentors and, by Ruebner’s own account, exercised the most lasting influence on his poetry. He states also that he believes it was their influence which contributed to the distinctiveness of his poetry and its difference from the canonic Hebrew

Notes ∙ 337 poetry of his day. “Without these two,” writes Ruebner, with expansive gratitude, “my life would have been immeasurably poorer” (A Short Long Life, 63). Ruebner became friends with Lea Goldberg in the late 1940s, and it was Goldberg who published his first Hebrew poem (in 1950). After Goldberg’s early death in 1970, her mother appointed Ruebner the literary executor of Goldberg’s work. Yaakov Shabtai lived on Merchavia, Ruebner’s kibbutz, from 1957–1967. Yehoshua Lakner was a childhood friend of Ruebner, born and raised in the same village. Lakner was also one of the eight youths who traveled with Ruebner to Palestine in 1941. Additional names in the poem are: Ada, Ruebner’s first wife, killed in a car accident in 1950; Moran, his youngest son, lost during a trip to South America in 1983; Eva is a reference to Eva Strauss, wife of Ludwig, and daughter of Martin Buber; Aya is Aya Goldstein, Ruebner’s childhood sweetheart and one of the eight youths with whom he traveled overland to Palestine in 1941; Natan is Natan Sufrin, a photographer-friend. MY FATHER Line 24: Shavei Tzion (literally “Returnees to Zion”) is a moshav (a communal village) in the north of Israel, on the coastal road between Acre and Nahariya. It was founded in 1938 by German immigrants who arrived during the Fifth Aliyah (1929–1939). BUT THIS LIGHT Lines 13–16: The Hebrew word for “land,” aretz/‫ארץ‬, is gendered female. GUIDE FOR THE YOUNG POET Final Line: Cf. Genesis 3:19: “By the sweat of your brow shall you get bread to eat, until you return to the ground, for from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you shall return.” (New Jewish Publication Society translation). [ERASE YOUR TRACES] This poem is from Ruebner’s 1982 collection A Graven and A Molten Image. In his memoir, where he quotes this poem in full, Ruebner’s states that he wrote this poem after viewing a series of Picasso’s drawings of a bull, in which the details of the bull become fewer and fewer from draft to draft, until only a few lines are left.

338 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner Final line: The Hebrew word for “erase,” ‫מוחה‬, root letters ‫מ ח ה‬, means also “to protest.”

VIII / BELATED BEAUTY All the poems in this section are from the collection ‫( יופי מאוחר‬Belated Beauty, 2009). PERFECTION Lines 12 and 17: These lines are addressed directly to “Perfection” with the second person female pronoun ‫( את‬at) in the Hebrew original. I’ve changed this to a third-person form in the English in order to avoid confusion with the previous “you,” a male ‫( אתה‬atah) in the poem. MOONLIT NIGHT (2) The “2” was added to the title to distinguish this poem from an earlier poem with the intentical title (see pages 212–13). YOSL, YOSL Line 15: toy’ber yoash is Yiddish for “you deaf fellow.” CHIMES Last line: The tri-syllabic Hebrew word for chimes, mitsilah/‫מצילה‬, has a rhythm similar to “Galila,” the name of Ruebner’s wife of 60 years. GIACOMETTI: WALKING MAN This thirteen-line poem in the original Hebrew is a seventeen-line poem in its English rendering. The radical departure from the original line number is due to the inflected nature of Hebrew (whereby prepositions, articles and modals are added to the root word), in comparison to the non-inflection of English. As a result, the English line renderings were significantly longer than the original Hebrew. In order to preserve the text’s visual representation of the Walking Man’s sparsity and leanness, lines were added. A reproduction of Giacometti’s lithograph appears side by side with the poetic text in Belated Beauty. Ruebner owns the lithograph and it hangs above one of his desks. THE OLD MAN AND BEAUTY Final Line: Cf. Exodus 3:13–14: “And Moses said to God: ‘And when I come

Notes ∙ 339 to the Israelites and say to them: The God of your fathers has sent me to you, and they ask me: What is His name? What shall I say to them?’ And God said to Moses: ‘I am that I am’ [‫]אהיה אשר אהיה‬.…” (New Jewish Publication Society translation). The enigmatic answer is also translated as “I am who I am” and “I will be who I will be”; the exact meaning of these words is the subject of vigorous debate among bible scholars. POEM Line 2: For “and it is good” – cf. the Creation story, Genesis 1:1–31. The phrase “and God saw that it was good” – ki tov – is repeated six times during the creation week.

IX / BUT WHAT WOULD WE DO WITHOUT POEMS All the poems in this section are from Ruebner’s collection ‫שירים סותרים‬ (Contradictory Poems, 2011). ONE CANNOT Line 2: Else Lasker-Schüler (1869–1945) was a German Jewish poet who lived the last years of her life in Jerusalem. Lines 11–12: Cf. Psalms 137:1–3: “By the rivers of Babylon there we sat down and wept when we thought of Zion. There on the poplars we hung up our lyres, for our captors asked us there for songs.” (New Jewish Publication Society translation). POETRY’S SOLILOQUY Line 8: The phrase rendered here as “beaded rhymes” is simply charuzim/ ‫ – חרוזים‬in the Hebrew original. The word charuzim means both rhymes and beads. Line 11: “all my glory inward” – cf. Psalms 45:14. The phrase is often used in the context of female modesty; the Hebrew word for poetry – shirah/‫– שירה‬ is gendered female. Final Line: The reference in the final line is to the seven thin cows of Pharaoh’s dream. Cf. Genesis 41:17–31. Joseph interprets these seven thin cows as seven years of famine which will follow seven years of plenty in the Land of Egypt. NOT EVERY DAY Line 13: That “cursed war” is a reference is to the First Lebanon War (1982).

340 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner Line 20: The allusion is to Benjamin, Joseph’s brother and the youngest of Jacob’s twelve sons. Cf. Genesis 35:18 and 42:38. I THOUGHT I WOULDN’T WRITE EVEN ONE MORE LINE ON DEATH Line 16: Literally, “soul-restoring wind.” For the phrase meishiv nefesh/‫משּׁיב‬ ‫( נפש‬soul-restoring), cf. Psalm 19:8. Line 18: “Hard clods of earth, not sweet” is an allusion to the blessing made for the dead, “May the clods of his dust be sweet” – yimtiqu lo rigvei afaro/ ‫ – ימתקו לו רגבי עפרו‬meaning “May he rest in peace.” The source of the blessing is believed to be Job 21:32–33: “For he is borne to the grave, and watch is kept over his tomb. The clods of the valley are sweet unto him….” Line 21: Jewish burial practices dictate that the men of the Chevra Kadisha (literally “Holy Society,” those responsible for preparing the dead for burial) ask forgiveness of the deceased at the gravesite for any offense or dishonor they may have unknowingly caused while bathing, preparing and burying the body. HEBREW, MY LOVE Ruebner’s earliest writings were all in German, his native language. Ruebner continued to write in German for the first twelve years that he lived in Palestine/Israel (1941–1953). Strauss and Kraft both encouraged Ruebner to write in Hebrew, which he began to do in 1953, the year he married his second wife, Galila (who did not read German). Ruebner’s first Hebrew poetry collection was published in 1957. BEFORE PICASSO’S WEEPING WOMAN The image in this painting, and in an entire series of “weeping women” paintings, is Dora Maar (1907–1997), Picasso’s mistress-muse for many years. Dora Maar was a renowned photographer and talented painter in her own right, identified with the Surrealist movement. Picasso wrote, “For me, she is the weeping woman. For years I’ve painted her in tortured forms, not through sadism, and not with pleasure either; just obeying a vision that forced itself on me. It was the deep reality, not the superficial one. Dora, for me, was always a weeping woman….” “The Weeping Woman” hangs in the Tate Gallery in Liverpool. Coincidentally, this collection of Ruebner translations was completed at the Dora Maar House in Ménerbes, Provence – the house Picasso gave to Dora Maar at the end of their relationship. Dora Maar lived the last decades of her life in this house, in a reclusive state.

Notes ∙ 341 IN MY OLD AGE Line 4: “the gate’s closing” – ne’ilat hasha’ar/‫ – נעילת השער‬contains an allusion to the end of Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement) when the gates of heaven close and one may no longer pray to be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life. The concluding prayer of the day is called ne’ilah – literally, closing. Line 8: Ruebner uses the exact words from Psalms 116:10: “I trusted even when I spoke: ‘I am greatly afflicted.’”

X / LAST ONES All the poems in this section are from Ruebner’s 2013 collection entitled ‫( אחרונים‬Last Ones). A WONDROUS WORLD: Line 13: The phrase for “ladybug” in Hebrew is parat moshe rabeinu/‫פרת משה‬ ‫ – רבינו‬literally, “the cow-of-our-rabbi-moshe.” Hence this line reads literally: “and the cow-of-our-rabbi-moshe (a wondrous cow, there’s no denying).” Line 14: The chatzav/‫ חצב‬flower referenced in the Hebrew is, actually, a squill; however, the name in English does not evoke the same familiarity and recognition that the Hebrew does. Hence, I’ve changed it to a hyacinth (which also offers some resemblance to the chatzav in sound). THE CROWS WANT Line 16: The word here rendered as “dwelling place,” mishkan/‫משכן‬, carries religious signification. Cf. Exodus 25:7–9 where God instructs the wandering Israelites to construct a mishkan, a sanctuary or dwelling place for the divine presence in the desert. AVRAHAM Avraham is the Hebrew name of Abraham, the biblical patriarch. The name is seemingly composed of two parts: av (father) and raham. The etymology and meaning of the word raham are unclear, though the biblical verse telling of Abraham’s divine name-change (from Abram) connects the name to “a mutltitude of nations.” See Genesis 17:5: “Thy name shall be Abraham; for the father of a multitude of nations have I made thee.” Line 1: The opening and repeated word zavachti/‫זבחתי‬, here rendered as “I slaughtered,” evokes ritual slaughter, as in a sacrifice. The poem is in dialogue with the story of the Binding of Isaac (Genesis 22:1–19). The verb zavach/

342 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner ‫ זבח‬does not appear in the biblical telling, though the word mizbeach/‫מזבח‬, altar, composed of the same three root letters – ‫ – ז ב ח‬does. BRUEGHEL: THE HUNTERS IN THE SNOW Line 2 is from Kafka’s short story “The Bucket Rider.” A reproduction of this painting hangs over one of Ruebner’s work-desks. WHAT JOY The thirteen lines of the Hebrew original have expanded to sixteen lines in the English due to the length of the original lines. A choice was made not to use run-over lines in order to convey the rapid flow and visual density of the original. Line-breaks have been respected wherever possible. Line 7: For “And this mirth, what doth it accomplish?” see Ecclesiastes 2:2. WITH DAY BREAKING This poem was published in Ha’aretz newspaper in the spring of 2012; it is also the signature poem in Ruebner’s last book, Last Ones (Spring 2013). Line 1: Literally, “…over Moreh Hill.” Givat Hamoreh overlooks the Jezreel Valley and Ruebner’s home in Kibbutz Merchavia. For a biblical reference to the hill, see Judges 7:1. Line 2: For Mount Gilboa, see 1 Samuel 31:8 and 2 Samuel 1:21.

CODA: “AFTER BECKETT” This poem, penned in the late summer of 2013, has not been published in Hebrew. Ruebner asked that it be included in this English collection.

CHRONOLOGY OF TUVIA RUEBNER 1924 January 30: Tuvia Ruebner is born in Pressburg-Bratislava, Slovakia, first child of Manfred Moritz (b. 1885) and Elisabet (b. 1899) Ruebner. 1929 April 23: Sister Alice, nicknamed Litzi, is born. 1933 January 30: Adolph Hitler becomes Chancellor of Germany. 1937 Ruebner has his bar mitzvah in the Neologist Synagogue of PressburgBratislava. 1938 March 12/13: Nazi troops invade and annex Austria. November 9/10: Kristallnacht, “The Night of Broken Glass.” 1939 March 15/16: Nazi troops seize Czechoslovakia ( Jewish pop. 350,000). April 19: Slovakia passes its own version of the Nuremberg Laws. Together with all the Jews of his region, Ruebner is banned from school. He has completed 9th grade. He begins working as an electrician’s apprentice, though this too is forbidden. 1941 April 28: Ruebner leaves Slovakia, together with eight other youths, traveling eastward and overland to reach Mandate Palestine. Together with his youth movement group he is placed on Kibbutz Merchavia, in the Jezreel Valley, where he works as a shepherd and studies. In the same summer, Ruebner’s parents and little sister move to the grandparents’ home in Shashtin, where they stay, hoping to evade some of the harsher edicts being imposed on Jews. 1942 January 15: Eighteen-year-old Ruebner receives the final letter from his parents. January 20: Wannsee Conference in Berlin is held to coordinate the “Final Solution.” Mass killings of Jews using Zyklon B begin at Auschwitz-Birkenau. March 24: The deportation of Slovak Jews to Auschwitz begins. June 6: Ruebner’s parents and sister Litzi are deported from Shastin to Auschwitz on Transport 46. The grandparents are sent on a transport a month later. 1944 Marriage to Ada Klein from Kosice, Slovakia (1924–1950) at Kibbutz Merchavia. June 6: D-Day: Allied landings in Normandy on the coast of northern France. Summer: Auschwitz-Birkenau records its highest-ever daily number of persons gassed and burned at just over 9,000. Six huge pits are used to burn bodies, as the number exceeds the capacity of the crematories. 1945 April 30: Hitler commits suicide in his Berlin bunker.

343

344 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner May 7: Unconditional German surrender to the Allies. 1948 Israeli War of Independence (Palestinian Nakba) erupts. Ruebner is stationed for a short while in the evacuated Palestinian village of Sepphoris, near Nazareth. 1949 August 4: Daughter Miriam (Miriyami) is born. 1950 February: Ada and Tuvia are involved in a bus accident. Ada is killed; Tuvia is seriously injured. He spends three months in the hospital recuperating. 1951 Ruebner starts working as kibbutz librarian and teacher. 1953 Marriage to Galila Jizreeli, a pianist of Kibbutz Ein Harod. Ruebner starts composing poetry in Hebrew. 1955 Ruebner is awarded The Anne Frank Award for his translations of Agnon. 1956 April 27: Son Idan is born. 1957 The Fire in the Stone – Ruebner’s first poetry collection – published. 1960 October 5: Son Moran is born. 1961 Poems Seeking Time is published. 1963–66 Ruebner works as the General Director of the Jewish Agency in Zurich. 1966 Begins teaching at Oranim College in Kiryat Tivon (Haifa). 1967 June: The Six Day War between Israel and Syria, Egypt and Jordan. The West Bank and Gaza Strip are occupied; as of 2014, the West Bank remains occupied and under Israeli military rule. As Long As is published. 1970 Unreturnable is published. 1973 October: The Yom Kippur War. 1977 Midnight Sun is published. 1972 Begins teaching at Tel Aviv and Haifa Universities, in their Comparative Literature departments. Daughter Miriyami leaves Israel and settles in Iceland, where she lives until today. 1974 Becomes a professor at Haifa University, where he remains until retirement in 1993. 1977 Son Idan leaves for Nepal, where he begins his training to become a Buddhist monk. Idan lives in Nepal until today. 1981 Ruebner is awarded the D. Steinberg Prize (Zurich). 1982 A Graven and A Molten Image is published. Summer: The First Lebanon War. Ruebner’s son Moran is called up as a reservist.

Chronology of Tuvia Ruebner ∙ 345 1983 Son Moran visits his parents in the US, where Ruebner is spending a sabbatical at Harvard. Moran continues from there to South America. After a few letters, all traces of him are lost. 1990 And He Hasteneth to His Place is published. 1992 Ruebner travels to India and Nepal. 1994 Ruebner is awarded the Christian Wagner Prize (Germany). 1995–2000 Four collections of Ruebner’s poetry in German translation are published in Germany to great acclaim. 1999 Ruebner is awarded the Jeanette Schocken Prize (Germany) and the Paul Celan Translation Prize. Latter Day Poems is published. 2000 October: The Second Intifadah (Palestinian uprising) erupts. Waves of violence sweep through the Occupied Territories and Israel. 2002 Almost a Conversation is published. 2004 Nasty Children’s Rhymes and More is published. 2005 Traces of Days: New & Selected Poems is published. 2006 Ruebner is awarded the Prime Minister’s Prize for Hebrew Writers. 2007 Everything that Came After is published (poems and photographs). Ruebner is awarded the Jerusalem Prize. 2008 Ruebner is awarded The Israel Prize (the most prestigious Israeli prize) for his contribution to Israeli arts & letters, and the Theodor Kramer Prize (Austria). 2009 Belated Beauty is published. 2011 Contradictory Poems is published. 2012 Ruebner is awarded the Konrad-Adenauer Prize (Austria). 2013 Ruebner’s 15th poetry collection, entitled Last Ones, is published.

BOOKS BY TUVIA RUEBNER POETRY The Fire in the Stone [‫ ]האש באבן‬1957 Poems Seeking Time [‫ ]שירים למצוא עת‬1961 As Long As [‫ ]כל עוד‬1967 Poems by Tuvia Ruebner [‫ ]שירים‬1970 Unreturnable [‫ ]אין להשיב‬1970 Midnight Sun [‫ ]שמש חצות‬1977 A Graven and A Molten Image [‫ ]פסל ומסכה‬1982 And Hasteneth to His Place [‫ ]ואל מקומו שואף‬1990 Latter Day Poems [‫ ]שירים מאוחרים‬1999 Almost a Conversation [‫ ]כמעט שיחה‬2002 Nasty Children’s Rhymes and More [‫ ]חרוזי ילדים קלוקלים ואחרים‬2004 Traces of Days: New & Selected Poems 1957–2005 [‫ מבחר שירים‬:‫ ]עקבות ימים‬2005 Belated Beauty [‫ ]יופי מאוחר‬2009 Contradictory Poems [‫ ]שירים סותרים‬2011 Last Ones [‫ ]אחרונים‬2013 AUTOBIOGRAPHY A Short Long Life [‫ ]חיים ארוכים קצרים‬2006 Published first in German (titled Ein langes kurzes Leben, fourteen editions to date) and then in Hebrew. PHOTOGRAPHY Everything that Came After [‫ ]כל מה שאחר כך‬2007 This Too My Eyes Have Seen [‫ – ]גם זו ראו עיני‬with poems 2008 CRITICAL MONOGRAPH Lea Goldberg 1980 POETRY COLLECTIONS IN GERMAN Wüstenginster, translated by Efrat Gal-Ed and Christoph Meckel 1990 Granatapfel 1995 Rauchvögel 1957–1997, vol. 1 1998

347

348 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner Stein will Fliessen 1999 Zypressenlicht 1957–1999, vol. 2 2000 Wer hält diese Eile aus 2007 Spätes Lob der Schönheit 2010 Lichtschatten 2011 In Vorbereitung: Wunderbarer Wahn 2013

SELECTED TRANSLATIONS FROM HEBREW INTO GERMAN Im Wald und in der Stadt [‫ ]ביער ובעיר‬by S.J. Agnon (in Schalom: Erzählungen aus Israel) 1964 Der Treueschwur: Erzählung [‫ ]שבועת אמונים‬by S.J. Agnon 1965 Schira: Roman [‫ ]שירה‬by S.J. Agnon 1998 Der Vorabend: Erzählung [‫ ]עם כניסת היום‬by S.J. Agnon 2004 Erdichteter Mensch: Gedichte Hebräisch/Deutsch [‫ ]איש בדוי‬by Dan Pagis 1993 FROM GERMAN INTO HEBREW: Fragments by Friedrich Schlegel 1982 Chapters by Goethe 1984 Essays by Aryeh Ludwig Strauss 1984 Man and Poetry by Aryeh Ludwig Strauss. (With Yedidya Peles) 1985 An Introduction to Aesthetics by Jean Paul 1985 Poems by Christoph Meckel. (With Asher Reich) 2002 Black-winged Angel by Milan Richter 2005 SELECTED EDITED COLLECTIONS In Hebrew: Hebrew Studies in Literature by Aryeh Ludwig Strauss 1959 Poems by Lea Goldberg 1970 Remains of Life by Lea Goldberg (a posthumous collection) 1971 The Collected Poems of Lea Goldberg (Three volumes) 1973 The Writings of Lea Goldberg (Five volumes) 1972–79 Plays by Lea Goldberg 1979 On the Aesthetic Education of Man in a Series of Letters by Friedrich Schiller. Translated from German by Shimshon Eilat 1986

Books by Tuvia Ruebner ∙ 349 The Surrealist Manifesto by André Breton 1986 On Modern Art by Paul Klee. Translated from German by Shlomo Tanay 1987 Something Will Be: Selected Poems of Paul Celan. Translated by Ben-Zion Orgad 1987 Plotinus’s Aesthetics 1987 Conversations with Kafka by Gustav Janouch 1988 From Lessing to Kafka by Werner Kraft 1988 On Dramatic Poetry by John Dryden. Translated from English by David Eren 1988 Baudelaire by Walter Benjamin. Translated from German by David Eren 1989 The Duende Game and Its Principles by Frederico García Lorca. Translated from Spanish, annotated and introduced by Renee Litvin 1989 The Devil in the Artists’ Quarter by Eliezer Steinman 1992 In German: Briefwechsel Martin Buber-Ludwig Strauss, 1913–1953; edited by Tuvia Ruebner and Dafna Mach 1990 Gesammelte Werke in vier Bänden / Ludwig Strauss; edited by Tuvia Ruebner and Hans Otto Horch 1998–2001

INDEX OF POEM TITLES 1983 Abandoned About Time A Family Song After After Beckett All This Suffering A Meeting in Venice Among These Mountains Angelus Novus A Painting and a Conversation A Postcard from Budapest A Postcard from Jerusalem A Postcard from London A Postcard from Pressburg-Bratislava A Postcard from Shastin: Autumn Fires A Postcard from Sienna A Postcard from Tel Aviv A Postcard from the Hebron Region A Postcard from There: Almost a Conversation A Postcard from Vienna A Question [As long as you say] Audrey’s Birds Avraham Awakening Awakening (2) A Wondrous World Before Picasso’s Weeping Woman Belated Beauty Black & White Photograph, Summer 1939 Brueghel: The Hunters in the Snow Burial But This Light Children

351

89 307 243 27 221 321 245 297 7 123 111 153 167 155 149 151 169 157 161 273 165 199 65 183 301 55 57 289 281 233 275 295 53 223 23

352 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner Chimes Descent from the Cross Distance Yourself, Don’t Draft of an Impossible Postcard [Erase your traces] Face Far Away Farewell from a Friend Father Father and Infant Fish Footnotes to the Book of Job From the Shadow in My Eyes Giacometti: Walking Man Go, If You Can Guide for the Young Poet He Hebrew, My Love History Horse and his Rider If In My Old Age [In the air that no longer flows] I Thought I Wouldn’t Write Even One More Line on Death But It Was Stronger Than Me It’s Been Years [ Just the days and the doves] Last Day at the North Sea Let Me See Your Face [Like an echoless voice] Man with a House Memorial Memory of a Woman in the Egyptian Wing Moon and Stars That You Created Moonlit Night Moonlit Night (2) My Father

251 139 51 171 229 109 147 93 303 25 49 189 43 253 61 225 309 279 219 113 311 283 9 277 187 19 257 47 5 185 271 143 81 213 249 207

Index of Poem Titles ∙ 353 [My father was murdered] My Little Sister My Mother My Sister Not Every Day NotPoem Oblivion Old King David Olympics One Cannot One Plague and Another On the Road to Tivon Paul Klee’s Angels: Eight Drawings and One Watercolor Perfection Photograph Poem Poetry’s Soliloquy [Reaching out into the world like a slave clutching] Rondanini Pietà She Was Soldiers’ Memorial Day Someone Will Say Still Afraid? Still Life Summer Testimony The Battles of the Night Left Behind The Color of Black Waters The Commander The Crows Want The Fall The Gravestone The Last Desert The Last Supper The Letter The Memory

203 13 211 29 269 227 11 31 241 263 195 237 117 239 215 259 265 59 87 41 217 39 181 125 83 3 69 127 101 293 97 107 85 137 115 129

354 ∙ Selected poems of tuvia ruebner The Mother of My Daughter The Mother’s Face in the Palm of Her Hands The Old Man and Beauty There, I Said The Smile [The song of the frozen bird of the night] The Sword The Tower of Babel (1) The Tower of Babel (2) The Tower of Babel (3) The Youths This City [ Jerusalem] This Night To My Friend To the Moon Transformations Untitled Victim, Again Voices Voices (2) What Joy [When the statues started moving] Why With Day Breaking Wonder Yosl, Yosl

313 71 255 37 105 63 45 131 133 135 103 73 21 291 267 173 305 177 17 179 315 35 99 317 285 247

BOOKS BY RACHEL TZVIA BACK POETRY Litany 1995 Azimuth 2001 The Buffalo Poems 2003 On Ruins & Return: Poems 1999–2005 2007 A Messenger Comes (Elegies) 2012 TRANSLATIONS Lea Goldberg: Selected Poetry & Drama (play translation by T. Carmi) 2005 Night, Morning: Selected Poems of Hamutal Bar-Yosef 2008 With an Iron Pen: Twenty Years of Hebrew Protest Poetry 2009 CRITICAL WORK Led by Language: the Poetry & Poetics of Susan Howe 2002

355