Gabriel Preil: Self-Courtesy (From Hebrew)

Self-Courtesy
By Gabriel Preil
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

I was a boat, and well at anchor
In a pink fishing village in Maine-
And not some woodchip adrift and pale
On the Bronx's darkling waves.

Nailed to a flat plain coffee-shop back here
Sipping cola through a straw, I'm free
To ignore my patches. Here at least
I can show myself some courtesy.

Eyes full of a suspicious cloud,
In Jerusalem I disavowed
My title of nobility.
Here in New York I can be
A threadbare jacket hanging on my hanger.

The Original:

אדיב לעצמי

גבריאל פרייל

הייתי סירה עוננת

בכפר דייגים מוריד במין–

לא איזה שבב צף מחויר

על גל בברונקס משחיר

אני נעוץ בבית–קפה רדוד

לוגם קולה בקש. איני

שם לב לטלאי זה או אחר

אנסה להיות אדיב עם עצמי

את תואר האצולה שלי

זנחתי בירושליים

ענן חשוד בעיניים

בניו–יורק אני מעיל דק

תלוי על קולב.

Dalia Hertz: A Day (From Hebrew)

A Day
By Dalia Hertz
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

There are times when the days are ever so long.
People wet as me stand in the yard.
The trees planted sixty years ago are dripping water.
The seas are forgotten.
In the light of a grocery store they meet,
They trade a few words in line with a brief fate.
Faraway now is the ship that brought them here.
A hand stretches out. A bus stops. The day of yesterday collapses.

The Original:

יום

דליה הרץ

יש והימים הם באלה ארוכים

אנשים רטובים כמוני עומדים בחצר

העצים שניטעו לפני ששים שנה, נוטפים מים.

נשכח הים.

באור חנות מכולת נפגשים, מחליפים מילים על פי גורל קצר.

רחוקה הסיפה שהביאה אותם לכאן.

יד נשלחת. אוטובוס נעצר. כורע מטה יום האתמול

Manuel del Cabral: Tropical Stonecutting (From Spanish)

Tropical Stonecutting
By Manuel del Cabral
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Black men swing down their picks on the white stones.
Within their picks they hold the sun entwined,
And, as if pressed and wrung from them, wept drops
Of patent leather spill out of their spines.

Men with light voices rinsing their dark skin
Rinse it with pearls of stubborn sweat and stand
Cracking the savage cashbox of the wilds,
Cracking the land, but never touching Man.

Leaping from stones, as soon as each pick picks,
A fragment of sheared sun is sparked and blown
Out but resurges with returning picks
Like God himself exploding in the stone.

Enormous yet not great, the morning can
Enter a single drop of sweat and sink.
Struck sparks leap upward from the stones' own skulls
And are the only thoughts the stones can think.

Black men are singing as they swing their axes
As if their song could soften what they break.
But at these stones they delve, and delve forever,
Delving into the quarry of their ache.

Swinging against the innocent light stones,
These Haitians toil out in the noonday rum.
These blacks that bid the cracked stones bristle sparks
Are nights that chip away at chunks of sun.

Today in search of earthen ore, they hit
upon a greater gold: its lode is day,
the very day that took their human picks
and studded them with star-shards, as if they
stood on the summit, hacking God away.

The Original:

Trópico Picapedrero

Hombres negros pican sobre piedras blancas
tienen en sus picos enredado el sol.
Y como si a ratos exprimieran algo...
lloran sus espaldas gotas de charol.

Hombres de voz blanca, su piel negra lavan
la lavan con perlas de terco sudor.
Rompen la alcancía salvaje del monte
y cavan la tierra pero al hombre no.

De las piedras salta, cuando pica el pico
picadillo fatuo de menudo sol,
que se apaga y vuelve cuando vuelve el pico
como si en las piedras reventara Dios.

Dentro de una gota de sudor se mete
la mañana enorme — pero grande no.
Saltan de los cráneos de las piedras chispas
que los pensamientos de las piedras son.

Y los hombres negros cantan cuando pican
como si ablandara las piedras su voz,
más los hombres cavan y no acaban nunca
cavan la cantera: la de su dolor.

Contra la inocencia de las piedras blancas
los haitianos pican bajo un sol de ron
los negros que erizan de chispas las piedras
son noches que rompen pedazos de sol.

Hoy buscando el oro de la tierra encuentran
el oro más alto, porque su filón
es aquel del día que ponen en los picos
astillas de estrellas, como si estuvieran
sobre la montaña picoteando a Dios.

Amir Or: Miracle (From Hebrew)

Miracle
By Amir Or
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Hebrew

A moon is ripening in boughs of the poplar tree.
Dawn breaks the fishermen's eyes open. In their arms
Swallows of blood
Struggle to fly out.
Dawn breaks their mouths open.
A radio.
Were they to catch even one fish, perhaps
There could come to pass
A miracle.

Jesus strides forth on the waters.
The Holy Spirit is wind over his nipples,
The Holy Spirit is wind
Over his limpid, grieving, manifest manhood.

The waters have a life of their own.
Nuns, round stones,
Descend to bathe among the doves.
Birds tend their pubic nakedness.
The morning is pure.

A stain of wine spreads on the lake.
Morsels of bread float.
The morning is pure.


The Original:

נס

אמיר אור

יָרֵחַ מַבְשִׁיל בְּעַנְפֵי הַצַּפְצָפָה.
שַׁחַר פּוֹצֵעַ בְּעֵינֵי דַּיָּגִים, בִּזְרוֹעוֹתֵיהֶם
מִתְחַבְּטוֹת לָצֵאת
סְנוּנִיוֹת שֶׁל דָּם.
שַׁחַר פּוֹצֵעַ פִּיהֶם.
רַדְיוֹ.
לוּ הָיוּ תּוֹפְסִים וְלוּ דָּג אֶחָד
אֶפְשָׁר הָיָה מִתְרַחֵשׁ
נֵס.

יֵשׁוּעַ פּוֹסֵעַ עַל הַמַּיִם,
רוּחַ קֹדֶשׁ עַל פִּטְמוֹתָיו,
רוּחַ קֹדֶשׁ
נוֹשֶׁפֶת עַל זַכְרוּתוֹ הַשְּׁקוּפָה הַמְיַבֶּבֶת.

לַמַּיִם חַיִּים מִשֶּׁלָּהֶם.
נְזִירוֹת, אֲבָנִים עֲגֻלּוֹת,
יוֹרְדוֹת לְהִטָּבֵל בֵּין הַיּוֹנִים.
צִפֳּרִים מְעַשְּׂבוֹת אֶת עֶרְוָתָן.
הַבֹּקֶר טָהוֹר.

כֶּתֶם שֶׁל יַּיִן מִתְפַּשֵּׁט בָּאֲגַם,
פִּסּוֹת שֶׁל לֶחֶם צָפוֹת.
הַבֹּקֶר טָהוֹר.

Yehuda Amichai: Jerusalem is a Port City (From Hebrew)

A prominent component of the following poem is the Western Wall (i.e. the Wailing Wall) which had finally become accessible to Jews after the conquest of the city's Eastern half in 1967. Indeed on the very day of that conquest, the Israeli military, with the government's assent, set about making the wall more visible by bulldozing the entire Arab neighborhood that had been built right next to it, and creating a massive goliath of a plaza in front for the circulation of tourists and worshippers. As the penultimate part of a 22-part cycle entitled "Jerusalem 1967" written soon after the Six Day War, "Jerusalem is a Port City" angles toward the flavor of excitement that swept the Israeli mindset after the victory. The one after it, by contrast, begins with the words "Jerusalem is Sodom's twin city."

Jerusalem is a Port City
By Yehuda Amichai
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Jerusalem is a port city on the shore of the ages of ages.
The Temple Mount is a great ship, a pleasure yawl
In splendor. From the portholes of her Wailing Wall, jubilant saints
Peer like passengers. Hasidim on the pier wave
Goodbye, yelling hurrah, bon voyage. She
Is always docking, always embarking. And the fences and docks
And policemen and flags and churches' high masts
And the mosques and the smokestacks of synagogues and the chanteys
Of praise and mountain-billows. The ram's horn¹ sounds out sunset: one more
Has set sail. Yom Kippur sailors in white uniforms²
Ascend between the ropes and ladders of tried-and-true prayers.
And the profits of market and gates and goldencap domes:
Jerusalem is the Venice of God.

Notes:

^1- The ram's horn: the shofar blown at sunset at the end of Yom Kippur, signifying the divine judgment of all mortal souls.
^2- Orthodox Jews wearing the white kitel or gown which is traditional for Yom Kippur

The Original:

ירושלים עיר נמל

יהודה עמיחי

יְרוּשָׁלַיִם עִיר נָמָל עַל שְׂפַת הַנֵּצַח.
הַר-הַבַּיִת אֳנִיָּה גְּדוֹלָה, סְפִינַת שַׁעֲשׁוּעִים
מְפֹאֶרֶת. מֵאֶשְׁנַבֵּי כָּתְלָהּ הַמַּעֲרָבִי מִסְתַּכְּלִים קְדוֹשִׁים
עַלִּיזִים, נוֹסְעִים. חֲסִידִים בָּרָצִיף מְנַפְנְפִים
לְשָׁלוֹם, צוֹעֲקִים הֵידָד לְהִתְרָאוֹת. הִיא
תָּמִיד מַגִּיעָה, תָּמִיד מַפְלִיגָה. וְהַגְּדֵרוֹת וְהָרְצִיפִים
וְהַשּׁוֹטְרִים וְהַדְּגָלִים וְהַתְּרָנִים הַגְּבוֹהִים שֶׁל כְּנֵסיּוֹת
וּמִסְגָּדִים וְהָאֲרֻבּוֹת שֶׁל בָּתֵּי הַכְּנֶסֶת וְהַסִּירוֹת 
שֶׁל הַלֵּל וְגַלֵּי הָרִים. קוֹל שׁוֹפָר נִשְׁמַע: עוֹד
אַחַת הִפְלִיגָה. מַלָּחֵי יוֹם-כִּפּוּר בְּמַדִּים לְבָנִים
מְטַפְּסִים בֵּין סֻלָּמוֹת וַחֲבָלִים שֶׁל תְּפִילוֹת בְּדוּקוֹת.
וְהַמַּשָּׂא וּמַתָּן וְהַשְּׁעָרִים וְכִפּוֹת הַזָּהָב:
יְרוּשָׁלַיִם הִיא וֶנֶצִיָה שֶׁל אֱלֹהִים.

Gabriel Preil: A Little Snow Research (From Hebrew)

A Little Snow Research
By Gabriel Preil
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Snow - and not that rare Jerusalem kind
But the New York vagrant white
Started encircling me meanwhile
Candle after candle lit up in me.
Every day was a prophecy, a requital
And even the weatherman was remarkable
For his kindness, careful not to disclose whether
Bitter phenomena were invading
Some air, somewhere.

Now I am an island unto its snow. A knife-glint alone.
Chances for indulgence are sealed and done.

The Original:

מחקר שלג קטן
גבריאל פרייל

שלג– ולא זה הנדיר בירושלים:
זה הלבן הניו–יורקי הנווד
שהתחיל לכתרני בעוד
העלה בי נר אחר נר
כל יום היה נבואה ותגמול
ואפילו החזאי הצטין
בטוב–לב ונמנע מלגלות
אם משהו מריר פולש
באיזה מקום, איזה אוויר.

כעת אני אי מושלג. ברק להב מבודד.
כמו נחתמו אפשרויות הפינוקים.

Gabriel Preil: Lakes (From Hebrew)

Lakes
By Gabriel Preil
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The lake of ice is lacerated with blanching scratches.
Winter-merry figures move on it and freeze
Spewed out of somewhere by blind time
That burns on and is there.

The second lake above, crossed with gashes of light and cloud,
Which has been the eternal witness of time and abided with it,
Is surprised by a sharp-tipped circling aircraft or some other moon of man,
Splitting its waves wide open.

The blueblade knives of the ice
Will be like flowers in remembrance
In which the shades of snow glide down
Like silver and like wool.

Before melody flickers its last on a lake
And the knowable world is passed away.


The Original:

אגמים

גבריאל פרייל

אגם הקרח מחוץ שרטות מלבינות.

נעות וקופאות עליו דמיות עליזות–חרף,

פלטן אי–משם הזמן העור

הבוער וקים.

האגם השני שממעל, עברוהו פצעי אור וענן.

והו שהיה עדו הנצחי שלזמן, עמו לן, —

מפתיעהו חד מטוס חג, או ירח א ח ר

בוקע גליו.

הסכינים הכחלים של הקרח

יהיו כפרחים בזכרון,

גוני שלג יגלשו בו

ככסף וכצמר:

בטרם תדעך מנגינה על אגם

והעולם הנכר יאסף.

Yehuda Amichai: Ein Yahav (From Modern Hebrew)

Ein Yahav
By Yehuda Amichai
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

A night drive to Ein Yahav¹ in the Arabah.
A drive in the rain. Yes, in the rain.
There, I met people who grow date palms.
There, I saw great tamarisk trees² and great risk trees
There, I saw hope barbed like barbed wire
And I said to myself: It is the truth. Hope must be
Like barbed wire to keep out our despair.
Hope must be a minefield.

Notes:
¹- Ein Yahav is a moshav (farming community) whose name literally translates to "Wellspring of Hope" situated in the Arabah, a desert that straddles part of the Israeli-Jordanian border.

²- Mention of Tamarisk trees alludes to Genesis 21:33 "And Abraham planted a tamarisk tree in Beersheba, and called there on the name of the Lord, the everlasting God." Planting a tamarisk was a sign of Abraham's covenant with Abimelech, granting him permission to live in the land of the Philistines. Here it is a metaphor for a possibility of the Jewish state making peace with the Arab states surrounding it.

The Original:

יהודה עמיחי

עין יהב

נסיעה לילית לעין יהב בערבה

נסיעה בגשם. כן בגשם.

שם פגשתי אנשים שמגדלים תמרים.

שם ראיתי עצי אשל ועצי אשליה.

שם ראיתי תקוה דוכרנית כמו תיל דוקרני

ואמרתי בלבי: אמת, התקוה צריכה להיות

כמו תיל כדי להגן עלינו מן היאוש.

התקוה צריכה להיות שדה מוקשים

Jacques Prévert: Fall (From French)

Fall
By Jacques Prévert
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

A horse falls over in an alley
Leaves fall onto it one by one
Our love is shuddering.
So is the sun.

The Original:

L'automne

Un cheval s'écroule au milieu d'une allée
Les feuilles tombent sur lui
Notre amour frissonne
Et le soleil aussi.

Tadeusz Borowski: Night Over Birkenau (From Polish)

Night Over Birkenau
By Tadeusz Borowski
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Again the night. Again the fearsome sky
Gyres like a vulture, like a beast of prey
It crouches on the camp, on the dead silence.
Pale as a corpse, the moon sets far away.

And like a shield cast to the ground in battle,
Amid the stars Azure Orion lies.
On through the dark the transports' motors rattle.
Then the gleam in the crematoria's eyes

Scalding and stifling. Slumber like a stone.
Breath is choked out. The throat is slit and red.
The heavy boot pressed down on the breast-bone
Cracks like the silence of three million dead.

Night, endless night, and no light overland.
The eyes are gassed with slumber, numb the brow.
Here as God's Judgment on the world of man
The murking fog comes down on Birkenau.

The Original:

Noc nad Birkenau

Znów noc. Znów niebo groźnie
krąży jak sęp, jak zwierz się pręży
nad głuchą ciszą, nad obozem.
Blady jak trup zapada księżyc.

I jak rzucona w boju tarcza
leży wśród gwiazd niebieski Orion,
Głucho w ciemności auta warczą
i błyszczą oczy krematorium.

Parno i duszno. Sen jak kamień.
Nie ma oddechu. Rzęzi gardło.
Jak ciężka stopa piersi łamie
milczenie trzech milionów zmarłych.

Noc, noc bez końca. Świtu nie ma.
Oczy od snu są oczadziałe.
Jak Boży sąd nad ludzką ziemią
zapada mgła nad Birkenau.

William Auld: Snow (From Esperanto)

Snow
By William Auld
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to here me recite the original in Esperanto

Plague-silent
The snow invades,
Conquers the city:
And we
A conquered people
Hopelessly pace the streets
With neck bowed under
The yoke of the occupying
White forces.

Spring, help us!
When shall we hear
Your fanfare
Trumpeting on the horizon?

The Original

Neĝo
William Auld

Pestsilenta
la neĝ' invadas
venkas la urbon;
kaj ni,
popol' venkita
marŝas senespere la stratojn
kun nuko kurba
sub jug' de l' okupanta
armeo blanka.

Printempo, helpon!
Kiam ni aŭdos
fanfaron vian
ĉe l' horizonto?

And a translation into Interlingua, just for fun

Nive

Peste-silente
Le nive invade,
Conquire le citate
E nos
Un populo conqueste,
Passa per despero, in le stratas
Con collos flecte
Sub le jugo del occupante
Armea albe

Succurre, primavera!
Quando nos audira
Vostre fanfar
Transiente le horizonte?

Borges: Everness (From Spanish)

Everness
By Jorge Luis Borges
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

One thing does not exist: Oblivion.
God saves the metal and the dross, his key
Ciphers in his prophetic memory
The moons to come, and moons of evenings gone.

All there: reflections in the looking-glass
Which, between the huge twilights of the day,
Your face has long been leaving where you pass,
And those it will keep leaving on your way.

And everything is part of that diverse
Crystal of memory, the universe;
Unending are the mazes it engenders

Of doors that shut behind as you walk through;
Only from sunset’s farther side shall you
Behold at last the Archetypes and Splendors.

The Original:

Everness
Jorge Luis Borges

Sólo una cosa no hay. Es el olvido.
Dios, que salva el metal, salva la escoria
Y cifra en Su profética memoria
Las lunas que serán y las que han sido.

Ya todo está. Los miles de reflejos
Que entre los dos crepúsculos del día
Tu rostro fue dejando en los espejos
Y los que irá dejando todavía.

Y todo es una parte del diverso
Cristal de esa memoria, el universo;
No tienen fin sus arduos corredores

Y las puertas se cierran a tu paso;
Sólo del otro lado del ocaso
Verás los Arquetipos y Esplendores.