Introductory Note:
Following are my translations from the Hebrew of four poems by Yakir Ben Moshe. I’ve been working on translating his second book, Tinshom Amok Ata Nirgash, “Take a Breath, You’re Getting Excited.” I’ve been drawn to this book by its mixture of playfulness, honesty, and the way Ben Moshe uses bold metaphor to move from the mundane to the mysterious. I am fluent in Hebrew, and I work directly from the originals, checking difficult spots with native speakers. I do a first draft to get the literal sense and then revise toward a strong line and poem in English.
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If not for this Innocence for Okiko
You come to me as autumn comes to a treedelicately,removing my leaves.Not that that I’m naked. Here the silence sinks.Listen to the stars rustle in the sky,the moon’s medallion knocking at your heart–we turn over, oneafter the other,like leaf-cover rocking in wind.
The Poet Does Not Leave His House
Like two slow hands of the world’s clockthe poet and his house march their voicein measured gaps:the poet begets his language to a joyful refrain,his house casts its notes behind.How sleeveless is the word house,how naked a voicegrazing on letters at the throat’s doorstep.The poet does not go out,poetry goes out instead.Rapidly,like silence sprayed from lying—poetry goes out of the house,from the body rejoicing in its bodiliness.
That’s how it is
On the old home toiletlistening to Brahm’s Piano Quintet in F Minor.Body wrinkled because of missilesthat are not falling on Tel Aviv.Nasraalah on TV, a hat on, hair combed.I’m afraid. Yesterday at the memorial for BialikI leaned on Sarah Gruzhinsky, youngest in the section,only twenty-four years in the grave. It’s like that when you try to synchronizeclocks with death, while consciousness goes wildwithout a diaper between the thighs.
Coffee trembling in hand
Chopin’s Mazurka crawls into Saturdaywhen I’m with myself in the room. Rubenstein on the internetplays from the computer a work recorded in the thirtiesof the previous century, a hundred years after it was composedby a young man in love while I, only I,try to write a poem about something almost touching.Barely panting with myself, barely managingto settle my gaze on the sofa, coffee trembling in hand.A mazurka flows into Saturday like a luxury linerinto my life. Sailors bustle between piano keys& the captain can barely be seen, his hat askew in shockas he discerns the flash of a wave yawning on the horizon.O captain, how much life must we crossbefore we bring our ship back to shore, before we say to Saturdaytake the mazurka with your chubby hand & look upon usbecause our lives call for mercy. If only for one single voyage.
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Photo by Johnny Brown on Unsplash