More Poetry for Poetry Month

Here's another that I always have trouble getting through. Perhaps a little maudlin, but wonderful nonetheless. Leah Goldberg's "From My Mother's Home", as translated by Ezra Spicehandler:

My mother’s mother died in the spring
of her day. And her daughter did not
remember her face. Her image,
engraved upon my grandfather’s heart,
was erased from the world of figures
after his death.

Only her mirror remained in the house,
grown deeper with age within its silver
frames. And I, her pale granddaughter,
who do not resemble her, look into it
today as if into a lake that hides its
Treasures beneath the water.

Deep down, behind my face, I see a
young woman, pink-cheeked, smiling.
She is wearing a wig. Now she is
hanging a long earring from her ear
lobe, threading it through the tiny
opening in the dainty flesh of her ear.

Deep down, behind my face, glows the
clear golden speck of her eyes. And the
mirror carries on the family tradition:
that she was very beautiful.

(Sorry again for no Hebrew; couldn't get the formatting to work. Will try to post it later).

More Poetry for Poetry Month

So my mom (a lifetime lover of poetry, especially Hebraica) reminded me of this poem by Natan Alterman. Here's her email:

Yair, I have been been following your blog concerning poetry in the month of April and all I can think of is this poem, which is so poignant around Yom Ha-zikaron and Yom Ha-atzma'ut. It's the most recited poem at this time of year along with David's lament on the death of Saul and Jonathan at the beginning of Samuel 2.

Sorry I can't include the Hebrew text (I can't get the formatting to work). but at least you can check out the link.

The Silver Platter

Natan Alterman

And the land grows still, the red eye of the sky
slowly dimming over smoking frontiers

As the nation arises, Torn at heart but
breathing, To receive its miracle, the only
miracle

As the ceremony draws near, it will rise,
standing erect in the moonlight in terror and
joy

When across from it will step out a youth and
a lass and slowly march toward the nation

Dressed in battle gear, dirty, Shoes heavy
with grime, they ascend the path quietly

To change garb, to wipe their brow
They have not yet found time. Still bone weary
from days and from nights in the field

Full of endless fatigue and unrested,
Yet the dew of their youth is still seen on
their head

Thus they stand at attention, giving no sign of
life or death

Then a nation in tears and amazement
will ask: "Who are you?"

And they will answer quietly, "We are the
silver platter on which the Jewish state was
given."

Thus they will say and fall back in shadows
And the rest will be told In the chronicles of
Israel