for Yankev Beri
Translation from Yiddish by Merle Bachman
[note. Bachman’s translation from the experimental Yiddish-American modernist poet Mikhl Likht is forerunner to a project now underway by Ariel Resnikoff & Stephen Ross toward a complete translation of Likht’s long poem in nine parts called “Protsesiyes” [Processions]. The (re)discovery of Likht, a contemporary & probable acquaintance of Zukofsky, whose work compares favorably to Zukofsky’s “A” and Pound’s early Cantos & may even be a forerunner to both, seems to me to be a notable event in mapping the full story of experimental American modernism, albeit in another language or possibly just because of that. In subsequent installments of Poems and Poetics I’ll be posting excerpts from Resnikoff’s comparative study of Zukofsky & Likht; & other selections from Bachman’s earlier writings on & translations from Likht can be found here& hereon Poems and Poetics. The present excerpt of course is only part of “Procession Three,” which is itself only a small part of the entire Protsesiyes – originally published in Bachman’s Recovering Yiddishland, Syracuse University Press, 2007. (J.R.)]
fences in dismal lives infringing on their inclinations
in a skeleton of inflexible bars
I hereby give a signal to the Master
to the Overseer : “Stop tormenting!”
gathered treasures in meanness from ecstatic apocrypha:
enough! (or should I better say: “Go further?”)
so a part of my own word-chaos couples
with the clarity of unambiguous meaning
tripped up through the tress of a head-nod
woven and interwoven in a list of tomorrows
rusty strings
from the old Jewish harp
to the Ukrainian lute
with bloodshot eyes
cataract-eyes
pus-pouring
a fence for a hat
UZYALI BRATYA YAWSEFA
HAWTILI YAWKHAW ZABEETI
breadcrumbs in pants pockets
through the
through the enormous fairs
gathered through lice-infested clothes
filthy with blood
Dubno horse-fair
Yarmelinitz diamond-silk-fair
the seller to the buyer
with a spit on the hem
a copper coin
“it should all go well!”
the shul pulls with leaky walls
prays the Afternoon Service
prays sings
multiplies, praying singing
blesses God for surviving
for misfortune’s fortunate outcome
stretches out hands
gropes in the dark
Jew goy
somewhere echo nowhere
with astrological sign-shrouds
the whole kit-and-kaboodle in-the-beginning things
with pure reason thoroughly explicated
with history (the Rebbe with his leather whip)
with samovars ships
telephone and radio
mother dies
old man dies
the young one hopes to educate death
to die to leave forlorn
the wormy raw earth
wrapped in periphrases, rags
schematic hum
hand over the mothers and fathers
Atlantic? fine Pacific? good
any new ships?
not my neighbor’s wife not his ox
do I long for in my prayers
Shabbes without delight no weekly rest
the body’s mystical members one member
I am busy one thought
lies in my head: customers bringing sales
ah! I know my desolate offering
my bulgar-with-beans feast
tossed
a fatal handful of your poor clay huts
like a small bunch of horse-trampled field-flowers
now (no longer hearing) I see your stillness that trickles
echoless
across the little river of the priest’s orchard
across the school up to the mountain with the spacious
now I see the little street where one Pesakh eve at dusk
the urge seized me to pluck hair
from a horse’s tail for a fiddle-bow
and I succeeded in getting my brow
into a sudden, bloody kiss with a horse’s hoof
and spoiled my whole people’s holiday
now the old priest’s burial comes back to me
his heirs came running together from the ends of the earth
seeking a share of the poor village diocese:
the son from a great city with paved streets
in a godforsaken village rainstorm
one daughter the wife of a high-placed official
who lives off a great income
in a miasmatic village bureau
another from somewhere else “a greater more beautiful
life”
all:
after a share of the village diocese inheritance
and Vasil rascal:
wretched blundering thief —
(caught him red-handed, she did, the Bilizerker storekeeper,
tempted me the cursed spirit not my fault
dear Hinde not my fault blame the devil”)
Ukrainian village
pray for your “prosperous” “all achieving” countryman
on Broadway
Translation from Yiddish by Merle Bachman
 |
| Portrait of Mikhl Likht by Evelin Markon, 1927 |
[Prelude]
fences in dismal lives infringing on their inclinations
in a skeleton of inflexible bars
I hereby give a signal to the Master
to the Overseer : “Stop tormenting!”
I grabbed satisfaction nourishing myself on nutshell-fat
made cages from wilted mouth-emanationsgathered treasures in meanness from ecstatic apocrypha:
enough! (or should I better say: “Go further?”)
Only: just as a bit of darkened sky starts to clear
in earlymorning East of sunrise-willfulnessso a part of my own word-chaos couples
with the clarity of unambiguous meaning
And: the newborn that is maliciously stamped “hypermodern”
is yesterday dressed in the present’s bonnettripped up through the tress of a head-nod
woven and interwoven in a list of tomorrows
A1
pindar pindarrusty strings
from the old Jewish harp
to the Ukrainian lute
with bloodshot eyes
cataract-eyes
pus-pouring
a fence for a hat
UZYALI BRATYA YAWSEFA
HAWTILI YAWKHAW ZABEETI
pennies fall
groshns hail down
with yellow rustgroshns hail down
breadcrumbs in pants pockets
see
look throughthrough the
through the enormous fairs
gathered through lice-infested clothes
filthy with blood
Dubno horse-fair
Yarmelinitz diamond-silk-fair
the seller to the buyer
with a spit on the hem
a copper coin
“it should all go well!”
the shul pulls with leaky walls
prays the Afternoon Service
prays sings
multiplies, praying singing
blesses God for surviving
for misfortune’s fortunate outcome
arm in arm with his God
(churchbells from mountain steeples)gropes in the dark
Jew goy
Jew where are you going
goy whereB1
where does the Jew go
goy, wheresomewhere echo nowhere
(somewhere) with 36 righteous volumes
crammed with hints one and zeroes in numberwith astrological sign-shrouds
the whole kit-and-kaboodle in-the-beginning things
with pure reason thoroughly explicated
with history (the Rebbe with his leather whip)
with samovars ships
telephone and radio
your hand brother misfortune (and how much have you
collected already for the Keren HaYesod?)
the heavy doing-hand writes prescriptions chips away quartz
plastered about somewhere echo nowhereme to you entirely equal: somewhere-in-nowhere
child with mother-nipple in mouth
old man with pipe-stem in mouthmother dies
old man dies
the young one hopes to educate death
to die to leave forlorn
the wormy raw earth
C1
come come weak eagle comewrapped in periphrases, rags
schematic hum
hand over the mothers and fathers
conceal for a minute
a gas-bill demanding centsAtlantic? fine Pacific? good
any new ships?
I’m guilty one sin:
bathing in Tuneyadevker gossipnot my neighbor’s wife not his ox
do I long for in my prayers
a bird firedove where
is Mother Rachel’s grave?Shabbes without delight no weekly rest
the body’s mystical members one member
the poor man by the door
must wait long hoursI am busy one thought
lies in my head: customers bringing sales
my head lies in a caress
not on the Shekhine’s but foolish on my beloved’s breasta shatnes pants-belt no pretty ritual sash
divides heavenly from earthlyfolds of scabrous night-nap
on a pillow white as down black as pitchah! I know my desolate offering
my bulgar-with-beans feast
[Interlude]
my beloved little old village on a rolling hill
of the nearby Carpathianstossed
a fatal handful of your poor clay huts
like a small bunch of horse-trampled field-flowers
now (no longer hearing) I see your stillness that trickles
echoless
across the little river of the priest’s orchard
across the school up to the mountain with the spacious
Christian cemetery
like a pointed yarmulkeon the mountain’s headnow I see the little street where one Pesakh eve at dusk
the urge seized me to pluck hair
from a horse’s tail for a fiddle-bow
and I succeeded in getting my brow
into a sudden, bloody kiss with a horse’s hoof
and spoiled my whole people’s holiday
now the old priest’s burial comes back to me
his heirs came running together from the ends of the earth
seeking a share of the poor village diocese:
the son from a great city with paved streets
in a godforsaken village rainstorm
one daughter the wife of a high-placed official
who lives off a great income
in a miasmatic village bureau
another from somewhere else “a greater more beautiful
life”
all:
after a share of the village diocese inheritance
and Vasil rascal:
wretched blundering thief —
(caught him red-handed, she did, the Bilizerker storekeeper,
with a bit of unpaid-for soap
in his goyish hairy bosom he didn’t
argue too much answered back: “the demontempted me the cursed spirit not my fault
dear Hinde not my fault blame the devil”)
ah Vasil!
ah buried priest!
ah rare still nights with shikse-song
with sheygets-whistle in my poor exotic wildUkrainian village
pray for your “prosperous” “all achieving” countryman
on Broadway