On the Attitude toward Children in Times of War
He who destroys thirty babies
it is as if he’d destroyed three hundred babies,
and toddlers too,
or even eight-and-a-half year olds;
in a year, God willing, they’d be soldiers
in the Palestine Liberation Army.
Benighted children,
at their age
they don’t even have a real world view.
And their future is shrouded, too:
refugee shacks, unwashed faces,
sewage flowing in the streets,
infected eyes,
a negative outlook on life.
And thus began the flight from city to village,
from village to burrows in the hills.
As when a man did flee from a lion,
as when he did flee from a bear,
as when he did flee from a cannon,
from an airplane, from our own troops.
He who destroys thirty babies,
it is as if he’d destroyed one thousand and thirty,
or one thousand and seventy,
thousand upon thousand.
And for that alone shall he find
no peace.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
De schrijfster vertelt erbij dat dit een variatie is op een gedicht van Natan Zach dat op een sarcastische manier handelt over de vraag of er overdreven werd in het aantal kinderen dat vermoord werd in de Libanonoorlog in 1982.
De zinsnede He who destroys …babies komt uit de Babylonische Talmud, Sanhedrin 4:5: “He who destroys a single human soul…., it is as if he had destroyed an entire world.”
De zinsnede As when a man did flee from a lion, as when he did flee from a bear, slaat op Amos 5:19 over het gevaar van de apocalyptische verlangens.
Hovering at a low altitude
I am not here.
I am on those craggy eastern hills
where grass doesn’t grow
and a sweeping shadow overruns the slope.
A little shepherd girl
with a herd of goats,
black goats,
emerges suddenly
from an unseen tent.
She won’t live out the day, that girl,
in the pasture.
I am not here.
Inside the gaping mouth of the mountain
a red globe flares,
not yet a sun.
A lesion of frost, flushed and sickly,
revolves in that maw.
And the little one rose so early
to go to the pasture.
She doesn’t walk with neck outstretched
and wanton glances.
She doesn’t paint her eyes with kohl.
She doesn’t ask, Whence cometh my help.
I am not here.
I’ve been in the mountains many days now.
The light will not scorch me. The frost cannot touch me.
Nothing can amaze me now.
I’ve seen worse things in my life.
I tuck my dress tight around my legs and hover
very close to the ground.
What ever was she thinking, that girl?
Wild to look at, unwashed.
For a moment she crouches down.
Her cheeks soft silk,
frostbite on the back of her hand.
She seems distracted, but no,
in fact she’s alert.
She still has a few hours left.
But that’s hardly the object of my meditations.
My thoughts, soft as down, cushion me comfortably.
I’ve found a very simple method,
not so much as a foot-breadth on land
and not flying, either—
hovering at a low altitude.
But as day tends toward noon,
many hours
after sunrise,
that man makes his way up the mountain.
He looks innocent enough.
The girl is right there, near him,
not another soul around.
And if she runs for cover, or cries out—
there’s no place to hide in the mountains.
I am not here.
I’m above those savage mountain ranges
No need to elaborate.
With a single hurling thrust one can hover
and whirl about with the speed of the wind.
Can make a getaway and persuade myself:
I haven’t seen a thing.
And the little one, her eyes start from their sockets,
her palate is dry as a potsherd,
when a hard hand grasps her hair, gripping her
without a shred of pity.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
De titel Hovering at al ow Altitude, is taal van het israelisch leger om helikopter patrouilles te beschrijven. “To hover (le-rachef) is ook ‘slang’ voor ‘to stay cool”, een dissociatie van de politieke situatie.
Neck outstretched…wanton glances … paint her eyes: ontkenning van Jes. 3,16ff, Jer. 4,30, Ezech 23,40 waar de profeet Sion neerzet als een hoerende vrouw
Whence cometh my help: ontkenning van Psalm 121,1-2 Ik hef mijn ogen op naar de bergen, vanwaar mijn hulp zal komen? Mijn hulp komt van de Heer.
foot-breadth (Hebr. midrakh kaf-regel): Deut. 2,4-5: U gaat door het gebied van uw broeders trekken, de kinderen van Ezau, die in Seïr wonen. Zij zullen wel bevreesd voor u zijn, maar u moet zeer op uw hoede zijn. Ga niet de strijd met hen aan, want Ik zal u van hun land nog geen voetbreed (foot-breadth) geven.
A Mother Walks Around
A mother walks around with a child dead in her belly.
This child hasn’t been born yet.
When his time is up the dead child will be born
head first, then trunk and buttocks
and he won’t wave his arms about or cry his first cry
and they won’t slap his bottom
won’t put drops in his eyes
won’t swaddle him
after washing the body.
He will not resemble a living child.
His mother will not be calm and proud after giving birth
and she won’t be troubled about his future,
won’t worry how in the world to support him
and does she have enough milk
and does she have enough clothing
and how will she ever fit one more cradle into the room.
The child is a perfect “tzadik” already,
unmade ere he was ever made.
And he’ll have his own little grave at the edge of the cemetery
and a little memorial day
and there won’t be much to remember him by.
These are the chronicles of the child
who was killed in his mother’s belly
in the month of January, in the year 1988,
“under circumstances relating to state security.”
Dahlia Ravikovitch
Het begrip Tzadik dat Ravikovitch hier gebruikt staat voor een rechtvaardige Jood die in de lijn van de geboden zijn leven in dienst heeft gesteld van God. Een Palestijns ongeboren kind zo noemen – slachtoffer van geweld – is bijzonder. Maar elke dode baby – elk vermoord kind – valt hieronder…
De zinsnede unmade ere he was ever made alludeert op de hymne Adon Olam (“meester van het universum”) waar God wordt beschreven als heersend voordat een enkel schepsel was geschapen.
On the Road at Night there stands the man
On the road at night there stands the man
Who once upon a time was my father
And I must go down to the place where he stands
Because I was his firstborn daughter.
Night after night he stands alone in his place
And I must go down and stand in that place.
And I wanted to ask him: Till when must I go.
And I knew as I asked: I must always go.
In the place where he stands, there is a trace of danger
Like the day he walked that road and a car ran him over.
And that’s how I knew him and marked him to remember:
This very man was once my father
Dahlia Ravikovitch
Clockwork Doll
I was a clockwork doll, but then
That night I turned left, right, round and around
And fell on my face, cracked on the ground,
And skillful hands tried to piece me together again.
Then once more I was a proper doll
And all my manner was demure and polite.
But I became damaged goods that night,
A fractured twig with only tendrils to prevent a fall.
And then I went invited to dance at the ball
But they cast me me with the writhing dogs and cats
Though all my steps were measured and true.
And my hair was golden, and my eyes were blue
And I had a dress printed in garden flower sprawl,
And a trim of cherries tacked to my straw hat.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
Dress of Fire (The Dress)
You know, she said, they made you
a dress of fire.
Remember how Jason’s wife burned in her dress?
It was Medea, she said, Medea did that to her.
You’ve got to be careful, she said,
they made you a dress that glows
like an ember, that burns like coals.
Are you going to wear it, she said, don’t wear it.
It’s not the wind whistling, it’s the poison
seeping in.
You’re not even a princess, what can you do to Medea?
Can’t you tell one sound from another, she said,
it’s not the wind whistling.
Remember, I told her, that time when I was six?
They shampooed my hair and I went out into the street.
The smell o shampoo trailed after me like a cloud.
Then I got sick from the wind and the rain.
I didn’t know a thing about reading Greek tragedies,
but the smell of the perfume spread
and I was very sick.
Now I can see it’s an unnatural perfume.
What will happen to you now, she said,
they made you a burning dress.
They made me a burning dress, I said. I know.
So why are you standing there, she said,
you’ve got to be careful.
You know what a burning dress is, don’t you?
I know, I said, but I don’t know
how to be careful.
The smell of that perfume confuses me.
I said to her, No one has to agree with me,
I don’t believe in Greek tragedies.
But the dress, she said, the dress is on fire.
What are you saying, I shouted,
what are you saying?
I’m not wearing a dress at all,
what’s burning is me.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
translated by Chana Bloch and Ariel Bloch
Delight
There did I know a delight beyond all delight,
And it came to pass upon the Sabbath day
As tree boughs reached for the sky with all their might.
Round and round like a river streamed the light,
And the wheel of the eye craved the sunwheel that day
Then did I know a delight beyond all delight.
The heads of the bushes blazed, insatiable bright
Sunlight striking the waves, igniting the spray.
It would swallow my head like a golden orange, that light.
Water lilies were gaping their yellow bright
Mouths to swallow the ripples and reeds in their way.
And indeed it came to pass on the Sabbath day
As tree boughs lusted for the sky with all their might,
And then did I know a delight beyond all delight.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
At Her Own Pace
A woman is holding a small photo.
She is no longer in her prime.
Travels a lot. Airplane. Suitcase.
For months on end, she stays
with relatives of hers.
“At your pace I couldn’t,” she says.
An introverted woman,
gentle in her ways.
People give in to her. She gives in too.
She’s on the move again. Airplane. Suitcase.
Nothing was set in advance.
The phone rang. She was flooded with a joy
that could tear the heavens open. He’s a man who’s not hers
in the full sense of the word.
She walks from room to room alone. An endless calm.
In the innermost circle of her being, she’s torn to pieces.
On the outside she’s calm. Doesn’t really seek
to take possession.
A small passport photo in her hand.
He’s wearing a tie. A featureless face,
I would say. For her he’s really
the world entire.
Apart from that, outside the innermost circle
she’s calm and recoiling
at her own pace.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
MECHANICAL DOLL
And that night I was a mechanical doll
and I turned right and left, to all sides
and I fell on my face and broke to bits,
and they tried to put me together with skillful hands
And then I went back to being a correct doll
and all my manners were studied and compliant.
But by then I was a different kind of doll
like a wounded twig hanging by a tendril.
And then I went to dance at a ball,
but they left me in the company of cats and dogs
even though all my steps were measured and patterned.
And I had golden hair and I had blue eyes
and I had a dress the color of the flowers in the garden
and I had a straw hat decorated with a cherry.
DAHLIA RAVIKOVICH
Translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut
GET OUT OF BEIRUT
Take the knapsacks
and the utensils and washtubs
and the books of the Koran
and the army fatigues
and the tall tales and the torn soul
and whatever’s left, bread or meat,
and kids running around like chickens in the village.
How many children do you have?
How many children did you have?
It’s hard to keep tabs on kids in a situation like this.
Not like in the old country
in the shade of the mosque and the fig tree,
when the children the children would be shooed outside by day
and put to bed at night.
Put whatever isn’t fragile into sacks,
clothes and blankets and bedding and diapers
and something for a souvenir
like a shiny artillery shell perhaps,
or some kind of useful tool,
and the babies with rheumy eyes
and the R.P.G. kids.
We want to see you in the water, sailing aimlessly
with no harbor and no shore.
You won’t be accepted anywhere
You are banished human beings.
You are people who don’t count
You are people who aren’t needed
You are a pinch of lice
stinging and itching
to madness.
DAHLIA RAVIKOVICH
Translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut
A BABY CAN’T BE KILLED TWICE
On the sewage puddles of Sabra and Shattila
there you transferred masses of human beings
worthy of respect
from the world of the living to the world of the dead.
Night after night.
First they shot
then they hung
and finally slaughtered with knives.
Terrified women rushed up
from over the dust hills:
“There they slaughter us
in Shatilla”
A narrow tail of the new moon hung
above the camps.
Our soldiers illuminated the place with flares
like daylight.
“Back to the camps, March!” the soldier commanded
the screaming women of Sabra and shatilla.
He had orders to follow,
And the children were already laid in the puddles of waste,
their mouths open,
at rest.
Noone will harm them.
A baby can’t be killed twice.
And the tail of the moon filled out
until it turned into a loaf of whole gold.
Our dear sweet soldiers,
asked nothing for themselves –
how strong was their hunger
to return home in peace.
DAHLIA RAVIKOVICH
Translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut
An Unsatisfactory Answer to The Question *
An Unsatisfactory Answer to The Question
What do you think of the murder of the Prime Minister?
Yes, what do you think of the murder
of the Prime Minister?
And what do you feel?
Are you in shock
or depressed?
A question was asked.
And do you stutter
or are you unsure of what will happen,
or do you speak with such bewilderment
because of the future or the present—
A question was asked.
And perhaps you feel stupid
or without a point of view?
Answer.
And I reply:
All that you say is right
and you are a dear person.
And I want to add one more thing:
The Prime minister died a happy man.
Peace to the dust of the Prime Minister
Husband and father and something more:
the son of Red Rosa.
DAHLIA RAVIKOVICH
Translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut
THE TALE OF THE ARAB WHO DIED BY FIRE
When the fire grabbed his body, it didn’t happen by degrees.
There was no burst of heat before,
or giant wave of smothering smoke
and the feeling of a spare room one wants to escape to.
The fire held him at once
–there are no metaphors for this –
it peeled off his clothes
cleaved to his flesh.
The skin nerves were the first to be touched.
The hair was consumed.
God! They are burning! he shouted.
And that is all he could do in self-defense.
The flesh was already burning between the shack’s boards
that fed the fire in the first stage.
There was already no consciousness in him.
The fire burning his flesh
numbed his sense of future
and the memories of his family.
and he had no more ties to his childhood
and he didn’t ask for revenge, salvation,
or to see the dawn of the next day.
He just wanted to stop burning.
But his body supported the conflagration
and he was as if bound and fettered,
and of that too he did not think.
And he continued to burn by the power of his body
made of hair and wax and tendons.
And he burned a long time.
And from his throat inhuman voices issued
for many of his human functions had already ceased,
except for the pain the nerves transmit
in electric impulses
to the pain center in the brain.
and that didn’t last longer than a day.
And it was good that his soul was freed that day
because he deserved to rest.
DAHLIA RAVIKOVICH
Translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut
The Second Trying
If I could only get hold of the whole of you,
How could I ever get hold of the whole of you,
Even more than the most beloved idols,
More than mountains quarried whole,
More than mines
Of burning coal,
Let’s say mines of extinguished coal
And the breath of day like a fiery furnace.
If one could get hold of you for all the years,
How could one get hold of you from all the years,
How could one lengthen a single arm,
Like a single branch of an African river,
As one sees in a dream the Bay of Storms,
As one sees in a dream a ship that went down,
The way one imagines a cushion of clouds,
Lily-clouds as the body’s cushion,
But though you will it, they will not convey you,
Do not believe that they will convey you.
If one could get hold of all-of-the-whole-of-you,
If one could get hold of you like metal,
Say like pillars of copper,
Say like a pillar of purple copper
(That pillar I remembered last summer)—
And the bottom of the ocean I have never seen,
And the bottom of the ocean that I can see
With its thousand heavy thickets of air,
A thousand and one laden breaths.
If one could only get hold of the-whole-of-you-now,
How could you ever be for me what I myself am?
DAHLIA RAVIKOVITCH
TRANSLATED BY CHANA BLOCH
The Love of an Orange
An orange did love
The man who ate it.
A feast for the eyes
Is a fine repast;
Its heart held fast
His greedy gaze.
A citron did scold:
I am wiser than thou.
A cedar condoled:
Indeed thou shalt die!
And who can revive
A withered bough?
The citron did urge:
O fool, be wise.
The cedar did rage:
Slander and sin!
Repent of thy ways
For a fool I despise.
An orange did love
With life and limb
The man who ate it,
The man who flayed it.
An orange did love
The man who ate it,
To its flayer it brought
Flesh for the teeth.
An orange, consumed
By the man who ate it,
Invaded his skin
To the flesh beneath.
DAHLIA RAVIKOVITCH
TRANSLATED BY CHANA BLOCH
הבגד
אַתְּ יוֹדַעַת, הִיא אָמְרָה, תָּפְרוּ לָך בֶּגֶד מֵאֵשׁ,
אַתְּ זוֹכֶרֶת אֵיך נִשְׂרְפָה אִשְׁתּוֹ שֶׁל יָאזוֹן בִּבְגָדֶיהָ?
זֹאת מֵדֵיאָה, הִיא אָמְרָה, הַכֹּל עָשְׂתָה לָהּ מֵדֵיאָה.
אַתְּ צְרִיכָה לִהְיוֹת זְהִירָה, הִיא אָמְרָה.
תָּפְרוּ לָך בֶּגֶד מַזְהִיר כְּמוֹ רֶמֶץ,
בּוֹעֵר כְּמוֹ גֶּחָלִים.
אַתְּ תִלְבְּשִׁי אוֹתוֹ? הִיא אָמְרָה, אַל תִלְבְּשִׁי אוֹתוֹ.
זֶה לֹא הָרוּחַ שׁוֹרֵק, זֶה הָרַעַל מְפַעְפֵּעַ.
אֲפִילוּ אֵינֵך נְסִיכָה, מַה תַּעֲשִׂי לְמֵדֵיאָה?
אַתְּ צְרִיכָה לְהַבְחִין בְּקוֹלוֹת, הִיא אָמְרָה,
זֶה לֹא הָרוּחַ שׂוֹרֵק.
אַתְּ זוֹכֶרֶת, אָמַרְתִּי לָהּ, אֶת הַזְּמָן שֶהׇיִיתִי בַּת שֵׁשׁ?
חָפְפוּ אֶת רֹאשִׁי בְּשַׁמְפּוֹ וְכָך יָצָאתִי לָרְחוֹב.
רֵיחַ הַחֲפִיפָה נִמְשָׁך אַחֲרַי כְּעָנָן.
אַחַר כָּך הָיִיתִי חוֹלָה מִן הָרוּחַ וּמִן הַגֶּשֶׁם.
עוֹד לֹא הֵבַנְתִּי לִקְרוֹא אָז טְרָגֶדִיוֹת יְוָנִיּוֹת,
אֲבָל רֵיחַ הַבֹּשֶׂם נִדָּף וְהָיִיתִי חוֹלָה מְאֹד.
הַיּוֹם אֲנִי מְבִינָה שֶׁזֶּה בֹּשֶׂם בִּלְתִּי טִבְעִי.
מַה יִהְיֶה אִתָּך, הִיא אָמְרָה, תָּפְרוּ לָך בֶּגֶד בּוֹעֵר.
תָּפְרוּ לִי בֶּגֶד בּוֹעֵר, אָמַרְתִּי, אֲנִי יוֹדַעַת.
אָז מַה אַתְּ עוֹמֶדֶת, אָמְרָה, אֶת צְרִיכָה לְהִזָּהֵר,
הַאִם אַתְּ לֹא יוֹדַעַת מַה זֶה בֶּגֶד בּוֹעֵר?
אֲנִי יוֹדַעַת, אָמַרְתִּי, אֲבָל לֹא לְהִזָּהֵר.
רֵיחַ הַבֹּשֶׂם הַהוּא מְבַלְבֵּל אֶת דַּעְתִּי.
אָמַרְתִּי לָהּ: אַף אֶחָד לֹא חַיָּב לְהַסְכִּים אִתִּי.
אֵינֶנִּי נוֹתֶנֶת אֵמוּן בִּטְרׇגֶדִיו֯ת יְוָנִיּוֹת.
אֲבָל הַבֶּגֶד, אָמְרָה, הַבֶּגֶד בּוֹעֵר בָּאֵשׁ.
מַה אַתְּ אוֹמֶרֶת, צָעַקְתִּי, מַה אַתְּ אוֹמֶרֶת?
אֵין עָלַי בֶּגֶד בִּכְלָל, הָרֵי זֹאת אֲנִי הַבּוֹעֶרֶת.
1969, Dahlia Ravikovitch
Het gewaad
Weet je, zei ze, ze hebben een gewaad van vuur voor je gemaakt,
Weet je nog hoe Jasons vrouw in haar kleren verbrandde?
Het was Medea, zei ze, Medea die het haar allemaal aandeed.
Ze zei: je moet voorzichtig zijn.
Ze hebben een gewaad voor je gemaakt, fonkelend als sintel
Gloeiend als kolen.
Ga je het dragen? zei ze. Je moet het niet dragen.
Het is de wind niet die je hoort,
Het is het gif dat doorsijpelt.
Je bent niet eens een prinses, wat kan jij Medea doen?
Je moet de geluiden goed onderscheiden, zei ze,
Het is de wind niet die daar fluit.
Weet je nog die keer, zei ik haar, toen ik zes was?
Mijn haar was met shampoo gewassen en ik ging zo de straat op.
De geur van shampoo volgde mij als een wolk.
Daarna werd ik ziek van de wind en de regen.
Ik wist toen nog niet hoe je Griekse tragedies moest lezen,
Maar de geur van parfum bleef hangen en ik was heel ziek.
Nu weet ik dat het een onnatuurlijk parfum was.
Hoe moet het nu, zei ze, ze hebben een brandend gewaad voor je gemaakt.
Ze hebben een brandend gewaad voor me gemaakt, zei ik, dat weet ik.
Wat sta je daar zo, zei ze, je moet voorzichtig zijn,
Weet je niet wat het is, een brandend gewaad?
Dat weet ik wel, zei ik, maar niet hoe ik voorzichtig moet zijn.
Die parfumgeur brengt me in de war.
Ik zei: niemand hoeft het met mij eens te zijn,
Ik heb geen vertrouwen in Griekse tragedies.
Maar het gewaad, zei ze, het gewaad staat in vlam.
Wat zeg je, schreeuwde ik, wat zeg je?
Ik draag helemaal geen gewaad, ik ben het zelf die brandt.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
Vertaling: 1977, Shulamith Bamberger
Pride
Even rocks crack, I’m telling you,
and not on account of age.
For years they lie on their backs
in the heat and the cold,
so many years,
it almost creates the illusion of calm.
They don’t move, so the cracks stay hidden.
A kind of pride.
Years pass over them as they wait.
Whoever is going to shatter them
hasn’t come yet.
And so the moss flourishes, the seaweed
whips around,
the sea bursts forth and rolls back —
and still they seem motionless.
Till a little seal comes to rub up against the rocks,
comes and goes.
And suddenly the rock has an open wound.
I told you, when rocks crack, it comes as a surprise.
All the more so, people.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
Translation: 1989, Chana Bloch and Ariel Bloch
מלחמה בזנזיבר
בִּשְׁנוֹת הַמִּלְחָמָה הַפְּרוּעׇה
יָצָא סוֹכֵן בִּשְלִיחּות סו֯דִית
לְזַנְזִיבׇּר בְּאַפְרִיקׇה,
וְעַד עַתָּה לֹא נִמְצָא פִּגְרו֯.
בָּעֵת הַהִיא מִסְפָּר נְעָרִים
הָיוּ תו֯לִים עֵינֵיהֶם בַּשָּׁמַיִם,
הָיוּ מְכַוְּצִים עֵינֵיהֶם לִרְאוֹת
אִם יָרַד מַצְנֵחַ לְתו֯ך הַגּ’וּנְגֶל.
שְבוּעַיִם יָמִים בְּתוֹך הַגּ’וּנְגֶל
הָיוּ תו֯לִים עֵינֵיהֶם בׇּרׇקִיעַ,
כְּמוֹ גֶּשֶׁם עָצוּר בִּמְעֵי הַשָּׁמַיִם
בְּכָל זַנְזִיבִׇר לֹא יָרַד מַצְנֵחַ.
בַּחֲצוֹת הַלֵּילוֹת צָפָה גֻלְגֹּלֶת
פְּנֵי הַיָּרֵחַ כְּפֶגֶר שָׁט,
לַמְרוֹת רְצו֯נו֯ הֶחָזָק מִפֶּלֶד
הוּא לֹא הִגִּיעַ אֶל זַנְזִיבָּר.
בְּתוֹך מַחֲנָק בִּקְתוֹת הַשַּׁחַת,
גֵרְדוּ הַנְּעָרִים אֶת עוֹרָם הַלָּבָן,
בְּזַנְזִיבָּר, בִּשְׂדֵה הַשֶלֶף,
יוֹמָם חָשַׁך עֲלֵיהֶם פִּתְאוֹם.
1964, Dahlia Ravikovitch
Zanzibar
In de jaren van de woeste oorlog
Ging een agent op een geheime missie
Naar Zanzibar, in Afrika, en zijn lijk
Is tot op heden niet teruggevonden.
In die tijd stond een aantal jongens
Met de ogen naar de hemel geheven,
Turend of ze misschien een valscherm
In het oerwoud zagen landen.
Twee weken lang midden in het oerwoud
Met hun ogen naar het zwerk geheven
En als regen opgehouden in ’s hemels darmen
Kwam er in heel Zanzibar geen valscherm neer.
Te middernachten kwam de schedel van de maan
Als een zwevend lijk boven hen drijven.
Zijn wilskracht was sterker dan staal en toch
Arriveerde hij niet in Zanzibar.
In de benauwde strohutten zaten de jongens
Aan hun witte huid te krauwen en te krabben,
In het stoppelveld daar in Zanzibar,
Zagen ze hun dag ineens verduisteren.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
Vertaling: 1977, Shulamith Bamberger
סוף הנפילה
אִם אָדָם נוֹפֵל מִּמׇּטו֯ס בְּאֶמְצַע הַלַּיְלָה
רַק אֱלֹהִים לְבַדּוֹ יָכוֹל לְהַרִים אוֹתוֹ.
אֱלֹהִים מו֯פִיעַ אֶצְלוֹ בְּאֶמְצַע הַלַּיְלָה
וְנו֯גֵעַ בׇּאִישׁ וּמֵפִיג אֶת יִסּוּרָיו.
אֱלֹהִים אֵינוֹ מוֹחֶה אֶת דָּמוֹ
כִּי הַדָּם אֵינוֹ הַנֶּפֶשׁ,
אֱלֹהִים אֵינוֹ מְפַנֵּק אֶת אֲבׇרׇיו
כִּי הָאִישׁ אֵינוֹ בָּשָׂר.
אֱלֹהִים גו֯חֵן אֵלָיו, מֵרִים אֶת רֹאשׁוֹ וּמַבִּיט בּוֹ.
בְּעֵינֵי אֱלֹהִים הָאִישׁ הוּא יֶלֶד קָטָן.
הוּא קָם בִּכְבֵדוּת עַל אַרְבַּע וְרו֯צֶה לָלֶכֶת,
וְאָז הוּא מַרְגִּישׁ שֵׁישׁ לוֹ כְּנׇפַיִים לׇעוּף.
עֲדַיִן הָאִישׁ מְבֻלְבָּל וְאֵינוֹ יוֹדֵעַ
שֶנׇּעִים יו֯תֵר לְרַחֵף מֵאֲשֶׁר לִזְחֹל.
אֱלֹהִים מְבַקֵּשׁ לְלַטֵּף אֶת רֹאשׁוֹ
אֲבָל הוּא מִתְמַהְמֵהַּ,
הוּא אֵינוֹ רוֹצֶה לְהַבְהִיל אֶת הָאִישׁ
בְּאוֹתוֹת שֶׁל אַהֲבָה.
אִם אָדָם נוֹפֵל מִּמׇּטו֯ס בְּאֶמְצַע הַלַּיְלָה
רַק אֱלֹהִים מַכִּיר אֶת סוֹף הַנְפִילׇה.
1969, Dahlia Ravikovitch
Het einde van de val
Als iemand midden in de nacht uit een vliegtuig valt
Kan God alleen hem oprapen.
God verschijnt dan voor hem, midden in de nacht,
Hij raakt hem aan en doet zijn pijn verdwijnen.
God veegt zijn bloed niet af,
Het bloed is immers niet de ziel,
God streelt zijn lichaam niet,
De man is immers niet van vlees.
God buigt zich over hem, pakt zijn hoofd op en kijkt hem aan.
In Gods ogen is de man een klein kind.
Moeizaam staat hij op handen en voeten op en wil al lopen,
Maar hij merkt dat hij vleugels heeft om mee te vliegen.
De man is nog verward en weet niet
Dat vliegen prettiger is dan kruipen.
God wil hem over zijn hoofd aaien
Maar Hij talmt nog,
Hij wil de man niet laten schrikken
Met tekenen van liefde.
Als iemand midden in de nacht uit een vliegtuig valt
Kent God alleen het einde van de val.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
Vertaling: 1977, Shulamith Bamberger
What a Time She Had!
How did that story go?
As a rule she wouldn’t have remembered so quickly.
In that soil no vineyard would grow.
A citrus grove stood there,
sickly,
stunted.
The single walnut tree blooming there bore no fruit
as if some essential life-giving element
were lacking in that soil.
Hard green lemons.
A balding patch of lawn.
A great tranquillity.
On the western side, the hedge went wild
and there was a honeysucker, of course
(today we’d call it a sunbird)
-if he were still alive
he’d be twenty years old.
In the valley, the army was hunting down human beings.
Fire in the thicket.
Summer’s hellfire blazing as usual.
Evening mowing down shadows, merciless.
Now she is a mother: On the Attitude towards Children in Times of War
Dahlia Ravikovitch
The Fruit of the Land
You asked if we’ve got enough cannons.
They laughed and said: More than enough
and we’ve got new improved antitank missiles
and bunker busters to penetrate
double-slab reinforced concrete
and we’ve got crates of napalm and crates of explosives,
unlimited quantities, cornucopias,
a feast for the soul, like some finely seasoned delicacy
and above all, that secret weapon,
the one we don’t talk about.
Calm down, man,
the intel officer and the CO
and the border police chief
who’s also a colonel in that hush-hush commando unit
are all primed for the order: Go!
and everything’s shined up like the skin of a snake
and we’ve got chocolate wafers on every base
and grape juice and Tempo soda
and that’s why we won’t give in to terror
we will not fold in the face of violence
we’ll never fold no matter what
‘cause our billy clubs are nice and hard.
God, who has chosen us from all the nations,
comforteth with apples
the fighting arm of the IDF
and the iron boxes and the crates of fresh explosives
and we’ve got cluster bombs too,
though of course that’s off the record.
Serve us bourekas and cake, O woman of the house,
for we were slaves in the land of Egypt
but never again,
and blot out the remembrance of Amalek
if you track him down,
and if you seek him without success
Blessed be the tiny match
that a soldier in some crack unit will suddenly strike
and set off the whole bloody mess
Dahlia Ravikovitch
Two Isles Hath New Zealand
Africa’s not the place to go right now.
Plagues, famine — the human body can’t bear it.
Brutality. They flog human beings with bull-whips.
Asia — it would make your hair stand on end.
Trapped in the mountains, trapped in the swamps.
The human body can’t bear it,
There are limits to the life force, after all.
As for me,
He shall make me lie down in green pastures
in New Zealand.
Over there, sheep with soft wool,
the softest of wools,
graze in the meadow.
Truehearted folk herd their flocks,
on Sundays they pay a visit to church
dressed in sedate attire.
No point hiding it any longer:
We’re an experiment that went awry,
a plan that misfired,
tied up with too much murderousness.
Why should I care about this camp or that,
screaming till their throats are raw,
spitting fine hairs.
In any case, too much murderousness.
To Africa I’m not going
and not to Asia, either.
I’m not going any place.
In New Zealand
in green pastures, beside the still waters,
kindhearted folk
will share their bread with me.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
A Wicked Hand
Smoke rose in the slanted light
And my daddy was hitting me.
Everyone there laughed at the sight,
I’m telling the truth, and nothing but.
Smoke rose in the slanted light.
Daddy slapped the palm of my hand.
He said, It’s the palm of a wicked hand.
I’m telling the truth, and nothing but.
Smoke rose in the slanted light
And Daddy stopped hitting me.
Fingers sprouted from the wicked hand,
Its works endure and will never end.
Smoke rose in the slanted light.
Fear singes the wicked hand.
Daddy stopped hitting me
But that fear endures and will never end.
Dahlia Ravikovitch*
Translated by Chana Bloch (bio) and Chana Kronfeld (bio)
Delight
There did I know a delight beyond all delight,
And it came to pass upon the Sabbath day
As tree boughs reached for the sky with all their might.
Round and round like a river streamed the light,
And the wheel of the eye craved the sunwheel that day.
Then did I know a delight beyond all delight.
The heads of the bushes blazed, insatiable bright
Sunlight striking the waves, igniting the spray.
It would swallow my head like a golden orange, that light.
Water lilies were gaping their yellow bright
Mouths to swallow the ripples and reeds in their way.
And indeed it came to pass on the Sabbath day
As tree boughs lusted for the sky with all their might,
And then did I know a delight beyond all delight.
Dahlia Ravikovitch*
Translated by Chana Bloch (bio) and Chana Kronfeld (bio)
Warm Memories
Imagine: Only the dust was at my side,
I had no other companion.
Dust walked me to nursery school,
Ruffled my hair
On the warmest childhood days.
Imagine who was at my side
And all the girls had another.
When winter starts slinging its terrible nets,
When the clouds devour their prey,
Imagine who was at my side
And how much I wanted another.
The pinecones rattled, and for a while
I ached to be alone with the wind.
Many a night
I’d dream in a daze
Of a few lone houses moist with love.
Imagine how deprived
I was If the dust was my only companion.
On the khamsin days,
I’d sail all the way
To the capital city of the whales.
I was filled with a reckless happiness.
I’d never come back till the day
I died,
But when I came back,
I was like a raven
Despised by its raven cousins.
I had no companion at all,
Only the dust at my side.
Dahlia Ravikovitch*
Translated by Chana Bloch (bio) and Chana Kronfeld (bio)
Like Rachel
To die like Rachel when the soul shudders like a bird, wants to break free.
Behind the tent, in fear and dread, Jacob and Joseph speak of her, a-tremble.
All the days of her life turn head over heels inside her like a baby that wants to be born.
How grueling.
How Jacob’s love ate away at her with a greedy mouth.
As the soul takes leave now, she has no use for any of that.
Suddenly the baby screeches,
Jacob comes into the tent— all this Rachel does not even sense.
Rapture washes over her face, her head.
Then did a great repose descend upon her.
The breath of her nostrils would not stir a feather.
They laid her down among mountain stones and made her no lament.
To die like Rachel, that’s what
I want.
Dahlia Ravikovitch*
Translated by Chana Bloch (bio) and Chana Kronfeld (bio)
Finally I’m Talking
Yona, shalom, this time I’m the one who’s talking and you won’t interrupt anymore.
Now, God help us, you’re in the ranks of the holy and pure.
Who would’ve believed you’d come to this, that you’d finally calm down.
And what a riot you stirred up when you took your leave, each man suddenly at his brother’s throat.
Hitting, spitting, and instead of you, they hung on the wall two drawings, that’s all, to help us recall.
And they called you holy and their faces grew pale, and they called you defiled and oh how they sighed, and they cried Holy Holy, whore whore, and lots…
Dahlia Ravikovitch*
Translated by Chana Bloch (bio) and Chana Kronfeld (bio)
Standing in the Street
Standing in the street at night is this man
Who long time ago was my father.
And I have to go to where he stands
Because I was his eldest daughter.
*
And each and every night he stands alone in his place
And I have to go down to his place to draw near.
And I wanted to ask the man till when should I
and I knew before that I always should.
*
The place where he stands might be dangerous
Like on that day when he went down the street and was hit by a car.
And so I recognized and demarcated
this man himself as my father.
*
And he doesn’t say to me one word of love
even though a long time ago he was my father
even though I was his eldest daughter
he cannot say to me one word of love.
Dahlia Ravikovitch*
Translation Orna Raz
בצ\’אד ובקמרון
עַל נְאוֹת הַמַּיִם בְּצׇ’אד וּבְקׇאמֶרוּן יוֹשְׁבִים
אֲנָשִׁים אֵירו֯פִּיִים שֶנּו֯אֲשוּ מֵהַחַיִים.
אֵין הֵם מַחְשִיבִים עוֹד נִימוּסִים.
לֹא הַרְחֵק מֵהֶם כַּת מְצו֯רׇעִים
עוֹבֶרֶת.
זְקֵנֶיהָ חַסְרֵי אֶצְבָּעוֹת.
עִם עֶרֶב אֵין הָרוּחַ מִתְעוֹרֶרֶת.
חׇם כְּבַתְחִילׇה.
רַק זוֹהַר וׇרו֯ד עוֹלֶה מּנְּאוֹת הַמַּיִם
בְּצׇ’אד וּבְקׇאמֶרוּן
וְנו֯שֵר עַל הָאֲנָשִׁים הׇאֵירו֯פִּיִים.
1969, Dahlia Ravikovitch
In Tsjaad en Kameroen
Aan het water in Tsjaad en Kameroen zitten
Europese mensen die het leven moe zijn.
Ze geven niet meer om manieren.
Niet ver van hen vandaan
Loopt een gezelschap leprozen
Voorbij.
Oude mensen zonder vingers.
’s Avonds steekt de wind niet op.
Het is even warm als in ’t begin.
Alleen een roze gloed stijgt op uit het water
in Tsjaad en Kameroen
en daalt over de Europese mensen neer.
Bokje in Richmond
.
Op de houten bank in het park zei hij tegen me,
ik ben bang om dood te gaan, zelfs als ik oud ben
en ik weet niet hoe het zal zijn.
Ik kan niet weten hoe het zal zijn.
.
En ik zei, het zal niet erg zijn
het kan een zachte dood zijn.
Toen viel de Coca-Cola om
en hij lachte en lachte en kwam niet meer bij
en gaf me een klap op mijn rug, heel hard,
als iemand wiens krachten zijn lichaam verlaten.
Dahlia Ravikovitch
mystiek & filosofie 