A Poem: On the Eve of Yom Kippur

On the Eve of Yom Kippur

Autumn turns my thoughts to rain, to pebbled ice

To sins of late and sins of yore.

Each deed is but one brick of scarlet,

Together they make a wall of shame.

Exiled, I flee the wind

I hear not her voice drifting.

I hide within the trees

Yet my heart is wet with searching.

I want summer, quiet and still,

But the twisting road is always the better story.

           

They say surrender is winter white—

Like the Day of Atonement

Like Adam, on the day of his making

And later, his unmaking.

I stare at the sky, not white or grey,

The setting sun is the color of war.

                         

                                    

Blessed are They Who Sow and Do Not Reap

I decided to try my hand at translating a Hebrew poem by the poet Avraham Ben Yitzchak. The poem was translated a number of years ago by Peter Cole, who I admire greatly, but I thought I could render the selfless generosity embodied in the poem somewhat more pointed... 

Indeed, there are people who sow, so that others (the poor) might reap. Indeed, there are people who give in absolute anonymity, without any desire for recognition. For them, this is a matter of pride. And Ben-Yizchak's poem is a tribute to those who desire no tribute. Below is the Hebrew original, followed by my English translation.

אשרי הזורעים ולא יקצורו

אַשְׁרֵי הַזּוֹרְעִים וְלֹא יִקְצֹרוּ כִּי יַרְחִיקוּ נְדוֹד. אַשְׁרֵי הַנְּדִיבִים אֲשֶׁר תִּפְאֶרֶת נְעוּרֵיהֶם הוֹסִיפָה עַל אוֹר הַיָּמִים וּפִזְרוֹנָם וְהֵם אֶת עֶדְיָם הִתְפָּרָקוּ - עַל אֵם הַדְּרָכִים. אַשְׁרֵי הַגֵּאִים אֲשֶׁר גֵּאוּתָם עָבְרָה גְבוּלֵי נַפְשָׁם וַתְּהִי כְעַנְוַת הַלֹּבֶן אַחֲרֵי הֵעָלוֹת הַקֶּשֶׁת בֶּעָנָן. אַשְׁרֵי הַיּוֹדְעִים אֲשֶׁר יִקְרָא לִבָּם מִמִּדְבָּר וְעַל שְׂפָתָם תִּפְרַח הַדּוּמִיָּה. אַשְׁרֵיהֶם כִּי יֵאָסְפוּ אֶל תּוֹך לֵב הָעוֹלָם לוּטֵי אַדֶּרֶת הַשִּׁכְחָה וְהָיָה חֻקָּם הַתָּמִיד בְּלִי אֹמֶר.

Blessed Are They Who Sow

But Do Not Reap…

Blessed are they who sow but do not reap—

For they shall ward off wandering.

Blessed are the generous—the splendor of their youth

Would add unto the light of days and their extravagance—

Who thrust aside their jewelry at the crossroads.

Blessed are the proud—their pride surpasses the borders of their soul

Becoming the white humility

That follows the rainbow after it ascends into a cloud.

Blessed are the knowing ones—their heart calls out from the desert

And on their lips the silence blooms.

Blessed are they—for they shall be gathered to the heart of the world,

Enwrapped in a cloak of forgetfulness,

An eternal judgment of quiet.

Avraham Ben Yitzchak

Trans. Yehuda Hausman