To the right
of our hill
there’s a shining well
full of water.
Last year
summer covered it
with green mango blossom.
The green tempted
a calf,
which fell in
and drowned.
Since then
people have stopped
drinking from that well.
Now, like a thief,
I bathe in it
at night.
I cup my hands
and drink from it
at night.
But the water
doesn’t quench
my thirst, my desire.
In the dark depths
of the well
there are shadows
still waiting for
the girls
who’d slung a rope
on its hook
but never came back
to draw water.
The well’s darkness
is waiting
for the moment
when I’ll have
the courage
to stretch out my hands
and drink its water
in broad daylight.
In honor of Rosh Hashanah, we present this work by one of the 20th century’s great Jewish poets.
Nellie Sachs German 1891 – 1970
When the day empties itself
In the twilight,
When the imageless time begins,
The lonely voices join together—
The animals are nothing other than the hunting
Or the hunted—
The flowers no more than fragrance—
When everything becomes nameless as in the beginning—
You go under the catacombs of Time,
Which open for those that are near the end—
There where the heart buds grow—
Into the dark inwardliness
You sink downward—
Already past death
Which is only a windy passageway—
And freezing from going out
You open your eyes
Where a new star
Has already left its reflection—
When you are old and I am old,
When my blond hair will be white hair,
In the brightening sun of the May garden,
We’ll go and warm our old trembling limbs.
As renewal sets our hearts in joy,
We will still believe to be young lovers,
And I’ll smile at you while shaking my head,
And we’ll be an adorable old couple.
We’ll look at each other, sitting under our vine,
With small eyes, tender and bright,
When you are old and I am old,
When my blond hair will be white hair.
On our friendly bench, all greenish with moss,
On the bench of old, we’ll talk again,
We will have a tender and very sweet joy,
Each sentence always ending in a kiss.
How many times may I have said “I love you”?
Then with great care we will recount them.
We will remember a thousand things, even
Exquisite little nothings we will ramble on.
A ray will descend, with a soft caress,
Among our white hair, all pink, to rest,
When on our old bench all greenish with moss,
On the bench of old, we’ll talk again.
And as every day I love you more,
Today more than yesterday and much less than tomorrow,
What will facial wrinkles matter then?
My love will be more thoughtful—and serene.
Considering that everyday memories are piling up,
These memories of mine will be yours too.
Those common memories entwine us all the more
And constantly between us weave other links.
It’s true, we’ll be old, very old, weakened by age,
But stronger each day I will squeeze your hand
For you see, every day I love you more,
Today more than yesterday and much less than tomorrow.
And of this dear love that passes like a dream,
I want to keep everything at the bottom of my heart,
To remember if I can the too short impression
To slowly savour it again later.
I bury everything that comes from it like a miser,
Hoarding with ardour for my old age;
I will be rich then of a rare wealth
For I’ll have kept all the gold of my young love!
So from this ending past of happiness,
My memory will sometimes bring back the sweetness;
And all this dear love that passes like a dream
I will have it preserved at the bottom of my heart.
When you are old and I am old,
When my blond hair will be white hair,
In the brightening sun of the May garden,
We’ll go and warm our old trembling limbs.
As renewal sets our hearts in joy,
We will still believe in the happy days of yesteryear,
And I’ll smile at you while shaking my head
And you will quaver love words to me.
We’ll look at each other, sitting under our vine,
With small eyes, tender and bright,
When you are old and I am old,
When my blond hair will be white hair.
Mother, if you see a tiny white paper boat in your sleep,
Do not wonder how it has entered your dream.
It was folded by your loving daughter, with tears in her eyes
Who begs it to carry home her love and sorrow, over the endless mountains and waters.
Raised without a mother,
the father a drinker.
Once at fourteen, again at sixteen
then off to a facility.
At twenty a third time.
Fifteen years in total,
petty crimes: the possessions of others.
Not a Picasso
or a run through the bank.
Bicycle, briefcase,
a coat, ill-fitting
but warm.
Backsliding: slipping out on the check.
Enough of that, my friend,
now things are looking up,
with gentleness and hope
into a happy life.
Congratulations,
a spot on the sunny side
has opened up.
2
Forced entry into an empty house,
consumption of canned food, use of a bed.
That wasn’t long ago.
The winter is hard.
Then once again
doing time in the warmth.
They remember it.
A story appeared in the paper.
It’s too much to bear
and we become hardened.
3
After release
a rehabilitated man at last.
In the final night of the year
he took refuge,
laid himself down in the woods and froze.
A story appeared in the paper.
The angel who carried him out of the woods
is not mentioned.
We present this work in honor of Ganesh Chaturthi.
Sugathakumari Indian b. 1934
Rain-at-night,
Like some young mad woman
For nothing
Weeping, laughing, whimpering,
Muttering without a stop,
And sitting huddled up,
Tossing her long hair.
Poets Corner 