Three Poems by Abba Kovner translated from Hebrew by Rachel Neve-Midbar
Things Missing From the Heart
I am not holding a mirage
in my hand. No, nothing but my pajama.
Yet, before me, the rise of an entire
plateau. All of it. Washed in dew
soaking my feet. So simply beautiful
as any image that has brightened
my face. The egrets gliding in
over a gathering of apples. The sunshine
brushing my shoulders like my daughter’s fingers
and today
in just another hour or so
the smell of fresh cut grass:
this morning (I whisper to myself)
here in this scorched forest
a bird will eventually return to sing.
In vain, I try to understand that what happened—
happened. After all, we held two minutes of silence
so that silence wouldn’t live in our windows,
no escape, my friend, no
world borne on the night’s
cry. Just the one
you talk to in your heart, because
what is in the heart is worthless. Because
life is lived in the emotional power of those
who go where
they are unwilling to go;
in vain, I’m still trying to define your essence
within that aphotic zone of language. Only your shadow
remains. My hands
never reaching you. Never
will I drop your casket from my shoulder.
Two Is Not Always Better
Two is not always better than one. Not always
is the coward the one terrorized. Foot soldiers
sometimes decamp without waiting for any
king’s command.
I kneel to you
I kneel
for no particular reason, with no point
right in the middle of the road
right at the height of the storm, weaving
my way over each and every highway
that might lead to the four sands of sky,
from a mountain cut in half,
from a world where nothing remains
not even stone balanced on stone.
To excavate white chalk from inside a mine
just to glean a handful
and form from it a stone, a cornerstone,
just to chisel there your smile,
your eyes, your
wrinkles, those born in the hard years. Wonderful years—
just to stroke your lovely head.
Only
No one will carry my mother’s coffin with me. No one
will even draw near my mother’s resting place.
Arrive at the flat lands, drive your eyes
to the white river, its depths pitching
and pulling like a ship’s bow
weighted down with ice,
then whisper with me
Mommy
Mommy
