BLACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL SUBJECT FILE Hebrew Poems, Translations by Alice S. BlackwellThe Moon-Prayer. (From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld.) High in the blue aerial ocean The silver clouds of heaven sail; Sparkle the stars with lively motion, But silent is the moon and pale. The wood in silence deep reposes, The trees stand hushed and lost in thought; No breeze their branchy screen encloses, Earth sleeps; with stillness night is fraught. Deep in the wood, 'neath shadows pressing, Stand an old man and child tonight. The aged man the moon is blessing, And he is praying for her light. "O God, with tears, with heart sore troubled, I pray - my trembling voice, oh hear: I pray thee, let her light be doubled, And as of yore shine bright and clear: "E'en as thy Trusted One hath written Of 'thy two great and equal lights.' How pale she seems, with sorrow smitten: Look on her face, death's shadow blights:" How his warm prayer the silence breaketh In the deep forest's hush profound: How flow his feelings: When he speaketh, How still is everything around: His child looks up, and wonders lightly Why in the blue deep over him So many stars are shining brightly While others twinkle faint and dim. He looks on high, in night's calm weather; Unchecked he asks his father old: "Tell me, can we believe, my father The tale that I have oft been told? The rich man's star doth strongly glimmer, 'T is always large and always bright; The poor man's star grows dim and dimmer, And at the last is lost in night. "Men's destinies do planets measure? O father, speak the truth to me: And do they stand for peace and pleasure, For exile, tears and misery? "Look at that small start there in heaven; Is it not ours, that tiny spark? For all our life to tears is given, And all our days are sad and dark. "Can it be, some day, 'mid those others 'T will shine in golden splendor bright? Or will it vanish from its brothers, Covered and quenched in endless night?" The old man knits his forehead lofty, he seeks an answer, but is dumb; Sobs come to him, and tears come softly, But words are very slow to come.The magnificent early poetry of the Jews is familiar to all students of the Bible English literature is full of quotations from it. But comparatively few persons know how much of interest and value there is in the Jewish poetry of modern times. It is a treasure locked up in Yiddish and Hebrew. Incomparably the most famous of the modern Jewish poets is Morris Rosenfeld.3 copies Pen and Shears From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. I thought the shop a hateful place, And I preferred to write. Now to the pen I am a slave, And harder is my plight. The pen, that served me formerly, I now myself must serve. I weep for every drop of ink That fills its metal curve. Once on a time I clothed the world In coats and mantles fair; Now I am clothed myself, alas! And leave the people bare. Who can conceive my suffering? It passes all belief. Deep in my heart I hide my [woe] woe, I dare not tell my grief. Open the shop to me again! (over)There will I bear much pain. Sap, sap my blood, you sweat shop man! Far less [shall] will I complain. Hard will I toil, and do much work Without complaint or moan; For I can only sell my shears- My pen must be my own! 3 copies In the Garden of the Dead. A Dream. From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. The night is silent brightly shines the moon, Deep in the sky the twinkling star-fires gleam. By the Dream Angel I am borne away Through life and death; now listen to my dream! An ancient cemetery: buried joy And buried sorrows, hid in scattered graves. The righteous and the wicked there are laid, There slumber the oppressors and the slaves. And here and there a silent willow dreams; A soft wind sways the branches to and fro. I stand in anguish, and no word I hear; The dead, the dead - all mute they sleep below. I look upon the tombstones round about; The silent mounds in hundreds meet my view. I gaze; the tombs show plainly what they are - Graves of the poor, the rich, the pious, too. Across the hillocks now a zephyr blows, And stirs the leaves above the sleepers' heads:2 "May sacred peace be with you in your graves, Sweet peace to you within your narrow beds!" I stand and shudder! The Dream Angel speaks: "Look to the South and to the North, and see! On those two quiet resting places gaze; Canst thou their meaning read? Speak out to me!" I look: How different are those sepulchers! How come distinctions here 'twixt mound and mound? Why is one grave all desolate and bare, And why with blossoms is the other crowned? "Know'st thou, O man, why flowers are growing there, While nothing here but sand and stones we see? Thus the Dream Angel spake; and he averred That he the secret knew, and only he. "Beneath this mound, where grass is growing thick, Lies one who was a [flayer] flayer of his kind. The weak he tortured; poor child laborers He sweated grievously, with ruthless mind. "He lived upon the blood of those who toil, Tormented the poor slaves who pine in dearth; 3 And this gave sustenance unto his limbs, And brought him fatness when he dwelt on earth. "Now from the strength of those poor laborers Which he devoured, consumed and made a prey, that little garden o'er him has grown up; The blossoms of the working man are they! "'Tis to that bare mound yonder they belong; They are the toiler's flowers, born of his pains; They from his marrow and his blood grew up, And from the teardrops that he shed in chains." A wind comes blowing softly o'er the graves, And words are heard the garden's leaves among: "The lovely blossoms, they are stolen flowers; 'Tis yonder, over yonder they belong!" And stronger blows the wind across the graves, and loud it roars, in wrath which naught can tame; Words, awful words are in the garden heard: "The pious, 'tis the pious are to blame!" The toiler's grave clove suddenly apart; The dead man thundered from his narrow cell: "Not the flowers only, nay, but e'en the boards That make his coffin, they are mine as well!4 "And not the coffin only, but the shroud That wraps his limbs in cerements [in cerements] white and fine, It is not his - through me he gained it all, Through my poor toil; the whole, the whole is mine!" Then through the air the dead man passed away. With cries: "You yet will pay for it!" he said; And as he passed from sight he clenched his fist And shook it at the world, in menace dread. In sudden terror from my dream I woke; But still, in tones where grief and wrath combine, Ring in my [ear] ears the words, "Nay not alone The flowers are stolen; all, yes, all is mine!" 3 copies What Is This World? From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. If but a sleeping chamber is our world, And if our life is nothing but a dream, I would that my few years might pass away, In pleasant dreams, were shining fancies gleam. I wish for dreams of liberty and bliss; Such phantasy as to the great appears; I wish in dreaming to see pleasant sights - No longer would I dream of flowing tears. And if our world be some great festival, We the invited guests, then in the hall I too would have my comfortable seat, And of the feast a share to me should fall. I too, like others, can enjoy good things:4 but not the coffin only, but the shroud That wraps his limbs in cerements white and fine, It is not his-through me he gained it all, Through my poor toil; the whole, the whole is mine!" Then through the air the dead man passes away, With cries, "You yet will pay for it? he said, And shook it at the world, in menace dread. In sudden terror from my dream I woke; But still in tones where grief and wrath combine, Ring in my ears the words, "Nay, not alone The flowers are stolen; all, yes, all is mine!" 3 copies What is This World? From the Yiddish fo Morris Rosenfeld Renerded into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell If but a sleeping chamber is our world, And if our life is nothing but a dream, I would that my few years might fall away In pleasant dreams, where shining fancies gleam. I wish for dreams of liberty and bliss; Such [?antasy] as to the great appears; I wish in dreaming to see pleasant sights- No longer would I dream of flowing tears. And if our world be some great festival, We the invite guests, then in the hall I too would have my comfortable seat, And of the feast a share to me should fall. I too, like others, can enjoy good things 2 A dainty morsel I could well digest For the same blood is flowing in my veins With that of those whose fortunes are the best, And if our world here is a garden ground Where roses of all colors bud and bloom, Then I would take my pleasure where I choose Not where the rich permit my feet to go. Then would I wear a wreath of flowers, With my beloved one I fair would face Amid the glory of the myrtles fair And laurel trees, in that green garden place. And if our world is now a battlefield Where the strong struggle with the weak, in pride - Then in despite of storm, and wife, and child, I will not coldly stand upon one side, Into the fire I then will thrust myself, (over)Then battle lion-like for the weak will I. If bullet pierced, I fall upon the field, May then I also with a laugh can die!Poem by Bialek Meter: l - - l - - l - l l - - l - - l - l l - - l - - l - l l - - l - - l - l "Spring Green" Jewish names Under the green trees Are playing Moischelach, Schloimelach Y Zizis, Kapotkelach, Perelach Young Jews fresh from the eggs. Their bodies are like straw, smoke or feathers You can blow them away {so weak} into pieces And light winds will catch them And [young birds] light winds will carry them away Only one thing they posses -eyes- The eyes have two points Which spark, glimmer and spread out And have something prophetic on them They became thoughtful and watchful On days of yesterday and on birds O, I would like to have that, My dear Jewish children What you have and say in eyes. The end x Show this Come to an orthodox Jew-who could correctly translate the part of dress and hair. Meter: l - -l - - l - l l - - l - - l- l l - - l - - l - l l - - l - - l - l Spring Green Moischelach Schleimelach Under the green trees Are playing Moischelach, Schloimelach, Lizis, Kapotkelach, Peilach Young Jews fresh from the eggs 1 4 bunches of thread tied to a garment worn above the undershirt (orthodox Jews)- certain amount to each corner 2. little coats - long ones 3. bunch of extra hair worn in the front of the ears (I do not think that you saw anything of the kind here in America)Dear Mr Blackwell Did you get the "Russian Village" Which I have sent to you few days ago? Yours Very Truly Dr. [B?]luuluulul (4 times) Their lodies are like straw, smoke or feathers You can blow them away into pieces And light winds will catch them And young birds will carry them away. Only one thing they possess - eyes The eyes have two points Which spark, glimmer, and spread out And have something prophetic in them. They became thoughtful and watchful On days of yesterday you birds Oh, I would like to have that, my dear Jewish children What you have and say in eyes.that my dear Jewish children that you have and say in eyes. Yiddishe Poetry by David Diamonolstein To the Dollar Measure: 1} -l--l-l--l 2) l- - l - l - 3} - l - - l - - l - - l 4) - l - - l - - l - - l 4) - l - - l - - l - 5} l - - l - - l - - l 6) l - - l - - l - 7) l - - l - - l - - l 8) - l - - l - - l - 9) - l - - l - l - - l 10) - l - - l - - l 11) - l - - l - - l - - l 12) - l - - l - - l Whatever is good in [?] In man thou hast choked the noble, the pure Basely they [?] savaged him. Through fire they hast sent him through battlefields red A beggar & thief thou hast makes him Naked thou drivest out into the [?] Those who have woven our cover Wretched & sad hast thou made, this our world And poisoned life over & over. O powerful craft, O blood be stained gold, Creator of hundger & war The world long enough [?] darkly enslaved I hope of thy death soon to known. I hope death may soon lay thee low Thou hast chocked everything in the man Everything what is beautiful and pure Thou hast sent him in fire and battlefield Thous hast made of him beggar and robber (burglar) The naked thout hast driven into cold The ones who saw and weave Unhappy thou has make our world Thou hast poisoned our life. O powerful craft, O bloody money The creator of hunger and misery Though you have enslave and darkened the world I hope and expect your thine death! Morris Rosenfeld The Day of Atonement Day of Atonement, the sadness is great The pure soul-candles (lights) are coming to the end The people are tired, emaciated and pale The cantor is hoarse, week is his bass The singers are longing all for a rest A couple of prayers more and the prayer book is closed. The blower (the trumpeter) is blowing "Next year there!" And the temple is empty, nobody left. I stared at the altar and thought What will be after the temple is closed? The end. The meter: 1) - l - - l - - l - - l 2) - l - - l - - l - - l 3) - l - - l - - l - - l 4) - l - - l - - l - - l 5) - l - - l - - l - - l 6) - l - - l - - l - - l 7) - l - - l - - l - - l 8) - l - - l - - l - - l 9) - l - - l - - l - - l 10) - l - - l - - l - -lWhat is she to me? Not wife, sweetheart, daughter fond, That I should grieve for her sake. Why is it then, that her suffering figure still All the night keeps me awake?2 Upon the negative vote, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe Wrote: "It will be saidWhat is she to me? Neither wife, nor my mistress, nor is she my own loving daughter! Why is it then, that her lot, so accursed, keeps me awake through the night? It is because there rises before me the picture of youth in a cell; the grim prison vaults and a barred little window, a cot in the twilight of day... From the cot shine her feverish burning eyes, deprived of the thought and of tears; from the cot hang to the damp prison floor, dark, heavy plaits of her hair. Motionless are her lips, and her pale hands stir not on her pale breast, feebly pressed to her heart without a tremble and with no hope ahead... What is she to me? Neither wife nor my mistress, nor is she my own loving daughter, why is it then, that her suffering figure keeps me awake through the night? J. P. Polonsky - u u l - u u l - u u l - u u - u u l - u u l - l The Two Lives There are two lives in this world: One is bright; it shines like the sun; in its eyes is the heavenly calm of day: in its glow - holy thought and emotion. Its living strength resounds freely with fluent and wise speech. And this is the life of the easterly spirit. It is as long as God's eternity. The other life is dark - In its eyes - earthly sadness and winter night - And its sleep is heavy and 2 factions. A thought hides itself in intricate forms - but it does not [give forth] resound with free and simple speech. It is given more in its darkness, to silence and this - the life of earthly dust. It is short like the gleam of a falling star. 1 The Song of the Machines We scrape (shove) [gather] the work With scraping (shoving) machines And scrape (shove) many treasures in Yet (nevertheless) what we attain And what we gain (win) And what we get by striving And what we earn, Is hunger and misery and pain [suffering]. We (shove) scrape with "shovers" (scrapers) And become ever more worn out (thinner) [emaciated] Yet (nevertheless) our deceivers They deceive (cheat, fool,) us still.2. We (scrape) shove and scrape, Oh, until we wear out (weaken) And fall under the yoke. II We sing and drive [work] The "Singer" machines The songlet pleases the master (employer) We sing eternally (forever) of tears that flow of gory (bloody) clothes With curses in them A song of a dark (sinister, gloomy) world. We strive (work the "Singers" [machines] Be we old or young To create for our buyers (employers) A life full of splendor (magnificence) 3. We keep singing and singing Oh, till they swallow us The shadows of the night Maurice Rosenfield4. All the Same To work with one's strength (brawn) (To) work with one's hands, Work with one's brains Work by one's talent, To sew or to sing Song or shears, - If you have to sell yourself The it falls (comes) very hard. End To work with your brawn, to work with you hands, With talent or brains, At another's [co?} Be it song, be it shears, When you sing or your sew, If yourself you must sell It is hardship & woe!Translations translationWhen I was a child of but two tender years And knew not the world with its wae and its tears, My mother would sit by my cradle and weep And sing a sad song ere mine eyes closed in sleep. When later I went to the school, 'twas as bad My poor rabbi always was hungry and sad trim He always had trouble in getting his hay And sad was his song (chant) as he taught us each day to pray When Sabbath is come, to the temple I go; With people 'tis crowded and packed, high & low The cantor blessed prays so loud and so clear 'Tis pleasant his sorrowful (deep, mournful) chanting to hear. The day we rejoice in the Law, all seem gay: The Jew has a drink and a dance on that day. You think he is merry? And error, a lie! (if so your are wrong) He sings in his heart the old sad eulogy (sorrowful song). (O) Dear comrade beloved! Together (all) they come in a throng. The melodies all with the mother's first song They ring in our ears, they sound in the air The sorrowful song your ear hear everywhere. 2 All down the centuries, (from that time on, the the history of the Armenians has been a [To the Editor of The Times: A writer in the Times lately said, in substance, that it was refreshing to see that, in some of the recent massacres, the Armenians had] Dear comrade, long since it was [told] said unto me "The apple ne'er falls far away from the tree" She sang by my cradle a [sorrowful] sad song of you Hence [sad] mournful is the [music] song that I sing [all alone] evermore And therefore sad music I sing When of love I tell/sing him And of hatred deep He remains unmoving Only music eyes weep Now a nighty yearning O'er my soul doth come O my notion answered Are you deaf or dumb? Has the exile endless Has the [long long] hair so dread wind of feeling? Made you lifeless, sleepless? Are you haply dead? And my voice falls fruitless And resultless all Is the wind of Jordan In the Dead Sea fall Mme. Barbara Tchaykousky lc Lesnoy Staro Par Yolovsky Prostreet 43 the tenant St Petersburg Princess M. Dounderkoff - [2] Korsakoff St Petersburg Prince Georg D Sidamou-Eristoff Sworn - lawyer knows her son Is 3. II A dog, who runs about the streets, and spends the night on bridges. And if a bone falls to him as food Then he feels himself o'er fortunate? III A dog who snatches a bite in the kitchen Feeling humble and small, And for it licks the master's shoes And licks the mistress' slippers? IV Of tremble! For I am the lion, - Do not play tricks with me, For, if I get ready to rise (over)I'lll cut your flesh in pieces V I know the steppes, I know the forest, I was born in the chase, If I roar, a commotion will arise, And you will know my anger. VI Do not judge because I am silent, Do not think me a fool -- The day will come, I will break the cage, And you will all lie dead. End Which kills lives, which oppresses and strangles! -- You are lustrous and fragrant me the workshop's murderous din (turmoil) A Luxurious flower upon wild o'er trodden soil, A sacred in the cold clang of chains A heavenly spark in Destiny's terrible heap of ashes (ash-heap) The Lion Why do you keep stuffing yourselves with meat, And hurl at me the bones? What think you, What? am I a dog, A greedy avaricious dog? 2. My song is but for you, Yes for you alone! IV Necessity (forsooth) drives you to corrupt you bloom (blossoming) Death drives you to change your colors, Hunger forces you to remain without a voice (not to protest) (?) And yet you struggle bitterly against your foes, Your soul shines through your sympathetic countenance, You voice is raised aloft (lit. rings upwards) V Oh sweet and noble creature (lit: splendor) of the factory over as from a muffled vale.