Sonnet Ring

Sonnet Ring

1

Wayfarer, turn away from the wandering wagon,

take the path that leads to my tent,

shake off the dust of the world traversed,

ungird from yourself the withered flask.

Just yesterday a hail raged here,

door and windowpanes snapped off with a crack,

today I busied myself, put back in place

glass and board, sealed them with putty and nail.

And the floorboards washed — floorboards gleam yellow,

and a meal prepared, pastry from the finest flour,

and from ripe trees fruit taken down —

for I waited with every fiber of my soul

for a guest to come rest today upon my threshold: —

you have indeed, guest-wayfarer, arrived.

2

You have indeed, guest-wayfarer, arrived:

who you are, from where — I neither know nor ask,

whether you are at the beginning or the end of your way —

rest in silence, if words lie dead upon your palate.

Just one spark from your eye — and I have already perceived

all the settings and risings of your days:

under your brows blue themselves signs of battle,

and they testify that you have not yielded.

3

But your red fire-beard, it burns still redder,

spreads on your chest more melted, more spread,

in your pupil — flickering frost of a fjord.

When I look at you, I am reminded of a man — now already dead —

such a man once was — my begetter, my companion —

you remind me of my father with his fiery beard.

You remind me of my father with his fiery beard,

my father too was a thin Jew, a redhead,

two eyes — now they sink, now they cut themselves wider;

brows above them — like spits sharpened for murder.

And he spoke — towered stammering of word.

And his work was — to go from one house to another,

dictating from Blumstein's letter-writer "Bridegroom and Bride"

for the girls in a Russian shtetl in the northwest.

Winter-long evenings and evening frosts.

A lantern with its little door pressed to his coat-flap,

and a woolen scarf over mouth and ear.

What you hear in winter-evenings and what you see

the ear soon forgets, and the eye too forgets

upon entering, upon vanishing into the vault of a gate.

4

Upon entering, upon vanishing into the vault of a gate,

a small room becomes illuminated with a five-wicked wick,

over walls and ceiling a stillness spreads —

such a melancholy, lonely-festive veil.

The girl writes with a handwriting broken and raw,

every word is accompanied by a tremor, a whisper,

her cheeks suddenly turn red from shyness —

again forgotten how one spells "very good" and "very."

Speaks the father — half a murmur, half a cry: —

"zeyer" is written with two yuds, "zeyer gut" with one, hear!

Guilt-stricken the girl sits bent to the table.

Through the windowpanes the teacher looks at the snowy swirl,

and together with the lamenting whiteness of the snow

lament his flaming beard and his glowing eyes.

5

Lament his flaming beard and his glowing eyes.

And the lament he would bring home late at night.

After eating he stays sitting, not dozing, not awake —

until he takes up the red ink and blank page.

For the girls' letters — even — neither risen nor flown —

he takes to adorning, as if with compass each letter brought forth:

blooms the shin with head opened wide, and the lamed slender, pensive,

and the peys and the nuns like spirals drawn.

And the yud — a little snake with an outstretched tongue,

and the final mem — a sealed ear-ring —

all together it would sing with a secretive voice.

Enraptured I would, then still a seven-year-old boy,

dip my eyes into the magical red spark:

"Much esteemed, highly beloved bridegroom, fare well!"

6

"Much esteemed, highly beloved bridegroom, fare well!

Firstly I come to inform — I find myself,

thanks to the Eternal, in best health, the same from within

to perceive with great joy from today and always.

Secondly, I come to write to my bridegroom although

moon and stars shine until dawn,

it is dark for me, and from my eyes tears flow,

for fate has divided our love with mountain and valley."

I did not understand the words' meaning then,

yet I forget not until today the magic-transformation,

how the redness of the words would begin to glow.

On the father's face a smile, joy, and joy's glow —

then a future time beckoned to me:

— Be the knight of Yiddish lameds and shins!

7

The knight of Yiddish lameds and shins.

Luminous moon-bright nights of Yiddish-land

lie laden with blinding sand,

beneath them my castle — petrified ruins.

Not every day and evening can I allow myself

to descend — to touch the doors with my hand:

the moment comes, a wall opens of itself

and the song of letters begins to spin.

Dance, embrace, neck-entwining letter in letter,

grief — old wine in a generational cup —

foams and overflows all dam-banks.

Light of hymn radiates in dark chaos,

all blind visions, dreams of the ruin-castle,

set forth with torches on labyrinth-paths.

8

Set forth with torches on labyrinth-paths.

Skin of blind visions bursts, falls away,

and revelation after revelation from the depth of terror

thrust themselves out with bright full-tides to meet.

Nimble hands of labor hammer and sharpen saws

for the rebuilding from ruins. Dance of gleaming axes!

Bright colors bloom over mold, over stain,

song of Yiddish in the air — like a spring rain.

Suddenly — crash! It begins to pour stones,

stones tear into the hymn-song in the middle.

The first stone splits the head of shin.

Entrails of peys, nuns — on the walls, ceilings.

Lies the lamed slaughtered, its neck cut.

Beside it its knight — I — with gimel-gall on teeth.

9

Beside it its knight — I — with gimel-gall on teeth,

samekh-poison and hatred-flame searing the tongues.

In the impure-mire of death and mourning swallowed

lament the wailing woes of weeping.

Though my heart is full of premonitions of passing,

here with more stubbornness in the flame of destruction-tongues

I command that the song be sung anew

in the depths of caves — hymn to the downfall itself.

From ruin-depths I raise myself back up.

Wherever I turn, wherever I hurl my call —

swirl unwound, disheveled fogs.

Like a stretched-out, astounded ape

stands and sways my somewhat-crooked body

in the darkness of wilderness-plains.

10

In the darkness of wilderness-plains

we both entangle ourselves and perceive world-fragments,

both, my guest, we walk in yoke

with the patience of horses in iron harness.

Rest. Afterward we let ourselves stretch further.

Drive ourselves with whip and knife-stab,

until we begin to feel upon our backs wing-fanning,

begin to sing the song of white swans.

Our beaks — such strange red ones,

beaks, like twisted barbs,

but we have for that necks slender as the long nun.

We swim attached to everything and ready for everything,

among mountains of our own and foreign dead,

to thrust our beaks into the heart of the sun.

11

To thrust our beaks into the heart of the sun.

Sun appears, we pluck from it the reddest pieces: —

Shylocks they call us — drunk on bloody redness,

Shylock is the name also of our heir-son.

Shylocks we are — we do not deny it.

Blood-drink is our festive liqueur,

all will come, both liberator and oppressor,

to sip red from our holy cast-iron.

All will come, all are coming already,

up, my silent guest, to go and greet them

with applause of hands and flutter of banners.

Hear, the earth drums, it hails stone upon stone,

winds at gallop with grinding teeth.

Up, my guest — fighter legions are coming.

12

Up, my guest! — Fighter legions are coming.

Foot-soldiers, by heat and dryness burned,

stretch forth the thin bony hands,

hands that storm, hands that demand.

Rows of heads, like swollen balloons,

rock on necks, head to head sewn together —

knee to knee, blinded in nakedness,

stride the bare-veined foot-skeletons.

In the gullets — ripped-out cries-curses,

under skin — stiffened, chilled agonies.

But the hands, they gleam like lit diamonds.

Hands move like priestly hands during blessing —

hands that storm, hands that seek

him who carries in himself the last hatred.

13

He who carries in himself the last hatred

comes and embraces the death-anointed brothers:

a song, a new one, passes through all limbs,

lament fades into joy, wailing into ecstasy.

Smile spreads itself out over field and street,

dew-dawn spreads over farewell-songs;

heavens draw nearer, lower ever lower

and tear themselves into brightnesses, strip after strip.

Brightnesses swallow up the legions

entirely. — And we, the unanointed, we remember

their name when the heavens are closed again.

Wonder-joy of recognizing oneself

little by little shadows itself upon our face —

evening. Night. September night.

14

Evening. Night. September night.

I have attached myself to death-crowned life.

As plant-weavings wind themselves toward autumn,

so I wind myself too from mother-thought to grave-thought.

Such a magical name I have brought with me,

to that Name I have added my temporary name:

when my name expires, lies at my feet, beside it

hovers above me the Name eternal and watches.

The world blooms a second time in the blooming of passing.

Enticing autumn in copper-red crown

dances its merry-dance on purple tapestries.

Red splits open the night, like glass the diamond-stone,

colors kindle conflagrations and burn themselves up.

And sing their farewell with the elevation of sonnets.

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