Translation
from Yiddish by Ariel Resnikoff & Stephen Ross
[The following is a
continuation of the ongoing translation by Resnikoff & Ross of Processions, the great epic work by Mikhl Likht (1893–1953), which, while written in Yiddish,
can be seen now as an integral part of the American “Objectivists” moment,
along with contemporaneous works by Pound, Zukofsky, Williams, & others. Earlier translations from Likht have appeared
on Poems and Poetics, along with
several discussions by Ariel Resnikoff of the relation between Likht &
Zukofsky, et al, both literary & personal.
Beyond that, “Processions V” will be coming out this week in a small
collaborative chapbook Rothenberg//Resnikoff//Likht: Poems, Translations, Variations, published by The Operating System Press in Brooklyn, New
York. In the meantime the work continues
as does the search for publishers & for magazines & journals in which
to publish further installments. Writes
Resnikoff: “We invite all interested parties to be in touch.” (J.R.)]
[ab
ovo]
From the dark ways
From bare fidgetings
From the schematic tarantella-motifs
From sufficient machinations intoxicated
by bright shimmershine
From the silent smoking modifications
From the cool blue hazes veiled in
early morning light
From the rumbling motor cavalcades
From the elongated unimpeded zeppelins
From neutral genres in nature–painting
From sunken water-secrets swaying
U-boats
From dumb hearing and pupil billy goat
glances
From wilted tulips and sister-flowers
in Long Island hothouses
From A-G minor concert piece
From entangled concept over
godlessness, Chinese braid and pale financier
From pearly summer-storm onset
From hasty wagers over accidental yes’s
and relative no’s
From spiritual germinations and
material finishes (and vice versa)
From trolley-clanging violated through
radio’s manifold hoo-ha
From the weariness of pedestrian
city-street step
From the inertia and forced vivacity of
the staff of clothing- and other stores
From bells angelus-chatter in
church-spires
From nightwatchman’s burdened eye
From mother’s and wet-nurse’s
mechanical chasings after childrens’ paths in squares, streets, parks
From seething howls of productive and
destructive machinery
From blind cellars’ miasmic atmosphere
From forced bending from full height
under flat, subterranean ceilings
From obscene creatures wheezing in
little houses
From birds’ metatarsal altitudes
From complete aircraft signals
From patient waiting for something new
Life
shall live itself out
Generated
itself elderly energy:
death
I.
[A Story with a Mouse]
Alone. Solitary, without anyone,
without myself
am I
(to me). Someone should, who knows,
even thru a crack, a little gap the
dimensions
try to turn a creature into a point, a
little nail
from a threatening hand, -- throw a
thinking cushion
to the shut in head like the majority
among bubbly girl friends the morning
after sleep.
I Spring myself/covertly
the between-summerwinter-autumn. Hint:
My wife
is to me (what the world ought to be)
the old Jewish catchall;
My mother --
the baker’s bread, farmer’s butter;
My palatial spacious house --
The museum of every bubble and squeak
that ostentationalizes the senses;
pomposifies the brains. --
A shudder in a mouse’s cornerroom:
the full power of a god’s prompting.
[The Same: More To The Point]
Dovebosoms. Mine, yours, everyone’s --
no one’s.
God forbid!, I don’t begin to be alone
and sweeter than a worm in horseradish
is the duality (ours) to me: mouse’s
and mine. Oh people of lonely! Oh those
famous nikhbodim[1]
who spin themselves
out from, into, events as if from-into
flax a coarse fabric:
Sleep robs a hair from you
then comes to poetry-lore;
You take a little nap
You tear life (a supplement to prose)
into itty-bitty pieces--
with dovebosoms one lives life out like
oneself the zhmenke[2]
years,
But this
year the yarmulke diaspora-tree shall suffice:
in the coming year -- in Soviet Russia,
in Mexico, in Galveston:
if necessary -- in Jerusalem.
[The Doves Do Not Want To Part from Their Bosoms]
The mouse will somewhere finally find
rest with us
even if it costs us a thousand-and-one
dumplings!
We will lead ourselves with a cow
a bull, with a nanny goat and ram.
For ourselves we will erect a house (a home?),
the livestock -- a stable. And for the
sickly little mousey?
With holes we must devote ourselves to
God
for our service in shul and shtibl.
We will as it suits us crawl from the
skin
through all cracks to redemption:
either as guards
of our own renewal -- sowing cabbage
with onion, becoming bakers, farmers;
or giving up corrupt “liberal”
professions --
with that, draw in “The
Internationale”; the handyman
becomes our beloved anew – industrious and new,
it will completely carry itself out
song to God.
And the enemies of Israel will become
the young Zionists,
and Allenby and Balfour -- Moses and
Aaron,
and we will then, who knows, arrive
where --
we’re off already -- we’re coming --
make way!
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