Epigenetic
I crystallized in the womb of my great-grandma
and she almost gave birth to me.
Grandma Pippike was very wise
and lucky for me at the very moment
of birth
she came to her senses
and my grandma emerged—
Judit
instead of me,
and she hid me inside her.
And when my mother was born
her mother wanted to give me to her
but engrossed in other things, she erred
and part of me remained there.
Wherever she went I went with her.
An educated woman, an activist
with a factory for the production of bras
and twenty-five Zionist workers, all female
speaking at a conference for Mizrachi women,
ordering the village cook to pack up the house
and transfer all valuables to the summer home,
walking proudly, elegant suitcase in hand,
boarding a train to Auschwitz.
My mother somehow survived
and when she arrived in Israel
orphaned
I was born
for the third time—
Judit
and I did not know
if this was a sign
that now I must
really be me
or if it was even possible. Nor did my mother know
and just to be sure, named me after her own.
Translated from hebrew by Joanna chen
***
The Last Watch
When I can recite the story of my existence
my mission will be over
no one will affix me wax wings
alone my body will turn itself
weightless
and all at once I will be sucked back into
the place from whence I came
A large banquet will be held in my honor
and melodies of the heart and a trail of white will flutter
as I nestle in the bosom
of those who await my return.
Translated from Hebrew by Joanna Chen
***
Hanover
When I see the rain whipping up
I think of my paper house
unable to resist a bird’s flight
without engraving its movements.
Here in Hanover it is easy to turn
the curse of hail that hits
into a song of snow. This morning
the neighbors left for a beer festival.
Now they linger on the outskirts of the forest, drunk
between snowflakes.
Translated from Hebrew by Joanna Chen
***
Train to Berlin
On the train to Berlin
I sit facing myself
awakening
in the previous century.
My grandmothers turn somersaults inside me.
In slow motion
the train spins on its axis
returning to the land of my forefathers
traveling backwards
on the journey of death
from Lowenberg to Elbing
the ground scattered with remains—
returning to the work camp
no one named, between the trees,
continuing to Stutthof,
stopping for a moment, moving on,
Bejji alights, sits down next to me, her face frozen,
continuing on to Birkenhau, Auschwitz,
stopping for a moment, moving on,
my young grandfather and grandmother alight,
their fur coats lined with gold coins in secret pockets,
they do not recognize me, sitting down on the bench facing me,
then Yehoshua and David, the children,
they see Mama Bejji, embrace briefly,
everyone polite, restrained,
the train continues, returning all the way
to beloved Oradea, everyone gets off at the last stop
and climbs onto the trucks in which they came, traveling to the pickup point
in the center of town, they place where it began,
then everyone gets off, even the girl who was shot,
the one with the prosthetic,
and they walk home.
I blink hard. Reshuffle the dream cards. The house
is empty. The house is full of strangers, the house
is gone. I want to warn them, but I miss the truck. Miss
the stop. Everyone gets off, even the girl who was shot,
the one with the prosthetic,
alone in an empty train
I continue to Berlin.
Translated from Hebrew by Joanna Chen
***
Waldburg
Among the hills of Wangen
Ravensburg
Weingarten –
Waldburg Castle awaits me
trusting its peaceful antiquity
immersed in deep roots.
A stout man, ruddy of cheek, balding,
welcomes me in a tight-fitting suit
reeking of fresh-baked rolls
smiling the smile of its stone walls.
He has nothing to hide
and all the halls are occupied
with precision, as if there was never
what
what
what
It is true the Alps, the lake, and my grandmother too
who journeyed through here to Baden-Baden twice a year
during holidays with her mother for treatments and rest
it is true they too sighed as they passed through
asking the driver to stop
surveying with pale eyes the silvery mountain peaks
the Bodensee’s shifting blues, the valley’s playful greens and browns
quenching their lungs with the air’s chilly clarity
weaving together their thick breath
rubbing their gloved hands against the cold
going into this Café-Restaurant
with measured movements undoing brooches
shedding veils and hats
removing heavy coats
handing them over
to the great-grandfather of the ruddy cheeks
who hangs them on this old wooden rack,
sitting here at a table with porcelain dishes
and starched tablecloths
their bejeweled fingers
placed with etiquette on soft knees,
elbows at the hips, hair gathered at the nape,
straight-backed in these dark chairs
facing this burning fireplace,
thawing themselves from the road, like me.
Translated from Hebrew by Joanna Chen
***
A Poem from the Hospital of St. Jean De-Morian
Through the transparent square
fixed in the wall facing me
light rises
slowly
gray.
Black cobwebs are highlighted
thin branches, willowy
etching dreams
like bars.
Together, behind it,
dark stains, heavy ones
form. Blocks of mountain awaken.
At eight-forty, just before the doctors’ round
the sun appears over the left ridge,
blinding—the view must be condensed.
A plastic blind comes down, stops
precisely at the golden ratio.
At noon, the composition is fully revealed:
a diagonal of blue skies
a chain of snowy peaks
decorated with forests, embracing
turrets and towers
conic rooftops.
From the church bell to the window
a boulevard of naked treetops
and three sparrows
on a nearby branch
switch places with one another.
Translated from Hebrew by Joanna Chen
***
littlebird
Diti Ronen
littlebird
Begin from above
slowly,
in a blue so light, so light
and wide and big and white
begin, with infinity
begin with the sky.
With the bird.
Look, she is taking off.
One bird, little. Look.
There she flies.
Big and open –
the entire sky is in front of her.
Begin with the bigness, yes, begin big,
from above, big,
begin with the all-seeing point of view
the innocent point of view
the point of view of God
who does not see the detail.
Were there other birds?
Was there a chirp?
There was, surely there was.
There, another bird, taking off.
Begin with the horizon.
Do you still see on it any wisp of smoke?
No, it is not dusk yet,
you cannot see a thing.
And the horizon is far and the sea is close
and the sun is in mid sky.
Now tree tops peek out,
appearing.
Begin with the tree tops.
They spread, ever green,
their fingers yearn for the tall,
the divine,
for God looking upon them, for
the bird.
Did the sun indeed shine?
And what was the shape of the cloud?
God, watching, did He notice the bird?
Begin with the tree. With the bough,
see how it hugs the trunk,
leaning on it, ever so trustingly.
It too is quiet. Slightly moved by the wind.
Cuddling itself softly
humming the sounds of its origins.
Have you noticed the nest?
Have you seen the nestling?
Begin with the tree.
With the tree next to it.
Remember the bird?
It descends here, to sit on a bough.
Begin with her.
No. Begin with her tree.
No. Begin with the tree next to her tree.
Begin with more trees.
Many trees.
A forest.
Now look. From above.
Can you see the forest clearing?
Look.
There are lager barracks there.
Begin with the barrack.
It does not matter which one,
they are all alike.
Begin with the tenth barrack.
Look, a handsome woman now leaves it.
Her walk is proud.
Did you draw her?
Draw her pretty, please,
Pretty, bald and proud.
Did you see?
Her round face, turned slender,
accentuating big, blue eyes.
She looks up.
Sees blue skies
sneaking between the tree tops
that you drew, and the tip of a cloud
shaped like a longing.
She notices in detail.
Remembers scent and flavor,
color and sound of before.
Thinking spring.
Sees the bird
passing in front of her,
gliding, her wings spread open.
Begin, with the officer.
Draw him tall.
Accentuate his face, please.
It is squared. Draw his
Strong jaw, his chin
sticking out.
Now the hair: carefully done,
his hat hanging in sloppy elegance.
Have you seen his uniform?
The emblems on his sleeve?
Begin with the rifle.
The officer holds the rifle in his hands.
He stands by the barrack. The rifle in his hand.
Now he lifts his weapon,
aiming to the sky.
Pressing his cheek against the weapon
closing a non-aiming eye
and searching.
Draw him tall. And very straight.
He looks through the crosshair
up, he’s searching,
what shall he shoot now?
The bird now stands on a branch.
Draw him looking, draw the look.
He moves, turning to the woman.
Look. He
forgets his mark. His muscles relax.
Draw the gun descending, slipping down his arms.
Draw the firing position fading.
He looks at the woman.
Her walk so proud
dressed in a sack and a simple waistband.
He looks at the woman.
She does not see him,
walking forward, to the latrine,
her gaze fixed on the bird.
Draw him looking at the woman.
Looking at the train of her walk,
the ripples sent forth from her behind.
There, she has entered the latrine.
He once again lifts his weapon.
Determined. Indifferent to the ripples,
indifferent to the train of her behind.
Did you see? Once again, he presses his cheek,
and although it is Spring in the world
and perhaps because of
the cold steel
he closes one eye.
Watch.
He aims, concentrates, aims,
and the bird, oh, the bird,
her exactly –
and shoots.
Did you draw it?
Could you draw her sinking?
There, here, so close,
right by, her body
like God landing softly,
unheard.
Begin with the woman.
She hears a shot.
One, and its echoing
knocking at her temples
thudding to the ends of the forest
and back. Was she hurt?
Draw the sound, the bang,
draw her anxiety.
Draw her leaving the latrine.
She walks. There, she walks, she is unhurt.
Stands up and fixes the sack on her body.
Straightens her back. Looks,
the bird is gone.
She sends a wary look.
What was the shot?
She worries about her friends
stepping quickly into the barrack,
to arrive inside, to return.
Begin with the woman.
No, begin again with the officer.
His gaze returns to the woman.
She hurries her step,
looking around frightened, anxious,
her pace a near-run.
He still looks at her.
Amazed. Bending down, spell-bound,
lifts the bird from the ground.
She’s twitching, her body still warm.
Feels her weight, how tiny she is,
and so pretty,
now he hands the bird to the woman.
Now please draw the woman.
Hurry, now everything happens quickly,
she takes the bird
as though it was planned,
as though it was obvious,
as though the bird was meant for her,
she takes the bird,
in her hand, without shaking,
she takes the bird
without so much as a look,
she takes the bird,
opens the barrack door,
and enters, now running,
breathless, to her friends,
a little bird in her hand.
The door is now open and she sees
they are not hurt. Now they are all inside.
They worried about her, what was that shot?
Now they are all inside.
And a little bird, dead.
Now they are all inside. And a little bird held in her hand.
Begin with the woman’s friend.
No. Begin with the Blockalteste.
She’s Czech. Religious. Short.
Hides her daughter in a little cabin.
She is good. Begin with the baking oven.
No. Begin with the bird.
Begin, with the pot.
No. Begin with the bird.
Who plucked the feathers out?
Why should the feathers be plucked?
And what does the Blockalteste have to do with the bird?
Begin, from the beginning.
Begin with the bird.
Please draw for me a little bird.
No. Please draw for me a little pot.
No. Please draw for me a little oven.
Look.
Inside the belly of the oven is a pot,
And inside the belly of the pot is a bird.
That you don’t have to draw.
Begin, begin with the woman’s friend.
No, begin with the woman.
The woman is still shocked. The barrack door is closed
her eyes grow accustomed to the darkness.
She looks at her friends, holds the bird.
No. Begin with the woman’s friend.
she’s older. No, not that old.
She’s still young, just a little more mature.
She takes the bird from the woman’s hands
and walks over to the Blockalteste.
Watch her. How she
grasps the little bird,
elevating it ever so slightly,
and hinting to the little oven.
Gently. And awaits understanding.
Elevates, and hints to the little pot.
She has time.
Elevates, slowly, and hints to the margarine.
Lightly tilts her head to the right.
Elevates, pauses, and hints to the flour.
She has patience. For pepper and for salt.
Look. Now they are huddling in sweet secrecy.
Draw the gaze.
Draw the hunger.
Draw the secret.
Draw the agreement.
Draw the hope. The hunger.
Begin with the hunger.
No. Begin with the bird.
No. Begin with the woman.
With the officer. The gun. With the
with the barrack. The oven. The pot. The bird. With the –
begin already. Come on, begin.
Begin with the memory.
Begin with the, the, with the quiet.
In silence.
Begin with muteness.
Begin with the silence. The silences.
No. Don’t begin.
Just be silent and don’t begin.
And never say a thing.
Don’t write and don’t draw a thing.
Forget all that you’ve said. And be silent.
Erase all that you’ve written. And be silent.
Erase and forget. Forget and erase.
And be silent.
And let go of the barrack. Let go of the officer, let go of the woman.
Let go of the hunger, let go of the gaze, let go of hope.
Leave the silences, leave the voices.
And don’t think oven, or pot.
And don’t touch story, or song.
Expel the bird. God.
Swallow the words.
And be silent.
Forget. Erase. And don’t speak.
And if you must, begin at least with noiseless.
In your head, in a whisper. Whispering.
Begin with the longing. The yearning.
Do you know what bechinalt is? Of course you do.
Begin with the bechinalt.
Draw its aroma rising
spreading through the house.
Rising from the pot, leaving the kitchen,
crawling to the living room,
reaching all the way to the carpet,
to the radio,
to the search-for-relatives program
making the senses lose their mind.
Begin in the afternoon.
Draw the little apartment in Givataim.
The sun moves to a diagonal
and a light breeze comes in from the sea.
Begin with mother.
Begin with mother, in the afternoon.
Draw her cooking, a wooden spoon in hand,
explaining to me about flour, and how to make roux.
Begin with mother, afternoon.
Draw her tall, by the stove.
Draw her closely, close.
Draw her touching me.
Begin with me.
Begin with mother, afternoon.
Draw her pretty, on high heels.
It’s the hour of the day when sometimes,
having stopped by the butcher’s and having bought some chicken,
she would cook bechinalt
from a little bird
that she got from an officer
With the taste of much, so much, so very much time.
Translator: The poet, with her son Elazar Tal Ronen
Editor: Lynn Dion
littlebird. Hebrew and English. Bar Ilan University, Ramat Gan, Israel 2010, 58 pp including an introduction by Prof. Hanna Yaoz and an interview with the poet.
First published in Israel by Pseifas Poetry Magazine, no. 75 autumn 2009. Further publications: Poland, Fraza, nr 4 (82) 2013; USA, World Literarure Today, Int., Nov.-Dec.2016; Germany, Sinn und Form, Nov.-Dec.2016; Romania, Micrindunic, Editura Musatinii, Suceava, 2017; Georgia, Wonderings, Nodar Dumbadze Foundation, 2018; Iran, “Avaye Tabeed”, issue 34, pages 84 to 88, and more.
The poem was translated to more than twenty languages, among them French, Swedish, Albanian, Hindi, and Arabic. The poem won several awards and inspired artists, musicians, animators and illustrators in Israel, France, Germany, Sweden, Poland and more.