Poem
Hagit Grossman
THE JOURNEY
On this journey I believed with all my heart that I was Jesus
who had turned up here as your daughter.
I believed this and by myself gave rise to winter
with a hundred candles, I a Jew who observes the Sabbath.
But the pain in my chest reminds me of the trip
to Rochester, Minnesota, where my self was shipwrecked,
some parts never to be found again,
when we met the great lung doctors
with a short
reach.
The pain is because I haven’t learned a thing from what you did,
soon it will be my turn to lie down
and I won’t journey to Rochester, Minnesota.
Why haven’t I learned a thing
I ask and light a cigarette,
your days were short and mine will be too.
In the photo in my room you lie forever in the snow.
Out of your hand
smoke billows and billows.
© Translation: 2014, Lisa Katz
במסע
במסע
בְּמַסָּע זֶה הֶאֱמַנְתִּי בְּכָל לִבִּי שֶׁאֲנִי יֵשׁוּ
שֶהִתְגַּלְגֵּל לְכָאן בִּדְמוּת בִּתְּךָ.
בָּזֶה הֶאֱמַנְתִּי וְהִצְמַחְתִּי אֶת הַחֹרֶף בְּעַצְמִי
בְּמֵאָה נֵרוֹת וְאַחַת, יְהוּדִיָּה אֲנִי, שׁוֹמֶרֶת שַׁבָּת.
אַךְ הַכְּאֵב בֶּחָזֶה מַזְכִּיר לִי אֶת הַנְּסִיעָה
לְרוֹצֶ'סְטֶר מִינֶסוֹטָה, שָׁם נִטְרְפָה אֳנִיָּתִי
וְטֶרֶם נִמְצְאוּ כָּל חֲלָקֶיהָ
כְּשֶׁפָּגַשְׁנוּ אֶת גְּדוֹלֵי רוֹפְאֵי הָרֵאוֹת
שֶׁיָּדָם
קָצְרָה,
הַכְּאֵב הוּא מִמַּעֲשֶׂיךָ מֵהֶם לֹא לָמַדְתִּי דָּבָר
וְעוֹד מְעַט יַגִּיעַ תּוֹרִי לִשְׁכַּב עַל עֶרֶשׂ
וְלא אֶסַּע לְרוֹצֶ'סְטֶר מִינֶסוֹטָה.
מַדּוּעַ לֹא לָמַדְתִּי דָּבָר?
אֲנִי שׁוֹאֶלֶת וּמַצִּיתָה סִיגַרְיָה
יָמֶיךָ הָיוּ קְצָרִים וְכָךְ גַּם יָמַי.
בַּתַּצְלוּם בְּחַדְרִי אַתָּה לְעוֹלָם שׁוֹכֵב עַל הַשֶּׁלֶג
כְּשֶׁמִּיָּדְךָ מִתְבַּדֵּר וּמִתְבַּדֵּר
הֶעָשָׁן.
© 2007, Plonit
From: Tisha shirim leh-shmuel
Publisher: Plonit, Tel Aviv
From: Tisha shirim leh-shmuel
Publisher: Plonit, Tel Aviv
Poems
Poems of Hagit Grossman
Close
THE JOURNEY
On this journey I believed with all my heart that I was Jesus
who had turned up here as your daughter.
I believed this and by myself gave rise to winter
with a hundred candles, I a Jew who observes the Sabbath.
But the pain in my chest reminds me of the trip
to Rochester, Minnesota, where my self was shipwrecked,
some parts never to be found again,
when we met the great lung doctors
with a short
reach.
The pain is because I haven’t learned a thing from what you did,
soon it will be my turn to lie down
and I won’t journey to Rochester, Minnesota.
Why haven’t I learned a thing
I ask and light a cigarette,
your days were short and mine will be too.
In the photo in my room you lie forever in the snow.
Out of your hand
smoke billows and billows.
© 2014, Lisa Katz
From: Tisha shirim leh-shmuel
From: Tisha shirim leh-shmuel
THE JOURNEY
On this journey I believed with all my heart that I was Jesus
who had turned up here as your daughter.
I believed this and by myself gave rise to winter
with a hundred candles, I a Jew who observes the Sabbath.
But the pain in my chest reminds me of the trip
to Rochester, Minnesota, where my self was shipwrecked,
some parts never to be found again,
when we met the great lung doctors
with a short
reach.
The pain is because I haven’t learned a thing from what you did,
soon it will be my turn to lie down
and I won’t journey to Rochester, Minnesota.
Why haven’t I learned a thing
I ask and light a cigarette,
your days were short and mine will be too.
In the photo in my room you lie forever in the snow.
Out of your hand
smoke billows and billows.
© 2014, Lisa Katz
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