Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Amichai Chasson

“My father was a fugitive Aramean”* (a poet in New York)

On Manhattan’s Upper West Side
we founded the Jewish state
approaching it like spies
exploring possibilities we’d given up.
We hear America singing through subway grates
my Yiddishe mama,
lost in the smoke that spirals up to the street like incense
with the muteness of immigrants
and we’ve nothing to offer but suitcases laden with clothes
like first fruits kept under our beds.


Words we had abandoned in childhood:
Our mother never spoke to us in her mother-tongue
(to this day I have no envy, except
for those who conjure foreign
languages like some form of prayer)


Driving to Kennedy Airport
on the way back to an old-new country
I look out through the window and know:
Once we too were such a story,
like a Bruce Springsteen song
riding across the wide river,
tipping our hat to a beautiful
lady. We are tough prairie boys
of handsome looks and jeans.

Once upon a time we were this story, I know.
I've seen Mommy and Daddy’s old
photos, heard him say:
Winter winds blew over the Hudson River.


New York, Summer 2010

אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי (מְשׁוֹרֵר בִּנְיוּ־יוֹרְק)

אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי (מְשׁוֹרֵר בִּנְיוּ־יוֹרְק)

בְּאַפֶּר וּוֶסְט סַיְד מַנְהֶטֶן
יִסַּדְנוּ אֶת מְדִינַת הַיְּהוּדִים.
אֲנַחְנוּ בָּאִים אֵלֶיהָ כְּמוֹ מְרַגְּלִים,
תָּרִים אֶת הָאֶפְשָׁרֻיּוֹת עֲלֵיהֶן וִתַּרְנוּ.
שׁוֹמְעִים: אָמֶרִיקָה שָׁרָה מֵחֲרַכֵּי הָרַכֶּבֶת
הַתַּחְתִּית שִׁיר שֶׁל אַ יִידִישֶׁע מָאמֶע,
תּוֹעִים בֶּעָשָׁן הַמִּסְתַּלְסֵל אֶל הָרְחוֹב כִּקְטֹרֶת
בְּאִלְּמוּת שֶׁל מְהַגְּרִים
וְאֵין לָנוּ לְהַצִּיעַ אֶלָּא מִזְוָדוֹת עֲמוּסוֹת בְּגָדִים
כְּפֵרוֹת בִּכּוּרִים תַּחַת מִטּוֹתֵינוּ.

עַל הַמִּלִּים וִתַּרְנוּ בְּיַלְדוּתֵנוּ:
אִמֵּנוּ לֹא דִּבְּרָה אִתָּנוּ בִּשְׂפַת אִמָּהּ
(עַד הַיּוֹם אֵין בִּי קִנְאָה, רַק
לַמְלַהֲטִים שָׂפוֹת
זָרוֹת כִּתְפִלָּה סְדוּרָה)

בַּנְּסִיעָה לִשְׂדֵה הַתְּעוּפָה קֶנֶדִי
בַּדֶּרֶךְ חֲזָרָה לְאֶרֶץ יְשָׁנָה־חֲדָשָׁה
אֲנִי מַבִּיט מֵהַחַלּוֹן וְיוֹדֵעַ:
פַּעַם הָיִינוּ סִפּוּר כָּזֶה,
כְּמוֹ שִׁיר שֶׁל בְּרוּס סְפְּרִינְגְסְטִין
חוֹצִים בִּדְהִירָה אֶת הַנָּהָר הַגָּדוֹל,
מַפִּילִים אֶת הַכּוֹבַע בִּפְנֵי גְּבֶרֶת
יָפָה. נַעֲרֵי הָעֲרָבוֹת הַקְּשׁוּחִים
זֶה אֲנַחְנוּ, יְפֵי הַתֹּאַר וְהַגִּ'ינְס.

פַּעַם הָיִינוּ סִפּוּר כָּזֶה, אֲנִי יוֹדֵעַ.
רָאִיתִי תְּמוּנוֹת יְשָׁנוֹת שֶׁל מָאמִי
וְדֶדִי, שָׁמַעְתִּי אוֹתוֹ אוֹמֵר:
הָיוּ רוּחוֹת שֶׁל חֹרֶף בְּנָהָר הַדְסוֹן.


ניו־יורק, קיץ 2010
 
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“My father was a fugitive Aramean”* (a poet in New York)

On Manhattan’s Upper West Side
we founded the Jewish state
approaching it like spies
exploring possibilities we’d given up.
We hear America singing through subway grates
my Yiddishe mama,
lost in the smoke that spirals up to the street like incense
with the muteness of immigrants
and we’ve nothing to offer but suitcases laden with clothes
like first fruits kept under our beds.


Words we had abandoned in childhood:
Our mother never spoke to us in her mother-tongue
(to this day I have no envy, except
for those who conjure foreign
languages like some form of prayer)


Driving to Kennedy Airport
on the way back to an old-new country
I look out through the window and know:
Once we too were such a story,
like a Bruce Springsteen song
riding across the wide river,
tipping our hat to a beautiful
lady. We are tough prairie boys
of handsome looks and jeans.

Once upon a time we were this story, I know.
I've seen Mommy and Daddy’s old
photos, heard him say:
Winter winds blew over the Hudson River.


New York, Summer 2010

“My father was a fugitive Aramean”* (a poet in New York)

On Manhattan’s Upper West Side
we founded the Jewish state
approaching it like spies
exploring possibilities we’d given up.
We hear America singing through subway grates
my Yiddishe mama,
lost in the smoke that spirals up to the street like incense
with the muteness of immigrants
and we’ve nothing to offer but suitcases laden with clothes
like first fruits kept under our beds.


Words we had abandoned in childhood:
Our mother never spoke to us in her mother-tongue
(to this day I have no envy, except
for those who conjure foreign
languages like some form of prayer)


Driving to Kennedy Airport
on the way back to an old-new country
I look out through the window and know:
Once we too were such a story,
like a Bruce Springsteen song
riding across the wide river,
tipping our hat to a beautiful
lady. We are tough prairie boys
of handsome looks and jeans.

Once upon a time we were this story, I know.
I've seen Mommy and Daddy’s old
photos, heard him say:
Winter winds blew over the Hudson River.


New York, Summer 2010
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Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
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