Zelda Mishkovsky
Poeta israelí.
(20 de junio 1914 - 30 de abril 1984 )
Su nombre completo era Zelda Shnierson. Nació en Ucrania, en el seno de una familia jasídica, descendiente de importantes rabinos. La dualidad entre la cultura rusa y la religiosa marcó su poética desde temprana edad. En 1926 su familia se instala en Jerusalén. En 1950 contrae matrimonio con con Arieh Mishkovsky. No tuvieron hijos.
Sus poemas se difunden a cuentagotas a través de diferentes medios. Edita su primer poemario a la edad de 53 años, luego de 35 años de escritura: Pnai (Vacante) que pasaría a tener más de 15 reediciones con miles de ejemplares.
Es notoria la influencia jasídica en el espíritu y en los motivos de sus poemas. La cantante Java Alberstein interpretó varios de sus poemas, entre ellos el famoso Le jol ish iesh shem (toda persona tiene un nombre).
En el calendario hebreo, Zelda nació el 25 de Sivan 5674, en la ciudad Ekaterinoslav del Imperio ruso, hoy Dnepropetrovsk en Ucrania, hija del rabino Schneerson Shalom Shlomo, y de Raquel. Creció en un ambiente religioso tradicionalista.
En 1925, cuando Zelda tenía 9 años de edad, la familia salió de la Unión Soviética y emigró a Palestina bajo el mandato británico.
Municipalidad de Jerusalén dio su nombre a la calle en el barrio de Ramot. Uno de sus alumnos fue el escritor Amos Oz
Logros
1971 - El Premio Brenner
1978 - Premio Bialik de Literatura Hebrea
1982 - Premio Wertheim
Las obras publicadas
Ha-ha-yi Nireh Carmel (Carmel invisible) (1971)
El Tirhak (No los quite) (1975)
Har Halo Halo Esh ('s sin duda una montaña, es un seguro de incendio) (1977)
El ha-ha-Marham Shona (Sobre la diferencia espectacular) (1981)
Mikola Shenivdelu Merhaq (particularmente a cualquier distancia) (1984)
La sombra del monte blanquecino...
La sombra del monte blanquecino
ocultó mis manos y mi rostro
Creí ser un alma libre,
como un muerto.
Un crepúsculo triste cubrió la casa,
las hojas de la parra,
y sin embargo
cuando en ese mundo ajeno
- la calle donde vivo -
sonó un violín
salí hacia el goce del novio y de la novia
los vi
entramados de sutil esperanza
los vi
trazados de anhelos verdaderos
y así, secretamente, pedí:
Oh, Creador.
Que los demonios y los males no golpeen
sus sueños
Que haya entre ambos
una casa por siempre
Mi plegaria creció
desplegando hojas verdes
Me senté a la sombra del tártago
y ya no supe
el nombre de la estación
a la que había arribado mi vida.
Traducción: Gerardo Lewin
Cada rosa
Cada rosa es isla de la paz prometida,
de la perpetua paz.
En cada rosa habita
un pájaro celeste
cuyo nombre es “y tornaron...” (1)
Tan cercana
se ve
la luz de la rosa,
tan cercano
su aroma,
tan cercana
la paz de su follaje,
tan cercana
la isla
-súbete a un barco
y cruza
incendiados océanos-.
Traducción: Gerardo Lewin
(1) Referencia a Isaías, 2; la visión en la que las naciones abandonan la guerra “y tornaron sus espadas en arados y sus lanzas en hoces”.
Acerca de la poesía israelí contemporánea: Zelda Mishkovsky
por Ana Mª Riaño López
EN AQUELLA NOCHE
En aquella noche,
cuando me senté sola en el patio
silencioso
y miré a las estrellas,
decidí de corazón,
casi hice un juramento:
dedicar cada tarde
un instante
un instante pequeño y único
a esta belleza que brilla.
Parece
que no hay cosa más fácil,
más sencilla que ésta;
a pesar de todo no he cumplido
mi promesa.
¿Por qué?
Ciertamente acabo de descubrir
que mi pensamiento se eleva hacia sus palacios,
a lo que ven mis ojos,
como aquel pájaro que porta en su pico
paja, plumas y estiércol para construir el nido.
Ciertamente he descubierto ya que mi pensamiento
toma (si no tiene otra cosa)
incluso mis sufrimientos
para hacer de ellos torres.
Toma los sufrimientos
de mi vecina,
y el papel que revolotea en el patio
y los pasos del gato
y la mirada vacía del vendedor
y aquel verso que se agitaba entre las páginas del libro,
y todo esto me construye a mí,
sí, todo esto. Todo esto.
¿Por qué no he cumplido el juramento
que me hice?
Es cierto que me lo creí,
que si mirara un corto y único momento
a la altura del cielo estrellado
se elevaría mi pensamiento hacia el Palacio,
a la luz de los astros.
Es cierto que creí
que si mirara así
noche tras noche
se tornarían las estrellas
lentamente
en vecinos;
se tornarían las estrellas
en parientes;
se tornarían las estrellas
en mis niños.
¿Por qué no he cumplido
el juramento que me hice?
¿Acaso ya olvidé
cuánto envidiaba a los marinos,
a aquellos cuyas casas están a la orilla del océano?
Porque dije en mi precipitación:
—La brisa fresca del mar
penetra en sus vidas;
la brisa fresca del mar
penetra en sus pensamientos, el viento fresco
penetra en sus relaciones con sus vecinos
y en sus relaciones con los miembros de sus familias.
Centellea en su ojos
y juega con sus gestos—.
Porque dije en mi precipitación:
—Es la medida de sus actos,
es la medida del mar y su esplendor,
y no lo es de la vía humana,
y no lo es del callejón del hombre—.
Porque dije en mi precipitación:
—Ellos ven con sus propios ojos
la obra divina
y sienten su existencia
sin nuestras barreras
y sin nuestra lijereza—.
He llorado siempre
porque me hallo enjaulada
entre los muros de la casa,
entre los muros de la calle,
entre los muros de la ciudad,
entre los muros
de los montes.
En aquella noche, cuando me senté a solas
en el patio silencioso,
descubrí de repente
que también mi casa está construida sobre la orilla,
que yo vivo en el borde de la luna
y de los astros,
al filo de los amaneceres y los ocasos.
ME DETUVE EN JERUSALEN
Me detuve
en Jerusalén
que cuelga de una nube,
en el cementerio
con hombres que lloran;
un árbol está doblado,
los montes están borrosos,
y una torre.
—¡No sois vosotros!—
nos dijo
la muerte.
—jNo eres tú—
se dirigió a mí.
Me detuve
en medio de Jerusalén
engarzada en el sol,
sonriente como una novia
en el campo,
junto a una hierba fina y verde.
—¿Por qué me tuviste miedo ayer en la lluvia?-
me dijo la muerte.
No soy yo tu hermana
la callada y la mayor.
DE LAS CANCIONES DE LA INFANCIA
Fue mariposa
que es lo incompleto,
que es lo no-fijo,
que es un reino.
Ciertamente se fueron
los años tiernos
en busca de dulzura,
y chocaron
con las raíces del mar.
¡Oh, oh, oh!
Mi padre y mi madre
lloran sobre la orilla.
¿Por qué el llanto?
¿Por qué el lamento?
si es que el fondo del mar
es la Carroza* hacia Dios.
*La Carroza es una de las formas místicas extáticos de concebir el Trono de Dios, en la
primera literatura cabalística.
CUANDO ESTUVE AQUÍ
Cuando estuve aquí
y tu mirada marrón me protegía
y nuestros pensamientos se tocaban
de repente
ala con ala.
Cuando estabas conmigo
dentro de las cosas cambiantes
eran las paredes antiguas partes de la casa
que contaban añejas historias
por la tarde,
cuando tomábamos té.
Ahora las paredes no son cobertura;
ellas se encerraron en su silencio
y ya no velan mi caída.
Ahora las paredes son cal, argamasa,
un extraño cimiento,
material que no responde, como la muerte.
My Mother's Room Was Lit
The pale painter mixed in the wet paint
the faintest of pinks
the glory of apple blossom, a babe's smile.
Silver clusters he put, and brass crowns engraved
in the candlesticks of inheritance, glittering on the chest,
reflected in a round mirror,
(orchards of love from generation to generation and the crowns of
lineage and tears).
And on the table, through the tales of the righteous, the golden
tales,
(that Rabbi Zevin gathered, collected),
a mountain breeze leafs slowly slowly,
mixing snowy landscapes with an arid landscape.
My mother is praying--on her head, silken checkers.
The big inner room is as dark
as Rabbi Shim' on bar Yochai's cave.
In it, a sea's silence--
in it, Sabbath, as if it were the world to come.
The entire flat is still.
My husband went to his office. My mother is in the palace of her
prayers.
I'm in the kitchen.
And in the tin can, a geranium overflows like blood.
In the paved courtyard, by the plants,
a cat is pacing like a landlady from the old generation.
Slowly slowly
the door opens
to milk, to bread, to candles,
to taxes, to a letter.
Friday is the day of a laughing eye painted blue,
and the day of the sad mouth.
Friday is the day of the poor.
So pass the days,
so pass the years.
Faint light shall cover pain, helplessness,
mistakes.
So pass the days and the roaring life,
abounding with desires, buds, babes, seas and forests,
stealthily deserting my limbs, spilling like blood.
When I die,
God shall unravel my embroidery
thread by thread,
and to the sea throw my paints,
to His warehouses in the abyss.
And perhaps He shall turn them to a flower and perhaps He shall turn
them to a butterfly,
dark-nocturnal-soft; dark-nocturnal-alive.
On That Night
On that night,
as I sat alone in the still
courtyard,
and gazed at the stars--
I resolved in my heart--
I almost took a vow--
to devote every evening
one moment,
a single tiny moment,
to this shining beauty.
It would seem
that there is nothing easier than this,
simpler than this,
still I haven't kept up
my oath
to myself.
Why?
Surely I've already discovered
that my mind carries to its palaces
the sights I see,
like that bird that carries in its beak
straw, feathers and dirt to repair the nest.
Surely I've already discovered that my thought
uses (if it doesn't have anything else)
even my ailments
to build towers.
That it uses my neighbor's
ailments,
and the paper rolling in the courtyard,
and the cat's footsteps,
and the vacant look of the vendor,
and that verse quivering among the pages of the book,
and out of all this, yes, out of all this,
out of all this, makes me.
Why haven't I kept my oath
to myself?
Did I not believe
that if I gazed one tiny moment
at the heights of the starry skies,
my mind would carry to the palace
the light of the constellations.
Did I not believe
that if I gazed so
night after night,
the stars would
slowly slowly
become my neighbors.
The stars would become
my kinsmen.
The stars would become
my children.
Why haven't I kept my oath to myself?
Did I forget
how envious I was of the seafarers
and of those whose house was by the ocean shore.
For I said in my haste
the fresh sea breeze
penetrates their lives,
the fresh sea breeze penetrates their thoughts; the fresh breeze
penetrates their relationships with their neighbours
and their relationships with their family members.
It glitters in their eyes
and plays with their movements.
For I said in my haste
the yardstick of their deeds
is the yardstick of the sea and his glory
and not that of the human street,
not that of the human alley.
For I said in my haste,
they see eye to eye
God's works
and feel His presence
without our barriers,
without our distractions.
I wept constantly
for I was imprisoned
among the walls of the house,
among the street walls,
among the walls of the city,
among the walls
of the mountains.
On that night, when I sat alone
in the silent courtyard,
I discovered suddenly
that my house too was built on the shore,
that I live on the bank of the moon
and the constellations,
on the bank of sunrises and sunsets.
The Silver Candlesticks
The silver candlesticks, the radiance of inheritance,
turned my room to an ancient castle,
to a heavenly castle, to a lofty abode on a starry nothingness.
The silver candlesticks are songs of glory,
crowns scoured by tears,
which gladden the heart
with their engravings,
brighten the darkness
with wreaths of forged roses.
They are vessels of sensitive greatness, which absorbed
bitter pain,
a weeping uprooting
the voice of praise and hope.
To silver flowers I likened them,
to ancient silver flowers,
whose calyxes hold the light of peace,
the joy of babes
and a candle of blessing to the Eternal One.
Their living flames
kissed my soul,
and my thoughts became a river of rose-colored
flowers,
became fowls from the wild forests,
became lightning.
And all of me is a burning being
free, happy in God,
who has thrown off herself the tatters of conventions,
and my heart is again wide as a white cascade.
Where is the winsome one who fashioned
this diadem to rest,
who cast rejoicing and trembling like ornaments
for the Sabbath?
In metal he set down yearning for ancient holiness,
his desire for a living God,
I will hold in my hand.
These silver stems
are a prayer, a confession.
Bring forth wine, pour to the hidden!
I will beseech him, I will atone,
for I've forgotten that he is a silent crescent
in Death's forests,
that his name is buried in snow and his memory,
the storm blotted out,
only his tear is still warm,
and from my eye is spilling
at night, this evening,
with the flickering of the candles.
A Sabbath Candle
My heart asked the evening,
my deep and compassionate companion:
How can fire
sprout golden wings
and embark on a magical flight.
What is its secret?
A lonely flower replied to the heart:
Love is the root of fire.
The sea breeze
answered my thoughts:
The lily of all freedom in the universe,
this is the fire of wondrous light.
My blood hearkens--
and weeps bitterly.
Woe, a flame--even an auto-da-fe.
It was also said--
fire is a wondrous mockery of dust.
Is it proper for a mortal woman,
soft of heart,
to roam and wander
in the garden of fire.
How dare she
in the smoke of waste conjure
the ember of peace,
an ember with which Sarah Bat Tovim would light
a Sabbath candle in the gloom of pain.
Between the walls of nightmare
it would bloom, burning slowly
in the crumbling house, in the pit.
Facing it, the woman of sorrowful depths
shut her eyes,
to worry, to mourning, to shame, to the mundane.
The candle's sparks are palaces,
and in the midst of the palaces
mothers sing to the heavens
to endless generations.
And she wanders in their midst
toward God, with a barefoot baby
and with the murdered.
Hurrah!
The soft of heart comes in dance
in the golden Holy of Holies, inside a spark.
Sabbath and Weekday
To light candles in all the worlds
this is Sabbath.
To light Sabbath candles
is the leap of a soul pregnant with secrets,
mysterious with the fire of sunset,
to a magnificent sea.
As I light the candles, my room
turns to a River of Fire,
my heart sinks in emerald waterfalls.
But on the first day of the week
my soul is thrown
from the ocean's heart to a land's shore
long, narrow, and desolate.
When I come to the store the grocer immediately senses
that I've come from another planet, and with dismay
surveys my looks, foreign to him, the remnant of the abyss--
and in his cold pupils, as if in a black mirror,
I see my crumpled scarf, my embarrassed smile.
And in the store stands another woman, a round lady,
slowly selecting golden fruit,
a creature of a distant world.
I wake up from a daydream
when the tone of the air, the rhythm of
voices, change for the short one discovered
that her money was gone ... Woe to me!
The dark grocer pours dung of suspicion
on my disheveled, neglected looks. Before his gaze
my future wilts like a flower, my past withers.
My dreams are dying.
Woe to me for I'm alone in the thick of the forest,
in the darkness, a roaring lion answers my weeping, and mute trees
set on me from all sides ...
The door is open, but I cannot get out
from the store's trap.
Now I see with cruel clarity
how little a person knows about one's fellows--
even your household members, even your dear ones, may
in a moment of eclipse
find in you any wicked fault.
I drown in the darkness ...
Suddenly, in the very heart of blindness,
I heard a voice:
Truth will not die with the grocer,
Truth will not die with the short lady,
Truth will not die with your death.
My soul awakened, and trembling
sensed that the King of Glory was with her
in the foul store.
I always said:
The voice of God is over the mighty waters,
The voice of God is in the song of the morning stars,
The voice of God is in the whirlwind.
And here
in the heart of the tumult, the Lord of Winds gathered me,
on the waves of hatred as on a viscous stone
I came in dance before Him,
I raised my voice in song
to truth, whose footstool are sun, moon, and stars.
I almost kissed the grocer,
for behind his worried back was revealed to me
the view of shining freedom,
the freedom of the lands of the Sabbath
which burns in the songs of the palace dwellers.
I did not lose favor with the butterfly
in paradise and with the winds
that roar above the sea.
I did not bow before the glance that sees
in my cheeks the wrinkles of defeat
but doesn't see my soul that roams
in the fullness of the universe, doesn't know
that my soul is a ray of the sun
and will not be caught in the palm.
Like the Bud of the Valleys
If your soul is impartial
like the bud of the valleys,
you will reach the heart of the matter
by a miraculous shortcut,
you will reach the heart of the matter.
If your soul is impartial
like the bud of the valleys,
you will reach the heart of the world,
you will reach
the colorless
gate.
If your soul is impartial
like the bud of the valleys,
the pacing righteous man
shall bring you a secret key;
Rabbi Leib Sarahs shall bring you
a holy key
to the light of lightning
and to the stirrer of storms.
If your soul is impartial
like the bud of the valleys,
you will not drown in the darkness
to the root,
you will not drown in the present
to the innermost point.
A Drunk, Embroiled Will
A drunk, embroiled, bleeding will
that imposed itself on constellations,
on the world's secret,
is blazing in my generation's heart.
Fettering the free, festive air,
with a strict hand.
The sun and the deeps are wheel horses
on its farm.
It is strange to be a woman,
simple, domestic, feeble,
in an insolent, violent generation,
to be shy, weary,
in a cold generation, a generation of wheelers and dealers,
for whom Orion, Pleiades, and moon
are advertisement lights, golden marks, army badges.
To march in a shaded street
reflecting, slowly, slowly,
to taste China
in a perfumed peach,
to look at Paris
in a cold movie theater,
while they fly
around the world,
while they fly in space.
To be among conquerors
and conquered,
while every creature is ashamed, afraid,
alone.
It is strange to wither before clouds of enmity,
while the heart is drawn
to a myriad of worlds.
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