domingo, 27 de octubre de 2013

MERLE FELD [10.714]


Merle Feld

Nacida en 1947

Merle Feld, poeta y dramaturga, nació y se crió en Crown Heights, Brooklyn, EE.UU.. En la universidad, su curiosidad sobre la vida judía y su deseo de encontrar una conexión profunda y duradera con el judaísmo y la vida judía.

Feld fue activa en el feminismo judío desde sus primeros años, pero no se percibe a sí misma como una persona política hasta 1989, cuando pasó un año sabático en Israel con su esposo y dos hijos pequeños. Durante ese año, se involucró en el activismo por la paz, lo que facilita un grupo de diálogo entre israelíes y palestinos en la Ribera Occidental. Este grupo ha sido muy importante en la creación de un sentido de humanidad compartida entre las mujeres israelíes y palestinas, rompiendo prejuicios y la formación de un contexto de base para la comprensión. Feld también apoyó regularmente a las Mujeres de Negro, protesta semanal silenciosa de mujeres israelíes de la ocupación. Actualmente se desempeña como Director Fundador del Instituto de escritura rabínica y vive en el oeste de Massachusetts con su marido rabino Edward Feld.

Merle Feld es una poeta publicada ampliamente, dramaturga galardonada, activista por la paz y educadora. Es la autora de un nuevo libro de poesía, Finding Words, (URJ Press, 2011) y un libro de memorias muy aclamado, A Spiritual Life: Exploring the Heart and Jewish Tradition (State University of New York Press, revised edition 2007). 









Estuvimos de pie juntos

Mi hermano y yo estuvimos en el Sinaí
El guardó un diario
de lo que vio
de lo que escuchó
de todo lo que significó para él

Deseo haber tenido un registro
de lo que me pasó allí

Parece que cada vez que quiero escribir
no puedo
siempre estoy sosteniendo un bebé
uno propio
o uno de un amigo
siempre sosteniendo un bebé
por eso mis manos nunca están libres
para escribir

Y luego
según pasa el tiempo
los datos personales
los datos rigurosos
los quién qué cuándo dónde por qué
se escurren de mí
y todo con lo que me queda es el
sentimiento

Pero los sentimientos son sólo sonidos
la vocal ladrando desde un mudo

Mi hermano está tan seguro de lo que escuchó
después de todo tiene un registro de ello
consonante tras consonante tras consonante

Si lo recordáramos juntos
podríamos recrear el tiempo santo
echando chispas

Publicado en Sarah's Daughters Sing: A Sampler of Poems by Jewish Women 
(Editado por Henny Wenkart )

Traducido del inglés por Myriam Rozenberg






We All Stood Together

My brother and I were at Sinai
He kept a journal
of what he saw
of what he heard
of what it all meant to him

I wish I had such a record
of what happened to me there
It seems like every time I want to write
I can’t
I’m always holding a baby
one of my own
or one for a friend
always holding a baby
so my hands are never free
to write things down

And then
as time passes
the particulars the hard data
the who what when where why
slip away from me
and all I’m left with is
the feeling

But feelings are just sounds
and vowel barkings of a mute

My brother is so sure of what he heard
after all he’s got a record of it
consonant after consonant after consonant

If we remembered it together
we could create holy time
sparks flying







The walk 

We are walking together around the pond, 
a mild morning in early spring, and the walk 
is muddy in places but that doesn't matter 
because the air is kind and alive and we are alive, 
enjoying an opportunity for conversation. 

How is Hannah? I ask, and she gives me a few 
perfunctory words about her daughter, 
then politely moves the conversation on to me, 
but I know better and ask again. This time 
she accepts and opens and tells and soon 

her face is distorted, full of color 
as she chokes back tears and continues 
to talk and walk, then finally, crying, 
sobbing, turns and plaintively asks, How many 
times does my heart have to break ? 

—you know, like when you're in labor, 
you want to know how much more of this 
will there be, how do I pace myself—and I 
surprise her with an actual estimate, I'd say 
you're six or seven centimeters dilated now. 

And she stops crying and her eyes widen 
and she wants to know more—how did I 
calculate that—and I respond that slowly, imperceptibly, 
the balance shifts and it's time for you to put down 
the weight of responsibility so they can pick it up, 

and it's not that you stop caring and worrying 
and hurting for them, but finally, the burden 
of making their choices is not yours anymore, 
nor the torment that whatever you chose 
was a bad choice, the wrong choice, and the anguish 

that you are a bad mother, the wrong mother— 
it can subside, it should. Now I stop walking 
and she stops walking, I look in her eyes and help her 
remember all she's done to nurture this child, 
all the hard good work, all the gifts of love, 

and I give her a word, grief , and she's so grateful— 
yes, grief, that's the word —grief that time is passing, 
grief that the golden years of baby and little girl 
are gone, grief that mistakes have been made, 
grief that she is no longer a young mother. 

Grief, yes, it's a word with dignity and gravity, 
a word that befits this moment, a word that's worthy. 
Now as we walk she repeats what I have said 
and I repeat what I have said and we are both 
grateful for the pond and the walk, for all of it. 






The carousel 

for Milton, 1910-1989 

And the angel of the Lord appeared unto him 
in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush, 
and he looked, and behold, the bush burned 
with fire, and the bush was not consumed. 
Exodus 3:2 


I feel such sorrow to realize only now 
the significance of my father waving 
as I came around on the carousel, 

time and again, each time I made my circuit 
on the carousel—ten times? fifteen? twenty? 
Sunday morning after Sunday morning, 

each time, the smile and wave 
that answered 
my smile and wave. 

Didn't it mean I love you , 
didn't it mean we are connected, 
I know this girl, she is mine . 

Yes, the large girl with the thick auburn braids, 
I acknowledge her, she is mine— 
in public, I acknowledge her. 

How did I not see, 
the wind on my face, 
the sentimental tinny music in my ear— 

how did I not see 
it signifies 
he loves me? 


Merle Feld, Finding Words URJ Press 2011





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