HAYIM NAHMAN BIALIK [9009]

Hayim Nahman Bialik  (hebreo : חיים נחמן ביאליק; 9 enero 1873 a 4 julio 1934), también Chaim o Haim, fue un poeta judío que escribió principalmente en hebreo, también escribió en yiddish. Bialik fue uno de los pioneros de la moderna poesía hebrea y llegó a ser reconocido como Israel 's poeta nacional.

Reseñar la importancia de la obra poética de Hayim Nachman Bialik en la literatura universal excede largamente las posibilidades de este espacio. Baste decir que su solo nombre simboliza la resurrección poética del idioma hebreo.

Bibliografía en inglés:

Selected Writings (poetry and prose) Hasefer, 1924; New York, New Palestine, 1926; Philadelphia, Jewish Publication Society, 1939; New York, Histadrut Ivrit of America, 1948; New York, Bloch, 1965; New York, Union of American Hebrew Congregations, 1972; Tel Aviv, Dvir and the Jerusalem Post, 1981; Columbus, Alpha, 1987

The Short Friday Tel Aviv, Hashaot, 1944

Knight of Onions and Knight of Garlic New York, Jordan, 1939

Random Harvest - The Novellas of C. N. Bialik, Boulder, Colorado, Westview Press (Perseus Books), 1999

The Modern Hebrew Poem Itself (2003), ISBN 0-8143-2485-1

Songs from Bialik: Selected Poems of Hayim Nahman Bialik, Syracuse, Syracuse University Press, 2000

Acógeme bajo tus alas

Acógeme bajo tus alas

sé mi madre, sé mi hermana,

sea tu pecho refugio de mi frente,

nido de mi plegaria lejana.

Y en el ocaso, en la hora tierna,

el secreto sabrás de mi inquietud.

Dicen que la juventud existe.

¿Adónde fue mi juventud?

Habré de hacerte aun otra confesión:

arde mi alma en violento fulgor.

Dicen que el amor existe,

pero ¿qué es el amor?

Me mintieron los astros,

tuve una vez un sueño que se ha ido.

No me queda ya nada.

Estoy ahora solo y vacío.

Acógeme bajo tus alas

sé mi madre, sé mi hermana,

sea tu pecho refugio de mi frente,

nido de mi plegaria lejana.

Traducción: Gerardo Lewin

RETURN

Once more.  Look: a spent old scarecrow

shrivelled face

straw-dry shadow

swaying like a leaf

bending and swaying over books.

Once more.  Look: a spent old crone

weaving and weaving

knitted stockings

mouth full of curses

lips forever mumbling curses.

There’s the household cat

has not moved since I left,

still dreaming by the stove

playing cat and mouse

in his dream.

And as ever, in darkness

the spider weaves

hanging its web

full of swollen fly corpses

in the dark west corner.

You’ve not changed:

All old as the hills.

Nothing new.

I’ll join you, old cronies!

Together we’ll rot till we stink.

ON A SUMMER’S DAY

When high noon on a summer’s day

makes the sky a fiery furnace

and the heart seeks a quiet corner for dreams,

then come to me, my weary friend.

A shady carob grows in my garden –

green, remote from the city’s crowds –

whose foliage whispers secrets of God.

Good my brother, let’s take refuge.

Pleasure and tenderness let us share

in the sweet hidden prime of noon,

and the mystery golden rays reveal

when sunlight pierces the rich shade.

When the black cold of a winter’s night

bruises you with its icy pinch

and frost sticks knives in your shivering flesh,

then come to me, blessed of God.

My dwelling is modest, lacking splendour,

but warm and bright and open to strangers.

A fire’s in the grate, on the table a candle –

my lost brother, stay and get warm.

When we hear a cry in the howling storm

we will think of the destitute starving outside.

We will weep for them – honest pitiful tears.

Good friend, my brother, let us embrace.

But when autumn approaches with rain and cloud

and the roof leaks and there’s moth in the heart

and the desolate world sinks, sullen, in mire,

then merciful brother, leave me alone.

I would be alone in the barren time

when the heart withers in slow decay.

Unseen.  Unknown.  No stranger understands.

Let me grieve alone in my silent pain.

I DIDN’T WIN LIGHT IN A WINDFALL

I didn’t win light in a windfall,

nor by deed of a father’s will.

I hewed my light from granite.

I quarried my heart.

In the mine of my heart a spark hides –

not large, but wholly my own.

Neither hired, nor borrowed, nor stolen –

my very own.

Sorrow wields huge hammer blows,

the rock of endurance cracks

blinding my eye with flashes

I catch in verse.

They fly from my lines to your breast

to vanish in kindled flame.

While I, with heart’s blood and marrow

pay the price of the blaze.