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To Say A Prayer By Abraham Sutzkever Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original Yiddish I have the urge to say a prayer. I do not know to whom.     He who once gave me comfort will not hear it, should it come.   To whom, then, would I pray?   I am its choked-up prey.    Maybe I should entreat a star up there: "old distant friend,   Come substitute for my lost speech. For I am at words' end."   That good star deep in ether   Won't hear my prayer either.    But I have got to say a prayer. Someone very near,   Somebody in my soul is tortured, and demands a prayer.   So I jabber on and on   Senselessly until dawn. - Vilna Ghetto, January 1942 The Original: ????? ??? ??? ?? ???? ?? ??????? ?????? ????????? ????? ??? ??? ?? ???? ?? ??????? � ????? ??? ??? ?? ??????, ???, ????? ???? ?? ???? ???????? ??? ???? ?? ??? ??????????,  ????? ??? ??? ?? ?????? �  ????? ?? ??? ??? ??????.  ????? ???? ??? ???? ??? ?? ?????: ��??????? ??

Six Lines By Aaron Zeitlin Translated by A.Z. Foreman I know none in this world have any use For me: w ord-beggar in the graveyard of the Jews. What use are poems, in Yiddish especially?   Only the hopeless things on earth are beautiful.  The truly godly is ephemeral.  The true rebellion is humility.   The Original: ???? ?????? ???????: ?????? ????? ??? ???? ???? ??? ??? ????: ???, ???????-?????? ???? ??? ?????? ????-????. ???? ????? ?? ??? � ??? ???? ????? ???? ??????  ???? ????? ???? ??????????????? ???? ??? ??? ??? ????, ??? ?????? ??? ???? ????, ????? ??? ?????????, ??? ???? ????? ??? ???????. 

Barbaad husn-e-zan se maal-e-wafaa na ho ! Aisa na ho ke haqq-e-muhabbat ataa na ho ! Hoon aashna-e-dost, mujhe kyun ataa na ho ? Aisi jabeen jo dair-o-haram se aashnaa na ho ! Phir chaahta hoon raabta husn-o-ishq se, Wo ibtada ke jis ki koi intehaa na ho ! Wo sar-khushi ka waqt hai jab kaayenaat mein, Dil bolta ho aur aur koi boltaa na ho ! Rahne de imtiyaaz ke parde pade huye, Aye husn ! har naqaab se jalwanumaa na ho ! Mahw-e-khudi na ho jo wo kaafir to kya kare, Jis ki nazar mein hadd-e-khudi tak Khuda na ho ! 'Seemab' tark-e-ishq-o-gham-e-zindagi galat, Wo kaam kyun karein jise dil maantaa na ho ! ~ Aashiq Hussain Siddiqui 'Seemab' Akbarabadi (5.06.1882 � 31.01.1951)

Scottsboro  Isaac Rontsh Translated by A.Z. Foreman I have seen the black masses on their knees In ecstasy for Jesus Lord and Savior. Their staring eyes keep glowing with more pleas, Their calloused hands all stretching out in prayer. And oh the servitude and self-abasement The blind folk in their spirituals have sung. How do they cower like small sickly children, These young men, bass-voiced, broad-shouldered and strong?  Oh I have seen the black folk jazzing, dancing To entertain the fat white Sir for pay, I've seen their bright black fire burn to waste For wealthy drunkards in the boiling cabaret. But now I see the young black men stand stronger Roaring in wild spurting rage the fierce Song of Scottsboro, of struggle against hunger, The song drowned out in blood these many years. The big white teeth won't chatter when the whip cracks. The black man shakes his clenched fist in their face. No Jesus Lord, no spirituals, no kneeling. Just the cry Of Scottsboro, the rage of

Autumn Elegy Nikolajs Kurzens Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original Esperanto It rained all yesterday, today it's raining So too tomorrow drops will slip and strew Wearily as the weary minutes do Of this my life � aimless and dull and draining. Yes each day robs and washes me of something! Yes each night carries something else from me! No, of the past I've but a memory! No, for the future I am left with nothing! No more is the sky sliced by lightning blades No more the heavens shuddering with thunder. A phthisic wind is weeping in the corners, And rain and rain and rain � day after day.  And each day robs and washes me of something And each night carries something else from me And of the past I have but memory, And for the future I am left with nothing. The Original: Autuna Elegio Hierau pluvis, kaj hodiau pluvas kaj morgau same, lace glitos gutoj; kaj same, lace iros la minutoj de mia viv', sencela kaj enua. Ja ciu tag' forlavas rabe ion! ja c

About Himself By John Owen Translated by A.Z. Foreman Some say that I am no true poet, and they tell The truth. Because the truth is what I tell. The Original: De Seipso Sunt quidam, qui me dicunt non esse poetam, Et verum dicunt. Cur? Quia vera loquor.

I am not happy with this version. But here goes. The Horn of Roland By Marina Tsvetaeva Translated by A.Z. Foreman So as a sorry jester telling of the wicked weight Of his hump, do I tell the tale of this my orphaned state. Behind a prince, his kin. Behind a seraph, seraphim. Behind each one there are a thousand others just like him, To reassure him, when he staggers, with a living wall Of thousands to fall back on, to be backup should he fall! The soldier's proud of his brigade; the demon, of hell's rungs.   Behind the thief come thugs. Behind the jester? Just that hump.  So, tired of holding on to consciousness of being quite Alone, and singled out for no fate other than to fight  Under the boo and hiss of philistines, and fools' catcalls, As one for all � one among all � alone against them all I stand to blow the horn, and � petrified from flight � I send One blaring call through empty distance hoping for a friend  And this fire in the breast is warrant that I'm not

My Little Stone By Isaac Rontsh Translated by A.Z. Foreman Death Valley in the California Desert: I stumbled suddenly upon a stone, A jagged little thing that seemed to plead With me "O pick me up and cool your brow On me, but take me with you out of here." A shard of quartz, of granite and iron-ore, Colored with rust, dried blood and speckled white, Alone, dissevered from its native rubble; Descendant of volcanoes, fiery explosions; Of scalding lava, dust-plumes and detritus; Of earthquakes, ice-ages, epochal flood; A living greeting of millennia: stone memorial mark of ancestors long gone. What secrets could the little stone reveal? What storm or strife engraved the ancient notches? How many lives pressed in together here?  How many eyes are winking up at me?  So sharp-edged, spear-edged, weighty this small stone. So heavy and deep it sinks into my pocket, As if to say "Even rubble has its value. You'll find a use for me eventually." At home it is no conversat

God of Mercy By Kadya Molodowsky Translated by A.Z. Foreman ( Click for a recording of the poet herself  reading the original Yiddish ) God of Mercy, Choose a nother people Elect. We are tired of the death, the dead, the cost. No more prayers. Choose another people Elect. We have run out of blood to sacrifice To You in holocaust 1 . Our home has become wilderness. The earth is not enough for  all our graves. There are no more dirges for us left, No more lamentations In any old Hebrew text. God of Mercy, Make some other land holy Some other mountain. We've strewn each stone and every field 2  with grave Ash and consecration. With our elderly, With our young, With little babies we have paid wholly For every letter of that Decalogue 3  You gave.  God of Mercy, Lift up that fiery brow of Yours, Behold the peoples of the world. Give them the prophecies, the Days of Awe. In every tongue they babble 4  up Your Words,  Your revelations and  Your law.  Instruct them in the Acts 5 And the wa

"What's in my name for you? By Alexander Pushkin Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original Russian What�s in my name for you? What good? It will but die as the sad sound of a wave that's splashed its last aground, a cry out in the toneless wood. Lifeless its marks will lie among these album pages: the design of someone's epitaphic line in some unfathomable tongue. What's in it then? Lost to the past in new emotions' wild infection, upon your soul it will not cast the tender rays of recollection. But on a silent day of rue pronounce it with a sigh of pain and say "One memory is true! There beats one heart where I remain!� The Original: ??? ? ????? ???? ????? ??? ?????, ??? ??? ????????? ?????, ?????????? ? ????? ???????,   ??? ???? ?????? ? ???? ??????. ??? ?? ???????? ?????? ??????? ??????? ????, ???????? ????? ??????? ?????????? ?? ?????????? ?????. ??? ? ???? ??????? ????? ? ????????? ????? ? ????????, ????? ???? ?? ???? ??? ???????

Only Gary Light would write a Russian poem that begins by paraphrasing from a Bob Dylan song, and then uses the word "poetry" in English as a loanword two lines later to rhyme with  p�-vetru  "in the wind." Born in Kiev in 1967 to a Jewish family, Gary Light came to the US at the age of 13. He attended Northwestern University, and received a law degree from Chicago-Kent College of Law. He is one of a number of American poets ( Gabriel Preil , whom I've also translated, is another) who grew up quite at home in the US and in English, but elected to lead their life of linguistic creativity in another language. He has translated Russian poetry into English, but has expressed dissatisfaction with how his own English poetry turns out. As he himself puts it  in this interview : "I suppose I don't feel like a "Russian writer" in the narrow classic sense of that term, though the majority of my....initial literary 'baggage' comes from the Russia

This poem was written in April of 1991. Through The Looking-Glass By Nicholas Zhdanoff-Lutsenko Translated by A.Z. Foreman We live in the looking-glass in a secret kingdom, Where all the rules of law read in reverse, Where we are weaned on perfidy and fibs, Where a people suffers forever as if cursed. We live in the looking-glass, but what strange lives, Guarded each day by Powers of Caprice. Still lukewarm, our love for our poor Fatherland. Only the weakest souls go overseas. We live in the looking-glass, and we're still alive. We've yet to pass the purgatory test.  Here hungry highwaymen can make it big, Sucking the hot blood from the infant's breast. We live in the looking-glass with crooked shadows. The past with boney fingers holds us tight. The drunken coachman can't deal with the horses.  We've left behind all hope of truth or right. We live in the looking-glass, in a contrived world. Imbibing lapidary theories' fog, We kneel to our Godawfulness Incarnate

South of the Walls We Fought Anonymous (Han-era) Translated by A.Z. Foreman "South of the wall we fought North of the city we died Dead in the wastes unburied for crows to eat �  we rot Call to the crows for us Say � cry for these strangers brave and true Dead in the wastes to go unburied Their rotting flesh has no escape from you"  The water is deep roiling and moiling The reeds in darkness  spread and sway  Here fearless horsemen  fought to the death Their weary mounts  still pace and neigh  "They've built guardposts at the bridge Now the people can't go north And the people can't go south We want to be loyal � but how?  How can we harvest the grain how can our master eat?  We hoped to be loyal subjects but what can we do now?"  "I think of you � my faithful subjects My faithful men � how could I not? At dawn � you set off to attack Night fell � you never came back" The Original, with transcription of Late Han pronunciation: ??? t?anh d

On Her Own By Lera Yanysheva Translated by A.Z. Foreman I sit at home and on my own. I'd hoped to start a family. The men said I was quite a lady But years have had their way with me. My little sisters are still young. My baby brother is a kid. My mother has been dead for years. My father is an invalid. God, what am I supposed to do? I can't just leave them on their own. Who else will put bread on the table? Who else can work? It's me alone. I did have men propose to me. My father wouldn't let me though � "I'm begging you: stay for the children. We'll end up starving if you go." The tears keep running down like water, A fire has burned my heart clean through. I'm no young woman anymore. My darling, lover, where are you? It's pointless. I can't be with you When I have got this family. And I have got to think of them. The household has no head but me. It's awful but sometimes I think of  Running off with a gadjo man! You girls are raising

Some Israeli song lyrics for a change of pace. Inspired by the Six Day War and Ariel's experience in the Battle of Jerusalem, these are alternative lyrics to the tune of Naomi Shemer's "Jerusalem of Gold." Jerusalem of Iron By Meir Ariel Translated by A.Z. Foreman Jerusalem there in your darkness  We found a loving heart, When we invaded your invaders To make your borders ours.  We'd had enough of blasted mortars, When suddenly dawn bled. The sun came up, no time to whiten. It was already red. O my Jerusalem of iron  Of dark and lead, can you not see?  No wailing at your wall now! We set you free! Our shelled battalion charged on forward   All blood and smoke and guns As mothers ran out grieving, leaving The corpses of their sons.  Lips bitten bloody, our battalion Kept fighting, pushing through, Till proud above that holy graveyard The flag of David flew. O my Jerusalem of iron  Of dark and lead, can you not see?  No wailing at your wall now! We set you free! The

This poem is based on real events. Since 2003, Romani neighborhoods in and on the outskirts of St. Petersburg have been repeatedly attacked by Neo-Nazi skinhead groups, with the reaction of the police and the public seldom rising above indifference. For more thoughts on the poem, see the note after the translation. St. Petersburg By Lera Yanysheva Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original Romani I wander down the road he liked to stroll down all the time, And there I see the shop he used to stop in every day. Then God do I feel sick. My heart's all shredded. Why? Why did you have to take my little boy away? God oh God! We lived an honest life   but you of course would know. Everyone knows he'd not hurt anyone. He was too sweet.  For two weeks he was laid up in a coma  and then...Oh God! He was twenty..... and the skinheads jumped him in the street.  I crawled across the floors o

"The years flow by..." By Lilith Mazikina Translated by A.Z. Foreman The years flow by like water through hands,  From the girl I was to the woman I am. Now I'm the one with her own girls, see! What thief filched all my youth from me?  Whoever it was...I hope he has fun.  There at my window � the dark birds come.  I open the window � shoo them away. How far ahead is the bone-cold rain? It's all without you! "Forget him" they insisted. What sister forgets her brother existed? The Original: For reasons explained on this page , all Cyrillic Romani texts I translate are accompanied by transcription in Roman characters.  ????? ??????? - ????????? ????. ?? ????? ??? - ?? ????? ?????; ?????????, ????, ????? ???. ??????? ???? ?? ?? ??? ?????? ???? ????? - ??? ????? ??????... ??? ??????? - ???? ???????; ???????? ???????, ????? ??????. ????? ????? ????? ????????? - ???? ??????! "????????", ??????. ?? ??? ?????? ?????????? - ?????      Ber�a prastan � vast�nd

Lullaby For Her Blood By Lera Yanysheva Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original in Romani The wolves in leafy woods are sleeping. Rockabye baby, day is done. Horses are sleeping, birds are dreaming.   So sleep you snug sweet angel son.  Just close your eyes for bedtime baby And oh don't cry I'm begging you. Or else you'll wake your sleeping papa... And then what am I going to do?  My shining sun, God how I love you, My blessing and my saving grace, I'm begging you, please don't start crying Or he will come and break my face.  His mother will burst in with curses "Dumb Ruska girl" she'll hiss at me     "Why don't you do something already?  The poor thing's bawling. Can't you see?"  I'm asking you on bended knees now, Dear little apple of my eye, Just shut your mouth for mama, sweetie. Hush little baby. Don't you cry.  Don't make us have a loud domestic.    I am so tired, sweet shining sun. It&

"Asphalt melts under my sole..." By Lilith Mazikina Translated by A.Z. Foreman Asphalt melts under my soles, Runs hot beneath my feet. A pack of house-cats calls For mother in loud clear pleas.     I open up to the breeze To get drunk with the sun. I'd learned to give up believing That summer again would come.  The Original: ???? ??????? ??? ????????, ???????? ??? ??????. ???? ???????? ????? ?????? ???????? ? ????. ? ??????????? ????? - ????? ???????? ??????. ? ?????????? ??????, ??? ???? ??? ????????.

And another from Spinelli... Roundup By Santino Spinelli Translated by A.Z. Foreman A bang on the door in the long dead of night, disciplined hounds with long fierce teeth, assault rifles raised in a face half-asleep sleep smashed dream gashed night-terrors awake; black uniforms cool cruel eyes hatred revulsion and heinous slander punishing windstorm innocent eyes... the door banged shut a dream pulled apart tears on the ground...gutted hearts. The Original: R�dm Ni d�b ki vudd�r andr� i bar� r�t d�nd bar� di giuk�l mard�, ni putin� a kat�r pru muj sovadd� sun� dukkadd� sun� tra�ian�; kal� jurvibb� ki� giungal� naf�l bi mi�tip� do� bar�, bar brav�l ki� lacc�... a vudd�r pandind� ni sun� ningadd� rovibb� pri p�... jil� cind�. Notes on the Romani: baro : the adjective occurs three times, in different senses � the first in bar� r�t (one of a handful of multi-word idioms in Romani which actually can be traced to India) meaning idiomatically " the dead of night, the middle of the night

Valeria Yanysheva is an actress, singer and dancer (formerly?) affiliated with the Moscow  Romen  theater. She also showed herself a poet when, 8 years ago, she put out a small collection of verse in Romani � in various dialects thereof � accompanied by free translations into Russian. The collection, titled Adad�v�s i Atasja "Today and Yesterday" contains so much to cut one's teeth on. (You can download it here .) She is one of the more brilliant poets I have happened upon in a long time. In some ways she puts me in mind of the dialectal experimentations of Rudyard Kipling (in his Barrack room Ballads ) or Paul Laurence Dunbar and Margaret Walker (who wrote their best poetry in Black English.) In other ways, though, the way she uses dialects, and dialect shifts, to actually tell part of the story, is harder to find analogues for in English. Some Russian Romani poets I have read seem to be unsure of what to do with the language as they find it � they're finding their