Sharron Hass
trans. by Marcela Sulak
Excerpts from Hehasnoname
Little white soul, grief stricken
I saw the vagrant soul without musical notes
asking to flee—and you let it go
and there is nothing that is precisely a consolation
after the unbelievable happens.
Little lost white soul,
all morning you ponder
your name your place, yearning to be called
to some issue that isn’t work.
Who could descend the empty corridor
for a meeting with these death images that begin to pace upon hearing
his pacing? I sit at the worktable
dust in the creases, sparkly, or sparking to the raven
who emerges from a little white fluttering figure
wondering if the water has receded
and what is the right thing to do at the end of time and its beginning here anew
nothing has been certain
from the moment I and the muse became sisters
I am sitting at my work desk but in a lion’s body
or yellow mane. The visions have not faded—
only the hesitation has increased. And all of this in order to ascend a corridor
that opened while I was sitting next to my dying father
that I saw from a distance, holding his hand
How the poem comes to greet the face of the soul
that lacks features so as not to frighten it
with pleading when it wants to fly
Little white frightened soul, I saw
that place and it is not to be remembered.
We can be inside it or locked outside it
knocking. The knock will call to memories—
not memories I ask for—but for entering, into the body
and with you once upon a time and make it mine, time-addicted,
to live with who is no longer and I call him dead
because there is no other evidence to his knocking at the threshold of his life
from the other side, and in my eyes, my eyes and his eyes,
that we have seen and held each other and we couldn’t stop
even in the severing
* * *
this is a continuous poem of mourning
go outside buy yourself red sandals
a light dress—a new summer garment
clothes that the dead has never seen
and go, go in for all the shapes, circle and triangle
and spiral—all the shapes that are possible on which to scatter crumbs
of bread—whirlwind summons, the weakness of angels
the hope of exiting the source—to a new place of birth
but the music is already a testimony to my feat of the dead
* * *
I have arrived—the table is full
I recognize the spirit seated among the diners
but I don’t panic from guilt over the spirit.
With great efforts I have summoned the dead—
your death is an abandonment, and with any apprehension
of love, in dreams, in memories, in a loop of the sun,
I will turn my back on you; I will sit at the window, full of resentment
waiting for a singing beggar or bird on an antenna to stir
some delight in me, and in order to perceive the world, I will refuse
the splendor of the doomed that radiates through you—
no, no I won’t give,
nor the child’s radiance, a golden kind of sweetness that my eyes can pass
to the dead
no, no I won’t give, I will stop the doubling love on the threshold—
(the one that turns us cautious and fragile)
(while our heart sprouts, all of it shining with blood)
and I have not given in. Someone’s standing and knocking—
(who disturbs me—) (what to do?)
(I will continue to sew a garment for the dead, as a poet?)
the fire should be stirred up, fire holding its folds and a leaf
concealing its threads in the flame (pouring light)
(while the void deliberates) (he stands at the door knocking)
* * *
Little bowing white soul,
idol swaying within me, bitter beating,
moths, and the nausea of wings—
Who, who is standing at entrance, extending a hand to me
what does he want? That I enter—leave?
He builds his house only on the threshold
of my house—the plateau of pain—
there we will meet as in a dream, some mighty thing
sets the day on a sharp angle and I step
up and everything falls or floats or rushes towards me
and I gaze past, open eyed and dazzled,
blinded to see his face growing from behind the phenomenon
hurled in my way, and I don’t stop and the face’s expression is merciful
fading perhaps behind some foliage—and it isn’t at all clear where you are
and where you are going when the call of love is heard everywhere
and you understand you are in the double land of the living that clings to living
there the dead stand reaching out a hand—because in your body you gather together
the single meeting place and it’s forbidden the guards to destroy it
otherwise where and when will you meet your father again if not at the door,
without a door and the reflected body that slips from kisses leaving you
terrible as gods that have discovered—their offering is smoke
Poet, essayist, and author of six poetry collections, Sharron Hass lectures on literature and poetry at the Alma Institute (Tel-Aviv) and Tel-Aviv Museum of Art, and teaches in the Creative Writing Program at Tel Aviv University. She is the recipient of several poetry awards, including the Hezy Leskly Award (1997), the Art Council Award (1998), the Prime Minister Award (2003), a Fulbright America-Israel Fellowship (2005), the Bialik Prize (2012), the Dolitsky Prize (2017), and the Amichai Poetry Prize (2018).
Translator Marcela Sulak is the author of the lyrical translator’s memoir, Mouth Full of Seeds (Black Lawrence Press, 2020). Her third poetry collection is forthcoming with Black Lawrence Press. She’s co-edited Family Resemblance: An Anthology and Exploration of 8 Hybrid Literary Genres. A 2019 NEA Translation Fellow, and a 2017 PEN Award for Poetry in Translation finalist, she’s translated five collections of poetry. Sulak is an Associate Professor of Literature at Bar-Ilan University.