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“We are children of our age,/ it’s a political age.” Wislawa Szymborska
Who’s on our side? Which side is that?
June 24, 2014
Poet Shachar Mario Mordechai, [is a teacher who has] worked as a political advisor to a British ambassador to Israel [...] His book Who’s on our Side is filled with “content and substance and intellectual and emotional richness” –
Oh, land of borders and the oppressed
on both sides of the line
drawn by pupils
in the indefensible
school book, full of holes,
rulers are the axis of evil
and we – the conquered.
Oh, land of refugee camps
on both sides of the line
drawn by rulers
in the indefensible,
revised book,
the sky – a crime film.
People of the land – actors.
Oh, thunder shot close to the shepherd in the clouds
and an alarm:
who by sword, who
by fire
who will die
by strangulation
who will rest, who will wander
who will live in harmony, who will be harried
who have we sustained, revived
and who
is on our side.
[‘Who's On Our Side’]
The poem “The Lovely Buzz Of Protest,” an explicit call to action, may also be read as a layered, thought provoking work, and not only as a political instrument. Echoes of the [Israeli poet] Alexander Penn [1906-1972, a committed Marxist] may be heard in its themes and musicality:
As the poem continues, the cure for slips of the tongue is revealed. I’ll leave it to readers to discover it for themselves, and just say that it is an emotion that regularly appears in love poetry.
Mordechai’s father figures in several poems, some of the book’s most beautiful and strongest. ‘The One Who Doesn’t Know How to Ask’
contains a short, prose-like report about him:
In 1967 my father was twenty years old. It seems
my grandmother, that is, his mother, didn’t know exactly when he was born.
She gave birth to him, dark-skinned and black-haired, in Iraq,
where records were not always kept, and if they were,
were sometimes lost.
[…]
If my grandmother had given a different date
to the Israeli authorities
perhaps he wouldn’t have been sent to the Egyptian front in the Six Day War
and if he hadn’t been sent, he wouldn’t have absorbed the direct blow to the tank
and if he hadn’t, my father wouldn’t have been enveloped
in flames. And if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have lost
his place on the Maccabi Haifa soccer team,
and if he had continued to play soccer in Haifa, I wouldn’t have been forced
to play in his place, and I wouldn’t hate soccer
[…]
and I wouldn’t have had to wear armor facing the burned tank soldier
known to me as my father
In the fire that rages in the tank before us, the political and the personal merge into one red hot alloy that is cast, with all its gravity, in Mordechai’s poetry.
We read it and recall the lines by Wislawa Szymborska: “We are children of our age,/ it’s a political age.” [Tr. Stanisław Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh]. Perhaps everything, including the emotion regularly appearing in love poetry, is essentially political. *Translator’s note: Here the poet has reversed the terms in a famous by line by poet Lea Goldberg.
What about protest poetry? Do the calls for rebellion arising from its lines dull their artistic edge, or deepen it? Can such poetry be an effective, if poetic, combatant in the struggle in which it is engaged and still maintain creative independence?
Chilean poet Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), one of the greatest 20th century Spanish writers and a Nobel laureate, blatantly waved the banner of protest. During the Spanish Civil War he was asked to leave his diplomatic post as consul in Madrid in light of his political poetry; a decade later he was exiled for his beliefs. During that entire time and after, Neruda wrote, among other works, poetry that expressed his political and social stances: a far cry from propaganda and sloganeering and some of his most praised work. Nonetheless, Neruda cautioned young poets against political writing: “The political poet must also be prepared to accept the censure which is thrown at him—betraying poetry, or betraying literature. Then, too, political poetry has to arm itself with such content and substance and intellectual and emotional richness that it is able to scorn everything else.” [Interview by Rita Guibert, trans. Ronald Christ, Paris Review 51, Spring 1971]Poet Shachar Mario Mordechai, [is a teacher who has] worked as a political advisor to a British ambassador to Israel [...] His book Who’s on our Side is filled with “content and substance and intellectual and emotional richness” –
Oh, land of borders and the oppressed
on both sides of the line
drawn by pupils
in the indefensible
school book, full of holes,
rulers are the axis of evil
and we – the conquered.
Oh, land of refugee camps
on both sides of the line
drawn by rulers
in the indefensible,
revised book,
the sky – a crime film.
People of the land – actors.
Oh, thunder shot close to the shepherd in the clouds
and an alarm:
who by sword, who
by fire
who will die
by strangulation
who will rest, who will wander
who will live in harmony, who will be harried
who have we sustained, revived
and who
is on our side.
[‘Who's On Our Side’]
The poem “The Lovely Buzz Of Protest,” an explicit call to action, may also be read as a layered, thought provoking work, and not only as a political instrument. Echoes of the [Israeli poet] Alexander Penn [1906-1972, a committed Marxist] may be heard in its themes and musicality:
Come, come, “us”: let us stretch our necks above the city
arise now, take a breath:
we love to live.
But not this life.
No.
The land is filled with malice. Filled with much malice.
Come, let us break the bonds of the master
[…]
We’ll set fire to fox tails
we won’t be quiet anymore, won’t stop
[…]
My impoverished land, native land of beauty,*
we are such beggars.
It’s as simple as that.
Many of the poems in Who’s on our Side lead us on a shifting, surprising journey, for example, ‘Language’ which opens with a brilliant description of the inner stumbling block that faces every writer: language itself. Here some lines echo [Hebrew poetry written in medieval Spain]:arise now, take a breath:
we love to live.
But not this life.
No.
The land is filled with malice. Filled with much malice.
Come, let us break the bonds of the master
[…]
We’ll set fire to fox tails
we won’t be quiet anymore, won’t stop
[…]
My impoverished land, native land of beauty,*
we are such beggars.
It’s as simple as that.
I am snared in the language trap
between strong emotion and a lazy tongue
I awaken, toss and turn and fall asleep
besieged by the body, a slip of the tongue.
Now I say: sea. And can’t contain it.
I say: sky. Is that where His army and all His soldiers are?
Oh no no no. I meant something else.
But I repeat the words. As I do now. Here:
I am snared in the language trap
between strong emotion and a lazy tongue
again I awaken, toss and turn and fall asleep
besieged by the body, the silliness of the tongue.
between strong emotion and a lazy tongue
I awaken, toss and turn and fall asleep
besieged by the body, a slip of the tongue.
Now I say: sea. And can’t contain it.
I say: sky. Is that where His army and all His soldiers are?
Oh no no no. I meant something else.
But I repeat the words. As I do now. Here:
I am snared in the language trap
between strong emotion and a lazy tongue
again I awaken, toss and turn and fall asleep
besieged by the body, the silliness of the tongue.
As the poem continues, the cure for slips of the tongue is revealed. I’ll leave it to readers to discover it for themselves, and just say that it is an emotion that regularly appears in love poetry.
Mordechai’s father figures in several poems, some of the book’s most beautiful and strongest. ‘The One Who Doesn’t Know How to Ask’
contains a short, prose-like report about him:
In 1967 my father was twenty years old. It seems
my grandmother, that is, his mother, didn’t know exactly when he was born.
She gave birth to him, dark-skinned and black-haired, in Iraq,
where records were not always kept, and if they were,
were sometimes lost.
[…]
If my grandmother had given a different date
to the Israeli authorities
perhaps he wouldn’t have been sent to the Egyptian front in the Six Day War
and if he hadn’t been sent, he wouldn’t have absorbed the direct blow to the tank
and if he hadn’t, my father wouldn’t have been enveloped
in flames. And if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have lost
his place on the Maccabi Haifa soccer team,
and if he had continued to play soccer in Haifa, I wouldn’t have been forced
to play in his place, and I wouldn’t hate soccer
[…]
and I wouldn’t have had to wear armor facing the burned tank soldier
known to me as my father
In the fire that rages in the tank before us, the political and the personal merge into one red hot alloy that is cast, with all its gravity, in Mordechai’s poetry.
We read it and recall the lines by Wislawa Szymborska: “We are children of our age,/ it’s a political age.” [Tr. Stanisław Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh]. Perhaps everything, including the emotion regularly appearing in love poetry, is essentially political. *Translator’s note: Here the poet has reversed the terms in a famous by line by poet Lea Goldberg.
© Amir Becker
Translator: Lisa Katz
Source: Haaretz 15 December 2013
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