Poem
Ayana Erdal
My mother of blessed memory was no saint
My mother of blessed memory was no saint, but a woman
who knew how to enjoy life
and when we were children she walked around naked
until the hateful neighbors peeked through the windows
and she also thought it was useful to shoplift from department stores
and once stole purple sneakers for me.
My mother of blessed memory was not one of the oppressed poor
but when she immigrated to Israel she had only one hundred dollars.
Then she worked
and met men.
She was never rich and enjoyed
buying clothes on the cheap in second-hand stores and bazaars.
Oh, men,
you who don’t understand women’s desire to shop,
poor women’s desire for clothes,
you men who wipe out overdrafts and fear debts,
when will you understand the source of poor women’s pleasures,
who never owned a thing of their own, who grew up in hallways and kitchens,
and now they have husbands and money and a bedroom but nothing will conceal
the feeling that you have nothing, and so
buy fake fur and exchange panties
with a best girlfriend, find a satin nightgown
in the Madrid flea market, take a gold pearl ring from your husband,
and when you’re sick and your fingers swell, he’ll wear it
on his pinky,
but this is not something you can bequeath to your daughter,
who is, after all, an orphan.
© Translation: 2013, Lisa Katz
My mother of blessed memory was no saint
אִמִּי זִכְרוֹנָהּ לִבְרָכָה לֹא הָיְתָה צַדֶּקֶת, אֶלָּא אִשָּׁה
שֶׁיָּדְעָה לֵהָנוֹת מֵהַחַיִּים
וּכְשֶׁהָיִינוּ יְלָדִים הָיְתָה מִסְתּוֹבֶבֶת עֵירֻמָּה עַד שֶׁשָּׂטְמוּ אוֹתָהּ הַשְּׁכֵנִים
שֶׁהָיוּ מְצִיצִים בְּהֵחָבֵא מִבַּעַד לַחַלּוֹנוֹת
וּכְמוֹ-כֵן הִיא חָשְׁבָה שֶׁמִּן הַחֲנֻיּוֹת הַגְּדוֹלוֹת כְּדַאי לִגְנֹב,
וּפַעַם לָקְחָה לְמַעֲנִי נַעֲלֵי "גַּלִּי" סְגֻלּוֹת.
אִמָּא שֶׁלִּי זִכְרוֹנָהּ לִבְרָכָה לֹא הָיְתָה עֲנִיָּה מְרוּדָה,
אֲבָל כְּשֶׁעָלְתָה לָאָרֶץ הָיוּ לָהּ רַק מֵאָה דוֹלָר.
אַחַר-כָּךְ עָבְדָה
וְהִכִּירָה גְּבָרִים.
גַּם עֲשִׁירָה גְּדוֹלָה לֹא הָיְתָה, וְתָמִיד נֶהֶנְתָה
לִקְנוֹת בְּגָדִים בַּחֲנֻיּוֹת יָד-שְׁנִיָּה וּבְבָּזָרִים בִּמְחִיר-מְצִיאָה.
הו, גְּבָרִים,
אַתֶּם שֶׁלֹּא מְבִינִים אֶת תְּשׁוּקַת הַנָּשִׁים לִקְנִיּוֹת,
אֶת תְּשׁוּקַת הַנָּשִׁים הָעֲנִיּוֹת לִבְגָדִים,
גְּבָרִים זוֹלְלֵי אוֹבֶרְדְּרַפְט וּפַחְדָנֵי הַחוֹבוֹת
מָתַי תָּבִינוּ אֶת שֹׁרֶשׁ הַהֲנָאוֹת שֶׁל הַנָּשִׁים
שֶׁלֹּא הָיָה לָהֶן מֵעוֹלָם דָּבָר מִשֶּׁלָּהֶן, שֶׁגֻּדְּלוּ בְּמִסְדְּרוֹנוֹת וּבְמִטְבָּחִים,
וְהִנֵּה יֵשׁ לָהֶן בַּעַל וְכֶסֶף וַחֲדַר-שֵׁנָה אֲבָל דָּבָר לֹא מְכַסֶּה
עַל הַתְּחוּשָׁה שֶׁאֵין לָךְ דָּבָר, לָכֵן
לִקְנוֹת פַּרְוָה מְלָאכוּתִית וּלְהַחֲלִיף תַּחְתּוֹנִים
עִם הַחֲבֵרָה הֲכִי טוֹבָה, וְלִמְצֹא כְּתֹנֶת-לַיְלָה מִסָּטֶן
בְּשׁוּק-הַפִּשְׁפְּשִׁים שֶׁל מַדְרִיד, לְקַבֵּל מִבַּעֲלֵךְ טַבַּעַת זָהָב עִם פְּנִינָה,
אֲבָל כְּשֶׁאַתְּ נַעֲשֵׂית חוֹלָה וְאֶצְבְּעוֹתַיִךְ מִתְנַפְּחוֹת, הוּא עוֹנֵד אוֹתָהּ
עַל אֶצְבָּעוֹ,
זֶה לֹא מַשֶּׁהוּ שֶׁאַתְּ יְכוֹלָה לְהוֹרִישׁ לְבִתֵּךְ. גַּם הִיא,
אַחֲרֵי הַכֹּל, יְתוֹמָה.
© 2008, Am Oved
From: Love Poems for Hard Times
Publisher: Am Oved, Tel Aviv
From: Love Poems for Hard Times
Publisher: Am Oved, Tel Aviv
Poems
Poems of Ayana Erdal
Close
My mother of blessed memory was no saint
My mother of blessed memory was no saint, but a woman
who knew how to enjoy life
and when we were children she walked around naked
until the hateful neighbors peeked through the windows
and she also thought it was useful to shoplift from department stores
and once stole purple sneakers for me.
My mother of blessed memory was not one of the oppressed poor
but when she immigrated to Israel she had only one hundred dollars.
Then she worked
and met men.
She was never rich and enjoyed
buying clothes on the cheap in second-hand stores and bazaars.
Oh, men,
you who don’t understand women’s desire to shop,
poor women’s desire for clothes,
you men who wipe out overdrafts and fear debts,
when will you understand the source of poor women’s pleasures,
who never owned a thing of their own, who grew up in hallways and kitchens,
and now they have husbands and money and a bedroom but nothing will conceal
the feeling that you have nothing, and so
buy fake fur and exchange panties
with a best girlfriend, find a satin nightgown
in the Madrid flea market, take a gold pearl ring from your husband,
and when you’re sick and your fingers swell, he’ll wear it
on his pinky,
but this is not something you can bequeath to your daughter,
who is, after all, an orphan.
© 2013, Lisa Katz
From: Love Poems for Hard Times
From: Love Poems for Hard Times
My mother of blessed memory was no saint
My mother of blessed memory was no saint, but a woman
who knew how to enjoy life
and when we were children she walked around naked
until the hateful neighbors peeked through the windows
and she also thought it was useful to shoplift from department stores
and once stole purple sneakers for me.
My mother of blessed memory was not one of the oppressed poor
but when she immigrated to Israel she had only one hundred dollars.
Then she worked
and met men.
She was never rich and enjoyed
buying clothes on the cheap in second-hand stores and bazaars.
Oh, men,
you who don’t understand women’s desire to shop,
poor women’s desire for clothes,
you men who wipe out overdrafts and fear debts,
when will you understand the source of poor women’s pleasures,
who never owned a thing of their own, who grew up in hallways and kitchens,
and now they have husbands and money and a bedroom but nothing will conceal
the feeling that you have nothing, and so
buy fake fur and exchange panties
with a best girlfriend, find a satin nightgown
in the Madrid flea market, take a gold pearl ring from your husband,
and when you’re sick and your fingers swell, he’ll wear it
on his pinky,
but this is not something you can bequeath to your daughter,
who is, after all, an orphan.
© 2013, Lisa Katz
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