1. Land in medieval Jewish imagination
Yehuda HaLevi (c. 1075 – 1141), Spain and Jerusalem
האל הביטה וראה
צר על עם שפל ידאה
פורץ גדר חדר עדר נאלה
נע במדבר נשבר בקר אין רואה.
שעיר חוזה מדוח
בנוה קדשך בטוח
אל חי כמה שמה שמה ינוח
גם יתעדן חמדן ומדן עם שוח
נוסעה יונתך חנה
בכפור ובקרה לנה,
גם בחורף עורב אורב ליונה
לך מאל שואל:גואל יבוא נא;
-יונה כי בא תחולתך
ראתי בשבי שבותך/האון לבשי חפשי ונשי צוק עיתך
חכי ביתי איתי משכרותך
ראש ישאו בנים דורשי
לי עמים יובליו שי
צאני אקבץ אמנה אבנה בית מקדשי
אהיה דורש יורש שורש בן ישי,
האל יבנה את מגדל
ציון וכבודי צר יגדל
רוחי ישיב,וינשא שח ונבדל
תוך אולמי עמי ושמי יתגדל
Longing for Zion
by Asenath Barzani
Translated by Rafi Ellenson
God looked and saw
Woe to the people, low in their fall
A breached wall, a room, a flock ascribed divine
Moving through the desert -- no cattle, no sight
A hairy seer bringing temptation
Your holy home, a safe waystation
The Living God -- how much destruction, destruction will stay
And will bring down the greedy from Dan in their state
Your graceful dove travels
In frost and lodged visits
And in Winter a crow, ambushes and sits
Go from God and beseech,
“Redeem us and now”
A dove will arrive inception, in your’s
I saw in return, my return to you
Clothes costumed in power, women of the precipice
Wait for me my home, your prize is with me
Raise your heads, sons preach for me
To me nations will bring a gift
Bring me out and I will unite a covenant,
I will build my temple I will preach and inherit
the roots of Ben Yishai and God will build a fortress
Zion and my narrow pride rebuilt
My soul will return, rise, roam, and shift
In my hall, in my people, and my name will lift
Asenath Barzani (1590-1670), Kurdistan
2. Modern Piyyut
Kobi Oz (1969 - ), Israel
3. Modern Israeli Poetry
כנרת
רחל
שָׁם הָרֵי גוֹלָן, הוֹשֵׁט הַיָּד וְגַע בָּם! –
בִּדְמָמָה בּוֹטַחַת מְצַוִּים: עֲצֹר.
בִּבְדִידוּת קוֹרֶנֶת נָם חֶרְמוֹן הַסַבָּא
וְצִנָּה נוֹשֶׁבֶת מִפִּסְגַּת הַצְּחוֹר.
שָׁם עַל חוֹף הַיָּם יֵשׁ דֶּקֶל שְׁפַל צַמֶּרֶת,
סְתוּר שֵׂעָר הַדֶּקֶל כְּתִינוֹק שׁוֹבָב,
שֶׁגָּלַשׁ לְמַטָּה וּבְמֵי כִּנֶּרֶת
מְשַׁכְשֵׁךְ רַגְלָיו.
מַה יִּרְבּוּ פְּרָחִים בַּחֹרֶף עַל הַכֶּרַךְּ,
דַּם הַכַּלָנִית וְכֶתֶם הַכַּרְכֹּם,
יֵשׁ יָמִים – פִּי שֶׁבַע אָז יָרֹק הַיֶּרֶק,
פִּי שִׁבְעִים תְּכֻלָּה הַתְּכֵלֶת בַּמָּרוֹם.
גַּם כִּי אִוָּרֵשׁ וַאֲהַלֵּךְ שְׁחוֹחַ,
וְהָיָה הַלֵּב לְמַשׁוּאוֹת זָרִים –
הַאוּכַל לִבְגֹּד בָּךְ, הַאוּכַל לִשְׁכֹּחַ
חֶסֶד נְעוּרִים?
Kinneret
By Rachel (1890 - 1931), Russia, British Mandate, Israel
The Golan mountains: Reach and touch them!
With quiet assurance they say: Be still.
Alone, alight, Papa Hermon drowses,
And from the white peak comes a chill.
There at the shore is a lowly palm.
Like an impish boy with hair unkempt,
Who has scrambled down and stirs his legs
In Lake Kinneret.
How many winter flowers on the Kerak;
Anemone blood and crocus gold.
There are days when the green is sevenfold green,
And azure the sky seventyfold.
Though I should grow poor and walk bowed,
And my heart be as by strangers desolate,
Could I betray you? And this first kindness
Could I forget?
אורנים
לאה גולדברג
כָּאן לֹא אֶשְׁמַע אֶת קוֹל הַקּוּקִיָּה.
כָּאן לֹא יַחְבֹּש הָעֵץ מִצְנֶפֶת שֶׁלֶג,
אֲבָל בְּצֵל הָאֳרָנִים הָאֵלֶּה
כָּל יַלְדוּתִי שֶׁקָמָה לִתְחִיָּה.
צִלְצוּל הַמְּחָטִים: הָיֹה הָיָה
אֶקְרָא מוֹלֶדֶת לְמֶרְחַב הַשֶּׁלֶג,
לְקֶרַח יְרַקְרַק כּוֹבֵל הַפֶּלֶג,
לִלְשׁוֹן הַשִּׁיר בְּאֶרֶץ נָכְרִיָה.
אוּלַי רַק צִפֳּרֵי-מַסָּע יוֹדְעוֹת –
כְּשֶׁהֵן תְּלוּיוֹת בֵּין אֶרֶץ וְשָׁמַיִם –
אֶת זֶה הַכְּאֵב שֶׁל שְׁתֵּי הַמוֹלָדוֹת.
אִתְּכֶם אֲנִי נִשְׁתַלְתֵי פַּעֲמַיִם,
אִתְּכֶם אֲנִי צָמַחְתִּי, אֳרָנִים,
וְשָׁרָשַׁי בִּשְׁנֵי נוֹפִים שׁוֹנִים.
Pine
by Leah Goldberg (1911 - 1970), British Mandate, Israel
Here I won’t hear the cuckoo’s cry.
Here the tree won’t wrap its head in snow.
But in these pines’ shadow
Is all my childhood, come back to life.
The tinkle of needles: Once it was,
I called the snowy expanse my home.
Greenish ice congealing streams,
A singing tongue in a strange land.
It may be migrating birds alone,
Dangling between earth and sky,
Know this ache of two homes.
Twice was I planted, along with you,
And along with you, pines, I grew,
Rooted upon two different views.
Jews in the Land of Israel
by Yehuda Amichai
Translated by Chana Bloch
We forget where we came from. Our Jewish
names from the Exile give us away,
bring back the memory of flower and fruit, medieval cities,
metals, knights who turned to stone, roses,
spices whose scent drifted away, precious stones, lots of red,
handicrafts long gone from the world
(the hands are gone too).
Circumcision does it to us,
as in the Bible story of Shechem and the sons of Jacob,
so that we go on hurting all our lives.
What are we doing, coming back here with this pain?
Our longings were drained together with the swamps,
the desert blooms for us, and our children are beautiful.
Even the wrecks of ships that sank on the way
reached this shore,
even winds did. Not all the sails.
What are we doing
in this dark land with its
yellow shadows that pierce the eyes?
(Every now and then someone says, even after forty
or fifty years: "The sun is killing me.")
What are we doing with these souls of mist, with these names,
with our eyes of forests, with our beautiful children,
with our quick blood?
Spilled blood is not the roots of trees
but it's the closest thing to roots
we have.
4. Alternative Perspectives on Land
In Jerusalem
by Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008), Palestine, Israel, Texas
Translation by Fady Joudah
In Jerusalem, and I mean within the ancient walls,
I walk from one epoch to another without a memory
to guide me. The prophets over there are sharing
the history of the holy ... ascending to heaven
and returning less discouraged and melancholy, because love
and peace are holy and are coming to town.
I was walking down a slope and thinking to myself: How
do the narrators disagree over what light said about a stone?
Is it from a dimly lit stone that wars flare up?
I walk in my sleep. I stare in my sleep. I see
no one behind me. I see no one ahead of me.
All this light is for me. I walk. I become lighter. I fly
then I become another. Transfigured. Words
sprout like grass from Isaiah’s messenger
mouth: “If you don’t believe you won’t be safe.”
I walk as if I were another. And my wound a white
biblical rose. And my hands like two doves
on the cross hovering and carrying the earth.
I don’t walk, I fly, I become another,
transfigured. No place and no time. So who am I?
I am no I in ascension’s presence. But I
think to myself: Alone, the prophet Muhammad
spoke classical Arabic. “And then what?”
Then what? A woman soldier shouted:
Is that you again? Didn’t I kill you?
I said: You killed me ... and I forgot, like you, to die.
Jerusalem ["And did those feet in ancient time"]
By William Blake
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon Englands mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land.
