Readers of this blog have by now seen the deep influence of Bertha Kling upon her circle and upon the writers and artists who populated it. Although many members of her salon have had their work translated into many languages, Bertha Kling’s own poetry has largely remained untranslated. In Bertha Kling’s poetic voice I have found a strong moral compass, quietly articulated, and a devotional love interlaced with a profound melancholy.
I also found a core of power and a feminist consciousness in her poetry. My favorite poem is “You pressed me close” of Lider—the subtle rage and pain of womanhood is described, in all its complexity, in two sentences. It presents an unstated frustration, both at the careless violence of masculinity and at her own silence in the face of it. This poem, in particular, is interesting to read against Melech Ravitch’s profile of her, which I have previously translated, lauding her patience and mildness—there may be something beneath her calm surface that he missed but that appears in her poetry.
In Ravitch’s article, he observes that Kling's artistry as a folk singer imbues her poems with music—to him, they are more like song lyrics than traditional lines of verse. I tried to be attentive to the musical quality of the poems in my translations, and I do believe that the results came out a lot like folk songs—brief, unpretentious (many even untitled), written for the ear as well as the eye.
Because of this performance-oriented quality, and because of Bertha Kling’s multiplicity as a folk singer and a saloniere, we decided to honor her commitment to building community by involving many people in the presentation of her poems, inviting women who embody her roles of poet, singer, and community builder to read her words out loud.
—A. C. Weaver
These poems were originally published without titles; for the purposes of this post, we have used the first line of each translation as a working title.
"Days I've longed for"
טעג געגאַרטע,
טעג גענאַרטע,
טעג, איר בלױע,
טעג, איר גרױע —
אײַער גײן,
אײַער קומען
האָט נאָך אַלץ
פֿון מיר גענומען!
טעג באַשטראַלטע,
טעג, איר קאַלטע
טעג באַשײַנטע
טעגבאַװײנטע —
מיר געלאָזן
האָט איר נאָך:
פֿעדים זילבער
גרױע האָר . . .
Days I’ve longed for
days I’ve wronged,
days, your blueness,
days, your grayness —
O your going,
o your coming,
you’ve taken all
you’ve left me nothing!
Days, you’re glowing,
days, you’re cold,
days, you’re shining,
days, you’re crying —
You’ve taken all
you've only spared
threads of silver
graying hair . . .
"You / Remind me"
דו
דערמאָנסט מיר
אָן אַ שערבל,
װאָס אַ דורשטיקער
טרעפֿט אָן
בײַם ברונעם;
נאָך אײדער
ס'איז צום מױל דערגאַנגען,
איז דאָס װאַסער
אױסגערונען. . .
You
Remind me
Of a vessel
That someone thirsty
finds
by a well;
As soon as they bring it
To their lips
All the water
Runneth dry . . .
"Come to me —"
קום צו מיר —
נאָר ניט דערגײ צום לעצטן טראָט.
רעד צו מיר —
נאָר ניט דערזאָג
דאָס לעצטע װאָרט.
זאָל
דאָס ניט־דערגאַנגענע
דאָס ניט דערזאָגטע
זײַן דאָס ליכט
װאָס זאָל אונדז בײדן
דורך
די װאָכעדיקע טעג,
אײביק
אונדזער גאַנג באַלײַכטן. . .
Come to me —
But don't take the last step.
Speak to me —
But don't say
The last word.
Let
The step not taken
The word unspoken
Be the light
To guide us both
Through
These everyday weeks
Always
Lighting our way . . .
"Now"
איצט
אַז דאָס צימער איז לער,
הױכט דײַן געשטאַלט
פֿון דײַן פֿאַרבליבענעם רױך.
דערצײלן
פֿאַרשװיגענע רײד
פֿון שרעק און פֿרײד,
דײַן הױך
אין די צעגאַנגענע רינגען פֿון רױך. . .
Now
that the room is empty,
Your form rises
From your lingering smoke.
Telling
Of words unspoken,
Of dread and joy,
Your gaze
In dissolving rings of haze . . .
"Mame"
מאַמע,
דאַכט זיך אױף אַ רגע בלױז
פֿון הױז אַרױס,
האָט די טיר זיך צוגעמאַכט
און קײנמאָל מער זיך ניט געעפֿנט . . .
אָן דײַנע בענטשלײַכטער
אָן דעם טאַטנס קידוש־בעכער
האָט מײַן מזל מיך אַהער געבראַכט
הינטער מיר ליגט פֿאַרשאָטן
דער װעג צו דײַן װעג.
פֿאַרױס
מײַנע קינדער,
דאָס פּנים צום שנײװײַסן, בלענדיקן דזשעז . . .
מאַמע,
אין קײט פֿון די אַבות,
בין איך
דער איבערגעריסענער רינג
צװישן דיר
און מײַן קינד
Mame,
It seemed, for just a moment
upon leaving the house
that the door slammed shut,
Never to open again . . .
Without your sabbath candles,
Without father’s kiddush cup,
This is where my luck has brought me.
Behind me, in shadow lies
The way to your way.
Before me,
my children
Faces alight with snow-dazzle jazz.
Mame,
In the chain of the ancestors
I am
the broken ring
Between you
And my child
"There"
אַהין װוּ איר גײט,
װיל איך מיט אײַך גײן,
געזונגענע לידער,
פֿאַרגאַנגענע טעג,
ניט לאָזט מיך אַלײן
בײַם סוף אָן אַ סוף
בײַם ברעג אָן אַ ברעג.
There, where you go
Would I also go,
Sung-out songs,
Forgotten days,
Don't leave me alone
At the end, endless,
At the edge, unbounded.
"Every saying said and done"
אַלע רײד שױן אָפּגערעדטע,
אַלע מאָדעס אָפּגעטראָגן,
אַלע װעגן אױסגעטראָטן,
אַלע װינטן — אױסגעװײַטע;
אַלע פֿרײד — אױסגעפֿרײדטע;
אַלע שטראַלן – אױסגעשײַנטע
אַלע טרערן – אױסגעװײנטע!
Every saying said and done.
Every fashion worn thin.
Every footpath downtrodden
Every wind blown out;
Every joy played out,
Every light burned out,
Every tear poured out.
"I did not / Acquiesce"
איך בין
ניט אײַנגעגאַנגען
אױף אַ שװערן לעבן
װי מײַן מאַמעס.
מאַטער איך זיך
אַלע מײַנע יאָרן
מײַן לעבן
גרינג צו מאַכן.
I did not
Acquiesce
To a life of trouble
Like my mother.
I’ve toiled away
All these years —
To make mine
A life of ease
"You pressed me close"
האָסט מיך צוגעדריקט
צו זיך
און ניט געװוּסט,
אַז אַ קנעפּל פֿון דײַן אַרבל
האָט מײַנע האָר פֿאַרצױגן
און געריסן.
האָב איך צוגעמאַכט די אױגן,
פֿאַר פֿרײד און װײ
די ליפּן זיך געביסן,
און געשװיגן.
You pressed me close
to you,
and didn’t realize
That a button from your sleeve
was stuck in my hair
And tore some out.
I closed my eyes
In joy and pain,
Bit my lip,
And stayed silent.
"So by night"
סײַ בײַנאַכט
סײַ בײַטאָג –
לױף און יאָג
און דעריאָג –
דאָ דעם טאָג,
דאָ די נאַכט;
דאָ די נאַכט,
דאָ דעם טאָג;
דאָ – אַהער;
דאָ – אַהין,
דאָ – אַהין;
דאָ – אַהער
און ניט מער
So by night
So by day
Run and hunt
And overtake
Here the day,
Here the night;
Here the night
Here the day;
Here — hither,
There — thither,
Hither here
Thither there
And no more
"Look not"
ניט קוק
אין דער װײַטקײט
פֿון װעג,
װאָס פֿירט דיך,
נאָר קוק
אױפֿן שטײן
װאָס דו טרעטסט.
Look not
To the reach
Of the road
That compels you;
Look only
At the stone
On which you stand.
Illustration at top of page by Dina Matus (1898–1944)
The Bronx Bohemians blog is made possible with the support of the Lynn and Greendale families in memory of their aunt and mother, Zeva Greendale, and her special passion for yidishkayt.