O let/my soul glimpse the divine - poem/prayer of Nahman of Busk

 

Beating its wings, seeking the aether,

But neither crane nor raven,

My soul, which knows no conqueror,

Soars up into the heavens.

It can't be trapped in sulfur, iron,

Get tangled in the heart,

Will never die of plague in prison,

Be subject to man's court.

Breaking down walls, it freely flies

Over rumors and smooth words,

For it wants not your narrow streets,

Your alleys, boulevards.

Knowing no limits, it roams free,

Mocks what you all deem wise,

Calls beauty ugly secretly,

Dispels illusions, lies.

It shakes its plumes and sets a light

That can't be put in words,

It cares not not who and what sort might

Hold places in this world.

O Father, help me wield my tongue

So that I voice my pain

And add truth to man's talk--o let

My soul glimpse the divine.

-Nahman of Busk

This was in Olga Tokarczuk's The Books of Jacob where it's said to be a translation by Moliwda (Antoni Kossakowski) of Nahman of Busk's original Hebrew into Polish. Both those figures--Nahman and Moliwda--are actual historical individuals (though for Moliwda, you'll see I was limited to linking the Polish Wikipedia). Jennifer Croft in her translator's afterword says the verse translation was by her husband Boris Dralyuk, who's an interesting poet and significant translator in his own right (Isaac Babel, Andrey Kurkov). It shows up later in the novel in a second version, quite different, which is supposed to be a French translation by Junius Frey of a German version. (But I liked the first version better.) 

Who among all that list of people to attribute the poem to, I can't tell you. I only know I liked it. 😉

Uncredited (#poem)

Uncredited

No breakout leads--a prisoner of reruns

on local stations high up the dial:

a stray recurring role, a guest appearance

on Perry Mason. Later, Rockford Files.

Her second act? Pure dullsville in Van Nuys.

Chablis with ice. A Chevy dealership

gone belly up. Her paunchy husband's lies:

a broken marriage. Then a broken hip.

None of that matters, if you ever catch her

singing, "How High the Moon"--silvery, misty--

on that one show...She isn't any match for

the stainless Julie London or June Christy,

but through her gauzy voice, as through a sieve,

spare notes of heaven reach you from afar.

For those two minutes, she'll make you believe:

Somewhere there's music. It's where you are.

-Boris Dralyuk

I find this quite tender. As far as I know it's not any actress in particular, but it's utterly convincing of somebody who went to Hollywood, had higher aspirations, but who only had the one moment. 

Boris Dralyuk was born in Odesa (I guess I'm transliterating the Ukrainian these days instead of the Russian) in 1982, but emigrated with his family to L.A. in 1991. He's mostly known as a translator from the Russian (Tolstoy, Babel, Pushkin, Kurkov) but his first book of poetry My Hollywood and Other Poems came out last year. I found it very good.

In fact so good that I thought I'd type out some poems before I need to return the book to the library and then I'd have them available for memorization. So I was typing it anyway. But it's also Thursday. It's a poem. Does that have any implications for the future? I don't know. Maybe.

Somewhere there's music. It's where you are.