These are some translated poems by the great Soviet-Yiddish master Dovid Hofshteyn, who was killed along with the other most prominent representatives of the Yiddish literary culture of the Soviet Union in 1952, on the so-called Night of Murdered Poets. These poems come from the collection Ikh gloyb (“I believe”) which was published by the Yiddisher Kultur Farband in New York in 1945. My copy, which I bought from the Yiddish Book Center, bears a stamp indicating that it was once owned by the yidishe shul in meksike/Collego Israelita de Mexico.

I believe

 1

Yes, I am great because,

because I belong

to the people, that does not grow tired

and builds

and believes.

To be immortal –

is not necessarily

to be dead already.

One generation sinks into the abyss,

one outburst follows the next,

and what was once whole is

scattered, dispersed,

reduced to dust

again –

but my people still believes

that, if

it’s destined,

presence is everywhere

then what does

nowhere mean?

There can be a somewhere

everywhere!

Even in the very middle

of the world!

There can

be a somewhere

everywhere –

that same somewhere that

the whole

world remembers, –

but more than the world remembers

it, my people remembers it

at every turn in

palaces and tents.

The memory glows

in every tear and

I am great because

I belong to the people.

2

Yes, I am great

more and more

because,

because I belong

to those,

whose lot it is

to toil and to steel themselves

in battle, in proud struggle.

I’m a Jew of

the new cut;

I’ve seen so many somewheres

And also that one’s somewhere,

that one,

who shines in every tear,

but I already have courage in me,

but I’m armed with that shield,

that gives me strength

through smoke,

through blood

the faraway of time sighted

in the clear light of day.

In light, that only now

blooms in sparking white

and I am great because,

because I belong

to those,

who live with the fiery desire

of every somewhere,

that I’ve seen till now

sighted in the clear light

that great here

my great home –

⁂

A storm from the mountains.

There fans a mighty

arm with fire

on gnarled heights,

and drives into caves

the gloom of the world.

If you are still,

then stillness is precious.

But storm is drawn to me

and the fire in smoke,

and the narrow of caves,

and the gloom of the world.

⁂

On its smooth a distant skylight seized

a piece of burning sun that sinks and sinks.

It’s deep autumn. The last falling leaves.

I stand like I’m on watch,

and my gaze waits

for the earth’s pull

to work a

yellow leaf down

from a damp twig.

On the Way

I could swear I’ve been here before,

and my eyes have mirrored

this valley, and this forest

and this sand that veils its soil.

The wheel grinds in silence,

and through me thunders

human memory’s cacophonous laughter.

It still remembers every turn

on every road I’ve ever journeyed.

I swear, I swear it’s true.

I’ve seen this valley, in some form,

in a dream,

and I’ve traversed

this very forest.