Poems by Herzl hakak
Translated from the Hebrew by Schulamith Chava Halevy.
About the poet Herzl hakak
Biography:
Herzl Hakak - writer, poet, literary critic. Published articles on various topics: literature, identity, Judaism.
Serveded as chairman of the Hebrew Writers Association between 2003-2005. 2011-2015.
He wrote 10 books of poetry and also published together with his twin brother books for children, books of criticism, a commentary on sacred poetry, a lexicon for language.
Recently, a book of his poems, The Song That Has Never Been Sung, was published by Shalhavt Jerusalem.
A selection of awards over the years:
Hari Harshon Award from the Hebrew University for the book of poems "The Light of Love ", 1972.
Honorable Mention "Olim and Achievers" - Ministry of Education 2018.
The Uri Orbach Poetry Prize of the Jewish Culture Division -2021.
Her Nuptial Kitchen by : Herzl hakak
As in every story
One must prepare the substance from which life is contrived.
To Mother it is clear:
The home lives with her and the kitchen breathes
And if there is no farina or olive oil or salt, only crumbs can survive from our lives
In former lives, chimneys soared above the rooftop
And in the morning we indulged in sweet date honey.
Now she is preparing kubbeh for the children and grandchildren
Making sure there always is cold water at her side
Silence above, the skies are changed
The burgul rinsed and squeezed by hand, time after
Time the semolina still alone in its bowl, with a
Pinch of salt, a drop of water
It will come, it will approach, it will return –
That taste.
On her wedding day, she dreamt so high
Felt as though she had been kneaded, passing
Through life dough in hands.
The kneading blends all, everything connects
She recalls it all, sings a song and with her eyes shut
Places the lid on the pot.
If only the next generation knew to allow the dough
To breathe, to rise
If only she knew where to find her many dreams
Not one survived but now the kubbeh pieces are heated through
She took the lid off lest they disintegrate from the steam
As in every story one must understand the substance
From which life is construed and dismantled,
Without our knowledge.
Without sense.
When Everything was a Child- by Herzl Hakak
People wander in the streets. Try to rend
sleep. Mend life in their being. All ready
shirts laundered. Something in the vantage point
from which their life-story was written
starts to beat. Touches a line.
Perhaps I am with them.
Perhaps this is the story of a People.
When everything was a child, perhaps he had dreams
intended to fulfil, and parts to erase. When the mature
teller materialized, the mountain was smoking. It was hard to breathe
in the heat of the torches. The lengthy purification. I sought there
parts of me that threatened to disappear. Breaths from my
past. I wandered with them perhaps to hold,
as if seeking in them
another whole. Beyond the fragmentary. The incidental.
Now I come before them, before their libraries
The stars drained of their strength
in the world, bereft of heaven.
How did their skies turn into ice-water
their yearned-for fields to strangers?
The returning boy is looking for me now and I
Need and bleed. With them, stained. Their heart is no longer
turned to me
as they go.
There is a teller among them who binds pages into a book. In the bushes
A child prays to
me. What kind of poetry do you wish?
My life is torn along the
seamline.
שני שירים מאת :הרצל חקק
הֶרְצל חַקָק / מִטְבַּח כְּלוּלוֹתֶיהָ
כְּמוֹ בְּכָל הַסִּפּוּרִים
צָרִיךְ לְהָכִין אֶת הַחֹמֶר מִמֶּנּוּ הַחַיִּים בְּנוּיִים.
לְאִמָּא הֲרֵי בָּרוּר שֶׁהַבַּיִת חַי אִתָּהּ וְהַמִּטְבָּח נוֹשֵׁם
וְאִם אֵין סֹלֶת וְשֶׁמֶן זַיִת וּמֶלַח
נִשְׁאָרִים מֵהַחַיִּים רַק פֵּרוּרִים.
בַּחַיִּים הַקּוֹדְמִים הָאֲרֻבּוֹת הִתְנַשְּׂאוּ מֵעַל הַגַּג
וּבַבֹּקֶר הִתְמַתְּקוּ כֻּלָּם בִּדְבַשׁ תְּמָרִים.
עַכְשָׁו הִיא מְכִינָה אֶת הַקּוּבֶּה לַיְּלָדִים וְלַנְּכָדִים
וְדוֹאֶגֶת שֶׁתָּמִיד יִהְיוּ לָהּ מַיִם קָרִים.
מִלְּמַעְלָה יֵשׁ שֶׁקֶט,הַשָּׁמַיִם אֲחֵרִים
הַבֻּרְגּוּל נִשְׁטָף בַּמַּיִם וְנִסְחָט בַּיָּד פַּעַם אַחַר פַּעַם
הַסֹּלֶת עֲדַיִן לְבַדָּהּ בַּקְּעָרָה, קְצָת מֶלַח וּמַיִם
זֶה יָבוֹא, זֶה יִקְרַב, זֶה יָשׁוּב, הַטַּעַם.
בְּיוֹם כְּלוּלוֹתֶיהָ חָלְמָה גָּבוֹהַּ,
חָשָׁה כְּמוֹ נָלוֹשָׁה, כְּמוֹ עוֹבֶרֶת חַיִּים
וְהַבָּצֵק בַּיָּדַיִם
הַלִּישָׁה מְעַרְבֶּבֶת הַכֹּל, הַכֹּל מִתְחַבֵּר
זוֹכֶרֶת הַכֹּל , שָׁרָה שִׁיר, וּבְעֵינַיִם עֲצוּמוֹת
מְכַסָּה הַסִּיר.
אִלּוּ רַק יָדַע הַדּוֹר הַבָּא לָתֵת לַבָּצֵק לִנְשֹׁם, לִתְפֹּחַ
אִלּוּ רַק יָדְעָה הֵיכָן חֲלוֹמוֹתֶיהָ שֶׁהָיוּ רַבִּים
וְאֵין גַּם בּוֹדְדִים
הֲרֵי פִּלְחֵי הַקּוּבֶּה הִתְחַמְּמוּ וְהִיא פָּתְחָה הַסִּיר
שֶׁלֹּא יִתְפָּרְקוּ מֵהָאֵדִים.
כְּמוֹ בְּכָל הַסִּפּוּרִים צָרִיךְ לְהָבִין אֶת הַחֹמֶר
מִמֶּנּוּ נִבְנִים הַחַיִּים. וּמִתְפָּרְקִים. לִבְלִי דַּעַת.
לִבְלִי טַעַם.
כְּשֶׁהַכֹּל הָיָה יֶלֶד -הרצל חקק
אֲנָשִׁים מְשׁוֹטְטִים בָּרְחוֹבוֹת. מְנַסִּים לִקְרֹע
שֵׁנָה. לְחַבֵּר לְעַצְמָם חַיִּים. הֵם כְּבָר מוּכָנִים
וְהַחֻלְצוֹת מְכֻבָּסוֹת. מַשֶׁהוּ בִּנְקֻדַּת הַמַּבָּט
שֶׁבָּהּ נִכְתַּב סִפּוּר חַיֵּיהֶם
נִפְעָם. נוֹגֵעַ בְּקַו. אוּלַי אֲנִי אִתָּם.
אוּלַי זֶה סִפּוּר שֶׁל עַם.
כְּשֶׁהַכֹּל הָיָה יֶלֶד הָיוּ לוֹ חֲלוֹמוֹת
שֶׁנּוֹעֲדוּ לְהַגְשָׁמָה. וְחֵלֶק לִמְחִיקָה. וְכַאֲשֶׁר אֵרַע
הַמְּסַפֵּר הַמְּבֻגָּר הָיָה הָהָר עָשֵׁן. קָשֶׁה הָיָה לִנְשֹׁם
בְּלַהַט הַלַּפִּידִים. הַהִטַּהֲרוּת הָאֲרֻכָּה. חִפַּשְׂתִּי שָׁם
חֲלָקִים שֶׁבִּי שֶׁאִיְּמוּ לְהֵעָלֵם. נְשִׁימוֹת
מֵעֲבָרִי. אוּלַי נָדַדְתִּי אִתָּם כִּמְאַחֵז
בָּהֶם, כִּמְבַקֵּשׁ בָּהֶם
שָׁלֵם אַחֵר. מֵעֵבֶר לַחֶלְקִי. לַמִּקְרִי.
עַכְשָׁו אֲנִי בָּא לִפְנֵיהֶם, לִפְנֵי אֲרוֹן סִפְרֵיהֶם
לַכּוֹכָבִים כְּבָר אֵין הַרְבֵּה כֹּחַ
כִּי הָעוֹלָם נְטוּל שָׁמַיִם
אֵיךְ הָפְכוּ לָהֶם הָרְקִיעִים לְמַיִם קָרִים
אֵיךְ הָיוּ שָׂדוֹת נִכְסָפִים לְזָרִים
הַיֶּלֶד הַשָּׁב מְחַפֵּשׂ אוֹתִי עַכְשָׁו וַאֲנִי
מְשׁוֹטֵט וְשׁוֹתֵת. אִתָּם וְנִכְתָּם. וְאֵין עוֹד לִבָּם
אֵלַי בְּלֶכְתָּם.
יֵשׁ עִמָּם מְסַפֵּר שְׁמְּאַחֶה דַּפִּים לְסֵפֶר. בֵּין הַשִּׂיחִים
יֵשׁ יֶלֶד מִתְפַּלֵּל אֵלַי. אֵיזוֹ שִׁירָה
אַתֶּם רוֹצִים. חַ
יַּי קְרוּעִים עַל קַו הַתֶּפֶר.
מתוך "אהבה היא מולדת", 1992
The cover of the book 'The Never Sung
Song' by: Herzl Hakak
