אויף דער אויסגעבלייכטער פֿלאַך פֿון מײַנע הענט
On the bleached-out surface of my hands
Work 200 of 440
Page 243. 'Lider fun Umkum' poems 'Malkhes' conclusion, 'Dem khalef iz kalt' (The Knife Is Cold), and 'Durkh zibn toytn' (Through Seven Deaths) beginning. 'Malkhes' concludes: on the bleached hands 'a redness suddenly gathers. Wonder-signs bloom forth in red, in the red of the end of all ends.' (Stigmata imagery.) Sitting on the 'sovereignty-throne,' watching 'the banner of the end of all ends' flutter above. 'Dem khalef iz kalt': The knife (khalef, the ritual slaughterer's blade) is cold and sorrowful. 'Countless blemishes have carved themselves in like teeth' — a blemished blade cannot be used for kosher slaughter. It lies 'in its sheath a prisoner... no one remembers it, no one warms it.' Appeal: 'Good people, breathe on it with your warm breath. Beautiful women, touch it with your thin fingers... and give it a throat — a warm one, a full-blooded one!' The knife desires its function. Darkly erotic: the knife longing for warmth, for a throat. 'Durkh zibn toytn': 'When one dies through seven deaths the arising is even easier.' (Seven as completion.) Rising toward the 'red eastern light,' stretching out bony fingers.
אויף דער אויסגעבלייכטער פֿלאַך פֿון מײַנע הענט
ווערט אַ רויטקייט מיטאַמאָל צונויפֿגעלאָפֿן.
וואונדער־צייכנס בליִען־אויף אין רויט,
אינעם רויט פֿון סוף פֿון אַלע סופֿן.
אויפֿן לעצטן בעט — מײַן מלכות־טראָן —
זיץ איך אָנגעלענט און קוק מיט אויגן אָפֿן
ווי עס פֿלאַטערט איבער מיר אין רויט די פּאָן,
די פּאָן פֿון סוף פֿון אַלע סופֿן.
דעם חלף איז קאַלט
דעם חלף איז קאַלט,
דעם חלף איז אומעטיק.
אומצאָליקע פּגימות
האָבן ווי ציין זיך אײַנגעקאַרבט
אין זײַן דערפֿרוירענעם בלוי.
ווי לאַנג, אַז ער ליגט שוין
אין שייד אַ געפֿאַנגענער,
און קיינער דערמאָנט זיך ניט אין אים,
און קיינער דערבאַרעמט זיך ניט אויף אים,
און קיינער דערוואַרעמט אים ניט. — — —
גוטע מענטשן,
באַטויט אים מיט אײַער וואַרעמען אָטעם.
שיינע פֿרויען,
רירט אים אָן מיט אײַערע דינע פֿינגער,
פּרובירט אים אויס מיט אײַערע געשליפֿענע נעגל,
און גיט אים אַ האַלדז
אַ וואַרעמען,
אַ פֿולבלוטיקן! — — —
דעם חלף איז קאַלט,
דעם חלף איז אומעטיק.
דורך זיבן טויטן
אַז מען שטאַרבט דורך זיבן טויטן
איז דאָס אויפֿקומען נאָך גרינגער.
אויפֿשטײַגן, צום מזרח־ליכט דעם רויטן
אויסשטרעקן די ביינערדיקע פֿינגער.
Oyf der oysgeblaykhter flakh fun mayne hent
vert a royteyt mitamol tsunoyfgelоfn.
Vunder-tseykhns blien-oyf in royt,
inem royt fun sof fun ale sofn.
Oyfn letstn bet — mayn malkhes-tron —
zits ikh ongelent un kuk mit oygn ofn
vi es flatert iber mir in royt di pon,
di pon fun sof fun ale sofn.
Dem khalef iz kalt
Dem khalef iz kalt,
dem khalef iz umetik.
Umtsolike pgimes
hobn vi tseyn zikh ayngekarbt
in zayn derfroyrеnem bloy.
Vi lang, az er ligt shoyn
in sheyd a gefangener,
un keyner dermоnt zikh nit in im,
un keyner derbаremt zikh nit oyf im,
un keyner dervarеmt im nit. — — —
Gute mentshn,
batoyt im mit ayer varemеn оtem.
Sheyne froyen,
rirt im on mit ayere dine finger,
probirt im oys mit ayere geshlіfene negl,
un git im a haldz
a varemеn,
a fulblutikn! — — —
Dem khalef iz kalt,
dem khalef iz umetik.
Durkh zibn toytn
Az men shtarbt durkh zibn toytn
iz dos oyfkumen nokh gringer.
Oyfshtaygn, tsum mizrekh-likht dem roytn
oysshtrekn di beynеrdike finger.
On the bleached-out surface of my hands
a redness suddenly gathers.
Wonder-signs bloom forth in red,
in the red of the end of all ends.
On the last bed — my sovereignty-throne —
I sit reclining and look with open eyes
how there flutters above me in red the banner,
the banner of the end of all ends.
The Knife Is Cold
The knife is cold,
the knife is sorrowful.
Countless blemishes
have carved themselves in like teeth
into its frozen blue.
How long now has it lain
in its sheath a prisoner,
and no one remembers it,
and no one has mercy on it,
and no one warms it. — — —
Good people,
breathe on it with your warm breath.
Beautiful women,
touch it with your thin fingers,
test it with your polished nails,
and give it a throat
a warm one,
a full-blooded one! — — —
The knife is cold,
the knife is sorrowful.
Through Seven Deaths
When one dies through seven deaths
the arising is even easier.
Rising, toward the red eastern light
stretching out the bony fingers.
Page 243. 'Lider fun Umkum' poems 'Malkhes' conclusion, 'Dem khalef iz kalt' (The Knife Is Cold), and 'Durkh zibn toytn' (Through Seven Deaths) beginning. 'Malkhes' concludes: on the bleached hands 'a redness suddenly gathers. Wonder-signs bloom forth in red, in the red of the end of all ends.' (Stigmata imagery.) Sitting on the 'sovereignty-throne,' watching 'the banner of the end of all ends' flutter above. 'Dem khalef iz kalt': The knife (khalef, the ritual slaughterer's blade) is cold and sorrowful. 'Countless blemishes have carved themselves in like teeth' — a blemished blade cannot be used for kosher slaughter. It lies 'in its sheath a prisoner... no one remembers it, no one warms it.' Appeal: 'Good people, breathe on it with your warm breath. Beautiful women, touch it with your thin fingers... and give it a throat — a warm one, a full-blooded one!' The knife desires its function. Darkly erotic: the knife longing for warmth, for a throat. 'Durkh zibn toytn': 'When one dies through seven deaths the arising is even easier.' (Seven as completion.) Rising toward the 'red eastern light,' stretching out bony fingers.
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