Billboards in the rain, Dvorah Fogel #YiddishPoetry …Today the rain dissolved the vermilion letters

http://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/fogel-dvoyre

“Together with her husband and son, Fogel was killed in the Lwów ghetto in 1942.

Fogel’s remarkable experimental poetry, all written in the 1930s, was, in the spirit of early twentieth-century art, radically avant-garde and attuned to all the modernist minimalisms.

She attempted to fuse modern art and poetry in a new style that she termed “white words,” striving, as she put it, to create a new lyric poetry of the urban condition: a poetry of cool stasis and of geometric ornamentation with a rhythm of repetition that can replace melodiousness and dynamism, in which monotone becomes theme.

In her creative prose she employed repetitive detached impressions (“montages”) to achieve the same goals.

Contemporaneous and later critics considered her style too intellectual, studied and obscure, and lacking in traditional Jewish and feminine thematics.

Yet Fogel herself regarded her project not as a deliberate experiment, but rather as “a necessity, achieved and paid for with life’s experience.

Billboards in the rain.

Today the rain coats gray houses
with another coat
of gray,

you, far away.

Everyone away,
there’s no one to be with.

I lean
against a wall of billboards
pasted with posters of lemon and orange.

Today the rain dissolved
the vermilion letters
announcing the film
of the red ballerina.

Red lines, caressing,
and other hands heavily moving
across hot yellow figures.

In a row of ten gray houses
a red and yellow wall of boards,
the only sign of life.

And one can lean against it
as against the human body
now far off,
out of reach.

Dvorah/Dvoyre Fogel

From: a Treasury of Yiddish Poetry edited by Irving Howe and Liezer Greenberg.
USED and NEW: http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=13535919967

.

.

William Carlos Williams.

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens

Red is the color of a lot of lollipops, Bautiful Land, Nina Simone, Written by Anthony Newley, Leslie Bricusse

Red is the color of a lot of lollipops,
Orange is any orange on a tree.
Yellow’s the color of a bag of lemon drops,
Green is a piece of seaweed in the sea.

Blue is the color of the sky in summertime
Indigo is a siamese cat’s eyes.
Violet’s the color of a flow’r in wintertime.
These are the colors of the rainbow skies.

There is a beautiful land
Where all your dreams come true;
It’s all tied up in a rainbow,
All shiny and new;
But it’s not easy to find
No matter what you do.

It’s not on top of a mountain
Or beneath the deep blue sea
Or in london zoo or in timbuktoo,
Or in timbuckthree.

And if you travelled the world
From china to peru,
There’s no beautiful land on the chart.
An explorer could not begin
To discover it’s origin
For the beautiful land is in your heart.

Beautiful land by Nina Simone
Written by Anthony Newley, Leslie Bricusse

Winter at sea: Een eerlijk zeemansgraf by Jan Jacob Slauerhoff

A loose translation. There simply is no good translation that I can write. Most of the beautiful old Dutch is disappeared, even modern Dutch would not compare. I think if you yourself sail, you can maybe hear it in the English.

No deep meaning, only lovely description by the ship’s doctor…

The sea’s edge shifts cruel, the waves tumble wild,
From mild and green, abruptly broken, leaden and gray;
One night, there is the wind that shivers through open sky,
Next, akin to sudden death, the cold.

About rock islands without tree or grass,
Resting abandoned in time-worn space,
Blossoms only the fierce and unruly growth
Of rapidly rising, quickly wilting foam.

Aboard the ship on which no soothing fires burn,
The cold nestles itself in, for a long journey;
Against walls by night creaks awakened,
The floating ice grinds and shatters itself.

Winter op zee
De kim wordt wreed, de golven tuimlen wild,
Van mild en groen, spoorslags hardgrijs en grauw;
Eén nacht waarin de wind door ‘t luchtruim rilt,
Dan, als een plotselinge dood, de kou.

Om rotseilanden zonder boom en gras,
Liggend verlaten in het oeroud ruim,
Bloeit slechts ‘t onstuimig en verward gewas
Van ‘t snel opschietend, snel verwelkend schuim.

Op ‘t schip waarin geen vuren troostend branden,
Nestelt de kou zich voor een lange reis;
Tegen de ‘s nachts wakkergekraakte wanden
Kruit en verbrijzelt zich het drijvend ijs.

Een eerlijk zeemansgraf (1941)