MERLE FELD [10.714]

Merle Feld

Nacida en 1947

Merle Feld, poeta y dramaturga, nació y se crió en Crown Heights, Brooklyn, EE.UU.. En la universidad, su curiosidad sobre la vida judía y su deseo de encontrar una conexión profunda y duradera con el judaísmo y la vida judía.

Feld fue activa en el feminismo judío desde sus primeros años, pero no se percibe a sí misma como una persona política hasta 1989, cuando pasó un año sabático en Israel con su esposo y dos hijos pequeños. Durante ese año, se involucró en el activismo por la paz, lo que facilita un grupo de diálogo entre israelíes y palestinos en la Ribera Occidental. Este grupo ha sido muy importante en la creación de un sentido de humanidad compartida entre las mujeres israelíes y palestinas, rompiendo prejuicios y la formación de un contexto de base para la comprensión. Feld también apoyó regularmente a las Mujeres de Negro, protesta semanal silenciosa de mujeres israelíes de la ocupación. Actualmente se desempeña como Director Fundador del Instituto de escritura rabínica y vive en el oeste de Massachusetts con su marido rabino Edward Feld.

Merle Feld es una poeta publicada ampliamente, dramaturga galardonada, activista por la paz y educadora. Es la autora de un nuevo libro de poesía, Finding Words, (URJ Press, 2011) y un libro de memorias muy aclamado, A Spiritual Life: Exploring the Heart and Jewish Tradition (State University of New York Press, revised edition 2007). 

Estuvimos de pie juntos

Mi hermano y yo estuvimos en el Sinaí

El guardó un diario

de lo que vio

de lo que escuchó

de todo lo que significó para él

Deseo haber tenido un registro

de lo que me pasó allí

Parece que cada vez que quiero escribir

no puedo

siempre estoy sosteniendo un bebé

uno propio

o uno de un amigo

siempre sosteniendo un bebé

por eso mis manos nunca están libres

para escribir

Y luego

según pasa el tiempo

los datos personales

los datos rigurosos

los quién qué cuándo dónde por qué

se escurren de mí

y todo con lo que me queda es el

sentimiento

Pero los sentimientos son sólo sonidos

la vocal ladrando desde un mudo

Mi hermano está tan seguro de lo que escuchó

después de todo tiene un registro de ello

consonante tras consonante tras consonante

Si lo recordáramos juntos

podríamos recrear el tiempo santo

echando chispas

Publicado en Sarah's Daughters Sing: A Sampler of Poems by Jewish Women 

(Editado por Henny Wenkart )

Traducido del inglés por Myriam Rozenberg

We All Stood Together

My brother and I were at Sinai

He kept a journal

of what he saw

of what he heard

of what it all meant to him

I wish I had such a record

of what happened to me there

It seems like every time I want to write

I can’t

I’m always holding a baby

one of my own

or one for a friend

always holding a baby

so my hands are never free

to write things down

And then

as time passes

the particulars the hard data

the who what when where why

slip away from me

and all I’m left with is

the feeling

But feelings are just sounds

and vowel barkings of a mute

My brother is so sure of what he heard

after all he’s got a record of it

consonant after consonant after consonant

If we remembered it together

we could create holy time

sparks flying

The walk 

We are walking together around the pond, 

a mild morning in early spring, and the walk 

is muddy in places but that doesn't matter 

because the air is kind and alive and we are alive, 

enjoying an opportunity for conversation. 

How is Hannah? I ask, and she gives me a few 

perfunctory words about her daughter, 

then politely moves the conversation on to me, 

but I know better and ask again. This time 

she accepts and opens and tells and soon 

her face is distorted, full of color 

as she chokes back tears and continues 

to talk and walk, then finally, crying, 

sobbing, turns and plaintively asks, How many 

times does my heart have to break ? 

—you know, like when you're in labor, 

you want to know how much more of this 

will there be, how do I pace myself—and I 

surprise her with an actual estimate, I'd say 

you're six or seven centimeters dilated now. 

And she stops crying and her eyes widen 

and she wants to know more—how did I 

calculate that—and I respond that slowly, imperceptibly, 

the balance shifts and it's time for you to put down 

the weight of responsibility so they can pick it up, 

and it's not that you stop caring and worrying 

and hurting for them, but finally, the burden 

of making their choices is not yours anymore, 

nor the torment that whatever you chose 

was a bad choice, the wrong choice, and the anguish 

that you are a bad mother, the wrong mother— 

it can subside, it should. Now I stop walking 

and she stops walking, I look in her eyes and help her 

remember all she's done to nurture this child, 

all the hard good work, all the gifts of love, 

and I give her a word, grief , and she's so grateful— 

yes, grief, that's the word —grief that time is passing, 

grief that the golden years of baby and little girl 

are gone, grief that mistakes have been made, 

grief that she is no longer a young mother. 

Grief, yes, it's a word with dignity and gravity, 

a word that befits this moment, a word that's worthy. 

Now as we walk she repeats what I have said 

and I repeat what I have said and we are both 

grateful for the pond and the walk, for all of it. 

The carousel 

for Milton, 1910-1989 

And the angel of the Lord appeared unto him 

in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush, 

and he looked, and behold, the bush burned 

with fire, and the bush was not consumed. 

Exodus 3:2 

I feel such sorrow to realize only now 

the significance of my father waving 

as I came around on the carousel, 

time and again, each time I made my circuit 

on the carousel—ten times? fifteen? twenty? 

Sunday morning after Sunday morning, 

each time, the smile and wave 

that answered 

my smile and wave. 

Didn't it mean I love you , 

didn't it mean we are connected, 

I know this girl, she is mine . 

Yes, the large girl with the thick auburn braids, 

I acknowledge her, she is mine— 

in public, I acknowledge her. 

How did I not see, 

the wind on my face, 

the sentimental tinny music in my ear— 

how did I not see 

it signifies 

he loves me? 

Merle Feld, Finding Words URJ Press 2011