MORRIS ROSENFELD
Nacido en 1862 en Bokcha, Polonia, en el seno de una familia obrera En 1882 emigró a los Estados Unidos donde ejerció su oficio de sastre en talleres asfixiantes, volcando en su poesía una rebeldía que expresaba la de toda esa masa de obreros judíos llegados en la gran corriente migratoria. La poesía de Moris Rozenfeld cobró gran popularidad, siendo traducida luego al inglés, alemán y francés con lo que trascendió del marco judío. Representante de una generación de poetas proletarios, Rozenfeld pasó sus últimos años en la miseria, falleciendo en Nueva York en 1923.
Héroes
¿Quién dice que ya pasó el tiempo de los héroes;
que el hombre no posee ya coraje
para mirar al peligro cara a cara;
que nadie viene ya a ofrecerse
para luchar por la humanidad y sus derechos
como en aquellos viejos tiempos?
¿Quiénes se atreven descaradamente a negar
la grandeza de la humanidad;
quiénes arrojan embustes y desatinos
sino los enemigos del presente?
El hombre es hoy como lo fue siempre
coronado de espíritu, para la lucha listo.
¿Acaso no es un vencedor, un héroe
aquel que lucha con la necesidad y la miseria;
que sobrenada las negras olas de la soledad
y no se vuelve estafador ni villano;
que sigue en esa lucha hasta el fin de su vida
intentando crear, esperanzado?
¿Acaso no es un gran hombre, un héroe
aquel que mitiga penas ajenas;
que toma parte de sus alegrías
para compartirlas con el oprimido;
que se esfuerza por su compañero
y comparte con él su único mendrugo?
¿Acaso no es un héroe, un luchador enorme
el hombre que corta, cava y construye;
que se ríe del peligro que lo acecha
y hace seguir girando la rueda del mundo?
¿Acaso no es un noble caballero, un héroe
ese hombre que crea los bienes del hombre?
Crisis
(fragmento)
Todos los paladares están resecos,
y adormecidas las lenguas;
¡qué tiempo esplendoroso, pueblo
dio a luz tu confianza!
Soñabas y trabajabas
dando fe al poderoso
y ahora te atrapan
el hambre y la miseria.
Porque produjiste sin cálculo
los comercios están repletos
y las fábricas vacías.
Tus patrones viven en la abundancia
aunque en la feria reine el silencio;
su rostro grosero engorda
y se torna más rojo su cuello;
pero tú, pálido suspirante
de la calle miserable,
sin un mendrugo de ira
marchas en silencio a morirte de hambre.
¿Has de tomar con indiferencia
el sufrimiento de tus hijos?
¿No te empuja tu corazón de padre
a buscar pan ya mismo?
¿Acaso va a permanecer tu mano
soñando en tu bolsillo
mientras tu mujer recoge mendrugos
de entre los desperdicios de los ricos?
Todos tus opresores temen
que ahora te levantes;
la fuerza que posees
sólo tú no la sabes.
¿No ha llegado la hora, acaso,
que aún sigues pensativo;
que no te atreves a tomar ya mismo
lo que tu mano ha construido?
1919
Antología de la poesía
ídish del siglo XX
Selección y versión de
ELIAHU TOKER
A Fellow Slave
Pale-faced is he, as in the door
He stands and trembles visibly,--
With diffidence approaches me,
And says: "Dear editor,
"Since write you must, in prose or rhyme,
Expose my master's knavery,
Condemn, I pray, the slavery
That dominates our time.
"I labor for a wicked man
Who holds o'er all my being sway,--
Who keeps me harnessed night and day.
Since work I first began.
"No leisure moments do I store,
Yet harsh words only will he speak;
My days are his, from week to week,
But still he cries for more.
"Oh print, I beg you, all I've said,
And ask the world if this be right:
To give the worker wage so slight
That he must want for bread.
"See, I have sinews powerful,
And I've endurance, subtle skill,--
Yet may not use them at my will,
But live a master's tool.
"But oh, without avail do I
Lay bare the woes of workingmen!
Who earns his living by the pen,
Feels not our misery."
The pallid slave yet paler grew,
And ended here his bitter cry...
And thus to him I made reply:
"My friend, you judge untrue.
"My strength and skill, like yours, are gain
For others... Sold!... You understand?
Your master--well--he owns your hand,
And mine--he owns my brain."
A Millionaire
No, not from tuning-forks of gold
Take I my key for singing;
From Upper Seats no order bold
Can set my music ringing;
But groans the slave through sense of wrong,
And naught my voice can smother;
As flame leaps up, so leaps my song
For my oppressed brother.
And thus the end comes swift and sure...
Thus life itself must leave me;
For what can these my brothers poor
In compensation give me,
Save tears for ev'ry tear and sigh?--
(For they are rich in anguish).
A millionaire of tears am I,
And mid my millions languish.
A Tree in the Ghetto
There stands in th' leafless Ghetto
One spare-leaved, ancient tree;
Above the Ghetto noises
It moans eternally.
In wonderment it muses,
And murmurs with a sigh:
"Alas! how God-forsaken
And desolate am I!
"Alas, the stony alleys,
And noises loud and bold!
Where are ye, birds of summer?
Where are ye, woods of old?
"And where, ye breezes balmy
That wandered vagrant here?
And where, oh sweep of heavens
So deep and blue and clear?
"Where are ye, mighty giants?
Ye come not riding by
Upon your fiery horses,
A-whistling merrily.
"Of other days my dreaming,
Of other days, ah me!
When sturdy hero-races
Lived wild and glad and free!
"The old sun shone, how brightly!
The old lark sang, what song!
O'er earth Desire and Gladness
Reigned happily and long
"But see! what are these ant-hills?--
These ants that creep and crawl?...
Bereft of man and nature,
My life is stripped of all!
"And I, an ancient orphan,
What do I here alone?
My friends have all departed,
My youth and glory gone.
"Oh, tear me, root and branches!
No longer let me be
A living head-stone, brooding
O'er the grave of liberty."
Again I Sing my Songs
Once again my songs I sing thee,
Now the spell is broken;
Brothers, yet again I bring thee
Songs of love the token.
Of my joy and of my sorrow
Gladly, sadly bringing;--
Summer not a song would borrow--
Winter sets me singing.
O when life turns sad and lonely,
When our joys are dead;
When are heard the ravens only
In the trees o'erhead;
When the stormwind on the bowers
Wreaks its wicked will,
When the frost paints lying flowers,
How should I be still?
When the clouds are low descending,
And the sun is drowned;
When the winter knows no ending,
And the cold is crowned;
When with evil gloom oppressed
Lie the ruins bare;
When a sigh escapes the breast,
Takes us unaware;
When the snow-wrapped mountain dreams
Of its summer gladness,
When the wood is stripped and seems
Full of care and sadness;
When the songs are growing still
As in Death's repose,
And the heart is growing chill,
And the eyelids close;
Then, O then I can but sing
For I dream her coming--
May, sweet May! I see her bring
Buds and wild-bee humming!
Through the silence heart-appalling,
As I stand and listen,
I can hear her song-birds calling,
See her green leaves glisten!
Thus again my songs I sing thee,
Now the spell is broken;
Brothers, yet again I bring thee
Of my love the token.
Of my joy and of my sorrow
Gladly, sadly bringing,--
Summer not a song would borrow!--
Winter sets me singing.
Atonement Evening Prayer
Atonement Day--evening pray'r--sadness profound.
The soul-lights, so clear once, are dying around.
The reader is spent, and he barely can speak;
The people are faint, e'en the basso is weak.
The choristers pine for the hour of repose.
Just one--two chants more, and the pray'r book we close!
And now ev'ry Jew's supplication is ended,
And Nilah* approaching, and twilight descended.
The blast of the New Year is blown on the horn,
All go; by the Ark I am standing forlorn,
And thinking: "How shall it be with us anon,
When closed is the temple, and ev'ryone gone!"
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