ILAN SHEINFELD [18.989]

Ilan Sheinfeld

(Israel, 1960) Escritor, poeta y activista gay.

Ilan Sheinfeld nació en Tel Aviv. Es uno de los primeros artistas israelíes gay, Sheinfeld funda y dirige, en su residencia, el primer taller hebreo para escritores gay (1992-1995). En 1998 funda Shufra, la primera editorial Gay y Lésbico de literatura original y traducciones al hebreo. En 2000, abrió el Café Theo, un café Gay y librería en Tel Aviv con el nombre de Theo Mainz, un inmigrante judío alemán a Israel, un trabajador especialista en nutrición y salud pública, uno de los fundadores de lo que se convertiría en la Asociación de Gays, lesbianas, Bisexuales y Transexuales en Israel. El café cerró en 2002, debido a la oposición del vecindario a su presencia. Por sus actividades en el campo de la cultura gay, en 2005 Sheinfeld fue reconocido por la comunidad con el premio Outstanding Citizen'.

Ilan Sheinfeld: tiene un segundo título en Literatura Hebrea de la Universidad de Tel Aviv. Ha dado lecciones en poesía en la Universidad de Tel Aviv y otras instituciones, desarrolló tareas de periodista cultural y coordina talleres de escritura. Se desempeñó como vocero del Teatro Kameri y de la Municipalidad de Tel Aviv. Ha fundado y actualmente dirige una empresa de relaciones públicas. Entre sus numerosas obras, publicó Historia de un anillo(Maasé be taba´at) acerca de la Zvi Migdal, la mafia de judíos polacos que dominó la prostitución en Buenos Aires y otras ciudades argentinas a principios del siglo XX. (fuente: shireshet/poetas israelíes y otros).

LIBROS 

en hebreo 

POESÍA

Enchanted Lizard, [ Leta ʹ a Mechushefet ] Martef 29/ Eked, Tel Aviv, 1981

Making Love with the Tongue, [ Osim Ahava Ba-Lashon: Shirim 1977-1983] Dvir, Tel Aviv, 1984

Lines to a Friend in Parting, [ Turim Le-Re ʹ a Bi-Freda ] Aleph, Tel Aviv, 1987

It Begins with Love, [ Ve-Reshito Ahava ] Hakibbutz Hameuchad, Tel Aviv, 1989

Temporary, [ Ara ʹ i ] Tamuz/ Writers Association, Tel Aviv, 1992

Taschlich, Tag, Tel Aviv, 1994

Karet, Shufra, Tel Aviv, 1997

The Tourist Guide, [ Ha-Madrich La-Tayar ] Shufra, Tel Aviv, 2003

Poetry Treasure, [ Otzar Shirim ] Shufra, Tel Aviv, 2013

PROSA

Poets School: The Writers Manual (non-fiction) [ Beit Sefer Li-Mshorerim: Madrich Ma ʹ asi Le-Sofrim U-Li-Mshorerim ], Shufra, Tel Aviv, 1997

Siedlce (novel), [ Shedletz: Zichronot ] Shufra, Tel Aviv, 1999

Only You (novel), [ Rak Ata ] Shufra, Tel Aviv, 2000

The Poetry Workshop (non-fiction [ Ha-Sadna Le-Shira ]), Shufra, Tel Aviv, 2005

A Tale of a Ring (novel) [ Ma ʹ aseh Be-Taba ʹ at ], Keter, Jerusalem, 2007

When the Dead Returned (novel) [ Kshe-Ha-Metim Chazr u], Kinneret, Zmora-Bitan, Or Yehuda, 2012

NIÑOS

From the Heart of Tel Aviv (youth), [ Min Ha-Lev Shel Tel-Aviv ] Dvir, Tel Aviv, 1984

Peace (picture book), [ Shalom ] Hakibbutz Hameuchad, Tel Aviv, 1989

Margolis' Strange Book, [ Ha-Sefer Ha-Meshuneh Shel Margolis ] Hakibbutz Hameuchad, Tel Aviv, 1991

There is no Such Bird: Kortsipa (picture book), [ Eyn Tzipor Kazo, Kortsipa ] Shufra, Tel Aviv, 1999

A Kingdom Named Collision (picture book), [ Mamlacha U-Shma Kolisya ] Shufra, Tel Aviv, 2007

La primera vez que leí poesía

Abre el libro, hijo, y mira

qué bellos poemas escribieron los judíos

hace miles de años, dijo mi padre

cuando me regaló un devocionario.

Lo abrí y leí con mis propios ojos

las plegarias que entonaba el maestro cantor

y que luego la congregación repetía en murmullos:

un grupo de varones de distintas edades

que, envueltos en mantos, se balanceaban

y sudaban en el ámbito del templo.

Yo repito para mí esas palabras,

las paladeo con placer

como las golosinas que se arrojan

en las ceremonias de confirmación (1),

trato de no apresurarme

para no adelantarme al  jazán (2)

y que el dulzor no se desvanezca en mi boca…

(1) En las ceremonias de confirmación (bar/bat mitzvá) es costumbre arrojar golosinas en señal de alegría.

(2) Nombre hebreo del chantre, el cantor litúrgico que lidera a la congregación en los himnos y plegarias.

Traducción: Gerardo Lewin

Para dormir en paz necesito arrojar 

niños muertos de mi cama

Un niño arrugado, de abultado vientre, yace sobre mi cama.

Sus ojos se derraman, lentamente, con una paz indescriptible.

Las moscas devoran la comisura de sus labios pálidos

y aterrizan en sus cabellos: pegoteados, revueltos, salvajes.

No es sencillo dormir junto a un niño muerto.

Un extranjero niño yace en mi cama;

hay acidez en el ambiente y avanzada pudrición.

Su sangre sobre mi colcha coagula en grandes manchas.

Es una pena arrojar a un niño muerto

para que lo devoren en las calles.

Pero ya es tarde, estoy cansado, necesito mi cama

y de ningún modo sería capaz de dormir

con un muerto, niño y extranjero,

en mis brazos.

Traducción: Gerardo Lewin

DEAD CHILD

There's a child with a bloated belly cowering in my bed. 

His eyes, surprisingly calm, have begun to spill. 

Flies nibble at the corners of his pale lips, forage 

in his tousled brittle curls. 

It's complicated to sleep beside a dead child. 

An unknown child lies here, souring the air with advanced decay. 

And his blood has crusted and stained my linen. 

Its a shame to throw a dead child to be scavenged in the streets. 

Its late, anyway, I need my bed 

and I just can't sleep with some dead child at my breast.

© Translation: 1992, Riva Rubin 

BETWEEN MY HOUSE AND YOURS

We've never walked yet through your past. 

Separating my house from yours are your parents' 

perplexities, your own caution, and the Green Line. Thus, 

you seem to me always a hero coming down 

from Intifada country. 

In addition to your room, I'd most like to see 

the flat rock near the entrance to Ariel, 

where you used to go to be alone, making yourself a world 

removed from the world. With no politics in it. 

I never acknowledged the untamed land you grew up in. 

That boulder-strewn countryside, magic to you, to me 

has always been merely Occupied Territory. Suddenly, 

in loving you, I find myself 

nostalgic for the landscapes of your childhood. 

It's hard to believe it could ever happen. But 

beyond all the killing and the blood we two here together, 

are willing to apply our love to the landscapes of the past. 

Perhaps, in fact, there's no fairer thing we can do.

© Translation: 1992, Tsvi Marmelstein 

First published on Poetry International, 2014

NIGHT OF WAR 6

On the Sabbath I woke in fear. 

A special kind of fear: Petrol-air bombs. Okay, 

to die by gas, but I don't want to burn up in flames. 

I've begun to weigh what to take and save from my home, 

where will I take refuge, and with whom, 

where can I send my writings abroad 

so that they may be saved. 

Then my neighbor Yossef came down. 

We drank a morning toast in honor 

of the continuation of the War of Independence 

and the explosion from the Hassan Bak Mosque. 

I'll hang on here by my fingernails. 

But to be sure I opened the talisman, 

the Bible, the Jewish book of questions and answers. 

Shall I flee, I asked. He answered: 

“Be honored and remain in thy home, Wherefore 

shalt thou tempt in evil and 

fall together with Judah.” In joy I kissed it 

and went out to the pub. 

I ate and drank. But through the haze 

of alcohol no one noticed 

that I said “Shechiyanu” and added in my heart, 

“The Lord, Neve Tsedek, and the hope of my fathers, the Lord.” 

© Translation: 1992, Karen Alkalay-Gut 

Translator's Note: Neve Tsedek, the name of the poet's neighborhood, can be translated as the Oasis of Righteousness. 

NIGHT OF WAR 10

A silver-haired commander came and took me to the firing zone. 

I cuddled in his warm hairy chest. “David'” 

I whispered, “I've always feared you. But now you're 

all there is.” “My name isn't David,” he grinned back. 

“To me you're David,” I laughed. 

“Come,” he said, and pulled me into his arms. “Here, 

you see this slope, it is the front of the outpost. 

No one can conquer so fortified a place.” 

I kissed his cheeks. “You're a hero. Will you watch over me?” 

“Of course,” he smiled and fed me with an orange delicacy, warm squash. 

I woke with the taste of puree melting in my mouth. 

All day long I wondered if I been graced with the Messiah, 

or had I just slept with an heir of Jesse.

© Translation: 1992, Karen Alkalay-Gut 

First published on Poetry International, 2014

NIGHT OF WAR 14

For two weeks already I haven't heard from you. 

You're probably skipping between the craters in Tel Aviv, 

documenting the human interest in the area of destruction. Did you 

think I'd phone? 

I hoped you'd be back here, with the shine of your perverted eyes, and seduce me. 

I mean after all, in the moment before you left, you bit me. 

But when I tried to press you to the wall, you withdrew 

to the secure borders you drew in advance, 

leaving me waiting, idiotic, with the waving flag of an erection. 

After two weeks of the moaning of sirens 

there are no signs of you. What, are you carousing with death? Were 

you insulted? 

I'm thirsty for a portion of translucent liqueur from the vineyards of your womb. 

Here, my pink tongue licks the air. 

Sweet, let us lie under a canopy of nape kisses. 

If you don't bring me your hairy mound, out of hunger I am liable

once again to inhale Rose from the orchard of testicles. 

As you know, there's no harm in it, 

but lately, my dear, I desire only 

to nip the berries of your nipples.

© Translation: 1992, Karen Alkalay-Gut 

First published on Poetry International, 2014

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