My dream is dead
Tuvit Shlomi
Translated from the Dutch by the author
My dream is dead
There he went, he slipped into the pitcher
He had been mistaken
In the desert’s lap
A bus’s carcass rocked softly
A steel spine from the times of Genesis
Or a tin-can glancing with empty eye sockets
It looked like he would cast the headlamps down
But he let it go
Who would still even care
Deer walked the wadi
The food was on the table
He mashed it, smoothed it
Just wait, he thought, just wait
Folded a deceased head of state into four
Solemnly slipped him into his back pocket
Did he even have pockets?
He had a pitcher, a red earthware pitcher
Empty yet with colored hunting scenes
That he had, he did not know how
He found something was missing
There he went, he slipped into the pitcher
He had been mistaken
He slurped himself up as though through a straw
And echoed, a coin in an empty tin-can
Until he was finished
He had never had such thirst
Mijn droom is dood
Mijn droom is dood
Daar schoof hij naar binnen in de kruik
Hij had zich ooit vergist
In de schoot van de woestijn
Wiegde zacht het karkas van een bus
Een stalen ruggengraat uit de tijd van Genesis
Of een blik met lege oogkassen
Het leek alsof hij de koplampen neer zou slaan
Maar hij liet het erbij zitten
Wie kon het nog wat schelen
Er liepen herten door de wadi
Het eten stond op tafel
Hij streek het glad
Wacht maar, dacht hij, wacht maar
Vouwde een overleden staatshoofd in vieren
Stopte hem plechtig in zijn achterzak
Had hij überhaupt zakken?
Hij had een kruik, een aardewerken rode kruik
Leeg maar met gekleurde jachttaferelen
Dat wel, hij wist niet hoe dat kwam
Er ontbrak wat aan vond hij
Daar schoof hij naar binnen in de kruik
Hij had zich ooit vergist
Hij slurpte van zichzelf als door een rietje
En weerklonk, een munt in een leeg blik
Totdat hij op was
Hij had nog nooit zo’n dorst gehad
Tuvit Shlomi (1980), founded in Israel, born and raised in The Netherlands, has just made aliyah to Jerusalem. She has won the prestigious Dutch Moroccan and Islamic cultural center El Hizrja poetry prize. She loves to perform her poetry, has been working in Israel advocacy and journalism and holds an MSc in Earth System Science. Her poem “My dream is dead” won the prestigious El Hizjra Prize in Holland, when it was submitted under an Arabic pseudonym. For more details about this unusual story, read on here: www.jta.org/news/article/2009/05/21/1005341/jewish-woman-wins-arab-poetry-prize
Poet and Translator’s Note: Why have I been defying the Dutch rain for so long yet never, not once, has a Labrador landed on my head—not even a tortoise cat? Because in Holland, it’s never raining cats and dogs. It’s raining alright; but in Holland, it’s raining tobacco-pipe shanks. Many concepts and connotations are language-specific or culturally defined and I don’t believe in true translations: translations will always be excellent approximations at best. Approximations are hard enough—owing to a simple Greek Old Testament mistranslation, Jews were believed to have horns. The myth persists even today. The dream in my poem is masculine in Dutch, but shouldn’t ‘he’ be neuter in English? Just substitute and read: ‘it’ might be accurate, but sounds affected. Another nuisance is the bus’s carcass: is he dead? Alive? The Dutch simultaneously reads ‘a glance, the eye-sockets empty’ AND ‘a tin-can with empty eye sockets’. In the next Dutch sentence, it looked like the dream would strike down the carcass’s headlamps, AND It looked like the carcass would blink in shame. I chose ‘to cast down’ as it refers both to eyes and to suppression. Which one’s right? The carcass will be lying there in the desert till eternity. If we watch and wait long enough, he might wink at us.