“Untitled,” from The Book of Satires

Jacob Steinberg

1909

Book One

I

Everyone loved . . . it was a plague
of infatuation, of kisses;
But the people soon became quiet,
the mothers were already nursing.
The drum of youth was laid
in the corner, and the trumpet
of love was silenced;
Not for this were the folk created.
Everyone for his own pleasure
pokes his hand into a pile of waste;
A proclamation was made:
All is vanity, all is vanity.
But in any event—it is tedium,
joy has died down in all hearts;
Chill and silence . . . sweet sleep,
to every engaging lover!

II

The battlefield is covered with corpses,
to the point where the stench chokes;
The one who carried the drum
before the army, now flees and bolts.
But the trumpeter puts the golden
horn into his pocket;
The moneylender gives
and hunger is hard on the belly.
Rise up, eat, and say, “I loved
the whip and my master”;
A great silence. The cold night
of the north comes and goes.
In the dark, the surviving soldiers
ascend to the gallows;
My heart guides me to fall in love
and spread my seed. Let’s go!
[ . . . ]

IV

Go thou and love the gentile girls
in order to receive kisses:
The delicate daughters of Israel
as much as they love—they pester.
They give little and demand more
the beautiful daughters of Israel,
But this year chivalry has ended
and the excitement of mankind.
In this orphan generation move away
from choicest love;
You’re exhausted—gentile daughters
give everything at once,
Do not gather the crumbs
of love bit by bit:—
the more love—the more sweat.
The more sweat—the more maggot-ridden.
[ . . . ]

VI

Silver candles in the sky,
an evening breeze wafts . . .
Life too, and death too,—
all, all must be settled.
Dogs bark . . . the dogs too
voice in the night the language of longing.
Quiet, my heart! All doubts,
all secrets are already known.
Only one secret remains hidden—
The secret of happiness. The earth
tells me, “I don’t know it,”
In the night is silence, silence.
In the sky are only stars.
The stars are worlds
of their own; all were created
by the God of Vengeance for pleasure.
[ . . . ]

VIII

One loves gold,
another desires women;
I learn from both
of the vanity of life.
There is melancholy in life:
It disturbs the slave as well
as the master; there is some
of that too in a kiss.
Both in autumn and summer
your heart is in danger:
You have grown sad. The spirit of sadness
comes and goes. Where from and where to?
In the eternity of creation
there are seven suns of sadness,
but only one small sun
shines in our sky.
[ . . . ]

XI

In the stillness of a summer night
We travel; the wheels
click softly; in the sky
are little silver candles.
Plowed fields, straw huts . . .
I leave Ukraine.
I had a spouse . . . I vowed:
every being is shallow and betrays.
Where do you take me, driver?
Oh, stop. Here’s an empty hut:
here I’ll find a quiet country girl,
I’ll find solace in her bosom.
But the hut disappears.
The silence is great; the wheels
click softly; in the sky
are little silver candles.
[ . . . ]

XV

There are those who take love seriously,
make solemn covenants with solemn oaths,—
Like flowers I pick
every girl I choose.
You have my bloodheat, you maidens,
but my soul remains my own;
elevate me and kiss me,
but do not weep, do not confess.
Do not wander everywhere,
from girl to girl:
Out of a thousand women—one
will understand your soul’s desire.
In the middle of the night,
she too will pour forth scorn.
Go and gather the charm of women
and never long for their souls.

Translated by
Karen
Alkalay-Gut
.

Credits

Yaakov Shteynberg [Jacob Steinberg], Sefer ha-satirot: Shirim (Warsaw: Sifrut, 1909), pp. 8–21.

Published in: The Posen Library of Jewish Culture and Civilization, vol. 7.

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Creator Bio

Jacob Steinberg

1887–1947

The Hebrew and Yiddish writer Jacob Steinberg was born in Ukraine and at age fourteen moved to Odessa and then later to Warsaw, both centers for Hebrew literature at the turn of the century. He published stories and poems in Hebrew initially but from 1909 began writing extensively in Yiddish. However, when he settled in Tel Aviv in 1914, he stopped writing in Yiddish. He translated (and revised) many of his earlier Yiddish stories into Hebrew, including “The Blind Woman.” The style of the Hebrew poetry he wrote in Palestine was unique: he was the only Hebrew poet living there who employed Ashkenazi pronunciation and stress. He also was known for his landmark essays on Yiddish and Hebrew writers.

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