The Pool
Chaim Nahman Bialik
1904
I know a forest and in that forest
I know a hidden pool:
In the denseness of the wood, isolated from the world,
In the shades of a lofty oak, blessed by light and accustomed to storm,
Alone she dreams dreams of an inverted world
And spawns, secretly, her golden fish—
But no one knows what is in her heart.
In the morning
When the sun washes the locks of the forest’s majesty
And pours a sea of radiance over his curls;
He, the mighty one, all of him an expanse of golden nets,
Stands willingly captive, like Samson in Delilah’s hands,
With a faint smile and a lover’s illumined face, aware of his strength.
In the golden mesh of himself, he accepts his bonds affectionately,
Lifts high his garlanded head beneath the powers of the sun,
As if to say: flood me, curl me, or bind me,
Do with me whatever your heart desires.
At this hour the pool, granted or not granted
A single golden ray from above—
Grows languid in the shade of her many-branched shield,
Quietly she nurses his roots and her waters grow tranquil;
As if rejoicing silent in her lot,
Privileged to be a mirror for the forest’s mighty one.
And who knows, perhaps she dreams in secret
That not his image or his roots alone within her lie—
But that all of him grows within her. [ . . . ]
Suddenly—Spark! Lightning! The forest pales,
The world glows.
Crash Crash! Thunder explodes, the forest quakes
And seethes!
Sixty myriad blasts of wind
Seeing and yet unseen,
With wild shrieks swarms over its mighty ones,
Grasps them suddenly by their crown
Jerks them violently, beating their heads—
Thunder upon thunder!
From the midst of the storm comes the roar of the forest multitude.
Wide tumult, fierce clamor
Like the noise of distant breakers heavy with water,
And all says uproar, uproar, uproar—
In this hour’s commotion, the pond,
Surrounded by a wall of forest lords,
Still hides deep down in her depth the golden fish,
And like a panicked infant on a terrored night, hides,
Shuts tight his eyes under his mother’s wings
And blinks his eyes at every flash of sparkling light—
So with contorted face, black waters glum,
She withdraws into the shade of her many-branched shield
All of her shuddering, shuddering . . .
And who knows, [ . . . ]
And as I sat there at the pond’s shore, visioning
The riddle of the two worlds, twin worlds,
Not knowing which of them comes first,
Bending my head under the blessing of the ancients of the wood
Dripping shadow and light, resin and song—
I clearly felt a silent flowing
A kind of new and fresh abundance to my soul;
My heart, thirsting for the great, holy mystery,
Continued to fill with silent hope,
As if demanding more and more, and yearning for
Revelation of the near Presence or of Elijah,
And as my ear still strains and hopes,
And in its sacred desires my heart trembles, pines, expires—
The voice of the Withdrawing God
Bursts suddenly out of the stillness,
“Where are you!?”
And all the pleasant places of the forest fill with amazement,
The tall firs, supple dwellers,
Look at me with great majesty, wondering silently
As if to say: “What is he doing among us?”
There exists a silent immanent language, a secret tongue,
It has no sound, syllable, only shades of hues:
Enchantments, splendid pictures, hosts of visions.
In this tongue God makes himself known to those his spirit chooses,
In it the Royal Emissary of the world reflects upon his thoughts,
The Artist Creator embodies the thought of his heart
And in it finds the solution of the unexpressed dream.
It is the language of images revealed
In a strip of blue sky and in its expanse,
In the purity of small silver clouds and in their dark mass,
In the tremor of golden wheat, in the pride of mighty cedars,
In the rustle of a dove’s pure wing
And in the eaglewing’s sweep,
In the beauty of a man’s body, in the aura of a glance,
In the sea’s wrath, in the wave’s caprice and play,
In the overflowing night, in the silence of falling stars,
In the roar of light, in the rumble of sea flaming
With sunrises and sunsets.
In this language, tongue of tongues, also the pool
Formed for me her eternal riddle.
Hidden there in the shade, bright, serene, silent,
She looks at everything and all is envisioned in her, and with all she changes.
It seemed to me she was the open pupil, the eye
Of the forest Royal Emissary, great in mysteries
And in patient, profound meditations.
Translated by .
Ruth Finer
Mintz
Credits
Chaim Nahman Bialik, “The Pool,” from Modern Hebrew Poetry: A Bilingual Anthology, ed. and trans. Ruth Finer Mintz (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), pp. 2, 4, 8, 16, 18. © 1966. Republished with permission of University of California Press, permission conveyed through Copyright Clearance Center, Inc.
Published in: The Posen Library of Jewish Culture and Civilization, vol. 7.