Paper Bridges: Selected Poems of Kadya Molodowsky

I. Freydke

From Freydke: A Long Poem Freydke93 Freydke, my heroine, With her shorn head and her hurrying gait. Hundreds of thousands and thousands of steps, Uncounted, Uncautious, Spilling onto the street. Freydke, my heroine, She could have been a daring sailor, And steered a ship, And been master, She had such a resounding voice. She could have held a telescope in her hands94 And in the heavens sought out A new planet. She had such luminous eyes. She could have been a builder on the land Surveying the fields And laying down a railroad. She had such powerful hands. She dealt in eggs, Freydke, my heroine. I see her days, her hours, I know her bundles, Knotted with string 281 DIX p^-ixs px m pX ^Vy^ pX BW^ pX *?xa px wzra &xn TX pyn s p a »a i$» ix§ TE t?xn nxDixanyV px n p a oxn TK pyn •in x »•» #oaxn njn T'lx t^^ip TK ^ TK ,Byai8 TX rx yayonys * ^xa px vvri oxn TK pyn nyDx^ys pa ^a ^XD IXS ^a x iy rx nyi ^ix) tnyaixyi pyn nyi l^ip H px -]X*7 Dyi ipyi D^a jyjiyp oy ^B px x pxt: ps nviTa t?1 '^ oxn 282 And ready for her wandering, In canvas, yellow and blue and green. Regarding her, more than once By my window at dawn, There hung a cloud, A dark thunderhead. And Lermontov whispered in my ear: Your Tamara sits in the market, Among baskets.95 Regarding her, my clock chimed: It's six. The street calls out. Freydke, basket on her arm, Her work, her bread, her calling. Copper pennies, That copper misery, Are hidden somewhere. She chases after them Over stones, Up flights of stairs. Like torn sails, The folds of her skirt Flutter wearily. Regarding her, more times than one, By my window at dawn, The rain cast a gloom (it's champion of that). The copper pennies in Freydke's purse Cannot cover the roof and the coals. The purse, oh, my! That filthy purse, A legacy passing from father to children, 283 ixnx x * > n ,vxh ]ix t?iay^ oxn H •'ii ixnx ?1 ' ps ymxD yaynx H t?x ,-iy^ri: *?xa wne i^w oynxt:^ yaiyr^K p^T •"lyiana ^xa wne pv ixnx , ps ymxt? H 284 Can't cover over the holes in the roof With wooden shingles. The purse, oh, my! Laments like a broken heart, somewhere or other. In the pockets of women, of men, such cold pockets, It disgraces and burdens Like the medieval patches of yellow. The purse, oh, my! That self-same, poor sack of the Jewish market In tremulous, yellow, tubercular fingers. Wheelbarrows filled with clay, thick wooden logs, Iron staffs are a thousand, a thousand times lighter. The purse, oh, my! Old sacks of misery, Old sacks of poison, So the raggedy bedding is always knotted, Packed up for escaping across the ocean.96 285 II ,sxp pya^x pnyra jptyoo H x px no DTIJ? lyosays oxi X *pX XttfiOtt OS^j?^ ,05735;^ ixs pK c n a px§ ^paytr; K sxp rx 0 5 T ,ix^ x o^a ixn p y •pxw nyn TX 71 ynn x ,pxB x DID ,|n^ ppxnjr^sx ]x o^x mrt TO x px yp^s DX^ npwnr ijn njrojnnxa njn - 0x1 - Br^ p TX 286 ...