Saul Tschernichowsky was born in 1875 in the Russian Crimea, a birthplace that set him apart from most Hebrew writers of his generation, who grew up in the Orthodox atmosphere of the towns and larger cities of the Pale. Coming onto the literary scene at the same time as Bialik, Tschernichowsky sounded a literary counterpoint. Whereas Bialik gave expression to the sufferings of a generation, Tschemichowsky was the poet of an almost pagan love of life. A fuller discussion of his life and work can be found in an article by Eisig Silberschlag, “Tschermichowsky: Poet of Myths,” in the January 1946 COMMENTARY. Tschernichowsky died in 1943 in Jerusalem.
The poem reprinted here, “Mot Tammuz,” appeared originally in the famous Hebrew periodical Ha-shiloach. It is contained also in the collected edition of Tschernichowsky’s poems, Kol Shirei, published by Schocken books in Tel Aviv in 1937, and appears here by Schocken’s permission. The translation from the Hebrew is by Isaac Schwartz.—Ed.
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Then He brought me to the door of the gate of the Lord’s house which was toward the north; and, behold, there sat the women weeping for Tammuz (Ezekiel 8:14).
Go Forth, O ye daughters
Of Zion, lamenting,
For Tammuz, the radiant Tammuz, is dead!
The days that draw near will be clouded and barren,
A twilight of souls and long autumn ahead.
At sunlight’s first gleaming
On radiant mornings
We wake to the grove that was darker than night,
To the grove of inscrutable mysteries and dreams,
To the altar of Tammuz, the altar of light.
What dance shall we dance now
Encircling the altar?
What dance shall we dance before Tammuz today?
Step right and step left—step seven by seven!
We bow down in worship, “Return here!” we pray.
Step right and step left—
Step seven by seven!
And straight-limbed and slow, hands touching, depart!
We go forth to seek out where Tammuz may linger,
The young men alone, and the maidens apart.
On well-traveled highways
We sought after Tammuz,
On crossroads flooded with sun and with light,
Endeared to the heart by their warmth and their stillness,
Where swallows are splashing, and sparrows take flight;
On narrow paths, stretching
From cornfield to cornfield
And strewn with wild poppies and nettles that sting,
At margins of springs, in the rustling of rushes,
Where flourishing sedge and the vernal reeds sing.
Then down to the river
We passed through the valleys,
Through fields that were weeded, through ditches and brush;
O breezes that sport in the grass, we entreat you!
Have you seen bright Tammuz, O partridge, O thrush?
We sought after Tammuz
In felled trees and thicket,
In gopherwood forests, where ivy vines cling;
Perhaps he is drowsy with incense of cedars,
Or fragrance of mushrooms that grow in a ring.
We sought after Tammuz,
But nowhere could find him!
Up hillock and down into valley again—
We followed the tracks of all secrets and wonders,
Wherever a god might yet live among men.
We see now: our thicket
And tree are but firewood,
And food for the flames is the grove we have known.
Poor, hungry chicks, peeping, are all that encircle
The altar—the altar, a pile of hewn stone.
By falls of the rivers,
Where once we affirmed that
The winds would tell tales at a wizard’s command,
We hear the low moaning of reeds, roots withered
By drought, as hot summer returns to the land.
No footprints of spirits
Appear in the meadows;
The wave holds no secrets, and gone is all mirth.
The meadow is pastureland—horned goats are dancing
By watering troughs on the dew-layered earth.
Go forth, O ye daughters
Of Zion, lamenting
This grief-stricken world whence magic is fled!
This grief-stricken world whose soul is eclipsed—
For Tammuz, the radiant Tammuz, is dead!
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