Poems Translated by Barbara Goldberg

Barbara Goldberg is a poet and also a translator of poetry. Her most recent work in the latter field is Scorched by the Sun, a book of poetry by the Israeli poet Moshe Dor that she translated from Hebrew into English. Goldberg and Dor have translated and edited three anthologies of contemporary Israeli poetry, including After the First Rain: Israeli Poems on War and Peace. She was graduated Phi Beta Kappa in Philosophy from Mount Holyoke College. She went on for an MA from Yeshiva University, MEd from Columbia University; and an MFA from American University. She has authored four prize-winning books of poetry, including The Royal Baker’s Daughter, recipient of the Felix Pollak Poetry Prize. The recipient of two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts as well as awards in fiction and speechwriting, Goldberg’s work appears widely, including American Poetry Review, Best American Poetry and the Paris Review. Currently she is Visiting Writer at American University’s MFA program. The following poems are translations from Scorched by the Sun.


Spring hasn’t arrived, but in my dream my nostrils fill
with your smell, lost motherland, the smell of eucalypti
on the banks of the Yarkon on a sunny day,

the smell of oil from gas stations along the coastal plain,
falafel browning in frying pans, pine resin wafting
down from the hills, wine foaming in the presses…

I inhale avidly, my eyes smarting. Capricious fate
has overturned all maps. I awake befuddled,
not knowing where I am, groping for a warm

body to define the boundaries of my life. Spring
hasn’t arrived, but in my dream my nostrils fill
with your smell, and all seasons bloom in my heart.


And he beat down the city and sowed it with salt.
Judges, ch. 9, v. 45

Mine eyes have been enlightened because I tasted a little
of this honey.”
Samuel I, ch. 14, v. 29

Hebrew and Arabic are blood relatives –
perhaps even cousins. Salt in Hebrew
is melakh, in Arabic, milkh. Honey
in Hebrew is dvash, in Arabic, dibsh.
Whether salt or honey will prevail has nothing
to do with linguistics. The dark heart
shall decide: either the salty desolation
wreaked by Abimelech, or Jonathan’s honeycomb.


When thou shalt besiege a city a long time, in making war against it to take it, thou shalt not destroy the trees thereof by forcing an ax against them: for thou mayest eat of them, and thou shalt not cut them down for man is the tree of the field.
Deuteronomy, 20, 19

It’s not true that the hand of he who cuts down
an olive tree trembles when lifting the ax.

Let’s dispense with symbols. This
is not literature. This is life diminishing
with every thud of an ax, every screech
of a chainsaw, but it does not cry out
because it doesn’t have a voice.

Every day faces blush anew, not
from shame, but from blood spilling
on both sides of the invisible border,
staining olive leaves and the flesh
of man because he is
the tree of the field.

And if among the trampled branches a bird
drops dead in the night, it is not
from flying over the land in search
of an olive leaf, but from West Nile
fever, known for killing humans as well.

There Are Just Wars

and there are wrong wars
but every war is
anguish and untimely death
and cripples and smitten souls.

There are wars that break out
in daylight and wars that begin
at night but every war
is darkness even on sunny days

and even when flares
turn night into day.

Spring has also arrived here
and walking along our street
I heard the song birds and asked,
“Birds, why are you singing, don’t
you know it’s war?” but they didn’t
heed me and kept on singing.


When you entwine your fingers
in my fingers our strength doesn’t multiply
or grow three fold, it doesn’t become stronger
at all, as fables would have us believe.
Nothing happens except warmth flowing
from naked fingers to naked fingers.

And yet
when you entwine your fingers in mine
I know it was worthwhile to take
my old knapsack, pack it with the motherland’s image
and other basic necessities and set forth, middle-aged
and scarred by my past, towards a confused dawn,
with no guarantees, from an airport with signs
reading, “Beware: freshly waxed floor.”

By the Rivers of Babylon

I want to clasp you to my heart
but my arm doesn’t move.

I want to tell you words of love
but my lips don’t move.

The love in me
has let my right hand forget
its cunning and my tongue cleave
to the roof of my mouth.

What shall I do?

I’ll hold you with my left arm
and keep silent until
you hear me.


This morning the train crossed the Continental Divide.
From here on the division is clear: On this side all rivers
flow eastward, on the other, westward. Over the long
years of our love we have been rushing in our own
direction, you westward, I eastward, twisting and
turning to pour ourselves into each other. Still, in dreams
and poems that stream from that source we merge
into one steadfast river, its mighty waters coursing
through a persistent channel until emptying into the last sea.

8 thoughts on “Poems Translated by Barbara Goldberg

  1. I’m just catching up on this rich strand of Barbara’s work and classmates appreciation of it. The richness of Israeli poetry and literature in general is a great gift to readers. Thanks Barbara for this work, and I hope to learn more about Moshe For as well as you own work. So enjoy your writing. xo

  2. Hi Barbie,
    Too many activities so I haven’t had time to study your poem! thank you for sharing with me. Can we make time during reunion? I am at this moment, prior to arriving at MHC, printing out what you sent me! Thank you!! love, Genya

  3. Barbara Goldberg’s supple poetry and her translations are of a beauty and power that instruct the intellect, conjure vivid emotional and visual images and gently — and roughly — touch the soul. Anyone who treasures the written environment must read her work and translations to savor that power, to luxuriate in that beauty, and to experience how artist and art can emerge with an energy that envelops, that devours one with the truths of life. Keep the faith, babe, keep writing, keep enthralling us, and you go girl!

  4. PS: I want to go on record as saying that I did not intend to make a yellow smiley face.

  5. When you write “poetry looks bare,” do you mean all poems, or these poems? Surely not these. Since I cannot find words to adequately describe them I will fall back on your own–shameless :-)–request and say they are fabulous. The poet must be very proud of his translator. See you soon.

  6. Love how I can “feel” the words. I am especially touchedx by “Smells”….as I feel memories through smells and this poem was so very real to me.
    Well done Barbara!

  7. Brilliant, as always, both the voice of the poet and the words of the translator.

  8. Passionate, fierce, visceral, cerebral, stripped bare……..Barbara Goldberg does justice to the truth and beauty of Moshe Dor’s poetry as only another poet and soul mate could.

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