Khotsh a rege tunkl gold

Lyrics: Itzik Manger
Music: Chava Alberstein & Klezmatics
Album: The Well/Di Krenitse
Song: Ovntlid

Itzik Manger (איציק מאַנגער, born 1901 in Czernowitz, then Austria, deceased 1969 in Gedera, Israel) was and through his printed words still is the honest to God fucking genius of yiddish poetry. Amongst many other language based artefacts of subtlety and beauty the following one surely belongs to our favorites.

This poem patterns a certain kind of inner sensations and their connection to music right on the fine line where real poetry must live and in a European-Oriental language that was spoken by millions and is now regularly spoken only by half crazy Haredim in NYC, Florida and Israel and - slightly embarassing most of the time - in workshops.

And an aside: Frank London blows a little trumpet solo in that recording that really moves my musical senses.

Enjoy now!

Ovnt Lid

shtiler ovnt tunkl-gold, ikh zits baym glezl vayn. vos iz gevorn fun mayn tog? a shotn un a shayn. zol khotsh a rege tunkl-gold in mayn lid arayn ...

shtiler ovnt, tunkl-gold, an alter groer yid davnt frum avek dem shtoyb fun dem yor-yarid. zol khotsh a murml fun dem yid arayn tsu mir in lid ...

shtiler ovnt, tunkl-gold vint veyt oys velt ayn, mayn troyer vos gevezn vakh, shloft vi a hintl ayn. zol khotsh an otem fun dem shlof in lid tsu mir arayn ...

shtiler ovnt, tunkl-gold a zumer-foygl flit. mit fligl zayne gro un gold, avek in got-bavit zol khotsh a tsiter fun zayn fli arayn tsu mir in lid....

Just another evening song

After all jacks are in their boxes And the clowns have all gone to bed You can hear happiness staggering on down the street Footprints dressed in red And the wind whispers Mary

A broom is drearily sweeping Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life Somewhere a queen is weeping Somewhere a king has no wife And the wind, it cries Mary

The traffic lights they turn a blue tomorrow And shine their emptiness down on my bed The tiny island sags downstream 'Cause the life that they lived is dead And the wind screams Mary

Will the wind ever remember? The names it has blown in the past And with its crutch, its old age and its wisdom It whispers "no, this will be the last" And the wind cries Mary

This one's by an African American of very mixed descent who put his poems to music himself. Was not eligible for a Nobel prize though,not a single bit more than our obscure poet above.

We have drawn this connection before and for all who claim not to see the associative pattern, here's

A Little Quiz

* A little, probably necessary for many, help: Davenen is the Yiddish word for praying. Phylacteries is a posh word for Tefillin.