poetry

Yedid Nefesh is a piyyut, or religious poem, written by the sixteenth-century Kabbalist Rabbi Eliezer Azikri. The poem is traditionally sung on the Jewish Sabbath, and there are many beautiful melodies for this song. However, the version that is traditionally sung has undergone severe textual corruption, and much of the beauty of the manuscript version (that is, the way it was actually written) has been lost. I will save my rant about textual corruption for another post; for now, suffice it to say that the original version speaks of God in much more feminine terms than the corrupted, popular version. In the original, many of the possessive suffixes are feminine (-ach rather than -cha), which is necessary because of the strict meter of eight syllables per line. Only a couple of prayer books—notably the Conservative Movement’s Sim Shalom—reproduce the manuscript version; most print one corrupt text or another.

The text contains many biblical allusions and poetic images that are extremely condensed in the Hebrew, and consequently nearly impossible to render in line-for-line English without footnotes. Here is a strict but in places free translation of Yedid Nefesh, following the manuscript text.

יְדִיד נֶפֶשׁ, אָב הָרַחֲמָן, מְשׁוֹךְ עַבְדָּךְ אֶל רְצוֹנָךְ
יָרוּץ עַבְדָּךְ כְּמוֹ אַיָּל, יִשְׁתַּחֲוֶה אֶל מוּל הֲדָרָךְ
יֶעֶרַב לוֹ יְדִידוּתָךְ מִנֹּפֶת צוּף וְכָל־טָעַם.

הָדוּר, נָאֶה, זִיו הָעוֹלָם, נַפְשִׁי חוֹלַת אַהֲבָתָךְ
אָנָּא, אֵל נָא, רְפָא נָא לָהּ בְּהַרְאוֹת לָהּ נֹעַם זִוָךְ
אָז תִּתְחַזֵּק וְתִתְרַפֵּא, וְהָיְתָה לָךְ שִׁפְחַת עוֹלָם.

וָתִיק, יֶהֱמוּ רַחֲמֶיךָ, וְחוּס נָא עַל בֵּן אוֹהֲבָךְ
כִּי זֶה כַּמָּה נִכְסוֹף נִכְסַף לִרְאוֹת בְּתִפְאֶרֶת עֻזָּךְ
אָנָּא, אֵלִי, מַחְמַד לִבִּי, חוּשָׁה נָּא, וְאַל תִּתְעַלָּם.

הִגָּלֶה נָא וּפְרוֹשׂ, חָבִיב, עָלַי אֶת־סֻכַּת שְׁלוֹמָךְ
תָּאִיר אֶרֶץ מְכְּבוֹדָךְ, נָגִילָה וְנִשְׂמְחָה בָּךְ
מַהֵר, אָהוּב, כִּי בָא מוֹעֵד, וְחָנֵּנִי כִּימֵי עוֹלָם.

Soul mate, merciful father, draw near your servant to your will.
Your servant will race like a deer to prostrate himself before your majesty.
Your closeness is sweeter to him than flowing honey or any delicacy.

Regal one, fine, light of the world, my soul pines for your love.
Please, God, heal her now by showing her your radiance’s delight,
Thus she will be strengthened and healed, and your eternal maidservant.

Ancient one, arouse your mercy, take pity on your lover’s son,
For he has yearned ever so much to behold the glory of your strength.
Please, my God, my heart’s darling, sense me, and do not hide yourself.

Reveal yourself, and spread, my beloved, your shelter of peace over me.
Illuminate the earth with your honour; let us rejoice and be happy in you.
Hasten, my love, for the time is nigh, and show me grace as in days of old.

אֱהִי כֹּפֶר לְעֹפֶר קָם בְּלַיִל
לְקוֹל כִּנּוֹר וְעוּגָבִים מְטִיבִים
אֲשֶׁר רָאָה בְּיָדִי כוֹס וְאָמַר
שְׁתֵה מִבֵּין שְׂפָתַי דַּם עֲנָבִים
וְיָרֵחַ כְּמוֹ יוֹד נִכְתְּבָה עַל
כְּסוּת שַׁחַר בְּמֵימֵי הַזְּהָבִים.

I’d die for him, the fawn who woke at night
To the beautiful voice of strings and flutes,
Who saw the goblet in my hand, and spoke:
‘Drink, from between my lips, the blood of grapes!’
The moon looked like a letter yud inscribed
Upon the cloak of dawn in golden ink.

—Samuel ibn Naghrela (Shmuel Ha-Nagid, 993–1056)

קְרָב דּוֹמֶה בְרֹאשׁוֹ אֶל יְפֵיפָה
אֲשֶׁר כָּל אִישׁ לְשַׂחֶק בָּהּ יְאַוֶּה
וְסוֹפוֹ כַּזְּקֵנָה הַמְּאוּסָה
אֲשֶׁר כָּל שׁוֹחֲרָה יִבְכֶּה וְיִדְוֶה.

At first, War is a lovely girl;
Every man lusts to play with her.
But she ends up a horrible hag;
Her former suitors weep in pain.

—Samuel ibn Naghrela (Shmuel Ha-Nagid, 993–1056). From his collection Ben Mishlei, ‘Son of Proverbs’

מַה־יָּפ֧וּ פְעָמַ֛יִךְ בַּנְּעָלִ֖ים בַּת־נָדִ֑יב חַמּוּקֵ֣י יְרֵכַ֔יִךְ כְּמ֣וֹ חֲלָאִ֔ים מַֽעֲשֵׂ֖ה יְדֵ֥י אָמָּֽן׃ שָׁרְרֵךְ֙ אַגַּ֣ן הַסַּ֔הַר אַל־יֶחְסַ֖ר הַמָּ֑זֶג בִּטְנֵךְ֙ עֲרֵמַ֣ת חִטִּ֔ים סוּגָ֖ה בַּשּֽׁוֹשַׁנִּֽים׃ שְׁנֵ֥י שָׁדַ֛יִךְ כִּשְׁנֵ֥י עֳפָרִ֖ים תָּֽאֳמֵ֥י צְבִיָּֽה׃ צַוָּארֵ֖ךְ כְּמִגְדַּ֣ל הַשֵּׁ֑ן עֵינַ֜יִךְ בְּרֵכ֣וֹת בְּחֶשְׁבּ֗וֹן עַל־שַׁ֨עַר֙ בַּת־רַבִּ֔ים אַפֵּךְ֙ כְּמִגְדַּ֣ל הַלְּבָנ֔וֹן צוֹפֶ֖ה פְּנֵ֥י דַמָּֽשֶׂק׃ רֹאשֵׁ֤ךְ עָלַ֨יִךְ֙ כַּכַּרְמֶ֔ל וְדַלַּ֥ת רֹאשֵׁ֖ךְ כָּֽאַרְגָּמָ֑ן מֶ֖לֶךְ אָס֥וּר בָּֽרְהָטִֽים׃ מַה־יָּפִית֙ וּמַה־נָּעַ֔מְתְּ אַֽהֲבָ֖ה בַּתַּֽעֲנוּגִֽים׃ זֹ֤את קֽוֹמָתֵךְ֙ דָּֽמְתָ֣ה לְתָמָ֔ר וְשָׁדַ֖יִךְ לְאַשְׁכֹּלֽוֹת׃ אָמַ֨רְתִּי֙ אֶֽעֱלֶ֣ה בְתָמָ֔ר אֹֽחֲזָ֖ה בְּסַנְסִנָּ֑יו וְיִֽהְיוּ־נָ֤א שָׁדַ֨יִךְ֙ כְּאֶשְׁכְּל֣וֹת הַגֶּ֔פֶן וְרֵ֥יחַ אַפֵּ֖ךְ כַּתַּפּוּחִֽים׃ וְחִכֵּ֕ךְ כְּיֵ֥ין הַטּ֛וֹב הוֹלֵ֥ךְ לְדוֹדִ֖י לְמֵֽישָׁרִ֑ים דּוֹבֵ֖ב שִׂפְתֵ֥י יְשֵׁנִֽים׃ לְכָ֤ה דוֹדִי֙ נֵצֵ֣א הַשָּׂדֶ֔ה נָלִ֖ינָה בַּכְּפָרִֽים׃ נַשְׁכִּ֨ימָה֙ לַכְּרָמִ֔ים נִרְאֶ֞ה אִם־פָּֽרְחָ֤ה הַגֶּ֨פֶן֙ פִּתַּ֣ח הַסְּמָדַ֔ר הֵנֵ֖צוּ הָֽרִמּוֹנִ֑ים שָׁ֛ם אֶתֵּ֥ן אֶת־דֹּדַ֖י לָֽךְ׃

How fair are your feet in sandals, O daughter of a prince! The curves of your thighs are jewels, the work of a skilled craftsman. Your navel is a round goblet—let mixed wine not be lacking! Your belly is a heap of wheat encircled with lilies. Your two breasts are two fawns, twins born of a gazelle. Your neck is an ivory tower; your eyes are the pools in Heshbon, by the gate of Bat-Rabbim; your nose is the tower of Lebanon which inclines its face towards Damascus. Your head is as Mount Carmel upon you, and the hair of your head is crimson—a king is held captive in your tresses.

How fair and how beautiful are you, O love, in pleasures! Your stature is like a palm tree, and your breasts are grapefruits. I said, ‘I will climb the palm tree, I will grasp its branches. Please—let your breasts be like grape clusters on the vine, and the scent of your face like apples, and the roof of your mouth like the best wine, going down sweetly for my beloved, causing the sleeping lips to move.’

Come, my beloved, let us go out to the field; let us sojourn in the villages. Let us rise early and go to the vineyards. Let us see if the vine has blossomed, whether the grapes are appearing, whether the pomegranates are flowering, and there I will give you my love.

—Song of Solomon 7.1–9, 10–12

ὑπερβολῇ λέγουσι τὸν Φιλόξενον
τῶν διθυράμβων τὸν ποιητὴν γεγονέναι
ὀψοφάγον. εἶτα πουλύποδα πηχῶν δυεῖν
ἐν ταῖς Συρακούσαις ποτ’ αὐτὸν ἀγοράσαι
καὶ σκευάσαντα καταφαγεῖν ὅλον σχεδὸν
πλὴν τῆς κεφαλῆς. ἁλόντα δ’ ὑπὸ δυσπεψίας
κακῶς σφόδρα σχεῖν· εἶτα δ’ ἰατροῦ τινος
πρὸς αὐτὸν εἰσελθόντος, ὃς φαύλως πάνυ
ὁρῶν φερόμενον αὐτὸν εἶπεν· εἴ τί σοι
ἀνοικονόμητόν ἐστι διατίθου ταχύ,
Φιλόξεν’· ἀποθανῇ γὰρ ὥρας ἑβδόμης.
κἀκεῖνος εἶπε· τέλος ἔχει τὰ πάντα μοι,
ἰατρέ, φησί, καὶ δεδιώκηται πάλαι·
τοὺς διθυράμβους σὺν θεοῖς καταλιμπάνω
ἠνδρωμένους καὶ πάντας ἐστεφανωμένους·
οὓς ἀνατίθημι ταῖς ἐμαυτοῦ συντρόφοις
Μούσαις Ἀφροδίτην καὶ Διόνυσον ἐπιτρόπους—
ταῦθ’ αἱ διαθῆκαι διασαφοῦσιν. ἀλλ’ ἐπεὶ
ὁ Τιμοθέου Χάρων σχολάζειν οὐκ ἐᾷ
οὑκ τῆς Νιόβης, χωρεῖν δὲ πορθμίδ’ ἀναβοᾷ,
καλεῖ δὲ μοῖρα νύχιος, ἧς κλύειν χρεών,
ἵν’ ἔχων ἀποτρέχω πάντα τἀμαυτοῦ κάτω,
τοῦ πουλύποδος μοι τὸ κατάλοιπον ἀπόδοτε.

They say that Philoxenus, the poet who wrote dithyrambs, was the biggest glutton of all time. This one time in Syracuse, they say that he bought and ate all of a two-foot-long octopus—almost, except the head. Seized by heartburn, he was in a bad way. A doctor came to him, and seeing that he wasn’t feeling so well, he said, ‘Philoxenus, if there’s anything you need to set straight in your domestic affairs, do it right away, because you’re going to die at the seventh hour.’ Philoxenus replied, ‘All of my belongings are in order, doctor, and were set straight long ago. I leave behind my grown-up dithyrambs, all crowned by the grace of the gods, which I have consecrated to the Muses and Aphrodite and Dionysus—but my will makes all that clear. Seeing as Charon (as in Timotheus’ Niobe) does not permit lingering, and is shouting that his boat is departing, and dark Fate calls, and we must heed her—and so that I can go below with all of my stuff, give me the leftovers of the octopus.’

—The comic poet Machon, in Athenaeus 8.341a–d