Hagar

-Yakov Azriel

August 10, 2010

 “An angel of the Lord found her by the spring of water in the desert, by the spring on the way to Shur. And he said, ‘Hagar, Sarai’s slave, where have you come from, and where are you going?’ And she said, ‘I am running away from Sarai, my mistress.” (Genesis 16:7-8)

I

If only I could run away to you, Grandfather;

If only I could hear your voice again, telling me what to do, where to go.

II

In the tent of my mistress, I shiver; the desert outside burns,

But when my mistress looks at me, I freeze.

Outside, the desert sun blazes and bleaches the sky; but inside,

The tent is dark, full of orphaned shadows, limping and crippled.

III

I was only nine when Nubian bandits from the desert raided our village

And abducted me. How can I recollect my mother’s lullabies or my father’s laugh?

How can I recall my brother’s face, my little brother named after you, Grandfather?

He was only a baby whom I loved to hold and sing to.

But I remember you, Grandfather,

How you used to walk with me in the field, hand in hand,

How you would make garlands for me from wildflowers,

Then crown me as ‘the princess of the Nile’ and bow.

I remember the dolls you carved for me from wood,

And how we would sing the nonsense rhymes you composed, and laugh.

You always found the time to listen to my prattle,

To answer my endless questions, to smile and bend down to hug me.

IV

The marauders invaded on an early spring morning

We were walking slowly in the field again, hand in hand, talking quietly,

When you saw in the distance smoke, and the huts of our village wrapped in flames.

“Run quickly to the cow-shed, Hagar, we’ll hide there.”  But you limped so slowly.

“Don’t wait for me, Hagar, run on, run on quickly.”

But how could the princess of the Nile abandon her only subject?

They found us, of course. “Spare the child, take me as your booty.”

They just laughed;

“She’s young, old man, she’s pretty, she’ll get a good price at the slave-market,

Or in the brothel.”

You tried to grab me, to wrestle me out of their grasp as I shouted,

“Grandfather, help me!”

Till one of them pulled out his dagger and stabbed you

And kicked you aside.

At night, when I lie in my bed, I still see your unseeing eyes

As you whisper, “Hagar.”

V

If only I could hear your voice again, Grandfather,

As soft as an angel’s in the desert.

If only you could touch my cheek, or speak to me again,

Or hear me calling out your name,

Grandfather Ishmael.

Yakov Azriel was born in New York (as Gerald Rosenkrantz) and came to live in Israel after finishing his BA in English literature in Brooklyn College. He later completed an MA in Judaica, and in May 2004 he received his doctorate (on the stories of Rabbi Nachman of Braslav). He has published three full-length books of poetry: Threads From A Coat Of Many Colors: Poems on Genesis (2005), In The Shadow Of A Burning Bush: Poems on Exodus (2008), and Beads For The Messiah's Bride: Poems on Leviticus (2009), all published by Time Being Books. His new books of poetry based on the Books of Numbers, Deuteronomy and the Psalms will be published over the next few years. Over 150 of his poems have been published in journals and magazines in the United States, the United Kingdom and Israel, and his poems have won thirteen different awards in international poetry competitions. Yakov has twice been awarded fellowships from the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture for his poetry.