3 fragments from my notebook

Here's a new post on my blog, Filtered Lights, with 3 fragments: a poem; a parable; an introspection.
You can find it here...

http://www.steveberer.com/work-in-progress/

Mystical musings by the Atternen Ju (Eternal Jew)

The following short excerpt is from a scene in The Atternen Juez Talen. Our hero has recently migrated to Poland (around 1320 CE) to start a new life, yet again. He is reflecting on a line from the daily prayers, that the Master of the Universe daily renews the act of creation (often interpreted to mean that the world, and each individual in it, is created anew each day, or even each moment). Reflecting on his own renewal, he goes off on a riff.

Here is a prose translation into standard English (what I call 'old English'), and then the original text as it was composed...

I, the Eternal Jew am a voice in the streaming world a-coil in you -- a recurring face, a recurring place, unknown, familiar, a recurring embrace. Hate me and I will choke you with hate. Fear me and I will hound you with fear. Love me and I will ignite a desire that consumes but can’t be satisfied ...

To read the whole excerpt, please go to my new blog, Filtered Lights. You will find the post here...
http://www.steveberer.com/work-in-progress/

For those who praise war...

The Eternal Jew hears a noise one morning. At first he thinks its thunder; then an earthquake. Then he realizes, an army is attacking. This scene in The Atternen Juez Talen takes place in approximately 1100CE. First a translation into standard English, and then the original in MetaEnglish. 

And behind the forward shock of noise
The walls of dust that choke your breath
And cloak your face in a deathly mask
So dragoon and drayman, commando and corpse
All look like statues in a Roman tomb.

And this the song them dragoons sung:...

To read the rest of the poem, go to my other blog, Filtered Lights -- A Public Notebook, at 

http://www.steveberer.com/work-in-progress/

On Filtered Lights: While saying the Sh'ma

Here is a poem that came to me last night that tries to convey the ineffable experience of transcendence. The poetry is followed by a prose translation in normal English:
Wile Sayen the Sh'ma, I Wuz Herd...

The full text can be found on Filtered Lights:
http://www.steveberer.com/work-in-progress/

but here's a taste:

Wile Sayen the Sh’ma, I Wuz Herd...

Yur evver waer iz this Ruwakh werl
But hu knoez the Ruwakh tu see it?

Yu wuz spaken a roer
That ar seemen a silens,
Tho Yur Proffets say iz a wisper
Evver wun heerz
But hu ar lissenz? Evver wun
Stanz so klose but stil too far....


While Saying the Sh’ma, I Heard...

You are everywhere in this Ruakh world but who knows the Ruakh to see it?

You who spoke in a roar that seemed like a silence, tho Your Prophets say it is a whisper everyone hears, but who is listening? Every one stands so close but still too far.

Song ov Elmallah, VI, Tranzmigrents Lamment

Continuing to edit The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming, Part VI, I came across this poem.
Part VI takes place during the Holocaust. The main character, Rivkah is fleeing overland towards Palestine. When she began her flight, a Torah was forced upon her to save. Now, months later...

Tranzmigrents Lamment
...oh, oh, well I want to know
will you come with me?
   “Uncle John’s Band”, Grateful Dead

Thoze owwerz and thoze lievz
I thot I livd; thaer relleksOn a tabel, now overternd;
Like so mennee objekts, tinsel and goeld,
Skatterd, krusht, or kikt asside.
Wut did I see in them? Wut did thay hoeld?

Now tell me wut it meenz tu be a hewman,
And tell me wut it meenz tu liv a day.
And tell me wut it meenz tu be the chozen,
And tell me wut it meenz wen we ar pray.

I held wun life;
1000 plezherz filld me.
I held wun life;
1000 terrerz gript me.
I held wun life;
1000 luvz wer in my hand,
And now the wind haz bloen them
Like a seengel graen ov sand.

And like 1000 leevz, wisselleeng, russelleeng
I thot I koud heer sumtheeng in the wind.
Leevz tumbelleeng and sand hisseeng...
And then it got kleerer, and then it got neerer:
Plaenz grumbelleeng and bomz thundereeng.
But that was not it. Thay past awway.

And then it got purer, and then it got shorer:
Not a sownd at awl, nor a feeleeng, nor a thot,
But a rezzaddew ov eenk that had rubd off on my skin,
Now dizzolvd intu my blud, that aenshent proffessee
Askeeng or demandeeng az evver it had dun:
“Erthah, Rivkah, wut I wont tu kno,
“Iz, wen will yu rize and wok with me?”

Song of Elmallah, Part VI, introduction

I keep putting off completing the last book of The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming. It just needs revisions to some of its poems, so I went to look at it tonight, and behold, I found another reason to put off working on it! I read the introduction and thought it was so good, I decided to post it here. (I suppose if I didn't like my own writing, I wouldn't write.)

Gottverdamnerung: In the End ov Time
You Will Soon Be Leaving Me, Too

How suddenly I feel thrust out of Heloise’s arms, with whom I’ve lain these many years, trying to complete my Knowen of her. How cruel and sudden death is. We know it’s coming; we expect it; there are moments of dread. And then death divides us! Our bodies are irrevocably separated; our hearts cloven with an unimaginable wound. Our tears fill but a cup. It overflows.
A semi-transparent filter has darkened the world. Everything is the same, but the tone is more somber. How many layers of these filters are lain upon our Souls until all light is filtered away? I love Heloise, and she is no more.
I have thrown rock and soil upon her, and walked, broken, away. I call out to my God, “Where is Your Moment of Bliss?” There is no answer. Again I must remember I am here, down here, in the world, in Ertha. Here I am, and like a child who cries out to a parent and receives no response, I cry louder. I sob. My Parent stands ready in the next room, but this I must do, without help. We both grieve at my sorrow.
They say a ladder was extended from heaven, and angels descended and ascended. This was a dream. In reality, angels may descend, but once we have touched Ertha, once we have kissed her or cursed her, a filter darkens our eyes, our hearts, our Souls. No more can we find the ladder. If it is there, we cannot see it. If we reach out to it, we cannot hold it. Its rungs will not support our heaviness of heart.
So, what is there to do? I must build a ladder! Some say the ladder is there, and I must merely climb it. They call it Torah. Others say climbing is merely a matter of faith. With faith, all will be accomplished, they say. They refer to new books extolling a man. What is the difference between faith and illusion? Those that talk so boldly are full of illusion. And it grieves me, for Ertha is full mostly of illusion and very little faith. Our Sacred Books are not a ladder. They are but incomplete instructions. Each of us must build. And each must improvise.
But wait! A wonderful realization has just now struck me. This is not only the work of angels. Everyone is building! Some are still searching for the first tool. Others have amassed materials but can fashion nothing. This work is hard. Having too much creates an impossible burden. With too little, nothing holds together.
Heloise, you have helped me fashion a rung in my ladder. For this you are inscribed in my Soul, and you are made holy. Who now will hold me in her arms? Will her kisses be so sensuous and eager? Will her body tremble with a pleasure that reaches to the Moment of Bliss? Shkheenah, will You love me so sweetly again?
And you, my dear reader, my leader who has followed me so far! You too, will be leaving me soon. But I will not leave you!
~Elmallah

Atternen Ju, on the road from Tiberias

This short scene (3 stanzas), I present, first, direct from the heavens, and then in "normal" English. It takes place as the Eternal Jew and his wife Butkoel decide to look for a better place to live, after experiencing decades of economic and social decline in Tiberias. Ironically (I guess), it takes place just outside of Damascus, about 1170 CE. But it could be last week or last year. If that's ironic.


Meenwielz the lan it seemz gro dark.
Shimmerree shaddoez; waverree hilz.
Wut aelz us that yu skip like ramz?
Sun so brite; blienden us.
Fyureyes heet; choken gasp.
Dus haengen in the thikken aer.
We haz tu fors arselz tu breeth.
A gus a win, sullen, meen.
Travvellerz tern asside, allone,
Rest in the uvvennish shade uv a tree.

The ro emteez. A villij up ahhed.
Thers. Silens. A moeshenles werl.
A wel ahhed. A moen. A kof.
A gus. A kreek. A gate. It sweeng.
Iz that a kry? Beyon the gate.
A chile. An erchin liez a dus.
Kryz aggen, naree a breth.
Butkoel goez in. “Waerz yur mah?”
Blaenk stare. Dus-wite fase.
Mask a terrer. Mask a deth.

Silens. Butkoel noks the dor.
Skweeks open. “Hay. Hello?”
Silens. Dark inside. Ar iyz
Ajjust. The flor. Boddeez sprawl
In blak haloez; skarlet ej.
Skreemz. Butkoel. I almoes swoon.
Rush. Owtside. Butkoel grabz
The chile. Silens. Bak in the street.
Mor howzen. Mor ded.
A graybeer sits in a pool a blud.
    “Giv me the chile,” iz weeree kummand.
    “Sheez wun a mine. Thaer awl mine.
    “Now. Be gon. Nevver kno
    “Wen thayl retern.” “Hu ar ‘thay’?”
Butkoel asks. Aggen, “Be gon.
    “Revenjez bernen hot an long.
    “Beware the sown a hors. Be gon.”
He take the chile. Layz her down
In iz lap. Hiz sitz in blud.
    “Be gon.” The sun. A skorch the lan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile the land seems to grow dark. Shimmery shadows; wavery hills. What ails us that you skip like rams? Sun so bright; blindin' us. Furious heat; choke and gasp. Dust hangs in the thickened air. We have to force ourselves to breathe. A gust of wind, sullen, mean. Travelers turn aside, alone. Rest in the ovenish shade of a tree.

The road empties. A village up ahead. Thirst. Silence. A motionless world. A well ahead. A moan. A cough. A gust. A creak. A gate. It swings. Is that a cry? Beyond the gate. A child. An urchin lies in dust. Cries again, nary a breath. Butkoel goes in. “Where's your ma?” Blank stare. Dust-white face. Mask of terror. Mask of death.

Silence. Butkoel knocks on the door. Squeaks open. “Hey. Hello?” Silence. Dark inside. Our eyes adjust. The floor. Bodies sprawl in black halos; scarlet edged. Screams. Butkoel. I almost swoon. Rush. Outside. Butkoel grabs the child. Silence. Back in the street. More houses. More dead. A greybeard sits in a pool of blood.
    “Give me the child,” his weary command. “She's one of mine. They're all mine. Now. Be gone. Never know when they'll return.”
    “Who are ‘they’?” Butkoel asks.
Again, “Be gone. Revenge burns hot and long. Beware the sound of horse. Be gone.”
He take the child. Lays her down in his lap. He sits in blood.
    “Be gone.”
The sun is scorch the land.

In the Land of the Hashashin

Here is the latest scene in The Atternen Juez Talen. It takes place in what is modern Syria. At the time (around 1165 CE) the region was loosely controlled by the Seljuks, and it bordered Crusader (Frankish) territories. The scene begins in Homs and ends in the mountains. I have translated the poetry out of MetaEnglish, and into prose.


The rav replied with a weary sigh,
“Ever the search for a better place and a better time and a better spirit, but the world runs backwards away from the Lor, and the soul, like a man, grows weary and old. So our great feats and heroic deeds are all behind us, and unless God will send a savior, all is lost. Best to stay near the Holy Land, so when satan sets us ablaze, our passage through the furies is brief and the salvin’ land can restore us right quick.
“But I will send a sh’liakh* with you to find you a guide thru Assassia’s lands. Without a guide abandon hope ye who enter, to reach Hama.”
* agent, representative

Chiseled stone and fired brick wall us in through our narrow maze; and awnings and balconies over our heads. Neither light nor air, as the heat bakes the sewage in the street befoulin’ our feet.

A courtyard. Our sh’liakh taps on a door and we wait in the thick shadows and stench. Shuffle. Eyes peer through a crack.
“Is Master Bilal acceptin’ guests?”
The door creaks and we slip from the gloom into utter darkness as the door creaks shut. “Wait.” Footsteps shuffle away.

Slowly our eyes adjust in the dark. A tiny room and a moldering hall. Damp the air, like to breed disease. Shuffle. A tiny and wrinkled man in a white robe and a white beard. “Come.” His slow unsteady steps, like a dirge of death he leads us down the hall and down a coiling stair, like a narrow cave into the maw of the moldery earth.

There like a king of the underworld, crosslegged, sittin’ on a prayer rug, an idol of stone, its arms as thick as any man’s legs; neck like a tree trunk and a massive head made larger still by a shock of hair and  ringlets of beard that tumble and boil into his lap.

The idol talks and my heart near stops.
“Who’re you servin’ up to me, Yacoob? Offerings meant to burn in the Old Man a the Mountain’s grove?”
Our envoy smiles and climbs the stair, leaving us alone in this devil’s den.

A cascade of shock and fear and rage tumbles down the edge of me --
betrayal by that Yacoob scum or by his rav an evil sect in Homs like Sodom’s predators I remember that white robe priest serpent coiled in Palmyra’s ruins that demon boy down his cave I’m bound and gagged by Berber thieves hit him stab him gouge his eyes an idol that devours men this the idol that I serve my scarlet sins these harlot jinns is this justice my reward *v’uttah tzuddeek ulkoel habbah allanu,kee emmet ussetah, v’unnukhnu heershunnu*...--
*-* the vidui, the confession at death;
     this the last line: You are righteous
     in all that is come on us; You create 
     truth; we, wickedness.

“You two ain’t in Damascus now, and its little men and little cares. You jus’ moseyed into the lion’s den; the asp, it slithers; jackals swarm. And you, all blind, would trip along. Your sugary times is behin’ you now. Now is the tastin’ a fear and blood.”
Like a rumble from the guts of the earth, or the sound of thunder down from the hills, or maybe like a wolf’s growl when it sees you sittin’ in its lair, my thoughts continue their cascade while he growls and while I talk.

“We heard the road is straight from here -- Hama, Aleppo, Gaziantep -- and Seljuk soldiers secure the way.”

“Seljuk guards? What a pile! Offal pours from the mouth a the king and the people grovel and eat it up. Hashashin rule this countryside. There’s no imam or sheik or prince safe in sleep or on the street, safe indoors or safe with troops, but the Ismailis have their way. Aleppo is seven days from here, in the daylight and on the road. Thrice that time if you wanna live.”

“So we must find our way by night on goat paths and through wadi beds?”
He frowns like I’m some addled goose.
“I’m the way and I’m the light, and I’m the one that you’ll serve. Or else fuck off and take your chance and end up Ismaili slaves. Unless they choose to cut your froat. I leave tonight jus’ after dark. When you hear the muezzin’s call you bes’ be here. I won’t wait.”
The ancient white-robe leads us out.

And then that monologue returns,
...betrayal never trust that bull what is lie and what half-true...

Call to prayer to the faithful, with all their doubt and all their crud and all their fears and all their sins, sunk in illusions, sunk in muck. Most get sorrows, some get luck. The door creaks and we go from the gloom into utter dark as the door creaks shut.

“Carry this!” and he shoves a skin full of water into my hand. “And this!” A sack of white cheese and figs, raisins, olives, nuts and seeds, as he eyes Batkol like a horse to ride.

I have been in this place before. Bilal is here, Batkol, of course. No moon. No clouds. A star-flicker sky. A candle flickers in a hut nearby, and fades away with the deja vu.

I have a dagger strapped to my calf and my walkin’ stick will serve as a club. Butkoel has a blade in her walkin’ stick and a well-stropped razor in her belt.

We never sleep at the same time. Eye on Bilal; hand on my knife.

Fearflash. A sack over my head. A rope tightens around my neck. I try to shout but only gag, and gags beside me. My hands are bound. Then a shootin’ pain flames through my head.

My head throbs in blindin’ sears. I can’t see. I can’t move.

Kicked in the back. A bucket of swill splashes on my chest.
“Wake up you dog.”
“I can’t see. I can’t breathe.”
“Shut up. Who’s that woman with you?”
“My wife, Batkol. Where is she? Is she okay? Where is she?”

“You wanna see her? You wanna see us cut her froat? You wanna see her bound and raped, red hot iron jammed in her eyes?  You wanna see her safe and whole? You better talk.”
Searin’ pain across my back. I twist and howl. Sizzlin’ smell, my back charred. I howl and cringe.
“Who’s that woman?”
“My wife, my wife.”
“Her name?”
“Batkol. Really, Batkol.
Again the searin’ white-hot pain.
“Her name?”
“Batkol. Batkol. Batkol.”
“What kinda name is that -- Batkol? That ain’t no name. Who is she?”
“Batsheva Koltov. A Hebrew name. Batsheva -- the favorite wife of Da-ood, the prophet king. You know of him. Koltov, like ‘good in every way’. Made short to Batkol, which our Talmud says means ‘a voice from the Lor,’ ‘an inspired call.’ It’s not a Christian or Zoroastrian name. Not Seljuk or Persian. It’s a Hebrew name.”

Noise. Maybe the irons being cooked.
“Batkol. Believe me. Just Batkol. It’s a Jewish name. We’re not from here...”
I babble on for awhile. No use. Silence.
“Where have they gone?” I moan.
In fear and pain; mindless moans; horrors thinkin’ of Batkol’s fate.

Rattle of chains dragged on the floor. Grunts and panting, ‘ooof’ and ‘ecch’.
“Who’s this man and who’s he serve? You lie to me, we’ll cut his froat.”
“He’s my husband, Saadya Mishon. He don’t serve no one ‘cept maybe the Lor. We’re not from here, nor been here before. Runnin’ from the Franks and their harsh oppressors, to the far north, to Poland’s lands where we hear they welcome even us Jews.”

“She says you’re a Jew. Prove it to me.”
And I get a kick in the burn of my back. In the depths of the pain all I can say,
“*Sh’ma Yisroyel. Uddoniy Ellohanu, Uddoniy ekhud. Borukh shaem...*”
Silence. Whispers. Another kick.
“Whatsat mean in Arabic?”
*-* the most basic statement 
      of Jewish identity/faith

“Listen Israel. The Lor our God, the Lor is one. Bless the name, honored... er, also like ‘revealed’, like ‘present in our world’ or at least our soul...”
“Shut up! Sheikh, what to do?”
“ Remove the sack from his head; untie his hands. Unbind her from lash and chain. Let him read from these books in his bag. Her, we’ll test her in other ways.”

As they drag her away I blurt out,
“ Sheikh, she reads as good as me, and she bound those books, the ones I wrote. Test her right here. Show ‘em, Batkol.”

Eternal Jew: walking the 18 blessings

Composing The Atternen Juez Talen, I conceived a scene in which the events he experiences reflect the 18 blessings of the Sh'monah Esray. "Sh'monah Esray" means "18", and it is one of the names of a core part of Jewish liturgy comprised, originally, of 18 blessings (19 blessings now).

So, here's our hero on the road from Tiberias (Tiveria) to Khazaria (north of the Black Sea) and the year is about 1150 CE. To make his passage easier he and his wife Butkoel (a shortened form of Batsheva Kol Tov) try to become anonymous by taking on the role of shepherds.

This stage in their journey emulates the Kedusha, the third of the 18 blessings. In the Kedusha one reaches the pinnacle of holiness, elevated to angelic levels of awareness....

(A note on the format:
I have translated the poetry and converted it into prose to help the reader navigate my modified (dare I say, elevated) English. Thus, a prose paragraph in "old" English followed by the same text as poetry in metaEnglish.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The border on the Seljuk lands is like a desert nomad’s cloak -- ill kept and full of gapin’ holes. Seljuk Syria, that’s our goal. A two day haul thru dried out streams, wadis where branches of long dead oaks reach from their graves to pluck your eyes.

     The border on the Seljouk lanz
     Iz like a dezzert nomadz kloek --
     Ill kept an fule a gapen hoel.
     Seljouk Sureyah, thats ar goel.
     A tu2 day hawl thru dry owt streemz,
     Woddeez ware branchen a long ded oek
     Reech frum thaer graven tu pluk yur iy.

And not two weeks after that, and we’ve acquired our kingly robes to seem the shepherds we must be. Hooded cloaks of felted wool -- like walking ovens in the sun; fur-skin boots packed with felt to ease the blistering rocky road -- a rancid stench soon reeked from them; each a staff to walk by the way and help convince hungry wolves to tear necks in other folds; and naturally a willow switch to help convince a head-strong goat to join his happy flock again.

     An nor a tu2 week after that
     An we akwiyerz ar keenglee robe
     Tu seem the shepperz we mus be.
     Houded kloeks a felted wool --
           Like wokken uvvenz in the sun;
     Fer-skin boots pakt with felt
     Tu eez the blisterres rokkee rode --
           A ransid stench soon reeken them;
     Eech a staf tu wok by the way
     An help kunvins the hungree woolv
     Tu taren neks in uther foelz;
     An nacherlee a willo swich
     Tu help kunvins a hed-streng goet
     Tu join iz happee flok aggen.

Soon enough we become like goats ourselves. We see the world thru a goat’s eyes: tufts of weeds and low-hung leaves direct their path, movin’ at the slowest pace of twelve distracted, hungry beasts. Any patch of dusty turf allures their dull and beasty eyes. Passin’ this rich and varied world our eyes serve only our yammerin’ guts; a berry here, a nut there, a dusty weed looks succulent; in a death-dry wadi, a puddle of mud now appears like a cup of wine.

     Soon ennuf an we bekum
     Like goet arselz. See the werl
     Thru goetee iy: tufs a weed
     An lo-hung leevz derrekter path,
     Muven at the slowwes pase
     Uv twelv distracken, hungree beests.
     Ennee pach a dustee terf
     Allorz thaer dul an beestee iy.
     Passen this richen vareyes werl
     Ar iyz serv nor ar yammerree guts;
     A baree heer, a nut thaer,
     A dustee weed louks sukyulen;
     In a deth-dry woddee, a puddel a mud
     Now appeern like a kup a wine.

Come to a village without a name. Just one dusty lane lined by walls; the mud plaster crumblin' in piles, or cracked and buckling from the mudbrick core. Behind the walls and at open gates dogs bark; children too. Comes a young mother, babe at breast, hardly a tooth in either mouth. Sees us and slams and bolts her gate. I hears her spit three times and croak, “Accurst, accurst, accurst, a jinn! This home be rid of satan and sin.” Weren’t sure if she meant us or her, but the goats got the message and scurried on, and we too scampered, goatfully.

     Kum tu a villij withowten name,
     Jes wun dustee lane liend by wawlz;
     The mud plaster in krumbellee pielz
     Or krakt an bukkelz frum the mudbrik kor.
     Behien the wawlz an open gaet;
     Dogz a bark, an childer too.
     Kumz a yung muther, babe at bres,
     Hardlee a toothen eether mow.
     Seez us; slammen a boelter gate.
     I heerz her spit three tiem an kroek,
           “Akkerst, akkerst, akkerst; a jin!
           “This hame be rid uv saten sin.”
     Wernt shor if she meen us or her,
     But the goets got the messij an skerree on
     An we too skamperz goetfulee.

Passed a well along the road. Butkoel turns off to look in it; turns the handle, and disgusted says, “Broke and corroded all this place.”

     Past a wel allong the roed.
     Butkoel ternz of tu louks in it;
     Ternz the handel, a disgusted say,
           “Brake an kerroden in its plase.”

Passed some ruins in a rocky field. Didn’t notice till the goats all stopped to nibble clover by the rubble of a wall. Behind, on a patch of mosaic floor: a Roman caesar stands by his throne; his foot on the head of a local king. And this graffiti etched beside:“Zion, your abusers won’t endure. Their ruin will be swift to come, and sure."

     Past sum ruwenz in a rokkee feel.
     Didden notis til the goets awl stops
     Tu nibbel klover by a rubbeld wawl.
     Behien, on a pach uv mozayek flor:
     A romen sezer stanz by iz throne.
     A fout on the hed uv a lokel keeng.
     An this graffetee echen besiedz:
           “Ziyon, yur abyuzerz woen endor.
           “Thaer ruwen iz swif tu kum on shor.”

*Stopped beside a church along the way. Well, we squatted on our heels and listened to them pray.* (*-* California Dreamin'.) Psalms and supplications, like sobbin’ wails, then a preacher’s voice like a crackin’ whip replacing the sobs with his pounding fist. “Our curse will resound as long as we live, against you, Zengi**, warlord and dog. Our mouths will spit, and our tongues will sneer, and our hands will lay snares in your fields and stumbling blocks in your blind ways, until you tremble and until you fall. And we will drive you out of our world. Cursed are you, Zengi dog.” (** The Zengi were local Turkic governors serving the Seljuks, soon to be overthrown from within by Saladin.)

     *Stops besiedz a cherch allongen way.
     Waal, we skwotten on ar heelz an lissen tu em pray.*
                         *-* Mommahz an Poppahz, “Kallaffornee Dreemen”
     Salmen suplakkatenz, like sobben waelz,
     Then a preechennes vois, like a krakken wip
     Replasen a sobz with the pownded fist,
           “Ar kers iz rezownd az long az ar livz
           “Aggens yu, Zengee* wor-lorren dogz.
                         * Lokel Terkish govvannerz serven the Seljouks,
                          an soon tu be overthrone frum within
                          by Salladdin.
           “Ar mowz ar spit an ar tung iz sneer
           “An ar han iz lay a snare in yur feelz
           “An a stumbellen blok in yur blienden wayz
           “Until yur trembelz an until yur fawlz
           “An we wil drive yu owten ar werl.
           "Kerst ar yu, Zengee dog.”

Such a Kedusha is what we heard sittin’ in the shade and walking by the way. Inverted like Dante's climb thru hell, the World of Light reversed in our atoms, and we, once angels, now with animal eyes. There we wept, aware of ourselves.

     Sech a Keddueshah* az we ar herd
                         * Therd blessen uv Shmonah Esray,
                         holenes uv the Lor az experen by Hem aenjelz
     Sitten in the shade and wokken by the wayz,
     Invertenz like Dontayz klime thru helz,
     The werlz uv lite in Addom reverst,
     An we, wuns aenjel, with annammel iyz.
     Thaer we wept, awware uv arselz.

Venus, Ishtar, Inanna,2

The Innonna image featured in my previous post is now nearly completed. Here are a few images, focusing in on details...

The complete image:

Focusing in on her corona:

Focusing in on her genetically woven garments:

Venus, Ishtar, Inanna

I am working on my next, and probably the last image for my upcoming ebook, The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming, Bouk 3. Here it is emerging from the unconscious...

Venus/Innonna (Inanna), walking around her home, the Louvre:

I conjure you, Innonna, to come alive...

The image is not complete, altho the portraiture is done. Now the energy waves must be revealed.

Innonna, divine mother, divine whore

I am closing in on completing another image for my ebook edition of the poem The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming, Bouk 3. This image shows Innonna (Inanna/Ishtar), modified from the carved relief from Sumeria, now in the British Museum, and known as The Queen of the Night.

The image accompanies the following lines in my poem:

We loukt up tu Innonna,
     We hu wer lost,
     Hu wer livving in a waest,
Tu her hu iz Wilfull
     Az the liyon
     Az the ass;
Huze miend pennatraets
     Like the wind
     Like the flud;
We saw how unlike she wuz tu us
And koud not take owr eyz frum her boddee.

We saw how unlike she wuz tu us
And we ternd owr harts tu konker.

Here are 5 versions of the image. Do you prefer one above the others? Your general or critical feedback on the images is welcome and desired.

Elmallah, Bouk 3, image 6

I have been working for many months preparing the illustrations for an edition of Bouk 3 of The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming. Last night I completed the 6th image. It shows Dumuzee, the Sumerian shepherd king. Captured by Areyan invaders, his spirit has escaped into the sky. It is based on an Assyrian bas relief in the British Museum.

Here are the lines that accompany the illustration:

Awl hiz serven herd the kruel lamment.
Thay herd the dry north wind
Wining thru the fouthillz.
Thay herd the kish-kish russelling
Ov leevz along the foutpathz.
Thay saw the hunter-king
Fawl owt ov the nite-time sky.

Thay saw the ram assend
Tu skip along the star-kragz.

    "Dumuzee haz eskaept!"
Hiz serven awl howl.
Now the bitter lamment iz thaerz.  Thay say:
    "He haz gon free
    "Wile owr chieldz ar made slaevz by hiz kurs."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

And here are 4 variations of the completed image. Click on an image to expand it, and you should be able to scroll thru the images. That's the only way you'll be able to differentiate them. Your comments and preferences, as always, are much valued.

 

 

 

A conversation with the apostle Paul

This scene is taken out of my long narrative poem about the Eternal Jew, The Atternen Juez Talen. I have converted the text to prose and translated it into "old English", that is, the English you're used to reading, since it seems my poetry can be hard to read.
The dialog (between Saul/Paul and the Eternal Jew) is based on a close reading of the Epistle to the Romans, along with the new analysis of Paul's position of Judaism, as presented by John Gager and others.
Here it is:

Funny how memories just pop in your head. I met that Saul on this road (Damascus Road) awhile back, maybe twenty five years before Jerusalem fell, in a mikdash*, I can’t remember where. Mumblin’ prayers like the rest of us. Wouldn’t a guessed he’d make such a name. Cranky he were with a sand paper edge, like the sugar in his tea has a bitter taste and his tallit* weighed like an iron yoke on his narrow shoulder and knobby arms. Hard to stand straight, harder to bow.
* synagogue
* tallit: prayer shawl

After kiddush* and motzi* over bread we stood talkin’ among the vines in the courtyard, lush in summer bloom, crownin’ the courtyard walls. Typical me, without no walls between my sparkin’ thoughts and my tongue. (With an oven like that you’ll burn your house down.) I says to him, “From what I hears you ain’t prayin’ with Jews no more. I’m surprised to see you here today.”
* kiddush and motzi: two prayers, the first over wine, the second over bread

He looks at me with a bit of a sneer, like, ‘Where’s your manners?’ and ‘What did I do?’
and ‘You only think you know who I am.’

I see that I hurt him. He turns to leave.
“Don’t go brother. I said that wrong. I meant to open a door for you to let you in, not to chase you out.”

“My fault too,” he say with a frown. “I make a stir wherever I goes. Some cry, ‘apostle!’ and wash my feet. Some cries, ‘apostate!’ and want me beat. I seen the inside a many a jail for nothin’ more than talkin’ of God. And I’ve tasted the dust a half the known world; shipwrecked and damn near drownded as well. The rod of the Lor driven me on.

“Truth is, I can’t hardly tell no more who is deliverin’ these bruises and welts, the Infinite One or the impotent ones, or where one ends and the other begins. But to answer the question you didn’t ask, I’m an Israelite, and I’m proud of it. What an honor to be a Jew! And so I prays whenever I have the chance to slip myself in, unnoticed, unknown, just another graybeard under his shawl.

“But just now, you spoke well, my friend. We Jews are required to open the door to these sons of Rome whose faith has failed; these orphans of gods turned ugly and cruel; no-gods whose future is no-good works; these orphans who finally face the truth – their guardian gods are failing them. They looks in our window and peeks in our door and sees a people inspired with faith by a God of justice and a Lor of love. Bring these lost and childlike souls into our brit* and up to our Lor. We must open our doors now and bring on the world!”
* brit: covenant, community

I looks around this little place. For a moment it seemin’ like Eden to me. Together, Roman, Greek, and Jew without our sharp and poison words, without our jagged-edged thoughts, just sippin’ tea and quiet talk, a moment of peace in a tohu* world.
* tohu: from Genesis 1:2, formless, chaotic

Then he pulls out an epistle writ to Rome. “Read,” he says, and gives it to me. Long it were. I squinch my eyes.
“You want to hear my thoughts on it or you just testin’ your writing craft to see if you can snag some fruit, a gift to bring to your Jesus feast.”
A wince of a smile, but he just says, ‘Read.’

We walked a ways to a shop he knows, owned by a Greek diplomat. All neat and tidy, arranged on shelves, books and scrolls and artifacts he come across servin’ the throne. He lock the shop and we leave thru a door in the rear. Eden, a garden 8 steps square. Carob and fig trees, viburnum, and palm.

I reads his letter while the 2 of them chats. Heat a the day begun to pass by the time I’m done. His eyes leap when he see me lay the papyrus down.
“So will you join me on my way?”

“Saul, your say ain’t writ to me. I’m a man of law and works, a Jew like you, well circumcised. But you cast law and works to the wind. Me, I’ll blow in the wind with them.

“But I likes your preachin’, urgin’ Greece and Rome to throw their idols down and find our Lor. And then you go and swerve away into a patch of brambly thoughts on grace and sin and God will save – as if you know how God will judge – and then you turn it all upside down, exhortin’ us to know good and do good. That’s the law and that’s our works, plain as any eye can see. I’ll let your philosophic Greeks sort their way thru that thorny stuff.

“And then you end with noble advice, bright and gentle, wise and kind – how to make their community strong with trust and love and humbleness, and callin’ all the worlds to God. Isaiah would be proud of that.

“In sum, it ain’t a work of art, and all our words will soon be lost, but still it stands as fair advice. Send it. It might do some good.”

He turns to his friend like I’m just a fly.
“There it is as I’ve said before. The law is a curse, enslavin’ the mind. Egypt it is. I’m glad to be free.”

And they walks away into the house, me standin’ there like a stump of a tree.
“No one will ever believe that stuff. He’ll turn around,”
I thinks to myself, as I makes my way back into town.

Elmallah, Bouk 3, Image 5

About 2 weeks ago, on Nov. 29, I posted some preliminary images I was creating for the fifth image in my latest ebook now in production: The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming, Bouk 3. The image illustrates Dumuzee's servant betraying him to jackel-headed invaders. The two stanzas describing the scene can be found here:
http://shivvetee.blogspot.com/2014/11/more-images-for-song-ov-elmallah.html

At the time that I created the images in the previous post, working from Assyrian bas reliefs, I assumed I'd use the following image (in one form or another) for Dumuzee. It is a Sumerian bas relief of the god Enki. I had already begun working on it, as is obvious:

However, I then came across a remarkable wall carving from the Assyrian obelisk of Shalmaneser, showing King Jehu of Israel bowing to Shalmaneser. I decided to take some liberties with the Elmallah text (in the poem the servant is not described as bowing to the invaders), and use this detail from the obelisk for my servant. Here he is:

Merging the dogs into this image wasn't so easy, as the colors and backgrounds were not originally compatible. Hammer and chisel; chisel and hammer. I then chiseled in some cuneiform text (sure wish the soft clay hadn't hardened into limestone...), put on a little border of semi-precious stones, and here's how it turned out. Actually the original image is a png about 5mb and 2000x1200 pixels, but to post it here, I had to reduce it to a jpeg, 800x250, which still doesn't fit on this page. Click the image to view it:

The Eternal Jew, beginning of the Crusades

Here’s a new scene, my pen still smoking, for my poem The Atternen Juez Talen.

This post embodies a new modality for me. Usually I present the poetry in my standard voice, MetaEnglish (or more affectionately, stevetok). Then I present a standard English (“oel Eenglish”) version, also in verse. For the first time I am instead presenting 1) a prose version 2) in standard English 3) first, and then the MetaEnglish poetic version. The prose version is totally accessible, and perhaps it will inspire the intrepid among you to forge on into the MetaEnglish version.

Please realize, tho: MetaEnglish is like a higher dimensional view of reality. As with any reduction in dimensionality in a system, the gain in accessibility will come at the cost of 1) lost information, and more critically, 2) lost context/connections. What remains is, I hope, an amusing and historically viable tale.

Some background: This scene takes place at the beginning of the First Crusade, as armies are just amassing in Northern France and the western German states. Our hero, the Eternal Jew, has been ordered to accompany Godfrey of Bouillon as a translator. Bouillon himself has just joined forces with the infamous Count Emicho (a temporary alliance, as it turns out, and as such, not out of the realm of historical possibility).

As derived from Jeremy Cohen’s book Living Letters of the Law, a new and virulent form of anti-Semitism was arising in Europe about the same time that war with the Muslim world was beginning to percolate in Europe. Christian competition with Judaism had long taken the form of distortion and defamation, and when politically feasible, oppression, but now we see a hatred emerging that would lead to a millennium of ethnic cleansing and genocide.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oel Eenglish, proze verzhen:

When Emicho heard there was a Jew in the train, he shouted a line he repeated so much his men started to call him ‘Knees and Humps’:
    “No need of our humping a thousand miles to find and wipe out infidels. There’s plenty of Jews right here in our midst.”
Then he sent a sergeant to cut me down. (The word of his coming outstripped his feet; otherwise a different axis would have twisted this tale.)

Up swaggered a cutthroat, ax in his hand. The hair on his head and the bush of his face were dense and matted like a billy goat’s. With a foreign accent that I knew well, he threatened the cooks and the clean-up boys.
    “Where’s that little snipe of a Jew, that cowardly dog what hides in his house defyin’ the order of popes and kings, and refusin’ to convert to the true faith. Where’s that weak and ugly gimp, that seduces our girls and wives. Show me that womanly beggar of a guy who wastes all day just readin’ his books, those magic verses and devilish prayers to switch our gold into rotten beets while he fills his purse with the coin he steals. I’ll pluck his stony heart from his chest.”

Standing up on the cook’s cart waving a knife of my own, I said,
    “You’re talking ’bout two Jews. Which one you want?”

That put his little mind in a stir – a Jew talkin’ back with a knife in his hand. And what’s this talk of more than one Jew? He looked around to assay the turf  -- who would spin with him, and who would resist, and who was just edging into the bush. But no one was moving; just staring at him. Still more confused, his mouth agape, he sputtered like thief with a chicken in his hand.
    “Where?... two Jews?... anyone seen?... What are you starin’?... Emicho says...”

     “You’re talkin’ ‘bout two Jews, one is God and one is a devil. You wanna kill God? Or you wanna look in satan’s eyes and be swallowed up like a beaker of beer?”

    “What do you mean?? No Jew is God! And I weren’t talkin’ ‘bout two damn Jews. Just you! Come down so I can skin you alive.”

A snarl returned to his bushy face and he started toward my cart when a voice rang out,
    “Pedro, that one is a man of mine!”

Well, no one moved or said a word because Buyon (Godfrey of Bouillon) was sitting on his high horse just behind Pedro, watching this show like a circus event or a wrestling match, with an edge of danger, better to amuse.

    “Have you ever met a Jew before, Pedro? Let’s sit and talk with one.”
And there was Pedro, shock and fear overlaying his anger, his hate, his posture of courage, and his bullying soul, like he’d just been told by the pope himself to kneel and serve old Beelzebub.

Buyon called for a pitcher of wine.
    “Tell me, my Jew, and don’t mislead like your nature inclines, like your fathers all teach. Tell me, who is this other Jew hiding in our camp? Is he spying on us?

    ‘These men are as dense as a pile a stones,’ I thought. ‘And now they’re digging a trench to throw me in and pile on that stone.’

Said I,
    “No sire, you misheard. I said that Pedro here seems to  think that there’s two of me. And not just an everyday Jew am I, but an angel with powers dreamy and  vast, and a devil, ugly, and meaner than an asp. Think about what he’s saying. Bat-faced me, unshapely and course, but all your girls come running to me. Trembly me, hiding in my house, but I have no fear of the king or the law. And lazy me, who has never worked -- I just read and pray and your gold comes my way. Sire, none of these things is true. I’m a God-fearing man, honest and straight.”

    “Hear that Pedro! An honest man! The only Jew that ever was. And we two sitting in Eden’s midst, happy as babes at nurse’s teats. We see one thing, hear one thing, and he just turns it inside out. Poof! Our memories disappear. Magic, Pedro. And he’s my Jew. He’s a knotty man, Pedro. Beware of him.”
And one last guzzle. The wine dribbled down through his grizzled beard, and he up and went.

No tellin’ what that was all about, but Pedro, he looked at me with many blinks, then tripped on a stool as he ran away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stevetok version

Wen Ummukko* eerz thaerz a Ju in the traen
            * oel Eenglish: Emicho
He showtenz a line he repeet so much
Hiz menz start a kawl himz ‘Neez an Humps’:
    “No need a humpenz uv a thowzen mile
    “Tu fine an wip owt infaddelz.
    “Thaerz plennee a Juwerz niy heer in ar mist.”
Then he send uv a sarjen tu kut me down.
The werden iz kummen owtstrippen a feets
Or a differn axxez wil twis this tale.

Up swaggern a kutthroet, ax in iz han;
The haeren iz hed an a boush for a fase
Dens an matten like a billee goet.
With a forren aksen az I knowen wel
He thretten the kouks az the kleen-up boyz.
    “Waerz that littel snipen a Ju,
    “That kowwerlee dog wut hiedz a-hows
    “An defiyen the order uv papen az keeng,
    “An refyuze a kunvert tu the truwen faet*.
            * eka d’omray: faeth
    “Ware iz at weeken uglee gimp,
    “Him that sedusen ar gerlzen wive.
    “Sho me that woumennee beggennes giy
    “Hu waesten awl dayz a reed uv him bouks,
    “Them majjek verzen a devvellee praerz
    “Tu swich ar goel intu rotten beets,
    “Wile he fil him persenz with iz koynee steel.
    “Iel pluk iz stanee harts uv iz ches.”

Stannen up on the kouks kart
Waven a nive a my oenz, I sez,
    “Yur toks abbowt tu2 Juez. Wich iz yur wonts?”

That pout iz littel mien in a ster --
    A Ju tokken bak with a niven iz han.
    An wuts this tok uv mor an wun Ju?
Hiz louken arrownz tu assay the terf  --
Hu iz spin with him, an huze a rezis,
An huze jes ejjen intu the boush.
But no wun iz a muve; jes starenz at him.
Stil mor kunfyuze, iz mow a-gape,
He sputter like theef with a chikken han.
    “Waer?... tu2 Juez?... enneewun seen?...
    “Wutter yur starenz?... Ummukko sez...”

     “Yur tokkenz bowt tu2 Juez, wun az God
    “An wun iz a devvel. Yu won a kil God?
    “Or yu wont a louk in satenz iy
    “An be swawlo up like a beeker a beerz?”

    “Wut a yu meenz?? No Ju iz God!
    “An I wern tokkenz bowt tu2 dam Juez.
    “Jes yu! Kum down for I skinz yu allive.”

Az a snarrel retern tu iz boushee fase
An he start tu my kart wen a vois reengen owt,
    “Paydro, that wun iz a man uv mien!”

Wel, no wun muev or sez a werd
Kawz Buyon* sittenz on hiz hi hors
            *Godfrey of Bouillon
Jes behien Paydro, wochen this sho
Like a serkus evvent or a resseller mach,
With an ejjee daenjer, better tu ammyuze.

    “Hav yu evver meet a Juez befor,
    “Paydro? Lets sit an tok uv wun.”
An thaerz Paydro, awl shock an feer
Overlayen iz aengerren hate
An hiz poscherren kerrij an bulleyen seel,
Like heez jes bin toel by the pape himsel
Tu neel an serv oel Beelzebub.

Buyon kawlz for a picher a wine.
    “Tel me, my Ju, an doen misleed
    “Like yur naecher inklienz, like yur fotherz awl teech.
    “Tel me, hu iz this uther Ju
    “A-hid in ar kampen? A spiyen uv us?

    ‘Theze menz az densen a pile a stane,’
I theenks. ‘An now thay dig uv a trench
    ‘Tu thro me inz an pile that stane.’
Sez I, “No siyer, yur a mis-herd.
    “I am the say that Paydro heer
    “Seemenz a theenk thaerz tu2 a meez.
    “An not jes evverday Juez I am
    “But a aenjel with powwerz dreemee vas,
    “An a devvel, uglee, an meener an asp.
    “Theenks abbow wuts in hiz say.
    “Bat-fase me, unshaepee an kors,
    “But awl yur gerlenz kum a-runnenz tu me.
    “Trembellee me, a-hid in my hows,
    “But I hav no feeren a keeng or law.
    “An lazee me, hu nevver az werkt --
    “I jes reedenz a pray an yur goel kum my way.
    “Siyer, nun uv this theeng iz truez.
    “Iem a god-feeree man, onnes az straet.”

    “Heer that Paydro! An onnes man!
    “The onee Ju wut evver wuz.
    “An we tu2 sittenz in Adenz mist
    “Happlee az baebz at a nersen teets.
    “We see wun theengz, heer wun theengz,
    “An he jes ternz it insiedz owt.
    “Poof! Ar memmerz ar a dissappeer.
    “Majjeks, Paydro. An heez my Ju.”
    “Heez a nottee man, Paydro. Be waerz a him.”
An wun las guzzelz. The wine dribbel down
Thru iz grizzel beerd, an he up an goez.

No talen wut that wuz awl abbow,
But Paydro, he louk at me with mennee a bleenk,
Then trips on a stool az iz run awway.