The following link is, in my opinion, essential reading. It is a review of the book Memoirs: Hans Jonas. As discussed in the review, and as is obvious to any educated human, the twentieth century saw the dismantling of ethics from philosophy, art, literature, and science. And in the process Hitler killed his 11 million, Stalin his 20 million, Mao his 70 million. Genocide persists from Cambodia to Darfur. Yet the arts, philosophy, and science have blinked and turned away, saying ethics are relative; there is no God; this is not our topic.
The core idea of this review is that we can not, must not abdicate our commitment to establishing, and living out, a set of values and moral responsibilities that create dignity and respect for all human beings. And as far as I’m concerned, at least when it comes to art and literature, any other topic is an utter waste of time.
From Powell’s Books, Review-a-Day for Thu, Nov 6: Memoirs: Hans Jonas (Tauber Institute for the Study of European Jewry:
http://www.powells.com/review/2008_11_06.html?utm_source=overview&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=rss_overview&utm_content=Memoirs%3A%20Hans%20Jonas%20(Tauber%20Institute%20for%20the%20Study%20of%20European%20Jewry)&PID=18
The following is a juicy excerpt:
In his Memoirs, Jonas dismisses his early work on Gnosticism as a "journeyman's project," and prefers to stress the philosophical biology of his later years, but elsewhere in his work there is plenty of evidence for an intimate interrelation between the two. In "Gnosticism, Existentialism, and Nihilism," an essay that he published in 1952, Jonas suggested that the alienation of the ancient Gnostic from the created world was similar to that of the modern nihilist, with this difference: whereas the Gnostic creation had at least a negative transcendence, the modern one is completely indifferent, utterly wanting in the possibility of any and all transcendence, and therefore more terrifying. Already in the seventeenth century, with God not yet dead but increasingly non-interventionist in his creation, Pascal was getting scared: "Cast into the infinite immensity of spaces of which I am ignorant, and which know me not, I am frightened." But the terror of scientific modernity, entirely stripped of any teleological view of nature, is much worse. "That nature does not care, one way or the other, is the true abyss," Jonas declared. "That only man cares, in his finitude facing nothing but death, alone with his contingency and the objective meaninglessness of his projecting meanings, is a truly unprecedented situation."
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Time is Illusion
As Rovelli explains it, in quantum mechanics all particles of matter and energy can also be described as waves. And waves have an unusual property: An infinite number of them can exist in the same location. If time and space are one day shown to consist of quanta, the quanta could all exist piled together in a single dimensionless point. "Space and time in some sense melt in this picture," says Rovelli. "There is no space anymore. There are just quanta kind of living on top of one another without being immersed in a space."...
Einstein, for one, found solace in his revolutionary sense of time. In March 1955, when his lifelong friend Michele Besso died, he wrote a letter consoling Besso's family: "Now he has departed from this strange world a little ahead of me. That means nothing. People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion."
The rabbis concur in their biblical exegesis. "There is no past or future in Torah," they teach. Therefore they are not bound by the vector of time and its inherent causality. Thus Abraham is bound by the laws of Kashrut (keeping kosher) even tho those laws were received "historically" 400 or more years after Abraham died, and Jacob studied in a Yeshiva (a school of Jewish learning, especially Talmud) even tho Talmud was not compiled until about 500 CE, or about 2400 years after Jacob died! From a historian's point of view, this kind of exegesis sounds like mere foolishness. From the point of view of quantum mechanics, the rabbis were brilliantly prescient.
Einstein, for one, found solace in his revolutionary sense of time. In March 1955, when his lifelong friend Michele Besso died, he wrote a letter consoling Besso's family: "Now he has departed from this strange world a little ahead of me. That means nothing. People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion."
The rabbis concur in their biblical exegesis. "There is no past or future in Torah," they teach. Therefore they are not bound by the vector of time and its inherent causality. Thus Abraham is bound by the laws of Kashrut (keeping kosher) even tho those laws were received "historically" 400 or more years after Abraham died, and Jacob studied in a Yeshiva (a school of Jewish learning, especially Talmud) even tho Talmud was not compiled until about 500 CE, or about 2400 years after Jacob died! From a historian's point of view, this kind of exegesis sounds like mere foolishness. From the point of view of quantum mechanics, the rabbis were brilliantly prescient.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Spiritual phenomenology, 3
And finally this phenomenology, one I would call transmigrational. It is a complement to Things You Will Hear, which I posted here on Oct. 12, 2008.
Energies I Followed. Places I Became.
...Then I became two seagulls
Spiralling their sex dance,
In helices,
Three gulls becoming
Fighting for a clam,
And then the flock itself,
A body of many bodies.
I became the moon,
Not more than a crescent,
My face turned down
With tears in my eyes
Like Hamlet's Ophelia
Despair as I follow the sun.
Ribbons fallen from my hair
Into a hundred reflections in a bay,
A red haze along the horizon.
Became a grain of sand
Jostled by the onrush,
A grain of quartz
Abandoned on a sandbar,
A grain of mica
Beneath the froth and hiss.
Become the ripples of a wave
notes of a chord
In a larger wave
in a turbulent fugue
In a willless undulation
silently.
And rising from Ophelia
In an arc across Orion
I will become a great blue phoenix
Looking down on Ertha
As she whirls,
Hands thrown out!
Head thrown back!
In a dizzying spin of despair.
I will rise from her
And watch her drift into the waves.
Energies I Followed. Places I Became.
...Then I became two seagulls
Spiralling their sex dance,
In helices,
Three gulls becoming
Fighting for a clam,
And then the flock itself,
A body of many bodies.
I became the moon,
Not more than a crescent,
My face turned down
With tears in my eyes
Like Hamlet's Ophelia
Despair as I follow the sun.
Ribbons fallen from my hair
Into a hundred reflections in a bay,
A red haze along the horizon.
Became a grain of sand
Jostled by the onrush,
A grain of quartz
Abandoned on a sandbar,
A grain of mica
Beneath the froth and hiss.
Become the ripples of a wave
notes of a chord
In a larger wave
in a turbulent fugue
In a willless undulation
silently.
And rising from Ophelia
In an arc across Orion
I will become a great blue phoenix
Looking down on Ertha
As she whirls,
Hands thrown out!
Head thrown back!
In a dizzying spin of despair.
I will rise from her
And watch her drift into the waves.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Spiritual phenomenology, 2
This phenomenology describes a stepwise emotional transition, as it is experienced moving in opposite directions. I'm particularly fond of the symmetry.
Two Cuts of a Melody
The higher music creates order
But letting go to the lower music:
Lost in the Angers
And becoming angry.
Devoured by the Fears
And living in fear.
Absorbed into Noise
And reverbing noise.
Only following Orders!
The Higher Order creates music.
But only following music
And reverbing noise.
Absorbed by the Noise
And living in fear.
Lost in the Fears
And becoming angry.
Devoured by the Angers
And letting go to the lower orders.
Two Cuts of a Melody
The higher music creates order
But letting go to the lower music:
Lost in the Angers
And becoming angry.
Devoured by the Fears
And living in fear.
Absorbed into Noise
And reverbing noise.
Only following Orders!
The Higher Order creates music.
But only following music
And reverbing noise.
Absorbed by the Noise
And living in fear.
Lost in the Fears
And becoming angry.
Devoured by the Angers
And letting go to the lower orders.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Spiritual phenomenology
As I was editing my personal narratives this Yom Kippur, I thought of the various markers in my spiritual/religious journey. That path, looking back, seems rather like a direct line, a search that slowly, inevitably led to Judaism from a general or universal or nondescript spirituality. But, of course, it was not a direct line. Neither was it a product of any conscious pursuit, especially during the period of 1968 to 1989.
In 1968, as an 18 year old, I was a confirmed (devout?) atheist with a deep disdain for religion. However, I couldn’t avoid the incessant incursions of thoughts, impressions, and experiences that insisted there was a higher self or higher state of being “beyond.” Over time I acknowledged the reality of these experiences, not as aberrations or weaknesses or regressions in my “progress out of superstition,” but as insights at the horizon of my consciousness.
As I attempted to expand my consciousness, what was once on the horizon came nearer. Still, at the horizon a greater being/light continued to shine and draw me out. I have tried to name both the experience and the “thing” that I was experiencing. A Divine Imperative is one way of describing them both in a single term. The more personal term for the thing experienced is, of course, God.
I wanted to upload a particular one of those markers on my path, a poem entitled, “Hu Iz Like Yu?” What a crooked road we walk! As I was searching for it, I discovered in my archives three other poems.
Every poem is a marker, but unlike “Hu Is Like Yu?,” I do not think of these three as important turning points. Nonetheless, I was very glad to excavate them and bring them to bloglite. As you will see they are a very different kind of poem from the work I am now doing. I would call them spiritual phenomenologies. This first poem, below, and the next few that I intend to upload, date from the early 1980's.
Things You Will Hear
Above all, the ocean
Waves crashing and the low pitch,
Breakers,
Waves crashing
Moving up the scale
To the high hiss,
Foam.
You will hear it again
As the light breaks,
Crashing
And the high vibrato,
Radiance,
On your Etheric Body.
Waves?
A distant memory.
And yet again
Then the rhythmic scales
Will merge into a heartbeat.
Diastole. Systole.
Diastole. Systole.
The rhythmic scales
But you can't remember where,
The rumble and the hiss,
And all will be forgotten.
No, a vague recollection
Will come and go,
You cannot hold it,
Twilight,
Waves crashing
And you will continue
Changing bodies.
In 1968, as an 18 year old, I was a confirmed (devout?) atheist with a deep disdain for religion. However, I couldn’t avoid the incessant incursions of thoughts, impressions, and experiences that insisted there was a higher self or higher state of being “beyond.” Over time I acknowledged the reality of these experiences, not as aberrations or weaknesses or regressions in my “progress out of superstition,” but as insights at the horizon of my consciousness.
As I attempted to expand my consciousness, what was once on the horizon came nearer. Still, at the horizon a greater being/light continued to shine and draw me out. I have tried to name both the experience and the “thing” that I was experiencing. A Divine Imperative is one way of describing them both in a single term. The more personal term for the thing experienced is, of course, God.
I wanted to upload a particular one of those markers on my path, a poem entitled, “Hu Iz Like Yu?” What a crooked road we walk! As I was searching for it, I discovered in my archives three other poems.
Every poem is a marker, but unlike “Hu Is Like Yu?,” I do not think of these three as important turning points. Nonetheless, I was very glad to excavate them and bring them to bloglite. As you will see they are a very different kind of poem from the work I am now doing. I would call them spiritual phenomenologies. This first poem, below, and the next few that I intend to upload, date from the early 1980's.
Things You Will Hear
Above all, the ocean
Waves crashing and the low pitch,
Breakers,
Waves crashing
Moving up the scale
To the high hiss,
Foam.
You will hear it again
As the light breaks,
Crashing
And the high vibrato,
Radiance,
On your Etheric Body.
Waves?
A distant memory.
And yet again
Then the rhythmic scales
Will merge into a heartbeat.
Diastole. Systole.
Diastole. Systole.
The rhythmic scales
But you can't remember where,
The rumble and the hiss,
And all will be forgotten.
No, a vague recollection
Will come and go,
You cannot hold it,
Twilight,
Waves crashing
And you will continue
Changing bodies.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Consciousness and personal narratives
Phenomenological observations:
In the eleven hours of intense prayer/introspection of Yom Kippur, I found myself contemplating, and critiquing, the narrative (narratives) that I have constructed to give shape, identity, and meaning to my life. In other words, I was researching, editing and rewriting my past.
Everyone does this, altho it seems many or most people do it quite unconsciously. So let me amplify: Our personal (and public) narratives are not just a compendium of all our experiences. Our narratives are constructed with much effort, however unconsciously. We include and exclude events from the sum of our experiences. But the process is not merely a winnowing. We edit, revise, distort, deny, and create ex nihilo, our past as we manage our narratives.
This process is not just limited to people in therapy. It is a day to day part of every human life. Going on a diet, managing anger, engaging in a rant, building a relationship, unraveling a relationship, going to work, staying home from work. These all involve building and editing our personal and public narratives. Indeed, everything we do is grist for the mill of our narrative building. And to observe ourselves doing this is what we call phenomenology.
To say this differently, we not only think our thoughts and do what we do. We also watch ourselves thinking our thoughts and doing what we do. And, as we watch ourselves doing what we do, we edit what and how we remember it. Problem is, what we leave out is not simply gone. What we edit and distort does not simply replace what actually happened. What we create does not simply take its place in the narrative without trace.
Our minds are compendiums of all that we experience, of all that we perceive and all that we misperceive, and all that we distort. The more inaccurate, distorted, and imaginary our narratives, the more limited and burdened and blind we become. The more static and bounded our narrative, the more constrained and choked our lives become.
Thus the process of narrative-editing is an existential necessity, if we are to change, grow, and renew ourselves. We read about this in various holy texts. It is true. The blind can regain sight. The troubled and the burdened can become free (or, more accurately, freer).A moral imperative can emerge in a hedonistic or cynical or sociopathic life.
Need I mention that a significant rethinking of one’s narrative is rarely fast, easy, or pleasant?
Turning back to the phenomenological process itself, we come to realize that we have multiple threads of thought concurrently ongoing in our consciousness. These layers include the obvious intellectual, emotional, and sensory layers. But we also think on supra-rational and supra-sensual (extrasensory) layers, as well as instinctual and autonomic layers. And at the same time we have multiple layers of self-observation overseeing all these processes.
Jung and others have lumped much of this multi-tiered thinking into 2 categories, the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious. I am trying here to be more precise than that. Being more precise, we can shed light on these “unconscious” realms, and we can more carefully, accurately, and responsibly edit our personal narratives. And thus we might increase our mental and moral development, our sensitivity to and respect for earth and the life it contains, and our awareness of a partnership with the Divine to create a world of kindness.
In the eleven hours of intense prayer/introspection of Yom Kippur, I found myself contemplating, and critiquing, the narrative (narratives) that I have constructed to give shape, identity, and meaning to my life. In other words, I was researching, editing and rewriting my past.
Everyone does this, altho it seems many or most people do it quite unconsciously. So let me amplify: Our personal (and public) narratives are not just a compendium of all our experiences. Our narratives are constructed with much effort, however unconsciously. We include and exclude events from the sum of our experiences. But the process is not merely a winnowing. We edit, revise, distort, deny, and create ex nihilo, our past as we manage our narratives.
This process is not just limited to people in therapy. It is a day to day part of every human life. Going on a diet, managing anger, engaging in a rant, building a relationship, unraveling a relationship, going to work, staying home from work. These all involve building and editing our personal and public narratives. Indeed, everything we do is grist for the mill of our narrative building. And to observe ourselves doing this is what we call phenomenology.
To say this differently, we not only think our thoughts and do what we do. We also watch ourselves thinking our thoughts and doing what we do. And, as we watch ourselves doing what we do, we edit what and how we remember it. Problem is, what we leave out is not simply gone. What we edit and distort does not simply replace what actually happened. What we create does not simply take its place in the narrative without trace.
Our minds are compendiums of all that we experience, of all that we perceive and all that we misperceive, and all that we distort. The more inaccurate, distorted, and imaginary our narratives, the more limited and burdened and blind we become. The more static and bounded our narrative, the more constrained and choked our lives become.
Thus the process of narrative-editing is an existential necessity, if we are to change, grow, and renew ourselves. We read about this in various holy texts. It is true. The blind can regain sight. The troubled and the burdened can become free (or, more accurately, freer).A moral imperative can emerge in a hedonistic or cynical or sociopathic life.
Need I mention that a significant rethinking of one’s narrative is rarely fast, easy, or pleasant?
Turning back to the phenomenological process itself, we come to realize that we have multiple threads of thought concurrently ongoing in our consciousness. These layers include the obvious intellectual, emotional, and sensory layers. But we also think on supra-rational and supra-sensual (extrasensory) layers, as well as instinctual and autonomic layers. And at the same time we have multiple layers of self-observation overseeing all these processes.
Jung and others have lumped much of this multi-tiered thinking into 2 categories, the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious. I am trying here to be more precise than that. Being more precise, we can shed light on these “unconscious” realms, and we can more carefully, accurately, and responsibly edit our personal narratives. And thus we might increase our mental and moral development, our sensitivity to and respect for earth and the life it contains, and our awareness of a partnership with the Divine to create a world of kindness.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
A poem for Yom Kippur
This poem was 'given' to me on Shabbat Shuvah, Oct 7, 2000; in the Hebrew calendar, Tishray 8, 5760. ('Given,' which is to say, I was both the recipient and the one who, by taking action, recovered what was else still waiting to be heard/experienced.) It is a poem appropriate to the Days of Awe, the 10 days that include the Jewish New Year and Day of Atonement. Indeed, today, October 4, 2008, is also Shabbat Shuva. At the end of the poem, you can find a glossary of the Hebrew, and otherwise obscure, terms.
Riten and Seelenz in the Bouk
Owwer Parent, owwer Ruler
Yu hav rememberd Yur chieldz.
El Shaddiy, Uddoniy,
Yu ar bownd and we ar bienden.
On Roesh HaShunna it iz ritten.
On Yoem Keepor it iz seeld.
Avvenu, Malkanu,
Yu ar the Juj.
Owwer Parent, owwer Powwer,
Yu ar the hope.
On November 9, 1938
Yur day ov jujjen began.
On 5 Eyar, 5708
Yur 10 day ov wayingz ended
And we wer seeld for a yeer tu make life.
On November 9, 1938
We began tu kry owt
Asking a forgiv.
Forgiv Avvenu, forgive Malkanu
For we hav bowd down tu owwer thots, owwer idelz.
hen Babballon roze and began tu punnish.
Mersee El Shaddiy, mersee HaMakkoem,
For we dessenden tu baesless haetred,
Az enliten Jewz abbuezd the piyus
Hu held owwer senter ov tradditten;
And observen Jews kurst at thoze
Hu sot tu restor ower Proffettek Speer.
Then Rome reerd up and a sekkend punnish men.
Kompashen Father, kompashen muther,
For we hav ternd awway frum Yur Proffets and Vizhenz,
Frum Hertzel hu fortoeld ov owwer redeemen,
Hume the piyus kondammd,
And enliten men abbuezd,
But thay hu lissend, thay bekum holee.
Yu jujjd Avvenu, Yu jujjd Malkanu,
And all owwer praer,
And all owwer lerningz,
And all owwer deedz
Ternd bak a werld destrukten!
Oenlee on Yur skaelz, oh God, owwer God!
Oenlee on Yur skaelz
Du praerz and lerning and kiendness hav wate.
On 5 Eyar, 5708 Yu seeld the Bouk
That Yur Proffets and Yur Preesthoud woud liv.
Avvenu, Malkanu,
Hu nercherz and sustaenz,
On November 9, 1938
Yu began tu juj the nashenz ov the werld.
Thay hu kryd owt:
We ar the streng!
We ar the godz!
We ar the jujjez ov the werl!
El Shaddiy, Elloheem
On 5 Eyar, 5708
Wut nashenz did yu seel with deth?
***********************
Glossary:
1. El Shaddiy: a name of God, implying the nurturing aspect.
2. Uddoniy: another name of God, implying mercy and universality. "Uddoniy" (usually spelled "Adonai") means "The Master" and as a spoken/read word, has no relationship to the 4 Hebrew letters on the page - Yud Hay Vav Hay. This separation of the written and spoken Name acknowledges that God's true Name is too holy to literally pronounce.
3. Yoem Keepor: accent on last syllable (KeePOR).
4. Avvenu: Hebrew for "our father."
5. Malkanu: Hebrew for "our king."
6. Avvenu Malkanu: this phrase is repeated in supplication numerous times on Yom Kippur.
7. November 9, 1938: the night of Kristallnacht, a state-orchestrated pogrom in Germany, often thought of as the beginning of the Shoah, the Holocaust.
8. 5 Eyar, 5708: the date in the Jewish calendar when Israel declared itself as a nation; May 14, 1948.
Riten and Seelenz in the Bouk
Owwer Parent, owwer Ruler
Yu hav rememberd Yur chieldz.
El Shaddiy, Uddoniy,
Yu ar bownd and we ar bienden.
On Roesh HaShunna it iz ritten.
On Yoem Keepor it iz seeld.
Avvenu, Malkanu,
Yu ar the Juj.
Owwer Parent, owwer Powwer,
Yu ar the hope.
On November 9, 1938
Yur day ov jujjen began.
On 5 Eyar, 5708
Yur 10 day ov wayingz ended
And we wer seeld for a yeer tu make life.
On November 9, 1938
We began tu kry owt
Asking a forgiv.
Forgiv Avvenu, forgive Malkanu
For we hav bowd down tu owwer thots, owwer idelz.
hen Babballon roze and began tu punnish.
Mersee El Shaddiy, mersee HaMakkoem,
For we dessenden tu baesless haetred,
Az enliten Jewz abbuezd the piyus
Hu held owwer senter ov tradditten;
And observen Jews kurst at thoze
Hu sot tu restor ower Proffettek Speer.
Then Rome reerd up and a sekkend punnish men.
Kompashen Father, kompashen muther,
For we hav ternd awway frum Yur Proffets and Vizhenz,
Frum Hertzel hu fortoeld ov owwer redeemen,
Hume the piyus kondammd,
And enliten men abbuezd,
But thay hu lissend, thay bekum holee.
Yu jujjd Avvenu, Yu jujjd Malkanu,
And all owwer praer,
And all owwer lerningz,
And all owwer deedz
Ternd bak a werld destrukten!
Oenlee on Yur skaelz, oh God, owwer God!
Oenlee on Yur skaelz
Du praerz and lerning and kiendness hav wate.
On 5 Eyar, 5708 Yu seeld the Bouk
That Yur Proffets and Yur Preesthoud woud liv.
Avvenu, Malkanu,
Hu nercherz and sustaenz,
On November 9, 1938
Yu began tu juj the nashenz ov the werld.
Thay hu kryd owt:
We ar the streng!
We ar the godz!
We ar the jujjez ov the werl!
El Shaddiy, Elloheem
On 5 Eyar, 5708
Wut nashenz did yu seel with deth?
***********************
Glossary:
1. El Shaddiy: a name of God, implying the nurturing aspect.
2. Uddoniy: another name of God, implying mercy and universality. "Uddoniy" (usually spelled "Adonai") means "The Master" and as a spoken/read word, has no relationship to the 4 Hebrew letters on the page - Yud Hay Vav Hay. This separation of the written and spoken Name acknowledges that God's true Name is too holy to literally pronounce.
3. Yoem Keepor: accent on last syllable (KeePOR).
4. Avvenu: Hebrew for "our father."
5. Malkanu: Hebrew for "our king."
6. Avvenu Malkanu: this phrase is repeated in supplication numerous times on Yom Kippur.
7. November 9, 1938: the night of Kristallnacht, a state-orchestrated pogrom in Germany, often thought of as the beginning of the Shoah, the Holocaust.
8. 5 Eyar, 5708: the date in the Jewish calendar when Israel declared itself as a nation; May 14, 1948.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
More on incantational poetry
The incantational form from Bouk 3 of The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming, appears again in Bouk 5, The Fawl ov Helloweez.
Livving in Multapul Moments
O, I hav bin a messijjer;
I travveld varee far.
O, I hav bin a messijjer;
My home beyond the star.
Sing yur mornfull plaents
Oh Aenjelz in the star ringz.
Let yur kurrij waver
Oh yu advokats still in hevven.
Chant yur plodding dirjez
Oh ellemmentel sperets.
I had 5 dimmenshenz, I had 1000 vertasseez.
Oh mennee-boddeed Aenjelz, despaer for me.
The messij wuz my purpos;
The Lor gave the kommand.
Kompelld, I went tu Ertha;
Her Life wuz in my hand.
Sing yur mornfull plaents
For me hu krosst the border.
Let awl yu kno be douted
Oh yu hu sing the werlz.
Sing yur dreeree dirjez
Till yur werdz tern intu dust.
I had a vizhen and 1000 sensez.
Oh Moment ov Bliss, sing owt tu me.
Livving in Multapul Moments
O, I hav bin a messijjer;
I travveld varee far.
O, I hav bin a messijjer;
My home beyond the star.
Sing yur mornfull plaents
Oh Aenjelz in the star ringz.
Let yur kurrij waver
Oh yu advokats still in hevven.
Chant yur plodding dirjez
Oh ellemmentel sperets.
I had 5 dimmenshenz, I had 1000 vertasseez.
Oh mennee-boddeed Aenjelz, despaer for me.
The messij wuz my purpos;
The Lor gave the kommand.
Kompelld, I went tu Ertha;
Her Life wuz in my hand.
Sing yur mornfull plaents
For me hu krosst the border.
Let awl yu kno be douted
Oh yu hu sing the werlz.
Sing yur dreeree dirjez
Till yur werdz tern intu dust.
I had a vizhen and 1000 sensez.
Oh Moment ov Bliss, sing owt tu me.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Concerning "Bred" from 9/6/08
On Sept. 6, 2008 I uploaded the poem Bred, from Bouk 6 of The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming. The following poem shows the origins of Bred’s incantatory rhythms.
The poem below, from Bouk 3, Fragmenz ov the Innonna Sikel, attempts to reconstruct the incantational forms found in the Sumerian myth known from the Nin-me-sar-ra text (which I discovered by accident in the University Museum library of the University of Pennsylvania, around 1975). This is one of the earliest examples we have of Sumerian myth. My poem, Fragmenz ovthe Innonna Sikel, does not attempt to rewrite the existing translation. Rather, I use the old text to guide and inspire a new one, one that sounds ancient and recounts ancient themes, but yet is directly connected to our time too.
I. Dumuzeez Derj
O I hav bin a shepperd.
"I fed my floks well.
"O I hav bin the sheep herd.
"My floks ar fat.
"Lamment for me, hu kareed the staff!
"Let yur kole be smeerd
"O muther hu baekt my bred.
"Lamment for me, hu kareed the loevz.
"I had 5 loevz; I had 10 loevz.
"O feeldz, o kannalz, lamment for me!
"Lamment for me hu drove the floks!
"Let yur handz trembel
"O fother hu stoeks the fiyer.
"Lamment for me hu held the seekrets.
"I had 5 forjez. I had 10 forjez.
"O pallassez, o tempelz, lamment for me!
"I broke wun lofe
"And sed the praerz.
"I bilt the doemd and mud brik forjez.
"I broke anuther
"With inkantatenz
"And reveeld the seekrets tu swetting formen.
"But now my uvvenz ar broken koeld,
"And the sordz and plowshaerz ar remoovd frum me!
"Hu iz this hu haz brot such evel?
"Hu iz this that maeks the land lamment?
"Hu iz this that haz broken my idelz
"And layz a sord tu the throet ov my chieldz?
"This iz the werk ov goedless soljerz!
"Theze ar the deedz ov areyanz!
The poem below, from Bouk 3, Fragmenz ov the Innonna Sikel, attempts to reconstruct the incantational forms found in the Sumerian myth known from the Nin-me-sar-ra text (which I discovered by accident in the University Museum library of the University of Pennsylvania, around 1975). This is one of the earliest examples we have of Sumerian myth. My poem, Fragmenz ovthe Innonna Sikel, does not attempt to rewrite the existing translation. Rather, I use the old text to guide and inspire a new one, one that sounds ancient and recounts ancient themes, but yet is directly connected to our time too.
I. Dumuzeez Derj
O I hav bin a shepperd.
"I fed my floks well.
"O I hav bin the sheep herd.
"My floks ar fat.
"Lamment for me, hu kareed the staff!
"Let yur kole be smeerd
"O muther hu baekt my bred.
"Lamment for me, hu kareed the loevz.
"I had 5 loevz; I had 10 loevz.
"O feeldz, o kannalz, lamment for me!
"Lamment for me hu drove the floks!
"Let yur handz trembel
"O fother hu stoeks the fiyer.
"Lamment for me hu held the seekrets.
"I had 5 forjez. I had 10 forjez.
"O pallassez, o tempelz, lamment for me!
"I broke wun lofe
"And sed the praerz.
"I bilt the doemd and mud brik forjez.
"I broke anuther
"With inkantatenz
"And reveeld the seekrets tu swetting formen.
"But now my uvvenz ar broken koeld,
"And the sordz and plowshaerz ar remoovd frum me!
"Hu iz this hu haz brot such evel?
"Hu iz this that maeks the land lamment?
"Hu iz this that haz broken my idelz
"And layz a sord tu the throet ov my chieldz?
"This iz the werk ov goedless soljerz!
"Theze ar the deedz ov areyanz!
Sunday, September 07, 2008
A poem written 2 weeks before 9/11
Ammung the Hillz ov Yisroyel
Thare wuz a Vinyerd.
Its frute wuz sweet.
The vintner gladlee trampeld the grape,
The seed and jusez oozd between toez.
This wuz a vine a mennee blessing.
Thare still iz a Vinyerd.
Small and sellekt it iz.
The breth uppon the slope,
The taest ov the erth and its mennee plowwing
Made chois the frute and the seed.
Thare iz a Vinyerd.
For Hem hu tend it,
Wun and the awl, a hole werld it iz.
And the kulchering ov its frute
Intu its perfektenz
Iz the wun and the all ov Hem.
Not so, how evver
For the suttel serpents,
For the klevver dog-hedz,
For the serlee kat-men,
For the hungree rats and thaer kohorts.
For them, thare iz a vinyerd
Ripe tu pluk, rich tu plunder.
A vinyerd tu konker,
And howl and skweel, "See!
"I am the superseeden!"
Thare iz a vinyerd.
A seed planten thare in haetred
Will gro and sustaen itself.
Its frute iz haetred
And awl its seed ar strivenz
For the longer vine and bitter fruets.
Thare iz a vinyerd.
A seed planter ov aenger
Will produse a frute ov aenger,
Will produse a root an aenger,
Jenneraten ov aenger, ferro after ferro.
Thare iz a Vinyerd.
Tu the annammel-hedded wunz
The frute ov this,
And the frute ov that louk the same.
Wen thay drunken, it taesten the same.
But Hem Hu overseez
Iz choozen Hem frute with kare,
Not the bitter and not the rotten.
This wun iz kalld, the express ov blessing,
And that wun tu wither, the expressen a kers.
Thare wuz a Vinyerd.
Its frute wuz sweet.
The vintner gladlee trampeld the grape,
The seed and jusez oozd between toez.
This wuz a vine a mennee blessing.
Thare still iz a Vinyerd.
Small and sellekt it iz.
The breth uppon the slope,
The taest ov the erth and its mennee plowwing
Made chois the frute and the seed.
Thare iz a Vinyerd.
For Hem hu tend it,
Wun and the awl, a hole werld it iz.
And the kulchering ov its frute
Intu its perfektenz
Iz the wun and the all ov Hem.
Not so, how evver
For the suttel serpents,
For the klevver dog-hedz,
For the serlee kat-men,
For the hungree rats and thaer kohorts.
For them, thare iz a vinyerd
Ripe tu pluk, rich tu plunder.
A vinyerd tu konker,
And howl and skweel, "See!
"I am the superseeden!"
Thare iz a vinyerd.
A seed planten thare in haetred
Will gro and sustaen itself.
Its frute iz haetred
And awl its seed ar strivenz
For the longer vine and bitter fruets.
Thare iz a vinyerd.
A seed planter ov aenger
Will produse a frute ov aenger,
Will produse a root an aenger,
Jenneraten ov aenger, ferro after ferro.
Thare iz a Vinyerd.
Tu the annammel-hedded wunz
The frute ov this,
And the frute ov that louk the same.
Wen thay drunken, it taesten the same.
But Hem Hu overseez
Iz choozen Hem frute with kare,
Not the bitter and not the rotten.
This wun iz kalld, the express ov blessing,
And that wun tu wither, the expressen a kers.
Gottverdammerung, 4
We have now entered the main narrative of Bouk 6 of The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming: in which I explore the experiences of a Jewish woman during the Shoah. But remember, the poem, in its imagery and poetic forms harks back to prior books in this long narrative poem. In the poem below I re-use a poetic form I developed in Bouk 3, Fragmenz ov the Innonna Sikel, to emulate the rhythms in the Sumerian myth of Dumuzi and Innonna.
Bred
I had wun lofe.
I gave it tu the Baker.
My braded lofe,
He bernt tu kole.
I loukt in hiz ovven.
I see 100 loevz.
The flaemz lept owt,
And evree loef wuz bernd.
I had wun sun.
I touk him tu a villij.
I left and retern
The villij iz in flaemz.
I had 100 frendz
With sunz in that villij.
The flaemz a riething.
Eech chield in a flame.
I nawd a krust.
It tasten like ashez.
I touk it tu the Baker.
Hiz hart wuz smoke.
I nawd at my hart
In this villij ov ashez.
I kryd owt tu the Maker.
In praerz, in smoke.
Bred
I had wun lofe.
I gave it tu the Baker.
My braded lofe,
He bernt tu kole.
I loukt in hiz ovven.
I see 100 loevz.
The flaemz lept owt,
And evree loef wuz bernd.
I had wun sun.
I touk him tu a villij.
I left and retern
The villij iz in flaemz.
I had 100 frendz
With sunz in that villij.
The flaemz a riething.
Eech chield in a flame.
I nawd a krust.
It tasten like ashez.
I touk it tu the Baker.
Hiz hart wuz smoke.
I nawd at my hart
In this villij ov ashez.
I kryd owt tu the Maker.
In praerz, in smoke.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Midwife Crisis, 1b
1. Opening the Door and Peeking In
continuing from August 18, 2008...
After a year of living at ocean's edge, I found myself in a state of enlightenment. Yup. So I decided I could handle anything, and I went off to travel around the world for a year, which turned out to be eight months. I spent the majority of that time in India, where I thought that as soon as I crossed the border, people would run up to me and read my soul and tell me my future. That trip was so intense and mind blowing, it was like tripping on acid 24/7 for 8 months. I got back to the US and couldn't stop laughing for six weeks. Literally. The US was so easy, so beautiful, so clean, so healthy, so politically and economically put together. I think about that every day. It helps me keep my perspective.
I remember stopping in a sprawling village of disintegrating mud brick hovels built into the waste hills and cliffs of the Khyber Pass. It was illegal, and very dangerous even then, to stop in the Pass, but we did anyway. I was hungry and looking for some bread, but the only things for sale in that whole village were opium and bullets. You think we're going to fix Afghanistan and Waziristan? Forget it. I've even abandoned my belief that we should be there.
I remember an old woman on the road in Afghanistan, all dressed in black rags. Her mouth was a withered and toothless hole. I have never seen anyone look so ancient, haggard, mythic. There was a baby tied to her back, wailing and howling. The two were a unit, some kind of spirit, not human or even animal. She was picking dried weeds out of the parched mud crags and stuffing them in her mouth.
I remember a man in Southeast India, plowing a field. I was riding a slow train north to the holy city of Puri (which, it turned out, was packed with starving beggars), coming from Pondicherry, the leper capital of the world, best as I could tell. Pondicherry! Its colonialist-built streets were full of amazingly ancient-looking, 18th century French architecture. Thousands of lepers roamed those masterfully designed streets, with open sores that oozed pus, missing fingers, stumps for hands and feet, disfigured faces without noses and ears. Or they were lying among the intricately carved stone facades, begging or not even trying to beg. I was on a slow train out of there (and I'm still on that train). It was then that I saw a man plowing a field with a single ox and a heavy wooden stick for a plow. The field was flooded. The slurry of mud was gray against a steely sky. The man and the ox were slogging up to their waists in the mud, plowing sludge, slipping, falling, re-emerging from the earth like some chthonic clay beasts emerging from a haunted corner of Middle Earth in Tolkien's imagination.
I couldn't stop laughing when I got back to the US. Oh, how I found I loved this country, yes, the one I once thought was so horrible and depraved! It is horrible and depraved, but only when you have nothing to compare it to.
And not so long after, I met a woman and married her. To quote my buddy Rimbaud, "Long ago, if memory serves, life was a banquet where all hearts were generous, and all wines flowed. One evening I sat beauty down on my knees. I found her bitter and it stabbed me deeply. I lost faith in justice and ran away."
That too was in the late 70's. And I'm still running.
So now the teenagers that surround me see me as an old man. But I don't feel old. And I am at that age where I should have settled my differences and found a straight path. "Oh witches, plowmen, opium dealers, I confer my treasures to you!"
Rimbaud could have said that last line, too. But he didn't live long enough.
continuing from August 18, 2008...
After a year of living at ocean's edge, I found myself in a state of enlightenment. Yup. So I decided I could handle anything, and I went off to travel around the world for a year, which turned out to be eight months. I spent the majority of that time in India, where I thought that as soon as I crossed the border, people would run up to me and read my soul and tell me my future. That trip was so intense and mind blowing, it was like tripping on acid 24/7 for 8 months. I got back to the US and couldn't stop laughing for six weeks. Literally. The US was so easy, so beautiful, so clean, so healthy, so politically and economically put together. I think about that every day. It helps me keep my perspective.
I remember stopping in a sprawling village of disintegrating mud brick hovels built into the waste hills and cliffs of the Khyber Pass. It was illegal, and very dangerous even then, to stop in the Pass, but we did anyway. I was hungry and looking for some bread, but the only things for sale in that whole village were opium and bullets. You think we're going to fix Afghanistan and Waziristan? Forget it. I've even abandoned my belief that we should be there.
I remember an old woman on the road in Afghanistan, all dressed in black rags. Her mouth was a withered and toothless hole. I have never seen anyone look so ancient, haggard, mythic. There was a baby tied to her back, wailing and howling. The two were a unit, some kind of spirit, not human or even animal. She was picking dried weeds out of the parched mud crags and stuffing them in her mouth.
I remember a man in Southeast India, plowing a field. I was riding a slow train north to the holy city of Puri (which, it turned out, was packed with starving beggars), coming from Pondicherry, the leper capital of the world, best as I could tell. Pondicherry! Its colonialist-built streets were full of amazingly ancient-looking, 18th century French architecture. Thousands of lepers roamed those masterfully designed streets, with open sores that oozed pus, missing fingers, stumps for hands and feet, disfigured faces without noses and ears. Or they were lying among the intricately carved stone facades, begging or not even trying to beg. I was on a slow train out of there (and I'm still on that train). It was then that I saw a man plowing a field with a single ox and a heavy wooden stick for a plow. The field was flooded. The slurry of mud was gray against a steely sky. The man and the ox were slogging up to their waists in the mud, plowing sludge, slipping, falling, re-emerging from the earth like some chthonic clay beasts emerging from a haunted corner of Middle Earth in Tolkien's imagination.
I couldn't stop laughing when I got back to the US. Oh, how I found I loved this country, yes, the one I once thought was so horrible and depraved! It is horrible and depraved, but only when you have nothing to compare it to.
And not so long after, I met a woman and married her. To quote my buddy Rimbaud, "Long ago, if memory serves, life was a banquet where all hearts were generous, and all wines flowed. One evening I sat beauty down on my knees. I found her bitter and it stabbed me deeply. I lost faith in justice and ran away."
That too was in the late 70's. And I'm still running.
So now the teenagers that surround me see me as an old man. But I don't feel old. And I am at that age where I should have settled my differences and found a straight path. "Oh witches, plowmen, opium dealers, I confer my treasures to you!"
Rimbaud could have said that last line, too. But he didn't live long enough.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Midwife Crisis, 1a
Greg Barker, my fellow seeker thru mountain, forest, and cesspool, came up with a great idea for a book: The Midlife Crisis Manual: What Chicken Soup for the Soul Never Told You. I just call it the midwife crisis manual. Prose! It’s sure a different adventure from poetry. I’ll be posting some excerpts, for your enjoyment and critique.
1. Opening the Door and Peeking In
Allow me a little retrospective, to open this conversation.
I was born in medieval times, and came of age during the Renaissance. That is to say, I was born in 1950. That means I went to university in 1968, when free love, psychedelics, the Vietnam War, and radical counter-cultural behaviors were the yokes we bore, whether we thought them yokes or not. Great times!
Alas, I was heavily yoked, pulling a plow through a concrete earth with a few equally burdened roommates. Yet we lived in a world in which we imagined most everyone else to be carefree.
The War was obviously a yoke, no matter where and which way you plowed. I chose to resist the draft, amidst a veritable blizzard of news excerpts, troubled dreams, and nightmares. I experienced post-traumatic stress syndrome without ever going into combat! When I saw Apocalypse Now for the first time in the late 70's I was blown out of my seat. It was like Coppola had sent a camera crew inside my head and filmed my dreams. I’ve seen it 20 or 30 times since, and it’s still my all-time favorite flick.
But no way do I regret my decision to resist the war. I wanted to blow off my big toe – that would have given me a legitimate and permanent deferment. Not to mention a lifelong limp. But I didn’t own a shotgun, and anyway, I wasn’t that crazy. I chose, instead, to get under-weight. I went on a wicked four month diet, and ended it by eating nothing more than a quarter pound of cottage cheese a day for 17 days, right up to my physical. I became best friends with hunger. I hated him and slugged it out with him and loved him. We’re still on confidential terms. When I got off the scales at the induction center, the grunt that weighed me sneered, “You can start eating again, fucker.”
I could write a novel about those 17 days! But I don’t write novels. Anyway, about six months later, living like a hermit in a cottage by the ocean, I realized I could finally stop hating my body, and allow myself to enjoy food again. I was wearing yokes I didn’t even know about. Welcome to reality.
As for taking drugs and believing in politics that required no reality-checks, someplace else I might talk about those matters. They were a worthy yoke. I learned to live with the political flagellations my friends (and ex-friends) administered. Shoot, I learned to flagellate myself more than they did, trying to figure things out. Now, that’s something to remember: learn more! As my mentor shouted at me nearly every day, “He not busy being born is busy dying.”
to be continued...
1. Opening the Door and Peeking In
Allow me a little retrospective, to open this conversation.
I was born in medieval times, and came of age during the Renaissance. That is to say, I was born in 1950. That means I went to university in 1968, when free love, psychedelics, the Vietnam War, and radical counter-cultural behaviors were the yokes we bore, whether we thought them yokes or not. Great times!
Alas, I was heavily yoked, pulling a plow through a concrete earth with a few equally burdened roommates. Yet we lived in a world in which we imagined most everyone else to be carefree.
The War was obviously a yoke, no matter where and which way you plowed. I chose to resist the draft, amidst a veritable blizzard of news excerpts, troubled dreams, and nightmares. I experienced post-traumatic stress syndrome without ever going into combat! When I saw Apocalypse Now for the first time in the late 70's I was blown out of my seat. It was like Coppola had sent a camera crew inside my head and filmed my dreams. I’ve seen it 20 or 30 times since, and it’s still my all-time favorite flick.
But no way do I regret my decision to resist the war. I wanted to blow off my big toe – that would have given me a legitimate and permanent deferment. Not to mention a lifelong limp. But I didn’t own a shotgun, and anyway, I wasn’t that crazy. I chose, instead, to get under-weight. I went on a wicked four month diet, and ended it by eating nothing more than a quarter pound of cottage cheese a day for 17 days, right up to my physical. I became best friends with hunger. I hated him and slugged it out with him and loved him. We’re still on confidential terms. When I got off the scales at the induction center, the grunt that weighed me sneered, “You can start eating again, fucker.”
I could write a novel about those 17 days! But I don’t write novels. Anyway, about six months later, living like a hermit in a cottage by the ocean, I realized I could finally stop hating my body, and allow myself to enjoy food again. I was wearing yokes I didn’t even know about. Welcome to reality.
As for taking drugs and believing in politics that required no reality-checks, someplace else I might talk about those matters. They were a worthy yoke. I learned to live with the political flagellations my friends (and ex-friends) administered. Shoot, I learned to flagellate myself more than they did, trying to figure things out. Now, that’s something to remember: learn more! As my mentor shouted at me nearly every day, “He not busy being born is busy dying.”
to be continued...
Friday, August 15, 2008
Contra Eliot and Pound
In responding to my poem, Europa, Europa, posted on 7/24/08, Chris Godfree Morrell writes:
I have a feeling this is a bit like prodding a hornet's nest, but what exactly do you think that Eliot and Pound 'did'?
Thanks for asking, Chris! I’ll try not to let the teapot boil over. (smile)
My objections to these two fellows emerged over time, and came about through a careful reading of their voices. I encapsulate that understanding in my poem, with the lines:
Their little bigots, they call them prophets,
Whose manifesto reads, "You are the hollow men."
I express three important concepts in those two lines. The first is that Pound and Eliot are often described as the greatest writers of the 20th century. Indeed, many critics have called them prophets. Obviously, I reject that, for two reasons. The first is that both men were vicious and outspoken bigots. This is not so obvious in their writings, so let me defer that discussion for a moment. Rather, let me begin with the voice, the perspective of the writer who wrote Prufrock, The Wasteland, Hollow Men.
The literalist reader might claim that Eliot writes in such a way as to include himself among the empty and inept human beings he has chosen to describe. Eliot, in point of fact, does not write, “YOU are the hollow men.” He writes, “WE are the hollow men.” But these scathing poems have nothing of the hesitance, insecurity, self-doubt, and timidity of the characters they describe. In them, Eliot writes with unrestrained contempt and disdain. He accuses and points his finger at the people around him, little people in his eyes. He says “we,” but he means “you.” YOU are hollow; YOU are Prufrock; YOU live in a wasteland and YOU are not worthy of anything better. Eliot writes with the voice of a feudal master, overseeing his ignorant peasants and his simpering, sniveling servants.
These poems express an arrogance and contempt for humanity that offend me to the core of my being. Does the author suggest any new and better path for his characters? Does he offer a means for redemption? Does he at least show some empathy for the weakness and limits of these little people that are so far beneath him? Not a word.
Given this master-slave mentality in the poems, it is not so hard to read between the lines and see what Eliot’s letters and private correspondence confirm: he is a racialist bigot. Eliot privately, and Pound openly were nazi sympathizers and fascist supporters. And both were vicious anti-Semites.
Yet, somehow, the reading public has allowed itself to ignore these facts. It is as if in some alternate reality, Hitler and Goebbels were talented painters, skilled at representing the imagined deformity of those they hated, as well as being leaders of the nazi party. And in this alternate reality, the anti-nazi public, nonetheless, raved about how wonderful Hitler’s and Goebbels’ paintings were. Impossible? Outrageous? Yet we see it with Eliot and Pound: racialist bigots who paint deformed human beings, and who, nonetheless, are accorded the highest honors in society.
So, Chris, you ask, “what have these men done?” They have slandered humanity. They have cursed their societies. And worst of all, they have misled a reading public into assuming the contempt-filled vision expressed by these two authors. The public, too, reads “YOU are the hollow men,” and sneers at the incompetent and unredeemable Prufrocks around them. Sneers, and doesn’t think to lift a hand to help.
Therefore, I say Eliot's and Pound's writing offends me. However, I am even more offended by their moral corruption as human beings. And being thus doubly offended, should I not speak out against them?
And finally, this postscript. You bigots! Don’t imagine you can hide your bigotry beneath the surface of your writing, or somehow cleanse your writing from the stain and stench of hatred and intolerance. Emotions create the foundation and shape of our thoughts. Emotions determine what we look at and how we value things. A bigot’s writing will be deformed by that bigotry. And just as their writing will be deformed and made ugly by hatred, so everything about them will be deformed and made ugly. The struggle against intolerance and hatred is a perpetual battle waged by every single person. Those who make headway in this battle become more beautiful and heroic; those who succumb become more ugly and more vile.
I have a feeling this is a bit like prodding a hornet's nest, but what exactly do you think that Eliot and Pound 'did'?
Thanks for asking, Chris! I’ll try not to let the teapot boil over. (smile)
My objections to these two fellows emerged over time, and came about through a careful reading of their voices. I encapsulate that understanding in my poem, with the lines:
Their little bigots, they call them prophets,
Whose manifesto reads, "You are the hollow men."
I express three important concepts in those two lines. The first is that Pound and Eliot are often described as the greatest writers of the 20th century. Indeed, many critics have called them prophets. Obviously, I reject that, for two reasons. The first is that both men were vicious and outspoken bigots. This is not so obvious in their writings, so let me defer that discussion for a moment. Rather, let me begin with the voice, the perspective of the writer who wrote Prufrock, The Wasteland, Hollow Men.
The literalist reader might claim that Eliot writes in such a way as to include himself among the empty and inept human beings he has chosen to describe. Eliot, in point of fact, does not write, “YOU are the hollow men.” He writes, “WE are the hollow men.” But these scathing poems have nothing of the hesitance, insecurity, self-doubt, and timidity of the characters they describe. In them, Eliot writes with unrestrained contempt and disdain. He accuses and points his finger at the people around him, little people in his eyes. He says “we,” but he means “you.” YOU are hollow; YOU are Prufrock; YOU live in a wasteland and YOU are not worthy of anything better. Eliot writes with the voice of a feudal master, overseeing his ignorant peasants and his simpering, sniveling servants.
These poems express an arrogance and contempt for humanity that offend me to the core of my being. Does the author suggest any new and better path for his characters? Does he offer a means for redemption? Does he at least show some empathy for the weakness and limits of these little people that are so far beneath him? Not a word.
Given this master-slave mentality in the poems, it is not so hard to read between the lines and see what Eliot’s letters and private correspondence confirm: he is a racialist bigot. Eliot privately, and Pound openly were nazi sympathizers and fascist supporters. And both were vicious anti-Semites.
Yet, somehow, the reading public has allowed itself to ignore these facts. It is as if in some alternate reality, Hitler and Goebbels were talented painters, skilled at representing the imagined deformity of those they hated, as well as being leaders of the nazi party. And in this alternate reality, the anti-nazi public, nonetheless, raved about how wonderful Hitler’s and Goebbels’ paintings were. Impossible? Outrageous? Yet we see it with Eliot and Pound: racialist bigots who paint deformed human beings, and who, nonetheless, are accorded the highest honors in society.
So, Chris, you ask, “what have these men done?” They have slandered humanity. They have cursed their societies. And worst of all, they have misled a reading public into assuming the contempt-filled vision expressed by these two authors. The public, too, reads “YOU are the hollow men,” and sneers at the incompetent and unredeemable Prufrocks around them. Sneers, and doesn’t think to lift a hand to help.
Therefore, I say Eliot's and Pound's writing offends me. However, I am even more offended by their moral corruption as human beings. And being thus doubly offended, should I not speak out against them?
And finally, this postscript. You bigots! Don’t imagine you can hide your bigotry beneath the surface of your writing, or somehow cleanse your writing from the stain and stench of hatred and intolerance. Emotions create the foundation and shape of our thoughts. Emotions determine what we look at and how we value things. A bigot’s writing will be deformed by that bigotry. And just as their writing will be deformed and made ugly by hatred, so everything about them will be deformed and made ugly. The struggle against intolerance and hatred is a perpetual battle waged by every single person. Those who make headway in this battle become more beautiful and heroic; those who succumb become more ugly and more vile.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Europa, Europa: further discussion #2
The following is from a review of the book Beyond the Hoax: Science, Philosophy and Culture, by Alan Sokal, written by Simon Blackburn for the “New Republic.” You can find the whole review at [http://www.powells.com/review/2008_08_14.html?utm_source=overview&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=rss_overview&utm_content=Beyond%20the%20Hoax%3A%20Science%2C%20Philosophy%20and%20Culture&PID=18].
While most of this article is not terribly pertinent to my poem Europa, Europa, the following excerpt, speaking of the limits, if not the end of relativism, is a clear statement of what is the beginning place for my poem. If you don’t understand and agree with the following, you will surely have trouble with the poem.
...but consider in this connection also "political liberalism," the heading under which John Rawls could imagine the peoples of the world willingly leaving their ideological and cultural differences at the door and coming into the political arena carrying only that which they hold in common. What they had in common turned out to be a birthright of reason sufficient all by itself to enchant them with a nice liberal democratic constitution, amazingly like that of the United States, or perhaps western Europe. Conflict could be talked through and violence abated. When the philosophers explained the right way to live, everyone would fall happily into line. Innocent times.
But no longer. The present decade is different. The United States has had its wake-up call, and may have others just as loud. It has been told, brutally, that disagreement matters, and that if our grasp of what we need to defend is feeble enough, there are people out there only too happy to wrest it away from us. It has reacted even more brutally to that alarm by declaring war on people who had nothing to do with it in the first place, and then conducting that war with counterproductive barbarity. It has learned that there is not much common reason that is everyone's birthright -- that when disagreement comes, people cannot afford to shrug.
There are times when we have to do better than [say] "whatever" and "anything goes." A country needs to understand what is good, and also what is not good, about its preferred ways of living. It needs to understand what is good, and why, about its science, history, and self-understandings; and it even needs to understand what was good, and why, about the politics and the ethics [or religion] that it may have abandoned, let us hope temporarily.
I am a Jew, not a Christian, but I have come to understand the value and importance of Christianity, in spite of its failings. The abandonment of a such a faith by the majority, no matter the reasons, will create a vacuum that will be filled, as surely as any physical vacuum. If Christianity needs to be renewed, then now is the time to do it. If not, be assured, another God-based faith will replace it. Europe, I call on you to take possession of your future, and not abandon it to “whatever.”
While most of this article is not terribly pertinent to my poem Europa, Europa, the following excerpt, speaking of the limits, if not the end of relativism, is a clear statement of what is the beginning place for my poem. If you don’t understand and agree with the following, you will surely have trouble with the poem.
...but consider in this connection also "political liberalism," the heading under which John Rawls could imagine the peoples of the world willingly leaving their ideological and cultural differences at the door and coming into the political arena carrying only that which they hold in common. What they had in common turned out to be a birthright of reason sufficient all by itself to enchant them with a nice liberal democratic constitution, amazingly like that of the United States, or perhaps western Europe. Conflict could be talked through and violence abated. When the philosophers explained the right way to live, everyone would fall happily into line. Innocent times.
But no longer. The present decade is different. The United States has had its wake-up call, and may have others just as loud. It has been told, brutally, that disagreement matters, and that if our grasp of what we need to defend is feeble enough, there are people out there only too happy to wrest it away from us. It has reacted even more brutally to that alarm by declaring war on people who had nothing to do with it in the first place, and then conducting that war with counterproductive barbarity. It has learned that there is not much common reason that is everyone's birthright -- that when disagreement comes, people cannot afford to shrug.
There are times when we have to do better than [say] "whatever" and "anything goes." A country needs to understand what is good, and also what is not good, about its preferred ways of living. It needs to understand what is good, and why, about its science, history, and self-understandings; and it even needs to understand what was good, and why, about the politics and the ethics [or religion] that it may have abandoned, let us hope temporarily.
I am a Jew, not a Christian, but I have come to understand the value and importance of Christianity, in spite of its failings. The abandonment of a such a faith by the majority, no matter the reasons, will create a vacuum that will be filled, as surely as any physical vacuum. If Christianity needs to be renewed, then now is the time to do it. If not, be assured, another God-based faith will replace it. Europe, I call on you to take possession of your future, and not abandon it to “whatever.”
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