Dragoon's Song

As I edit The Atternen Juez Talen (The Eternal Jew’s Tale) to prepare it for epublication, I am finding lots of fascinating pieces. It’s hard for me to realize I wrote all of this, however strange that may sound. For me, it’s more like ‘found art.’ I often feel like I’m just an amanuensis.

Here’s a little piece, a song chanted by marching soldiers. I present it first in its original poetic, steevtok version, and then in standard (what I call ‘old’) English. And in case you’re wondering… yes, Eliot is one of the hollow men I’m talking about here.

Draggoonz Seeng

We ar ŧħuh hawlo menz bornen wor.
We ar ŧħuh aruggen dogz a gor.
We ar ŧħuh sunz uv pagen godz.
An we ar ŧħuh frute uv poluten klodz.

March on, march on, man a dus.
Du wut yu wil; du wut yu mus.

Krinj befor yur konkerrer!
Sharp ar tung an sharpar darts.
Krinj! az we defy yur law.
Bludded hanz an bludles harts.

March on, march on, hawlo menz.
Yur rode iz long; hu knoez its enz?

Louk on us hu skorn ŧħuh jus.
Past? Weel hav no pees a ŧħat.
Louk on us hu mok yur trus.
Fyuecher? Weel hav no peesen ŧħat.

March on, march on, man uv klay.
Yur rode iz short so doen delay.

We ar ŧħuh fawlo menz, up tu ar waest
In krimmennes binjen a morrel disgrase.
Toel wut ar theenks; az led az a flok.
Ar seel iz az hawlo az awl uv ar tok.

March on, march on thru waesten dred.
Like Azzazzelz goed, teŧħerren led.

We ar ŧħuh wawlo menz, sloggen a liez.
We hiden ar impotens behien ar nievz.
Hiden ar enveez in a biggets ubyuse,
Espressen it bes with a mobben noos.

March on, march on, hawlo men.
March on, tu reech yur punnishen.

_______________


Iz ŧħis ŧħuh seeng Ime heeren ŧħem song?
Waal, not uzzaklee. Ime terpretten
With ŧħuh lenzen time tu fokes it
An a lenzen Torrah fer jujjen it.
Wut ŧħay relee sung iz mor like ŧħis:

We ar goud so we wok with God.
An God iz goud so He wok with us.
An wuts ŧħuh proov ŧħat we ar goud
An ŧħaerfor God iz wok with us?
Ŧħat we ar streng in konkerren;
Ŧħat sitteez fawl an keengz ar fled.
An if we stumbel, if we fawl,
An if ar foez ŧħen slotter us?
Stil God iz with us an we ar goud
Fer ar foez a serven demen godz
An God iz kers ŧħem in tiemz tu kum.
Fer us, ŧħuh goud, God iz ar kawz
An awl ŧħat we du konformen Hiz lawz.

An I heerd it like ŧħis in evree tung.
_________________

Here’s the old English version:

Dragoon’s Song

We are the hollow men born for war.
We are the arrogant dogs of gore.
We are the sons of pagan gods.
And we are the fruit of polluted clods.

March on, march on, man of dust.
Do what you will; do what you must.

Cringe before your conquerors!
Sharp our tongue and sharper darts.
Cringe as we defy your law.
Bloody hands and bloodless hearts.

March on, march on, hollow men.
Your road is long; who knows its end?

Look on us who scorn the just.
Past? We’ll have no piece of that.
Look on us who mock your trust.
Future? We’ll have no peace in that.

March on, march on, man of clay.
Your road is short so don’t delay.

We are the follow men, up to our waist
In criminal binges and moral disgrace.
Told what to think and led like a flock,
Our souls are as hollow as all of our talk.

March on, march on through waste and dread.
Like Azazel’s goat, tethered and led.

We are the wallow men, slogging in lies.
We hide our impotence behind our knives.
We hide our envy in a bigot’s abuse,
And express it best with a mob and a noose.

March on, march on, hollow men.
March on to reach your punishment.

_______________

Is this the song I heard them sing? Well, not exactly. I’m interpretin’ with the lens of time to focus it and a lens of Torah for judgin’ it. What they really sung is more like this:

We are good so we walk with God.
And God is good so He walks with us.
And what’s the proof that we are good
And therefore God will walk with us?
That we are strong in conquering;
That cities will fall and kings will flee.
And if we stumble, if we fall,
And if our foes then slaughter us?
Still God is with us and we are good
For our foes are serving demon gods
And God will curse them in time to come.
For us, who are good, God is our cause
And all that we do conforms to His laws.

And I’ve heard it like this in every tongue.

Composing a new haggadah

I have begun the research and writing to create a new, modern Pesach (Passover) haggadah, with a new order, new structure, new histories and midrashim, new questions, new questions to answer questions, new portraits of personality types, while still embedding much of the traditional haggadah. This one will be a looking back, a looking forward, a looking at the turbulence and clarities within. Here granular, there sweeping vistas. Now personal, now transitional, now transformational. Thus…

(translated back to old English from my poetic voice…)

Here. The Crystal Haggadah begins. Hear. The seder, its orders retold.

For something like three thousand years or more this tradition, this ritual has been observed yearly in Yisroyel. This, and Shabbat, continuously remembered and observed longer than any other ritual in any other religion or culture in the world.

Observed and honored, festively (or furtively where hate prevails, where laws are writ, where knives are drawn, afraid of us, afraid of our God)…

in Sinai’s shadow; in Judea’s fields; in hovels and mansions in Babylon; in Elephantine ‘way down the Nile, and far up the Euphrates in Pumbedit; in Athens, Rome, and Byzantium; in Medina, Baghdad, Tashkent, Kabul; in Cochin, Calcutta, and Kaifeng; in Kathmandu and Timbuktu; in Algiers, Tangiers, and Tripoli; in Aden, Addis Ababa, and Muscat; in Europe, every shtetl and stadt; in Australia, Sydney to the arid outback; and across the oceans to the New World, in the Caribbean, on every isle, and from Patagonia and Concepcion to Goose Bay and White Horse and Denali Park.

Pesach, the call to liberation; the path to revelation.

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #7

Continuing from the story begun in podcast #6, the ancient sheikh completes his tale of local deities and their battles against Adonai.

You can find the textual version of this particular episode at the Times of Israel website:
https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/the-eternal-jews-tale-07-in-search-of-the-garden-2/

Or go to:
https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/
where you can find all the published episodes (currently {18} of them). They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

The ancient story-telling sheikh

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #6

The date is about 190CE. The place is east of Damascus. In this episode the Eternal Jew, searching for the Garden of Aden, meets an ancient sheikh.

You can find the textual version of this particular episode at the Times of Israel website:
https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/the-eternal-jews-tale-06-in-search-of-the-garden/

Or go to:
https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/
where you can find all the published episodes (currently 17 of them). They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

Camping outside of Palmyra, hearing strange tales.

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #5

In this episode, the Eternal Jew meets Saul of Tarsus in a local synagogue, and they discuss a letter Saul has written to a community in Rome.

You can find the textual version of these episodes at the Times of Israel website, https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/ . They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

The diplomat’s little shop

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #4

In this episode the Eternal Jew sets out on the Damascus Road, with some wry comments about Rome and another famous fellow who walked this road. He may agree with Bar Yohai’s negative opinion of Roman bath houses, buuuut…

You can find the textual version of these episodes at the Times of Israel website, https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/ . They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

Walkin’ that damn ass-kiss road

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #3

In this episode the Eternal Jew escapes from Jerusalem, which is under siege by Rome, and begins a slow trek north and east.

You can find the textual version of these episodes at the Times of Israel website, https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/ . They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

Leaping from a parapet

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #2

Let the tales begin!

This, the first episode , finds the Eternal Jew in Jerusalem around 30 CE. He recalls those troubled times and his friendship with a local revolutionary.

You can find the textual version of these episodes at the Times of Israel website, https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/ . They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

Azurite Sky of Jerusalem

The Eternal Jew podcasts, #1

Here beginneth a series of readings from the epic poem The Atternen Juez Talen, aka The Eternal Jew’s Tale. This podcast series will follow the character of the Eternal Jew as portrayed in my epic as he endures, thrives, and transforms the places he lives in.

This first podcast introduces the series. Enjoy! Don’t be shy. Write to me with your thoughts. Oh, by the way, you can find the textual version of these episodes at the Times of Israel website, https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/tales-of-the-eternal-jew/ . They are displayed in reverse order, so you’ll have to scroll down to the bottom to read them sequentially.

excerpt from The Atternen Juez Talen -- the 3rd of 3 meditations

Continuing the story line from my previous two posts (April 8 and 13, 2021) in which the sage, Yose ben Halafta is being led by a child into the ruins of Betar…

And once again I feel that hand gripped in mine, tugging me. His sweet eyes look up at me.
“The sad lady. That’s her name. She likes to read Hosea to me up on the rooftop when I can’t sleep.”
A wonderment. And on we go, deeper descending inside Betar.

We come to a stark and open place, what might have been the marketplace, now deathly silent. Even the doves refrain from keening their God-taught psalms. Just a breathy mumble, like *Hannah at prayer* praying the curse be lifted from her. [Note: 1 Sam. 1:10-13]
“A vain prayer if she lived now. No more will children laugh in this place”

As if a hand is gripping my throat, and I can’t breathe. Shock and fear. What is this that knows my thoughts?
“You’re lost, old man, and no return, yet you cling to hope that there’s a path or a Halakha you know from here. Hope is a lie, white-washing the truth.”
And finally I see a faint trace of a shade, or is it a blasted oak?

The boy urgently tugs on my hand, but I must see who addresses me in such a prescient and cynic voice.
“What ails you shade that you spit these words at me as if I trespass you”
“And who be this Roman chump that intrudes?”
“I see you don’t know all my thoughts. Roman, certainly I am not! In the secret synagogues I am known as Yose the teacher; some call me ‘sage.’”
“Son of Halafta! I had heard that, along with Khutspit, you were torn to pieces and had your tongue ripped out.”
“I’m still here, at it still wags. You seem to know me. Who are you?”

Ignoring me, he continues his rant:
“How long will you flout those worn-out beliefs?”
When I don’t answer, he frowns and spits.
“*For three transgressions or even four,* I will not turn back to the path of the Lor. What my eyes have seen be proof enough that the Lor has turned away from us.” [Note: Amos 1:3]
“What are these so-called proofs of yours?”

Again he frowns and spits in the wind.
“Madness drives the human spirit. Else explain what the Zealots did, burning three years store of grain, and breaking cisterns to force a fight against a siege invincible? Madness. Then came utter ruin and massacres unknown before. Roman soldiers tore down The House, burnt the Holy of Holies to ash, murdered their ten thousands and more, and swaggered our plunder back in Rome. Humiliations followed that. Priests stripped naked, driven thru the streets, beaten, pissed on, blinded, killed. Women raped while their children looked on. Infants thrown from the Temple walls, hundreds, their bodies splattered in piles. And who survived? Cowards who fled, and sages who hid in garbage heaps. And of those sages, many a one were martyred, burnt, beheaded, flayed. And who prevails? Lupis the beast, lean and hungry, godless, wild. Caesar has seized this whole world. There’s your proof. You need more?”

My chest tightens. Words fail. Dismayed, I turn my eyes to the ground. Again, I feel the tug on my hand.
“I told you not to go in there. He yells at everyone that way.”
Stumbling on many a stump and stone, we hustle back into the welcoming ruins, the thick shadows, the silent gloom. Now the dog begins to bark. The boy stops and shushes me. A moan, a cry, a screech, a howl off in the distance, drawing near.
The boy now yanks his hand from mine and runs away. And then a shout.

“Father! I’ve been searching for you.”
The dog is yipping, scamper and skip, and the three emerge from a shattered tomb.

The first tainted shades of dawn begin to paint the eastern sky.
“Peace be upon you, prayerful man.”
“And peace be upon you, father and sage.”
“I see my son has guided you thru these ruins. No doubt you met my friend Elisha, him who once stood among the elite of Israel, til tragedies and their harsh blows broke his heart and crushed his will. Now anger’s currents ravage him like a house washed out by flood and broken up in the surge of waves. There’s still a spark of faith in him that in a gilgul, maybe two, will flare again and shine new light. A broken heart is slow to heal. But you, Reb Yose, I told you before, you shouldn’t enter a ruins to pray.”

Wonders abound. Who is this?
“I heard a voice luring me. Here just a moan of a mourning dove, there, a minyan praying psalms. Such congregations called to me.”
“You should have stayed on the road and prayed. Many a danger lurks in here.”
“True, but dangers also stalk the road, and many disruptions too.”
“Then shorten your prayer and quicken your step back to a place where Shekhina sings.”
“Master and teacher, how do you know my name? Have we met before?”
“In other bodies and other times we have met. But in this place, horizons limit all you see, all you hear, all you feel, and you can’t remember anything beyond their tight constricting curves. And so you don’t remember me.”
“And does that not apply to you, too? Or should I call you ‘Divine Envoy?’”

Tarnished silver streaks the clouds, with edges burnished to a brilliant gleam. The brighter the light, the more transparent the man and his son. Now disappeared.
All that remained, a yipping dog which followed me down the long road to Tzippori, where it too disappeared.

excerpt from The Atternen Juez Talen -- the 2nd of 3 meditations

Continuing the story line from my previous post (April 8, 2021) in which the sage, Yose ben Halafta is being led by a child into the ruins of Betar…

Now further we wander thru Betar’s streets. Are we walking in circles here? I keep repeating the same phrase...
Mellekh maymeet u’m’khiyay u’mutsme’ukh yeshu’ah...
Creator of death and life; our matrix and deliverer.

And now I hear a keening psalm with an accent foreign to this age. I urge the child to turn aside to a little house with its dome caved in. Peering into a doorway’s abyss, there, a shimmering ghostly light, like a damsel, her eyes mad with grief. Seeing me she cringes away to a corner, compelled by horror or fear.

“Go away you demon scourge. Leave me be like times before when you and your brothers had all fled from him who spake and freed me from you.”
“Fear not damsel. Look at me, a man of flesh from Adam’s world, who heard your moans among the doves and has come to see if I might salve.”

Slow her terrors wash from her face, replaced by a flickering show of moods, many full of her former despair, mixed with glimmers of doubtful hopes, which maybe inspired her to confess:
“Look at me, so empty and lost, waiting many a long year for him whose touch was purest joy to return and make me new again. Betrothed we were when he set off to his father’s house, not so far. But see how years in moments pass, and once again I am beset by demons, all prick and bite, who spew their lies and leave me besmirched with doubt and anger, hurt and hate. My troubles compile and redouble my fears that he is dead and will not return. I, who was great among the redeemed, am become a widow, become a thrall.”

“Do I hear you a-right, or wrongly infer that him you speak of is the Nazarene who claimed he was the anointed one? Surely you must know he is dead.”
“Do I hear a-right, or wrongly infer that you be a rabbi and Pharisee?”
“This much is true: rabbi I am.”

Then you are as lost as I now am! You who ever live in doubt and never know redemption’s touch.”
“Dame, you mistake your doubt for mine. Doubt is not what harrows me. Sin? Sure. Grief? Much. Wonderment at why sin exists. Exile from our Holy Land. But never exile from the Lor.”
“But then the Lor stepped down to earth. Why turn your back upon the sun?”
“Yours are words for Roman and Greek, them who seek gods they can see and touch, with human features and human faults. Give them that in a Perfect Man and see how they rush to follow him. But here you are, praying psalms in Aramaic. You are a Jew. Why do you still cling to him? You are ever present to the Lor.

“He healed me and he lifted me. He held me and loved me. My love for him is personal.”
“Then healer and husband, but not God. Look at this world, still so benighted. Him you expect to rise from his grave cannot do such a ghostly thing. Much hubris his disciples displayed, claiming he was the body of God. And vastly more by those followers who will trample this world with their hobnail boots.”
“Kind your voice but vicious your words, battering me with your hard beliefs. Is it not enough for you that demons gorge upon my soul?”

See. Like a house that slowly cracks and crumbles when an earthquake heaves. So, a bitter wailing breaks and shakes this woman to piteous sobs. And who am I to crush her hopes?
“Sister, your grief brings sorrow to me, touching my own pangs of loss. But perhaps our griefs have hardened us. We are taught, the Lor’s Presence is near at hand, fills this room, fills this ruined land, this world. Is there not a tiny flame of hope flickering in your heart? Shelter it. Don’t let it die. ”

And now the mourning dove cries out,
“Weep no more. Weep no more.”
As I turn to leave, I ask of her,
“Sister, may I know your name?”
“Miriam of Magdala...”
And now that inner light in her quickly fades and she is gone.

excerpt from The Atternen Juez Talen -- 3 meditations

Here are 3 scenes set in the Tannaitic era, after about 100 CE. The Atternen Ju (Eternal Jew) is reminiscing about some stories he heard from the mouths of the sages, stories that he is recording to be used as guided meditations.

This particular triptych of stories is told by the Tanna, Yose ben Halafta. In them he tells of meetings with remarkable men and women. The story’s setting is based on a well-known midrash, in which Elijah asks Yose why he went into a ruins to pray.

Recognizing that many people have difficulty reading my poetry, I have translated the text back into standard English (what I call “ole Eenglish), prose. Perhaps later I’ll post the poetry itself.

Here is the first of the 3 scenes. In coming days I’ll post the other two.
Thus...

One night I was walking past the ruins of Betar. A moaning dove perched on an arch lured me into the rubble to pray.
“Hail, spirit. What troubles you?”
I called to him. He moaned a reply. As I approached he lifted wing and flew to a pillar further in, and still he called, imploring me, call and response, to pray with him. And yet still further, he lit on a branch of a ghastly myrtle burnt in the siege. And there we began to pray the 18, [note: the 18 blessings, core of the 3 daily prayer sessions] and I got as far as ‘lee shanay affar,’ ‘those who sleep in the dust.’

And now, as the dove ceases his moaning and leaps from the branch and flies away, what do I hear? A weeping child?
And there, behold, he sits at my feet. Our eyes meet and he takes my hand, and I, I know not what to do. I must not interrupt my prayer. Nor may I leave this child alone.

And so, as he leads, I repeat this phrase:
Mee khummokha b’al g’vurote, u’mee do mellukh?
Who is like You, Master and strength, and who can be compared to you?

And now it seems we’re lost in a maze. There, the dove praying his moans. There the myrtle, its branches like arms, frantic, reaching to an empty sky. Now the dove, moaning his prayers on a pillar leaning in an empty lot. A twig cracks. Gravel kicked. And all around the echo of moans. And now a snarl and now a growl. And now an animal charging at us; a great wolf! It leaps at the boy.
And licks his face. Is this a dog?
“This is what I’ve been looking for.” The first words the boy has said.

Now the dog leads us deeper in, into a warren of rubble and ruins, rebels and runes. Do I see a face staring at us? Wrinkled like one who the years deform, haggard, unkempt, mournful, old. His voice intones like the joyless dead.
“I once ruled the heavenly spheres with grandeur such as none could compare. ‘Pharaoh’ they would whisper and bow low, and those that knew me called me ‘god.’ I, even I, was punished severe by that Hebrew Lor whose power I dared. Search ye now thru my opulent home, where lapis and gold once tiled the streets, now rubble and mudbrick and stinking tombs. Prophet, what further ruin will you vent on one who knows not how to repent?

In awe I dwelt on his fearsome word, until I dared to ask of him,
“What, oh pharaoh, compels you to dwell here in Betar far from your Nile?”
“For me, that river never ceased to flow in blood, bringing pestilence. But here my stony and envious heart finds pleasure, seeing how Roman gods have avenged my loss to that Adonai.”

Just then the child whispered to me,
“But he said to me, he came here to live because Betar appeared to him just like Fustat, his ancient home, which every year decays still more. Here he hopes to learn from the Jew how to repent and serve the Lor.”
“Curse you child,” that specter forswore, and disappeared back into the stones.
And once again, that dove and his moan….

Lost book by Abarbanel, 3

The following lines are an excerpt from a book within a book: a lost mystical text on meditation within The Atternen Juez Talen. In this scene the storyline is intended to act as a guided meditation, leading the spiritual explorer on an elevated path thru a troubled psychological landscape. The endpoint aspires to a state of greater clarity, undistorted by the mostly unconscious conceptual aberrations and emotional whirlpools that shape our thinking.

The scene takes as its starting point a midrash about Rabbi Yossi (ben Halafta), who turns aside one night while walking in the vicinity of Jerusalem, to pray in a ruins. He is referred to as ‘Prophet’ in the monologue below. The scene also has another important literary referent: Shelley's brilliant poem The Triumph of Life, which to my eyes is among the greatest pieces of literature ever written. Thanks, Percy. You are ever an inspiration.

This, the "old English" version in prose:

Inside the darkness I see a face, wrinkled like one who the years deform, haggard, unkempt, mournful with dread. His voice intones like the joyless dead.

"I once ruled the heavenly spheres with grandeur such as none can compare. 'Pharaoh' they whispered, them bowed low, and those who knew me trembled in fear. I, even I, was punished severe by that Hebrew Lor whose power I dared. Look ye, now at my opulent home where lapis and gold once tiled the rooms, now rubble of mudbrick, a putrid tomb. Prophet, what further ruin do you vent on one who never learnt to repent?"

Lost book by Abarbanel, 2

Continuing the topic begun in my October 8, 2020 post, here’s an excerpt from the Kabbalistic book Abarbanel and his 2 secretaries are compiling. I present first the prose translation into Old English (what you probably think of as ‘normal’ English), and then the original original version in poetry:

Ole Eenglish proze verzhen:

In that same year in Yavne I heard Shimon ben Zoma leyn a drash in the week of V’Yishlakh. He taught:

Let us walk in Yaakov’s steps. Seeing the brutes and the blades and the blood [around him], he lifted himself from cushion and tent and set out down the rocky road to find that vaunted holy home. Lain his head on the crusty earth, Kedusha’s rolling thru his mind to crack the klipas worrying(? whirling) him. Down the angel minyans came. Took his hand and up they went. There, Shekhina like a dancing flame, hot and shapely, is waiting for him. Seven levels of kippurim to open the first fold of the tent and remove the embroidered garment of her. And seven more for the second fold and the deeper desires awoken in him. Now Shekhina urges him on, to tend the flock that it increase; be it strong, be it fecund. And so a vast and devoted host informed the will of Yaakov. He wanted to return to the Adam world with all this holy host of the Lor, to bring atonements to the waiting world. He descends to the river’s edge, three finger widths from the Camp of the Lor. There Adam confronted him and wrestled him into a human shell, that the host of angel messengers could pour thru the body of his soul – Ma’aseh Merkava – and enter the vacuous Adam realms to work redeemings into us.

The errijjennel verzhen az powessee:

In them same yeerz in Yovnuh I heerz
Shemone ben Zomuh laen on a drush
In the week a Vuh’Yishlukh*. He tot:
* week wen Berraysheet/Jen 32:4-36:43 iz red
Let us wok in Yuh’Uhkoevz steps.
Seeyen the bruten the bladen the blud,
He liffen himselv frum koushennes tent
An set owt down the rokkee ro
Tu fien that vonted holee ho*.
* eka d’omray: home
Laen iz hed on the krustee erth,
Keddueshuhz* rolen thru iz mien
* holenessez; holeyes praerz
Tu krak the klepuhz werlen him.
Down the aenjel minyenz kum,
Touk iz han an up than gon.
Thaer, Shekhenuh, dansen flame,
Hottes shaepleez waten fer him.
Sevven levvelz a keporreem*
* uttoenmenz
Tu open the fers foelen the tens
An remmuve the broiderd garmen uv her.
An sevven mor fer the sekken foel
An the deepes dezziyerz a woken him.
Now Shekhenuhz erj him on
Tu tend the flok that it in krees;
Be it streng, an be fekkunt.
An so a vas devvoten hoes
In formen in tens a Yuh’Ukkoev
A wonten rettern tu Addum werlz
With awl this holee hoesten the Lor,
Tu breeng a toenz tu the watee werlz.
Dessendes him tu this rivverree ej,
Three feenger withs frum the kampen the Lor.
Thaer Addum kunfrunten him
An ressel him tu a hyumen shel,
That the hoes (uv a) aenjel messejjerz
Kan por thru the boddeyen iz seel --
Muh’uhsay maerkuvvuh --
An enter the vakyuwes Addum relmz
Tu werk reddeemenz* intu us.
* ennummeez uv the Juwen reed this az “red demenz”

Shana Tova 5781: excerpts from life and imagination

Looking critically at myself (these Days of Awe and ow and ecch, and all), I believe the best part of me is my poetry. As a person, as a husband, father, saba, I don't come close to what I may be capable of. But, perhaps, in my poetry I come close, or closer.

Thus I post this excerpt from The Atternen Juez Talen, modified a bit, to try to express my thoughts, grasp the moment, send you Shana Tova greetings, and maybe even lift you a few degrees in the process...

The first light of the new rising sun and Nancy and I, chewing the facts...

Just like any old morning talk before Rosh Hashana and its stairways to heaven where the Judge is waiting to thin the flock.

The seventh month and the first of the year. That’s Jewish time: all relative! And all relative the way we see things; backwards, twisted, turned upside down. Looking up to heaven, and it turns out we're looking down into the pit of ourselves. Imagine.

And there, Divine Being. Imagine! And there, you, and you're not saying, 'cut me a break' or 'this is all a crock' or 'save the religious crap for some other fool'. There you are, saying ‘Hineni’, 'Here I am.' And there your Divine Being is, saying, 'That's not all of you. Stop hiding and show me more!'

Shock and awe. Now the holiness of the day like a mountain hangs over your head. “Will you be My partner or not?” says your Divine Being, and who isn’t ready to faint?

The book of all we say and think, of all we did, and all we didn’t do; the book we wrote with our own hands and spoke with our own mouths; that book! It reads itself back to us while our Divine Being is looking right there into the pit and piteousness of us. Who will stand there and still have faith and not just run, all trauma, away?

The Divine Being of all the worlds is standing before your face and turning your page.
Days of Awe.

May your pages be many, full of wonders, and may they be turned gently.
With love and awe,

Further Notes on Human Evolution

Here’s the opening paragraphs to a short essay that continues to develop the logic of a critique of pure randomness in evolution. My thesis: evolution is purposeful and directed, altho we have extremely limited access to what that purpose and direction is.

~~~~~~~~~

As I have suggested elsewhere, we humans are entering our teenage years as a species. In the last 5000 years, in this dawning of “civilization,” we have grown from adolescents, perhaps about 10 years old, to young teenagers, say 13 years old (by way of comparing species-time to individual-time).

We have grown from an innocent but raw and unmediated selfishness, guided by a “dogpack mind” that Darwinians have enshrined as ‘survival of the fittest,’ towards an emerging “teenage” sense of the value of other, and of community, while still gripped by the dogpack mind that drives us towards all kinds of self-serving bigotries and forms of violence.

But let me step back for a moment, to make clear my context.

What is meant by this term ‘survival of the fittest?’ It is generally interpreted as meaning that life and its evolution is changing randomly, that is, without specific purpose and without intended or even definable direction, serving temporary imbalances in nature. Fitness is just a way of describing temporary species survival. Is a lion more fit than a sparrow? Is an oak more fit than a fern or moss or algae? Such an understanding of evolution implies very specifically that the process is godless. Evolution has no purpose or direction. It only serves temporary states of ‘fitness.’

Now, it is conceivable that the universe is purposeless and directionless, but I don’t believe that it is. In fact, I don’t believe that anyone, literally anyone, believes that it is! In our heart of hearts we all believe that there is meaning and purpose in our lives. We also believe there is purpose in our collective lives, as well, although we may bitterly disagree on what that meaning and purpose is. As a species we humans are utterly absorbed in and devoted to matters of purpose and direction. Indeed, the loss of hope in the purposefulness of our lives drives us to suicide. But even suicidal actions that address such a state are in themselves a desperate grasping at meaning, at purpose, in which the suicidal individual can at least direct one last act towards rejecting their hopelessness and helplessness.

And if we human beings are so driven, so utterly absorbed in the idea of meaning, purpose, direction, is this then a species-wide delusion?

I believe not. The very term ‘evolution’ inherently involves direction, and our obsession with exploring our evolution is a function of the purposefulness that shapes our every thought. The ideology of randomness in evolution is the real delusion! It is a positivist reduction and simplification, and while false, it does serve the purpose of helping us collect data with, perhaps, a little less emotional and ideological baggage. In this way it can be seen as having some value, even though it is neither truthful nor accurate in its understanding.

That said, we must be very careful not to assume what we mere humans, a genomic wavelet hurtling forward on the vast tidal wave of life-evolution, have any but the dimmest understanding of the direction and greater purpose of evolution. Indeed, the universe, and the purpose that drives it is arguably something like a quarter-billion times vaster and more enduring than the flickering space-time of our individual lives (assuming the universe is 13.7 billion years old).

Still, we can glimpse that direction and purpose, using our own direction and purpose to guide our imagination….

Eternal Jew: scenes in Majorca

Our hero has been involved in map-making, a profession surprisingly dominated by Jews in the 100 years before Columbus. These maps were fundamental to the European expeditions around the Cape of Good Hope to India and then to the New World. He is now in Palma, Majorca, arguably the capital of map-making in the mid fifteenth century.

Here’s a prose excerpt, followed by the original poetry in its altered English:

And in them days, Aragon’s noose was squeezin’ tighter on the church’s lands, trying to choke out heresy, and alternate readings of their bible tales, and personal knowledge of God in the world. And as for pagans, Muslims, and Jews, a sword was pressin’ against our necks. Hard to breathe; harder to move. Like we fell into a vortex of hell in Dante’s tale of hopeless souls; trying to find a reliable map out of these hell-lands coiled in hate.

But forgive. I’m rushin’ ahead of myself. I still must describe the secret lives hidin’ inside of Palma’s walls. And Batkol insists that I reveal the book she writ in Genoa.

Like I says, that priest hustled us thru private courtyards and mazy ways an into a house with nary a knock. Expectin’ a parlor, much surprised, we stands in a kitchen, fragrant with bread. The cook nearly drops her tray of cakes, and stifles a scream,

”O Father Enrique! You frighten me.”
“So sorry, Noor. Senor Vallseca awaits us. We came the back way to save time.”

She leads us into a sittin’ room.

Juan Vallseca
Man of stone. Face a mask. Sits like sphinx; desert winds slowly etch his mask away; slowly pit his stony eyes. Flickers of inner light escape. He taps his finger on his thigh. His stone casting begins to crack. As if an echo from a far hill, words escape from his chest, words of welcome from a distant place.

Father Enrique
“My sphinx-hearted man of faith, my dear friend, Senor Juan...”
A well-trained hound at his master’s feet, tho sharp of tooth and mastiff tall. Knows the hand that feeds him well, that makes him sit or whips his haunch. None too fawning but well restrained.

Gabriel Vallseca
Puppy scampers, yip and yap, nipping toes, yip and yap, chasin’ his tail, yip and yap...
In walks Gabby with a wide grin and a flaky pastry in his hand, crumbs flying as he says hello.

Father Enrique
The light dims and shadows streak his etched cheeks, his deep eyes now enlarged to dark pools as evening dulls the rosy clouds, and the bright sky turns deeper blue. Is that the Nazarene I see on a further hill, his robes blowing in the risen wind; or only Paul, sharp of tongue and dark of thoughts, come to Rome to challenge law? His voice is soft but his fist is clenched, and his next words transform the mood...
“What, now, are we to do?...”


Here’s the original poetry:

An in them tiemz Aruggonz noos
Bin skweezen titer on the cherchen lanz,
Tryen a choke owt harusseez
An alternet reedz a thaer bibel taelz,
An persennel knowenz a God in the werl.
An az fer pagen, Mouzlem, an Ju,
A sord wer prest uggens ar neks;
Hard tu breeth; harder tu muve.
Like we fel intu a vortex a hel
In Dontayz talen a hoeples seelz,
Tryen a fien a reliyubbel map
Tu exkape theze hel-lanz an koyelz a hate.

But fergiv. I rusht uhhed a myselv.
I stil mus deskribe the seekret lievz
Hiden inside a Pawlmuhz wawls.
An Butkoel insists that I reveel
The bouk her rit in Zhennovuh.

Like I sez, that prees husselt us
Thru privet kortyardz an mazee wayz
An intu a hows with naree a nok.
Expektenz a parler, much serpriez
We stanz in a kichen, fraegren a bred.
The kouk neerlee drops her tray a kaeks
An stifelz a skreem.
“O, Fother Enreek! Yu friten me!”
“So sawree, Noor.
“Seenyor Valsekkuh awaten us.
“We kum the bak way az saven time.”
She leed us intu a sitten room….

Hwon Valsekkuh
Man a stone. Fase a mask.
Sits like sfeenx; dezzer winz
Slolee ech hiz mask uwway,
Slolee pit hiz stonee iy.
Flikkerres inner lite exkape.
He tap iz feenger on iz thi.
Iz stone kastenz start tu krak.
Az if an ekko frum a distan hil,
Werdz exkapen frum hiz ches,
Werdz a welkum frum a far plase.

Fother Enreek
“My sfeenx-hartes man a faeth,
“My deer fren, Seenyor Hwon...”
A wel-traent hown at iz master feets,
Tho sharp a-tooth an mastif tawl;
Knoez the han az feed him wel,
That make him sitz or wip hiz honch;
Nun too fonnee, but wel-restraenz.

Eternal Jew's Rescue of Batkol

Here’s a new scene from The Atternen Juez Talen, translated out of MetaEnglish poetry into standard prose.

These events take place in the hills outside of Genoa, where Saadya, the Eternal Jew and his wife Batkol have settled. The year is about 1420 CE.

While I be bent to a draftin' desk, pourin' thru maps ...

Batkol set out on a different route. Leavin' such chaos and madness to me, she discovered that herbs and cures from extracts, infusions, oils and salves be well-developed in Liguria's hills....

So off she gone a second time, out to see them sorcerous dames, me absorbed in work, and yet concerned for her wanderin' alone. And my worries increased day by day, til after a week my mind won't bend to interpretin' sketches and decipherin' scrawl.

After mornin’ prayers I'm sittin' at the bench, and I thrown up my hands.
"I gotta find my wife, now gone over a week. That ain't right. I'm worried sick."
Out the door and up the road I hustles. I remembers a town up the river where she first gone to learn about healers in the hills. Walkin' all night, I arrived the next day, and begun askin' about women that heal. Well, men, they don't know a pimple from a pox. But women, soon as they hear me ask where that healer dwelt, they clams right up, all suspicious and evil eyes.

So nothin' for it. I'm up the road to a further hamlet. There I tells some juicy yarns about my wife. I exaggerates just a teeny bit, sayin', a wonder healer she be, with many a potion to soothe the soul. There's chitter and chatter a-plenty now. That gone on for a day or some, when a miserable crone come beggin' me to brang some potions for her sickly girl.
"I'll send my wife in a fortnight or so."
says I, and her shoulder sags like a roof on a rotten hut; she's all dismayed.
"That won't do, oh no, not at all. I needs them remedies right away. Guess I must go to that sorcerer,"
says she, and I mumbles,
"Suit yourself."
But soft and secret I watch her close. The very next morn she's out the door and up the road and down some trail and onto paths only animals use, and come to that witch.

I expected to find Batkol inside, when I knocked and gone in. And there, that witch starts screamin' at me, and pulls a knife, howlin' the while like some wild and injured animal --
What the hell was Batkol doin' there amongst such souls untouched by God? --
Thankfully, my walkin' stick kept that hyena woman at bay while I drags Batkol down the trail a ways, til she collapsed. I carried her -- fragile as a dried out stick of birch -- til I couldn't hear them howls no more. Then I built a litter to lay her on and drag her nice and comfortable thru them hills and hamlets and towns. Many a gasp and askance look we drawn, but nary an offer of help -- like I been some brute that beat my wife -- til we come to the outskirts of Genoa, where I hired a wagon for the cobbled streets.

The Eternal Jew in combat

The time: approximately 1375 CE. The place: Poland. The situation:
Batkol, the wife of Saadya Mishon the Eternal Jew, has been kidnapped by Bogdan, the lord of a decrepit manor. With the help of the region’s rabbi, Reb Susya, a plan has been hatched to rescue her by calling on a Jewish soldier of fortune and thief, Yiftakh, who once served under Bogdan, raiding Ruthenian villages.

Here’s the “old English” (what you probably know as “modern English”) version of the poem, translated into prose from Steevtok, MetaEnglish:

Sunrise. A gang of armed men approach the soldier Yiftakh’s house. His dogs snarl. Yet ten steps away, he opens his door, sword in hand, and confronts us all,
“Confess your sins, as, one more step and you’ll meet your God.”

“Trouble not! We’re Susya’s men. We come as brothers in need of your help. That wild ox Bogdan kidnapped my wife. If you will lead us and liberate her and break the oppressor’s grippin’ hand, we’ll succor Vladislov’s court to transfer Bogdan’s manor to you. What say you, captain of arms?”

“If Susya sent you, hear my demand: Let me hear that Susya’s wife supports this caper. Hers the voice that, in that house, lays the law. If she say ‘yes’, I swear by the Lor, I’ll storm that hideout and the first thing I see, I’ll cut it down, as the Lor lives.”

Pointin’ to me,
“You! Follow me,”
and we runs to a nearby clump of trees, and there, tied up, two horses paw the ground and ‘nay’ as we approach.
“Stole these last week,”
he grunts with a grin.
“They’re a bit wild. You know how to ride?”
“I lived with the Mongols these last many years.”
And bareback we gallop to Susya’s wife. She’s still standin’ at the broken door with her sleepin’ cap on and a knife in her hand.

“What did you come for, Yiftakh, you dog?”
“I comes to hear the word from your mouth, and your thoughts on the plan your husband devised. Your opinions* might darken the hue of my heart, but your thoughts are sharper than your blabbermouth man’s.
* others say, ‘pinions’

“The scheme to rescue that wife of his? Reckless and foolish, and what else to do? Naturally, it appeals to you, you and your gang and your Polish ways.”

He stares her down like Satan himself, and I watch his hand, waitin’ to see if he pulls his sword and slices her neck.
“Then yours is the seal and mine is the sword.”
And he whips his horse and we gallop away.

It seems the sky isn’t lighter now than when we left Yiftakh’s some time ago.

“We’ll go off-road. I knows a trail by Bogdan’s house and the huts of his serfs. One or the other, she’s sure to be there. But he’ll have sentries, so shut your traps right now! If they hear us there’s little chance they won’t be slittin’ your woman’s throat.”

Five of us clompin’ and thrashin’ our way through branch and brush. Atop a rise Yiftakh spies a curl of smoke in the hollow where the serfs have huddled their huts.

“Smoke! No reason for fire today, and the bake-house is back at Bogdan’s place. That’s probably our target. Follow me.”

Down in the glen there was nary a guard posted at the house. Sure of surprise Yiftakh spreads us out as we crawl thru bramble and bush. Ready, poised, hardly more than a few steps away from the hut, when sudden, out of the door, here comes Batkol, a babe in her arms. Like a bolt of lightning shot from a cloud – and who can predict its where and its when – out shoots Yiftakh from a thorny bush and strikes her down; then shouts ‘Attack!’ The rest of the men charge from the brush and burst on the hut, like to trample it down. And me, I hardly remembers a thing, just screamin’,
“No! Batkol! No!”

And it seems I rushed in with ill intent to kill Yiftakh for what he done.

Some time later, there I were, leanin’ against a parched trunk, some twisted, ghastly, leafless tree with its crooked branches clawing at the sky, silent as a corpse in a wordless howl.

In the moment I couldn’t remember where I were. Then up struts Yiftakh, and scowlin’ says,
“You dumbshit donkey. Should have cut your neck.”
Midst howlings and weepings, off he gone, mutterin’ to himself, ‘damn the whole world,’ and begun to lope up the road back to Lutsk.

I get up, all shaky, and walk to the hut. Batkol’s still lyin’ face down in the muck, and another woman’s in a bloody pool on the floor of the hut. And like a pile of rags, crumpled on the ground, a hefty man – women kneelin’ on either side – gaspin’ wheezin’ gurglin’ blood. Looks like Bogdan. Just about then pain starts shootin’ across my skull and down my arm and into my back.