Category Archives: Poetry?

Primo Levi

Aujourd’hui, Elon Musk souhaite un judaïsme plus malléable, un judaïsme sans ADL et peut-être même un judaïsme silientieux et prudent sans Levi ou Wiesel. Alors dessinons des cercles autour des X et réfléchissons brièvement à deux ou trois choses que le judaïsme apporte à notre vision du monde en construction…

Commençons par Bonnefoy et ses vues sur l’origine de la poésie: “Et j’étais donc invité à rester fidèle au premier emploi que l’on fait des mots, le désignatif, l’exclamatif” (Yves Bonnefoy, L’écharpe rouge, Paris : Mercure de France, 2016). C’est à cela et à ses prolongements que me font penser les petits-enfants: l’ébranlement d’un monde et d’une vie qui ne peuvent se résumer à une collection d’objets et de réalités aux étiquettes adéquates mais au contraire qui se laissent découvrir au bout et au coût d’un nouvel émerveillement, une conquête toujours renouvelée par cette étrange capacité à restructurer et signifier intégralement un monde que nous nous cachons tous avec plus ou moins de bonheur, plus ou moins d’émoussement des tendresses que ceux autour de nous prodiguent.

Autre chose: le livre de Primo Levi a éventuellement été plus influent que La nuit de Wiesel, rappelle Nicolas Weill dans son article de 2016 sur ce dernier dans Le Monde. Il ne dit pas que l’ouvrage de Levi est sorti en 1947, onze ans avant La nuit et qu’il n’a valu notoriété à Levi qu’après 1958 lorsqu’il fut republié par Einaudi qui l’avait refusé la première fois, et qu;il fut enfin traduit en anglais ou une multitude d’autres langues et surtout, surtout, en allemand. Il ne fut traduit en hébreu qu’après le décès de Levi, ce qui est un sort bien différent de celui de Wiesel qui était lié de près à bien des leaders de la droite israélienne. Mais on aopprend aussi dans cet article de Weill que Wiesel avait écrit des centaines de pages en yiddish qui furent abrégées en un ouvrage en yiddish paru en 1956 (perdu maintenant?). Et qu’il avait été talmid (= étudiant fidèle) de Chouchani—comme Lévinas—puis de Saul Lieberman.

English translation:

These days, Elon Musk wishes for a malleable Judaism, a prudent Judaism without ADL and perhaps bereft of Levi and Wiesel. So, let’s draw circles around his X’s and think briefly of one or two aspects that Judaism brings to our shaping views of the world…

Let’s start with Bonnefoy and his views on the origin of poetry: “And I was therefore invited to remain faithful to the first use that we make of words, the designative, the exclamative” (Yves Bonnefoy,Red scarf, Paris: Mercure de France, 2016). This and what it reverberates is what the grandchildren make me think of: the shaking of a world and a life that cannot be summed up in a collection of objects and realities with adequate labels but on the contrary that allow themselves to be discovered at the end and at the cost of a new wonder, a conquest always renewed by this strange capacity of ours to restructure and fully signify a world that we all try to hide from ourselves with more or less luck, more or less dulling of the tenderness that those around us provide.

Another thing: Primo Levi’s book was possibly more influential than Wiesel’s The Night, recalls Nicolas Weill in his 2016 article on the latter in Le Monde. He does not say that Levi’s work came out in 1947, eleven years before The Night and that it only brought notoriety only after 1958 when it was republished by Einaudi who had turned it down the first time, and that it was finally translated into English, or a multitude of other languages and above all, above all, into German. It was only translated into Hebrew after Levi’s death, which is a very different fate from that of Wiesel who was closely linked to many leaders of the Israeli political circles. But we also learn in this article by Weill that Wiesel had written hundreds of pages in Yiddish which were abridged into a work in Yiddish published in 1956 (lost now?). And that he had been a talmid (= faithful student) of Chouchani—like Levinas—and then of Saul Lieberman.

shades

A strong sea breeze blows,
the poplars rustle and sway
while circles of redwoods
anchored on ancient ledges
immobile cool students
who stream and find their way
to the pillared library and its rows.

Claire et moi

In the sad film Claire et moi, after a sweet meeting with his father about relationship choices, the moi of the story is in a train and reads passages from a book he was just given by his dad. It is the famous passage from Rilke’s Letter to a young poet about what goes into enabling the first line of a verse. Long experience of the world, depths of observation, of scientific inquiry, and complete immersion in the world of others. My take on the story is that passion love, something that was finally considered within the grasp of multitudes with industrialization and fragmentation of traditional kinship and social networks, at least by the mid-twentieth century, comes to be regarded as an insufficient basis for proper relationships. Both characters are passionately drawn to each other and even abandon some of their selfishness by the end of the story. Will they learn to live their whimsical, inventive, physical passion in caring for a gravely ill person (she is HIV positive) and accepting other demanding tasks? A little opening is left at the end, or so it seems to me. I thought that the most important moment in the film was this reading of Rilke’s enduring wisdom in the train. Though I cannot make a grandiose appeal to science, world-traveling experience, life with others, yet his words give expression to something I feel—daily I dare think—, and that is the trust put into the grace of a world lived in all its dimensions, and especially the trust that the articulation of air, gestures, thoughts, will, is part of this adequate world, that it will occur and be communed.

Almar Street

Un éventail d’eucalyptus géants essuie le ciel
Au-dessus de pins de Monterey austères et têtus.
De longues écorces pelées par la pluie et le vent
Jonchent le macadam huilé.
Les cables de téléphone et d’électricité ne sifflent pas.
Pas de longues fougères tassées en pelisse mais des buis, des troènes, ou d’épais cactus incongrus incapables du moindre son.
De grandes vagues désordonnées déferlent sans cesse et attaquent les grès de la côte.
L’écume s’accumule dans les recoins d’anses, bouillonne,
s’envole en paquets cotonneux qui couvrent la route.
De petits oiseaux noirs nagent dans les rouleaux,
vifs, flottant sur les plus grosses vagues ou plongeant prestement dans les eaux glauques, à la recherche de crabes désarçonnés.
Les cormorans attendent de meilleurs jours et les pélicans prennent refuge jusqu’au milieu des touristes sur la jetée.
Seules les mouettes se laissent aller sereines sans un battement d’aile le long de colonnes d’air invisibles.
Humains engoncés dans leurs anoraks, fanas du jogging, leurs rangs clairsemés…
Je souhaite l’événement: de grands rugissants qui arracheraient des pans entiers de la côte, en feraient de longues plages ondulées et me nettoieraient l’âme.
On revient à la maison toute verte d’ocellus, la vieille ferme-cabane, abri d’amours barrées à l’infini.
Les grattements de violons, les soulagements du violoncelle, la fière amertume de la clarinette, les craquements du feu de bois en offertoire, le grondement de l’océan apaisé par la distance, l’odeur des chanterelles rôties, les algues dans la soupe “hot and sour”, épaississent notre navigation dans le temps, ce trente et un décembre 1996.

Eden

Eden is that old-fashioned House
We dwell in every day
Without suspecting our abode
Until we drive away.

How fair on looking back, the Day
We sauntered from the Door—
Unconscious our returning,
But discover it no more.

Emily Dickinson

The diameter of the bomb

Poem by Yehuda Amichai, circulated today by Larry Robinson (“A poem a day”). Hebrew provided but I haven’t been able to solve the punctuation problem.

קֹטֶר הַפְּצָצָה

קֹטֶר הַפְּצָצָה הָיָה שְׁלֹשִׁים סֶנְטִימֶטְרִים
וְקֹטֶר תְּחוּם פְּגִיעָתָהּ כְּשִׁבְעָה מֶטְרִים
וּבוֹ אַרְבָּעָה הֲרוּגִים וְאַחַד עָשָׂר פְּצוּעִים.
וּמִסָּבִיב לָאֵלֶּה, בְּמַעְגָּל גָּדוֹל יוֹתֵר
שֶׁל כְּאֵב וּזְמַן, פְּזוֹרִים שְׁנֵי בָּתֵּי חוֹלִים
וּבֵית קְבָרוֹת אֶחָד. אֲבָל הָאִשָּׁה
הַצְּעִירָה, שֶׁנִּקְבְּרָה בַּמָּקוֹם שֶׁמִּמֶּנּוֹ בָּאָה,
בְּמֶרְחַק לְמַעְלָה מִמֵּאָה קִילוֹמֶטְרִים,
מַגְדִּילָה אֶת הַמַּעְגָּל מְאֹד מְאֹד,
וְהָאִישׁ הַבּוֹדֵד הַבּוֹכֶה עַל מוֹתָהּ
בְּיַרְכְּתֵי אַחַת מִמְּדִינוֹת הַיָּם הָרְחוֹקוֹת,
מַכְלִיל בַּמַּעְגָּל אֶת כָּל הָעוֹלָם.
וְלֹא אֲדַבֵּר כְּלָל עַל זַעֲקַת יְתוֹמִים
הַמַּגִּיעָה עַד לְכִסֵּא הָאֱלֹהִים
וּמִשָּׁם וָהָלְאָה וְעוֹשָׂה אֶת הַמַּעְגָּל לְאֵין סוֹף וְאֵין אֱלֹהִים.

The Diameter of the Bomb

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around these, in a larger circle
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard. But the young woman
who was buried in the city she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And I won’t even mention the crying of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and beyond,
making a circle with no end and no God.

en fleur

Les pruniers rabougris de la cour à Cowell
sont en fleur. Résurrection, anastas-iement
depuis la Californie jusqu’au Michigan…
Sur la table couverte de rose et d’oranges,
ma moissonneuse d’images et mots engrange
un petit fils d’homme surgi après Noël.

son of man

The inchoate discussion this morning on the “son of man” (UCSC class on gospel of Mark) leads me to post a well-known poem by Dan Pagis who uses this expression in full awareness of the burden it bears, from Ezekiel and Daniel to modern Hebrew usage, via the gospels. It is from Points of Departure. There is an English translation by Stephen Mitchell (Ibid., p. 23). I give a slightly different one and add a Breton version. My changes: railcar instead of Railway-Car, transport instead of carload, i eve instead of i am eve, older son instead of other son, and i am instead of i (last word). The poem needs to be read at least a couple times to get the grammar right and be rolling. It gives pause to the century-old Christian discussion of the expression.

כָּתוּב בְּעִפָּרוֹן בַּקָּרון הֶחָתוּם

כָּאן בַּמִּשְׁלוֹחַ הַזֶּה
אֲנִי חַוָּה
עִם הֶבֶל בְּנִי
אִם תִּרְאוּ אֶת בְּנִי הַגָּדוֹל
קַיִן בֶּן אָדָם
תַּגִּידוּ לוֹ שֶׁאֲנִי

Written in pencil in the sealed railcar

here in this transport
i eve
with abel my son
if you see my older son
cain son of man
tell him that i am

Hag e brezhoneg:

Skrivet gant kreïon er vagon stouvet

amañ er transport-se
me eva
gant abel va mab
ma welit va mab henañ
cain mab den
lavarit dezhañ emaon

Wind

This morning, I was sent a wind map of the United States that showed ever-changing streaks of moving air, including hurricane Isaac. To look at the movement of air as waving grey capillaries made me wonder again about the historian’s point of view, the location from which I dare survey a given slice of life or lives. From my heart and head, especially the latter, unfortunately. When I survey the conglomerated lives of ancient Israel and Judah and attempt to make of it a history, am I trying to compose something like the wind map linked to above, which gives both a sense of wonder and the illusion of sharing a moment with the divine, all-encompassing eye? Or am I following a thin strand or two for an exhilarating and extenuating ride, and losing it as soon as I think I’m on it? Yet I know I want to feel this unseen the poet invokes in Song of the banner at daybreak:

Fresh and rosy red the sun is mounting high,
On floats the sea in distant blue careering through its channels,
On floats the wind over the breast of the sea setting in toward land,
The great steady wind from west or west-by-south,
Floating so buoyant with milk-white foam on the waters.
But I am not the sea nor the red sun,
I am not the wind with girlish laughter,
Not the immense wind which strengthens, not the wind which lashes,
Not the spirit that ever lashes its own body to terror and death,
But I am that which unseen comes and sings, sings, sings,
Which babbles in brooks and scoots in showers on the land,
Which the birds know in the woods mornings and evenings,
And the shore-sands know and the hissing wave, and that banner and pennant,
Aloft there flapping and flapping.