Last Sunday I read Joel Hoffman's And God Said explaining the art and science of translating ancient Hebrew scriptures and shedding light on several mistranslations in the King James Version of the Old Testament.
The Epistle reading in church today was from Romans 7 - Paul's conflict between his mind, will and flesh. It brought to mind Hoffman's chapter on translating "heart" and "soul". Hoffman seemed to reflect the more holistic Jewish notion of those two words encompassing our whole being. We (Westerners) seem to have compartmentalized notions of our tangible and intangible selves. This is borne out in how the KJV expresses the Great Commandment in Deuteronomy to "love the Lord thy God with all our heart, soul and strength". Westerners treat the Hebrew word translated "heart" as a tangible metaphor for love and desire, but the Hebrew word elsewhere refers mind and will as well as love and desire, and shades of meaning surrounding these intangibilities. The Hebrew word translated "soul" goes beyond that intangible, ambiguous construct to refer in other places to the life forces thought to reside in the blood and other body parts. The Hebrew word translated as "strength" is also used as an adverb as we would use "very" - in other words, emphasizing "heart" and "soul", but not necessarily adding another component to our being.
Among these meanings our whole being is meant to be encompassed. We are to love God with all that we are. The Hebrew is not easily resolved into parts.
In Romans 7, Paul seems to reflect the more Hellenistic dichotomy of body and soul in how he articulates his conflict. (I confess that while I admire the grandeur of Paul's general theology, sometimes I find his specific arguments more culture-bound and less convincing.) The reading today brought Hoffman's "one being" back to mind (my phrase, not his) and reminded me that God does not see us in parts (or "in part"), but in the whole and His dealings with us are thus intended.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Deaf Things
I neither wrote nor translated this piece, and wish I could have done either. It is from the anthology of Serbian poetry translated by Charles Simic, The Horse Has Six Legs. If you don't read any other book of poems this year, read this one. The following is an excerpt (Stanza 10) of the poem Deaf Things by Momcilo Nastasijevic.
(10)
Pain
so it turned black
I want, since it happens,
for this wound
to be living to its depths.
Out of this hell
for a breath of some paradise -
out of this sin
for someone to become a saint.
For this suffering
and muddle
to have no end.
For the sake of that grace,
forever, this curse.
(10)
Pain
so it turned black
I want, since it happens,
for this wound
to be living to its depths.
Out of this hell
for a breath of some paradise -
out of this sin
for someone to become a saint.
For this suffering
and muddle
to have no end.
For the sake of that grace,
forever, this curse.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
A Sweet Truth
A sweet truth brushes my soul, caresses my breast.
While I reach toward my heart, it dances over my hand,
trembling through my fingers, slipping past, but not dropped;
apprehended, but not grasped.
My elbow bends, extending my arm in a sweep of space,
but the truth eludes the circle drawn;
it instead imposes its own presence:
my wrists yield to its press. It buoys my arms,
giving lift to my shoulders and lightness to my head.
My torso stretches up against its force, this truth.
Its weight teeters upon my wrists and I balance the arch of my back
with a forward shift of my loins, forward
until my knees fold and my
head snaps front to keep from falling;
balanced but dropped
to my knees with a jolt,
head bowed.
The truth that shored my shoulders closes in like a shadow
of immense light: I collapse in a ball,
encompassed,
overwhelmed. Truth enters my sides,
my belly, my vessels, my glands,
my lungs until I respire its essence,
sweat its virtue,
bleed its words.
Dedicated to John Nimmiti
While I reach toward my heart, it dances over my hand,
trembling through my fingers, slipping past, but not dropped;
apprehended, but not grasped.
My elbow bends, extending my arm in a sweep of space,
but the truth eludes the circle drawn;
it instead imposes its own presence:
my wrists yield to its press. It buoys my arms,
giving lift to my shoulders and lightness to my head.
My torso stretches up against its force, this truth.
Its weight teeters upon my wrists and I balance the arch of my back
with a forward shift of my loins, forward
until my knees fold and my
head snaps front to keep from falling;
balanced but dropped
to my knees with a jolt,
head bowed.
The truth that shored my shoulders closes in like a shadow
of immense light: I collapse in a ball,
encompassed,
overwhelmed. Truth enters my sides,
my belly, my vessels, my glands,
my lungs until I respire its essence,
sweat its virtue,
bleed its words.
Dedicated to John Nimmiti
Monday, May 30, 2011
Translating Rilke, I.55
From The Book of Hours, I.55
Much of this translation was taken from Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy. I also translated several additional lines they left out.
----------------------------------
The poets have scattered you
(a storm tore through their stammering)
but I want to gather you up again into a vessel
that could make you glad.
I wander through the winds that churn you:
that churn you a thousand times over.
I retrieve all the pieces of you that I find:
from the blind man who used you for his drinking cup,
from the butler who hid you in the back of the closet,
from the beggar who held you out to passers-by.
Sometimes the largest parts of your soul I found in a child.
You see, I am a Collector.
One who, like a shepherd, hides behind the back of his hand
so that you don't see him watching you
(you would like to evade his notice, turning instead
into the stranger's sites)
One who dreams of making you complete, and, in so doing
completes himself.
Much of this translation was taken from Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy. I also translated several additional lines they left out.
----------------------------------
The poets have scattered you
(a storm tore through their stammering)
but I want to gather you up again into a vessel
that could make you glad.
I wander through the winds that churn you:
that churn you a thousand times over.
I retrieve all the pieces of you that I find:
from the blind man who used you for his drinking cup,
from the butler who hid you in the back of the closet,
from the beggar who held you out to passers-by.
Sometimes the largest parts of your soul I found in a child.
You see, I am a Collector.
One who, like a shepherd, hides behind the back of his hand
so that you don't see him watching you
(you would like to evade his notice, turning instead
into the stranger's sites)
One who dreams of making you complete, and, in so doing
completes himself.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Translating Rilke, I.3
From The Book of Hours, I.3
----------------------------------
I have many cossacked brothers living in the South:
their spectres rise through cloistered laurel.
Through humanity ablaze in their Madonnas I recognize
the ember of God - and often dream of young Titians.
But when I peer over the edge of myself,
God - my God - is dark.
A knot of a hundred buried roots drinking in silence.
All I know is that I arise out of this ferment whose
silence stills my branches
except for the rustle of the Wind.
Acknowledgment to Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy in Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God for the image of "ferment" from Rilke's word choice "Waerme".
----------------------------------
I have many cossacked brothers living in the South:
their spectres rise through cloistered laurel.
Through humanity ablaze in their Madonnas I recognize
the ember of God - and often dream of young Titians.
But when I peer over the edge of myself,
God - my God - is dark.
A knot of a hundred buried roots drinking in silence.
All I know is that I arise out of this ferment whose
silence stills my branches
except for the rustle of the Wind.
Acknowledgment to Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy in Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God for the image of "ferment" from Rilke's word choice "Waerme".
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)