Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Judith and Holofernes

Judith by Franz Stuck (1928)


Then, the barons quickly brought her to his bed,
that wise maiden. The stouthearted warriors went
to tell their high lord that the holy lady
was brought to his pavilion. The famous prince
became blissful then; he thought of the bright maid,
to defile with impurity and disgrace.

The Almighty Lord God would not allow that,
and so, the Ruler of Heaven restrained him.
Then that fiercest warrior, wanton and fiendish,
left to go to lie where he would lose his life,
with a crowd of men, where he'd meet his cruel end,
an end as he had always striven after,
that dire prince of men, while he dwelled in this world
’neath roof of clouds. There that ruler fell so drunk
onto his mattress, that he might know nothing.

His warriors, sated with sweet wine, went from there,
out of that tall tent, quickly turning away,
the troop of men, who had led the troth-breaker,
that hostile persecutor, that earthly prince,
to his large bed for the last time. The lady,
the strong servant of the Savior, was mindful
of how she most easily might make attempt
to take old age from that most terrible one,
to deprive him, that dark lord, of a long life,
ere that wicked man awoke.

Then the wise maid, with silken hair,
sought a sharp sword from its sheath
to hew hard blows, and drew it with her right hand.
Then she called on the Creator of Heaven,
Savior of all Earth-dwellers, and said these words:
"I do pray to you, Lord Prince of Creation,
Holy Son of Heaven and Spirit of Hope,
for mercy, Mighty Majesty, in my need.

Truly, I am greatly troubled with sorrows,
my soul is now inflamed and my mind made sad.
Great Guardian of the Heavens, give to me
triumph and true faith, so I might take this sword
and deal death to this dispenser of murder.

Grant to me my welfare, Great Father of Men.
I never have had more need of your mercy.
Avenge me, Almighty Lord, give me anger
in my heart, heat in my mind." Then the High Judge
filled her completely with courage, as he does
for all who look for his loving help with faith.

Her heart was unbound, trust in Holy God reborn.
Then she grabbed that heathen man hard by his hair,
dragged him toward her with her hands, drew him nearer,
took him shamefully, and placed that sinful man
so she easily had control over him.

Then, she struck her enemy with shining sword,
swung that sharp blade straight down upon his stiff neck,
his trusted weapon falling toward his bare throat,
so that she notched halfway through his naked neck;
he lie there in a swoon, still breathing softly,
drunk and sorely wounded. He was not yet dead,
completely lifeless. Then courageous lady
earnestly struck that heathen hound one more time
so that his head rolled forth to the floor below.

The body stayed behind, as his baleful soul
wandered under the wide abyss, wrapped with pain.
The spirit now roamed elsewhere and it survived
and there below was bound tight with base torments,
surrounded by serpents, sought out for tortures,
damned and detained in hell-fire after death.

He need not hope, enveloped in that hot night,
that he might go forth from the burning furnace,
from that serpents’ hall, but he should stay trapped there,
always remain, forever and evermore,
in that dreary homestead, with deepest despair.

Then Judith, wise maid, did win worldwide renown
in battle, as granted by Bountiful God,
the Sovereign of Heaven, who gave her success.
That holy widow put the dead warrior’s head,
so bloody, into the bag in which her maid,
a lady with light skin, well-mannered servant,
had brought thither some baked bread for them both,
tightly wrapped up the trophy inside the pouch;
then, Judith gave it, so gory, to the girl,
back again to the same young, thoughtful servant
to bear it home.

Then both ladies hurried forth,
went directly from that place, bold and daring,
until the triumphant, brave maids traveled
away from the army’s camp, so they clearly
could see Bethulia’s brightly shining walls.
Then, radiant, adorned with rings, they hurried
and continued forth on the familiar course
away from the sleeping Assyrian force
until the rampart gate they joyfully gained.*

Judith with the Head of Holofernes by Cristofano Allori (1613)

*From Mary Savelli's translation of Judith, the Old English poem (with apologies for reformatting).

You can read another translation of Judith here. To read various versions of The Book of Judith, go here.  Another dozen or so depictions of Judith and Holofernes can be found here. 



Tuesday, May 2, 2017

Myth



As all good con artists know, a compelling lie is a powerful and resilient beast. My great-great grandfather’s obituary noted his “splendid soldier record” in service to the Confederacy, even though he died almost 60 years after the war, in 1924. Forty years after that, when I was a little girl, play Confederate money was still a prize in gumball machines, and I had a grade school teacher who talked of kind slave owners and the cruelty of emancipation. I like to think of myself as a fairly smart and empathetic person, but without some excellent high school and college history teachers, I might still be attached to some vaguely romantic notion of the Lost Cause. I know plenty of people who are. Humans are hungry for myth—we need myth—and once we latch onto a gratifying story, we don't readily let go of it, no matter how empty or false or toxic it may be. It seems like a terrible weakness of the species. And yet...how would we survive without our gift for stories that nourish and sustain, stories that reconcile us to life and each other?
   


Myth
by Muriel Rukeyser

Long afterward, Oedipus, old and blinded, walked the Roads.
He smelled a familiar smell.
It was the Sphinx
Oedipus said, "I want to ask one question.
Why didn't I recognize my mother?"
"You gave the wrong answer," said the Sphinx.
"But that was what made everything possible," said Oedipus.
"No," she said. When I asked, what walks on four legs in the morning,
Two at noon and three in the evening, you answered,
Man.
You didn't say anything about woman."
"When you say Man," said Oedipus,
"You include women too.
Everyone knows that."
She said, "That's what you think."

*See the poem in its proper form here.


1. Portrait of Pvt. Edwin Francis Jemison, 2nd Louisiana Infantry Regiment. He served in the Peninsula campaign under General J.B. Magruder and was killed in the battle of Malvern Hill, July, 1862. From Wikimedia Commons.

2.  A former slave of U.S. President Andrew Jackson (probably Betty Jackson) and two of her great-grandchildren, 1867. From Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday, March 5, 2017

A brief taste of happiness



Dessert Still-life, Georg Flegel (1566-1638)

I've been thinking a lot about happiness lately. Not deep, enduring, TED Talk happiness, but shallow, ephemeral happiness—the kind that rescues you from irritation and drudgery for an hour and then departs as if it had pressing business elsewhere. I'm pretty sure this is the only kind of happiness I'll ever really know, and I hold it in high regard. I don't understand why it never gets a TED Talk. There are lots of ways to court fleeting bliss but none better than music. So here's my own  random and shamelessly cheesy happiness hit parade, good for today only. Tomorrow I'd have a completely different list. Cheers.



























Wednesday, February 8, 2017

1909


The little boy in this picture is my maternal grandfather. (I wrote about him a while back in Still.) He was born in 1906. His older sister here was born in 1905, and the baby entered the world in June 1908, so judging from their apparent ages, the photo was most likely taken in the late summer or early fall of 1909. William Howard Taft was sworn in as President that year. Joan of Arc was beatified and the Anglo-Persian Oil Company (now known as BP) was incorporated. Nelson Algren and Eudora Welty were born. Geronimo died, and so did vile Leopold II. And speaking of vile things, if you'd like to see a reminder of the deep roots of our present crisis, check out Taft's inaugural address. It's all there. Pay special attention to the remarks about immigrants and voting rights. Taft lacked 45's flare for the apocalyptic and was much better at doublespeak, but they share some favorite themes.

I hide myself behind simple objects so you may find me,
if you do not find me, you will find the objects,
you will touch those objects my hand has touched
the traces of our hands will mingle.

~ From "The Meaning of Simplicity" by Yannis Ritsos, who was born in 1909. See the rest of this translation by Rae Dalven at Poetry Foundation.

Monday, February 6, 2017

A woman for our time


I volunteered to participate in one of those Facebook art memes, and my good friend Jennifer (an awesome fiddler) assigned me the work of Paolo Uccello. I dutifully spent part of my afternoon googling around for a suitable choice from his oeuvre, but for some reason I just wasn't feeling it. Late Gothic portraits and religious subjects do not speak to my present mood.

But I kept googling and—after dipping briefly into many wonderful rabbit holes—was rewarded with the image above: Lady Godiva by Remedios Varo, 1959. It really hits the spot, and no wonder. Our girl looks exceptionally badass, riding along on her own hair, breasts on full display, making like Diogenes with that lamp perched in front of her. There's not an honest man in sight, but notice that Peeping Tom is lurking in the window. I'm not sure what that fish is doing down there at her feet. Perhaps it's a bit of Christian symbolism, along with the cross LG is holding. And the crescent-moon morphing of her face? Your guess is as good as mine. But all interpretation aside, Varo's Lady speaks to me in all her ferocious, vulnerable, sexually-charged weirdness. She's an ideal woman for this menacing, surreal time.

*Read about Remedios Varo here, and reacquaint yourself with the legend of Lady Godiva here.

Saturday, February 4, 2017

Random notes to self and others, re resisting the Creep



Political movements worthy of the name are invariably messy and burdened by conflict. There’s never been one yet that didn’t have to grapple with serious ethical, tactical, and ideological disputes. Internal argument is part of the process. Try to keep that in mind when you see people doing or saying stuff that strikes you as wrongheaded or counterproductive. Unity isn’t everything, and perfect unity isn’t possible. Speak up, but resist the urge to attack allies or accuse them of bad faith. Likewise, don’t take disagreement personally. We are all on the same side, at least in this cause. Forest, trees, etc.

That said, agents provocateurs and appeals to extremism are real concerns for any political movement, and it’s important to be wary of them. You can certainly justify breaking a bad law, but rhetoric that encourages unethical or malicious behavior in the name of a higher good is suspect, always. Gut check everything.

Don't let the Creep or his apologists silence you by saying one of his outrages is “just temporary.” Softening resistance to repressive edicts by claiming they’re temporary is one of the oldest tricks in the authoritarian handbook. Egypt declared a state of emergency after Sadat’s assassination in 1981, legalizing censorship and indefinite detention, among other things. That state of emergency remained in effect for 31 years. Closer to home, the most intrusive and controversial elements of the Patriot Act were originally supposed to expire in 2005, but they were first reauthorized under Bush the Younger and then replaced in modified form in the Freedom Act, with the support of President Obama. Nothing is more permanent than the temporary, as the poet said.

Never forget the humanity of the ordinary people on the other side. This is the hardest task. There are no monsters. Demonizing fellow citizens is a good way to win battles while losing the war.



Femme écrivant, Ferdinand Lepcke (1866-1909)

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Some things never change



You poor malign narcissist
I fear you and pity you
I am determined to escape you
I cannot allow you to destroy
        my sanity, my career, my
        capacity of service, my decency
I am in control
I control myself
I am in control of the situation
I will avoid you tomorrow—
        somehow, or resist you
        or slip away from you
you are dangerous, destructive
vindictive, mean, cruel,
cunning and wholly solipsistic
inhabiting a false private
narcissistic world, destructive
of this real world of me.

~ An undated, untitled poem* by Dennis Brutus, a South African poet who was imprisoned and banned from publishing because of his anti-apartheid activities. He came to the U.S. in 1970 and was granted asylum as a political refugee after he successfully fought an attempt by the Reagan administration to deport him.

* This poem can be found in Poetry and Human Rights: Poems by Dennis Brutus, a collection gathered from his papers at Worcester State University in Massachusetts. Since Brutus died in 2009, the malign narcissist in question is not our current Creep-in-Chief. I like to think it's the Gipper, but the possibilities, of course, are endless.

Photo from South African History Online.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

A rambling proposal



I was born in November 1961, so some of my earliest impressions of the world beyond my little hometown were shaped by the tumult of the late 60s/early 70s. The war in Vietnam, the King and Robert Kennedy assassinations, the Kent State shootings, Watergate — I was very aware of all those things as they were happening. Our TV was always on, and in between the soap operas, variety shows, and sitcoms came regular doses of real-world political upheaval. Those reports scared me pretty badly, though I don’t think I ever said so to my parents. I had a strong sense that the country I lived in was in crisis. It seemed as if we were on the verge of catastrophe, and my comfy existence might change for the worse at any moment.

By the time I was into my teens, those deep fears had fallen away. I was fully aware that bad things still went on, of course, but I had moved quite unconsciously into the psychic bubble of safety most white Americans inhabit. I stopped thinking catastrophe was imminent. My grandmother had insisted I watch the Watergate hearings with her, and the outcome of that scandal seemed to me to offer proof that we had a kind of bedrock stability in this country that almost nothing — certainly no sorry-ass politician or political dispute — could destroy. Not that I trusted or admired the government. No, my default position was always distrust, leaning toward outright opposition, and there’ve been plenty of things worth opposing in every political era in my lifetime. But no matter how much ugliness invaded Washington, a better day seemed eternally possible, even likely.

How incredibly stupid and naive that idea seems now.

These days I’m back to being that kid glued to the TV, watching the news footage from Vietnam and envisioning the end of the United States as I know it. This mindset has been slowly overtaking me since the election, but the news this weekend of Bannon’s appointment to the NSC erased all lingering hope that we might get through this without irreparable damage to the country and the world. That sounds overwrought even to me, but my heart and head tell me it’s true.

Which brings me to my proposal: I’ve decided to keep a private record of my impressions and experiences in this new, unlovely political era, and I hope some of you will do the same. Essays, op-eds, blog posts, Facebook rants, and Twitter zingers are all great, but I want the freedom to write words that are safe from the eyes of strangers, at least for now. I don’t want to debate my thoughts away or tweak them to attract a wider audience. I want to be both thoughtful and unfiltered. Most of us do very little writing of that sort anymore. We no longer write long, reflective letters to each other, since it’s so easy to pick up the phone or get the instant gratification of texting. The few people I know who keep journals write about themselves, not the world. I suspect most people feel they haven’t anything important to say, but I believe just the opposite is true. The more powerless and insignificant you feel yourself to be, the more we need a record of how this time looks to you. History is what happens to ordinary people. History is happening to us, right now, and we will do the future a favor if we keep a record of it.

One more thing: I’m writing my record by hand in a simple bound notebook. For now, I won’t digitize it in any way. I encourage you to do likewise. That’s partly paranoia. No electronic medium seems safe to me these days. But it’s also a practical, cheap hedge against changing technology, and there’s something mood- and mind-altering about the physical process of putting pen to paper. It’s calming, and it makes me feel focused and fully human in a way I never do before a keyboard.

Mary Magdalene writingMaster of the Female Half-Lengths, c.1520

Sunday, January 15, 2017

"Our lives no longer feel ground under them"


Osip Mandelstam was born on January 15, 1891 and died in December, 1938, essentially killed by his satirical poem known as "The Stalin Epigram." Mandelstam defiantly recited it at gatherings where informers were present, which led to his imprisonment, exile, and finally death in a transit camp on the way to serving a five year sentence. Stalin, like most tyrants, did not tolerate mockery.

There are many English translations of "The Stalin Epigram." This one by W.S. Merlin and Clarence Brown is probably the most well known:


Our lives no longer feel ground under them.
At ten paces you can’t hear our words.

But whenever there’s a snatch of talk
it turns to the Kremlin mountaineer,

the ten thick worms his fingers,
his words like measures of weight,

the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip,
the glitter of his boot-rims.

Ringed with a scum of chicken-necked bosses
he toys with the tributes of half-men.

One whistles, another meows, a third snivels.
He pokes out his finger and he alone goes boom.

He forges decrees in a line like horseshoes,
One for the groin, one the forehead, temple, eye.

He rolls the executions on his tongue like berries.
He wishes he could hug them like big friends from home.

***

There's an interesting article about the context of the poem and the challenge of translating it here, and you can read several more translations here. (The Merwin/Brown translation at that second link is slightly different from the one above, which comes from the Academy of American Poets website.)

***

This short film is almost too reverent toward Mandelstam, but it's moving nonetheless. It's in Russian, and you might need to take it to full screen to read the subtitles.




*Mandelstam's poetry has appeared several times on the blog, including this post and this one and this one.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

"on a scale of joy I weigh them"



Hey, what do you deal in – sorrow?
What are you selling there – despair?
I’m a buyer and a dealer,
and I’m dealing and I’m wheeling
days and nights, and even moments:
on a scale of joy I weigh them,
buy them up and then resell them,
half are black
and half in blazes,
at fairs, in markets, and on highways
who should happen in my pathway,
in whoever’s path I happen
I count Mammon!…

I’m a buyer and a dealer
and I’m dealing and I’m wheeling…

What are you selling – corpses? Rags?
Or long-since-departed dads?
Hey, a buyer’s slipped a way,
he’s dying but will be reborn.

~ Peretz Markish, 1917

translated by Amelia Glaser


Markish was one of thirteen members of the Jewish Anti-Fascist Committee who were secretly executed on Stalin's orders, August 12, 1952, an event known as The Night of the Murdered Poets. You can read about it here, and you can see a document with more of the work of Markish and others here.  


The Poet, Egon Schiele, 1911