UPROOTING THE TORAH IN ANY CULTURE

An esteemed rabbi has recently criticized a collection of piyyutim. Piyyutim are, as everybody knows, poems of a religious nature, often in Hebrew, or, worst case scenario, some other language.

To quote Dov Bear:

"The author of the attack avers that treating piyuttim as poetry is an insult. See, the authors of the piyuttim were too holy to bother with things like style, form, and structure. Magically, they were able to convey their brilliant ideas without debasing themselves through the use of literary techniques or tools. One wonders why they even bothered to use words, and if it is a sin to think about their word choices."

"Along with some other familiar gripes, our complainer also announces it suspicious that the editors of the new book saw fit to capitalize the word Christian, Their meticulousness is evidence of their corruption. Their work may be "beautiful", he protests, but it lacks "fire"."

[End quote.]


This was brought to my attention by a reader (Bill), to whom I responded:

"I fear I don't cruise into Dovbear's blog nearly as often as I should.
Great quote: "Fire, I suppose, is only found among the sloppy and disheveled."
I think we've seen enough fire in the past six months of presidential campaigning to tire us of fire alone, with all eloquence, poetry, form, or coherence.

Poetry is NOT the "last refuge of the cricket-hating sodomite", as some of the British would hold, but rather a splendid way of making words come alive, and making the message memorable.
But that is probably my apikorsus speaking."

[End self-cite.]


Bill would appreciate my posting that as an entry on this blog, so that it may be better found in future. I am more than ambivalent to oblige!

[Shan't mention who I think Bill is, except to say that I may have run into him outside the New York Public Library late one night when he was using his lap top, as well as near Kikar Safra when one of us had been purchasing goose-quills and gall ink, along with qlaf to write upon. In our hoary youth we once had a discussion about vegetarianism, soup, and turkeys.]


I have looked at my book shelves. There is a fair amount of poetry there. Some of it indeed written by cricket-hating sodomites (not that there is anything wrong with that), but most of it was composed by people whose sexual peccadilloes are unknown to me, who may have lived full lives entirely ignorant of cricket, or even pink-faced English public school boys (such strapping lads!).


Hwæt

Dutch poetry and Chinese regulated verse are very well represented; in particular, I am fond of Jean Pierre Rawi, whose sonnets are quite divine, and several penmasters who lived before, during, and after the Tang dynasty era (618 CE to 906 CE) responsible for immortal lines.

Some Germans are also there, as well as some old Englishmen.

Sanskrit too, but only in translation.

And the Bible.



The Song of Songs ('Shir ha shirim asher li Shloime')

The good rabbis and churchmen of the past have insisted that, instead of being deliriously beautiful sex poetry, the Song of Songs must be meant metaphorically as a disgrifiad of the deity's affection for his chosen, that being variously Jews, Karaites, Christians, or Presbyterians.

In fact, it is such splendid versification that us commoners are not ever supposed to read it, but instead, per Artscroll at least, digest completely bland paraphrasticisms and so feel suitably fulfilled.

Cold showers may be required.

Hands above the sheets.


It is likely that because of the exciting nature of poetry, even when it serves the purest, holiest, and most withering purposes, Rabbi Yisroel Mantel e altri che possono essere assunta levelled their artillery at the Machzor Shivchei Yeshurun; they fear that the simple people may become excited.
The horror, the horror.

Religious fervor must at all times be cold and sterile.

Except during the burning of books.




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