De Amerikaanse dichter, librettist en essayist Scott Cairns werd geboren op 19 november 1954 in Tacoma, Washington. Zie ook alle tags voor Scott Cairns op dit blog.
Loves
Magdalen’s Epistle
Of Love’s discrete occasions, we
observe sufficient catalogue,
a likely-sounding lexicon
pronounced so as to implicate
a wealth of difference, where reclines
instead a common element,
itself quite like those elements
partaken at the table served
by Jesus on the night he was
betrayed—like those in that the bread
was breakable, the wine was red
and wet, and met the tongue with bright,
intoxicating sweetness, quite
like… wine. None of what I write arrives
to compromise that sacrament,
the mystery of spirit graved
in what is commonplace and plain—
the broken, brittle crust, the cup.
Quite otherwise, I choose instead
to bear again the news that each,
each was still itself, substantial
in the simplest sense. By now, you
will have learned of Magdalen, a name
recalled for having won a touch
of favor from the one we call
the son of man, and what you’ve heard
is true enough. I met him first
as, mute, he scribbled in the dust
to shame some village hypocrites
toward leaving me unbloodied,
if ill-disposed to taking up
again a prior circumstance.
I met him in the house of one
who was a Pharisee and not
prepared to suffer quietly
my handling of the master’s feet.
Much later, in the garden when,
having died and risen, he spoke
as to a maid and asked me why
I wept. When, at any meeting
with the Christ, was I not weeping?
For what? I only speculate
—brief inability to speak,
a weak and giddy troubling near
the throat, a wash of gratitude.
And early on, I think, some slight
abiding sense of shame, a sop
I have inferred more recently
to do without. Lush poverty!
I think that this is what I’m called
to say, this mild exhortation
that one should still abide all love’s
embarrassments, and so resist
the new temptation—dangerous,
inexpedient mask—of shame.
And, well, perhaps one other thing:
I have received some little bit
about the glib divisions which
so lately have occurred to you
as right, as necessary, fit
That the body is something less
than honorable, say, in its
… appetites? That the spirit is
something pure, and—if all goes well—
potentially unencumbered
by the body’s bawdy tastes.
This disposition, then, has led
to a banal and pious lack
of charity, and, worse, has led
more than a few to attempt some
soul-preserving severance—harsh
mortifications, manglings, all
manner of ritual excision
lately undertaken to prevent
the body’s claim upon the heart,
or mind, or (blasphemy!) spirit—
whatever name you fix upon
the supposéd bodiless.
I fear that you presume—dissecting
the person unto something less
complex. I think that you forget
you are not Greek. I think that you
forget the very issue which
induced the Christ to take on flesh.
All loves are bodily, require
that the lips part, and press their trace
of secrecy upon the one
beloved—the one, or many, endless
array whose aspects turn to face
the one who calls, the one whose choice
it was one day to lift my own
bruised body from the dust, where, it seems
to me, I must have met my death,
thereafter, this subsequent life
and late disinclination toward
simple reductions in the name
of Jesus, whose image I work
daily to retain. I have kissed
his feet. I have looked long
into the trouble of his face,
and met, in that intersection,
the sacred place—where body
and spirit both abide, both yield,
in mutual obsession. Yes,
if you’ll recall your Hebrew word.
just long enough to glimpse in its
dense figure power to produce
you’ll see as well the damage Greek
has wrought upon your tongue, stolen
from your sense of what is holy,
wholly good, fully animal—
the body which he now prepares.
Een woord
Voor A. B.
Ze zei God. Hij lijkt er te zijn
wanneer ik Hem aanroep maar aanroepen
is ook moeilijk geweest. Pijnlijk.
En terwijl ze stil werd om een ander woord
te zoeken, was ik nog een keer
overgeleverd aan mijn eigen lange worsteling
met diezelfde engel hier — nog steeds
hier — aan de voet van de oude
Paradijsladder, in vuil stof
smachtend nochtans helemaal
op de onderste tree, liet mijn greep varen
lang voor de zegen.
Vertaald door Frans Roumen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 19e november ook mijn blog van 19 november 2020 en ook mijn blog van 19 november 2018 en eveneens mijn blog van 19 november 2017 deel 3.