Dialectic In Abeyance
With little
direction from their teacher,
the
children—boys in white shirts and blue shorts,
girls in white
blouses and blue plaid jumpers,
both genders
united by navy blue knee socks—
file tidily up
the stone stairs, presumably into the sanctuary,
out of view of
the heretic loitering across the street, in any case.
The children
are being schooled in the intricacies of submission.
They will
remember these outings: the break from the classroom,
these homilies
and sermons, their own links in the chain of tradition.
They will
remember the candles in daylight and, with eyes lowered,
the rhythm of
call and response: knowing what to say when.
They will
remember the palace of certainty shielding the unknowable.
Children of
the uncertain or the unbelieving, on the other hand,
will have no
such collective memory, reflects the heretic.
They will
not have entered edifices constructed long ago to celebrate
a force
unseen, to sing hymns to events that may not have happened,
all the while
rejoicing in the flutter of the dark
that will
soothe away the summer and the dust of doubt.
Even if they
arrive here later in life,
children of
the uncertain or the unbelieving will never have had
this
foundation, the ease of assumed understanding.
They will have
to work harder to master these arcana, to submit,
for they have
not learned through precepts bequeathed by elders.
Their missteps
in the labyrinth, along with their zeal, will be noted.
They may find
themselves longing for the ways of their parents, the
mess of
uncertainty and unbelieving. They may remember arguments
at the kitchen
table, figures gesticulating on a soapbox, reason marshaled
to question
authority, action direct with a placard or an editorial or
bodies.
Perhaps he will see these children some day outside a lecture or
labor hall or
a bathhouse, thought the heretic, turning finally away.
Briefly, they
could swap stories from opposite sides of the heretical fence.
A Meditation On the
Question Of Agency
How did the heretic land on this rickety
footstool,
cowering before the junkies near Sabbath’s
end while others
celebrate the movement victories.
He gazes at the letters that have
fluttered in from those transfixed by the
model of his hereticism,
yet who have chosen a different
path,
or rather to remain on the one they all once
shared.
He stares blankly at the postmarks and the
scrawled invitations
for meetings, with their curiosity and
need.
Against the cacophony of coffee machines,
these have not gone well.
There are claims made, criticisms
leveled.
It is suggested that he compose on other
topics: on – or – , for instance.
The heretic is exhorted to “get perspective”
and “lighten up”
for this is a free country.
The flames of the auto-da-fe do not lick at
his heels.
The hangman’s noose does not hover
here,
as it does elsewhere.
And then there are the offerings from those
reared in milder environs.
From them the question is
posed:
what have you done, what will you now
that you are no longer caged?
Rather than dwell, it is felt that he should incorporate
all that is best
from his not-quite-former world into his currently
evolved self.
He has the power to fashion a confident, yet
rooted persona.
Wear what you wish, but avoid labels and
fixed identities.
Know that, in fact, you are not a heretic,
they contend.
The heretic does not answer or dismiss these criticisms,
questions,
and contentions, none of which are, after
all, unreasonable.
Not from restraint or stoicism, but in
deference to the quiet not yet his.
Having mastered the praxis of flight,
liberation remains for him an
abstraction. No longer on the
footstool, he now stands in the center of
the circle of stones on the brink of being
cast while reaching for
the embrace of the departing Sabbath
queen.
A crow peers forth from his quivering,
serrated throat.
The People Of the Book . . . Without Books?
The wives whispered at the butcher and in
the market
and on departing the bathhouse after ritual
immersion;
the husbands in the house of
study
and while selecting the citrons and palm
branches.
They shook their heads and clicked their
tongues,
looking down so as not to see.
It was shocking, as you can imagine, and yet
not
in that way that only decrees affecting the
People of the Book can be.
Only just released, it was already plastered
on bulletin boards
outside prayer halls and on doors and
telephone poles.
Seemingly ubiquitous. Yet no
one quite knew how they had gotten there
since no one had been seen posting
them. Is there a traitor among us?
A meeting in the synagogue was convened on
Tuesday evening.
After long prayers composed for occasions
such as this,
shouting erupted. The rabbi proved unable to
control the frenzy,
which could well have been heightened by the
days of fasting.
The burly beadle and his henchmen, whose
physical prowess
was feared by all, Jew and gentile alike,
had to step in and restore order.
Even if temptations of the flesh could be
completely filtered out
to save us and our children from
ruin,
the synagogue’s chief benefactor
wondered,
and that is far from a given for cunning is
the Evil Inclination,
could legal permission actually be
granted?
How shall we pray on the Sabbath and
holidays
when electronic devices are
forbidden?
And how dare we depart from the path of our
ancestors,
they who touched and swayed over and died for these holy
books
and from the ground below where the fragments are
buried,
cried the cantor in intonation normally reserved for the
Days of Awe.
And how shall the weekly Torah portion be
recited,
the words that unite our people in homeland
and diaspora alike,
for surely scrolls will not be spared, wept the Torah
reader,
so young and already renowned across several
provinces
for a style of cantillation stunning in
its
precision of enunciation and mastery of
melody.
We shall descend underground.
No, we shall study the ways of the martyrs.
Cease! God will reveal the means, the rabbi
said, resuming prayer.
Leaves
rustling in gratitude, only the trees rejoiced.
Yermiyahu Ahron Taub is the author of three
books of poetry, Uncle Feygele (Plain View Press, 2011), What
Stillness Illuminated/Vos shtilkayt hot baloykhtn (Parlor Press, 2008; Free
Verse Editions series), and The Insatiable
Psalm (Wind River Press, 2005). He was honored by the Museum
of Jewish Heritage as one of New York ’s best emerging Jewish artists and has
been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize and twice for a Best of the Net
award. Please visit his web site at www.yataub.net.
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