In Thunder and stone, The Commandment came... poem by Peter Menkin
To be set free
by stones:First Commandment:
Have no other Gods
but me.
Could the thunder
on Mount Sinai have
said something when
Moses came down?
I am your friend,
you are my people.
Did trumpets sound?
Light was there around
Moses.
Let me say the
words, Friend of God.
Living words.
Friday, June 22, 2007
The first of the Ten Commandments
A few years ago I began work on the Ten Commandments, which I have paid attention to as a series of Ten poems from time to time. One book I read on the subject of the Ten Commandments noted that the first set of ten brought down from the mountain were shattered and lost, gone in a way but also still available as spirit in the world. For some people, that may be too mystical, and I agree it is an unusual idea. But this first of the Ten Commandments, about which I write as a poem, is the actual First Commandment brought to the people of Israel. There is mystery about these Ten Commandments, for clear as they may be they are the subject of wonderful discussions.
Confessions and conceits are not enough when it comes to the Ten Commandments. I will spare you my own idol making, or even that of people I know like my father who eschewed what he called, "That bitch Goddess success." Living with God is a struggle, if I may be so ambitious to say something profound. Each of us in our way makes peace with ourselves, and peace with God. That is part of what living is about, coming to a better or right relationship with God. In fact, I go so far as to say that is all that living is about. May the peace of the Lord be with you.
The Eighth Commandment, a poem, continues the series on The Ten Commandments. All Ten Commandments will be covered, a poem for each. This series is a revision of an earlier series posted on this blog.
Eighth Commandment
By Peter Menkin Robbery, theft, pilfering,
embezzlement, extortion--the list goes on of theft.
Ask the warden what it is
that brought the man to take what was anothers.
Something in the heart, the mind,
and many think
spirit. Man disobeys God.
Turned away.
Who has ears for the words of God?
This is the Commandment as published in "The Book of Common Prayer."
Thou shalt not steal. Found on page 318, the Decalogue is complete with all Ten Commandments. Some readers will discover that the order found here does not agree with the order they know. The order used by me is the same as given in "The Book of Common Prayer"
If you have religious inclinations, you may agree with me that in the Christian faith we wait on God. We wait on Christ in the mystery of the unknowing that many people of faith experience. I have had to remind myself, many time, to wait on the Lord. I have had to remind myself that not having answers is part of the reality of faith. I have had to remind myself that "my ways are not your ways," so says the Lord. I hope you like this poem about waiting on the Lord.
Waiting on the Lord
By Peter Menkin
The earnest prayer
I offer is to receive
The mysterious, majesty
Of God in a quiet
Way of silence.
To wait on the Lord,
This special time,
A set aside for me
And my soul to know
You are.
Usually I send my poems to friends so they can be my readers. One wrote back that I had not followed the form of "names" well enough, but they knew what I meant. I took that as enough license to allow this imperfect poem.
After three years of regular attendance, one could say they have heard all (most) of the Bible read aloud. Well, as you know probably, the Lectionary is chosen by members of the Clergy who have Gospel reasons for their selections. Some things are left out. What do you know? Yet, I am inspired by the inspirational attention that is given to the reading of the Bible in Church, and by the selections that are made.
Some people read these selections earlier in the week to prepare for the coming Sunday. In the Church I attend there is a Bible study every week to look at the selections. A lot of attention is paid to these readings, and so I hope I have communicated that I read the names in the Bible. This includes the long lists of names of family members, who begat whom.
Huston Smith, a famous theologian, gave a talk at Star King Chapel at the Graduate Theological Union some years ago and talked about how he loved the begats and the begats. I heard him speak.
An ambitious statement about God and our Relationship...
"A condensation of faith and belief. I wonder at 'visit' but accept that you feel this to be true. If I were to admit to faith I would see it as my task to visit the infinite." This note from the original posting of the poem in 2002 by another poet on The Atlantic Monthly Writer's Workshop is worth sharing. Though written in June of that year, I thought that the Epiphany is that we can know God, in many ways. One is through prayer, but mostly it is about seeking God. It seems I have spent most of my adult life, and even my childhood, interested in God. It wasn't until later in my life that I came closer, at least I feel that way.
Of course, it is unlikely, to say the least, that any of us will know the God through Christ in a way that Moses did as he was a friend of God. And a receiver of great, historical things from God for the good of mankind. What I am saying, is that the greatness of the figure in religious history is a greatness that points our way to this God, and it is a sense of the vast immensity of God that helps. Wisdom is knowing the fear of the Lord. So the saying goes, and I believe it.
Here I want to help point the way to God through this poem. Many times a poem says something better than a series of sentences. Hopefully, this is true here. Nonetheless, while I have your attention I want to introduce you to a book by Thomas Merton that helps in the same regard of finding God, but also leads a way to humility. For when we seek God, a way to know we are obtaining a knowledge of him, is through humility. The book, "Thoughts in Solitude" says this about faith:
"First, let us be sure that we know what we are doing. Faith alone can give us the light to see that God's will is to be found in our everyday life. Without this light, we cannot see to make the right decisions. Without this certitude we cannot have supernatural confidence and peace. We stumble and fall constantly even when we are most enlightened. But when we are in true spiritual darkness, we do not even know that we have fallen.
"To keep ourselves spiritualy alive we must constantly renew our faith."
Another quote:
"Humility sets us free to do what is really good, by showing us our illusions and withdrawing our will from what was only an apparent good."
Poems of the spiritual and religious experience... about Saturday after Good Friday...
When I first posted this poem on a workshop site (The Atlantic Writers Workshop) there was more discussion than I could imagine. This was my response to the question of "What are you doing writing this kind of poetry?"
My note to Chris about the thematic sense that urged me on to write about the hymn as my version has many dimensions. But the one that stayed foremost is described in the response on the thematic sense I saw in the goodness of God. That has personal meaning to me, and it tells me something of the nature of Christ.
That is important to me for I have God in my life, and I want that experience and reality. Call it a presence.To expand a moment, if there is a presence allowed in this effort of mine, then to the good. I think you can touch and feel what is presence, and that it is a poetic thing, too, is important. Perhaps this helps me to share the work a little more with you. Thank you again for your comments and provocations to look at what is being done by me with the exercise I created.This was a second response in the same line of discussion. Thank you for bearing with me this Good Friday as I post all of this:
Chris
This is a poem of the religious experience. I have often wondered if something like this is more religious than literary. My interest has been to stay literary with them, while being religious or spiritual. There is a very large supply of religious and spiritual poetry, and this small effort that is a kind of work copying another, though briefer and somewhat different, seems to have sparked a genuine sense that it is religious.In a way, I am flattered. I think that the personal is important, as is the individual experience, and I am glad you took the time to read the poem and note that it lacked that dimension for you as a modern thing to know.My assessment is that these are experiences that one can know and that one may also wonder about.These two comments are direct quotes from the discussion, so they have their original sponteneity.
Now, the poem:
To know something about God by Peter Menkin, Mar 2002 With apologies to the hymn of the Syriac Church
So much grief to learn
Christ died and descended
into hell.
The vigil of Saturday
goes on. Imagination and
faith follows the journey.
He is alone in the tomb,
cold to touch.
Yet He continues.
May we with him.
He showed us God,
when he heard them cry,
"Take pity on us."
Death held no holdon Him.
He traced his nameon their heads,
those in darkness and fetters.
They belong to Him.
Many figures in the Bible have sought God. The more memorable of all is Moses, at least in this poem about the great friend to God. In a moment, I will post the poem, which is some years old--not so old, though. First, a short exchange that was posted on The Atlantic Monthly site when the poem was first given to be read. The exchange describes the poem and makes a humorous remark about wishing to visit with the infinite.
Peter
(This poem is...) A condensation of faith and belief. I wonder at 'visit' (in the text), but accept that you feel this to be true. If I were to admit to faith I would see it as my task to visit the infinite.
Janet
Janet
Thank you for your thoughtful note. I was thinking a visit would be just fine.
Peter
Words seeking prayer by Peter Menkin - Apr 26, 2002 Moses’ face shone
when he met with God
on the mountain.
Inner light, transforming
vastness of history,
you God love us.
The I AM.
Come visit us with your
immensity and allow
us the work of prayer
to speak with
and know you, too.
I wrote this poem after my father's death in 2000. Surprisingly, he was born on Christmas day and so I recall him when this time of year comes along. There are two poems here. The first tells of my visits to him and the last days of his life, though he struggled on to live beyond what I thought the best thing for him. I wanted a peacable death for him, with no special actions by doctors to keep him alive.
I did not prevail in my wishes and was over ruled by my family. He lived on a respirator for some days afterward, and that grieved me for I believed he suffered and was cheated of a quiet and peaceful passing. I am not bitter about this, since it was the overwhelming wish of my family. Nonetheless,
I was saddened and disappointed that they did not agree with what I saw as religious considerations towards a natural death.
The second poem is about his life and talks of his work as a writer for Television and Radio, which he practiced as his profession from the time he was 19 years old. He was a prolific writer with many credits to his resume. I sent this poem to the Writer's Guild, West, and also posted in some years ago on TheAtlantic Monthly Writer's Workshop. If you have suggestions or thoughts on either of these poems, please comment.
With you into death itself, to rise an angel star heavenward...(2000) by Peter Menkin
The struggle began with a tear,a sign of spiritual gift.
Insight and the groaning inwardly as the
body knew before the implacable
crocodile part of the brain began
to take on the autonomic system.
Death was coming, being held back
with ancient gestures, as the Lord
Himself was present. Above the bed
a vision of the presence of an angel,
hiding the remembered as a story.
This entry to paradise, heaven the God,
the ever present and I am was with
awe approached as a cantor would the voice
listen for the very sounds of serene quiet.
The ever singing welcome and adoration of this
gracious position of the frail old man, waiting,
breathing, knowing, struggling, and wanting.
The wanting to be with the light, to turn
towards the goodnesses, the kindnesses,
the welcome of the warmth in the majestic
and the ark of the covenant held mighty in the birth
of the Messiah, King who gave all for an acceptance
into the Church, and the people. Hold up your hands
like magic moments in prayer, the Saints themselves
sang with this man alone with company on the bed.
Not yet ninety and in a quiet peace of dreams so
bountifully remembranced like an old word about
riding behind cars on a set of skates, and being
in the 20s when Mother was alive, and asking for
his wife who is dead, but here. This is entry
of the living waiting for the words to say goodnight,
you were a good man many times. That is good enough.
I was/am your friend. I came to say "I am sorry.
I will miss you."
We sent many to say we forgive you, a prayer
that we confess for you: a Deacon (morally),
a Chaplain (walked nearby), a prayer book (read
with tender genuine call), a Nun (to see if all
is well), a Priest at a distance to be with you, a
discussion with a Reverend Doctor, a Spiritual
taste of the body and blood, incarnation,and the coming of
grief--yours more than ours for you hold
on despite the presence of angels, a comfort.
Surprise there is a hidden Saint watching,
there is the treasure that bids you
come heavenward,called to paradise and rest sublime to rise.
Is it Benedict? What friend is this waiting.
The poem about my father's life as a writer:
My Father who played badminton
by Peter Menkin
There is a story about the screenwriter
Who faced the multitude of inquiry, and
Regarded the ministrations of his soul in
Concert with others, in a group experience
That brought to the little houses and manifold
Riches of Art Carney and the cigarette smoking
Jackie Gleason a merry mailman on twomountains.
My father played badminton in the backyard and
Hunt and pecked a radio writer's dream from atop
The empire state building with a young man named Allen,
Died young. With a Josh White on radio gramophones, and
Guy Lambardo with continuity through the Death Valley Days
And Ronald Reagan. This Highway Patrol of Ziv grade b was
Always an experience of Steve Reeves proportion, brought to
The candy counter heaven of the green ring wearing producer's
Wife and the Maybomb of writing old for the likes of Sean and
His comic duos who grace the pages of the puzzle writer's
Dream People magazine, and TV Guide with The New York Times.
WBAD New York, Philadelphia, across the Appalachians to a
Signal of more than 40,000 watts of broadcasting power to the
Delight of Westinghouse and staff names not forgotten in old
Alpine racing cars and house large in Westchester or Pacific Palisades.
From the streets of New York City, there were the loves of charity
In the beneficence of the Red Cross,and light houses for the blind
And sighted. This was my father before and after the tribunal of
The 50s, with Let's Make a Deal and Hollywood after the purge
Of ABC, NBC, and the CBS Network with national correspondents.
This ode of remembrance of makeup and the theatre from the
Elementary level of youth to the wonderful voice of the Cantor
Was and is a Life Magazine picture of Universal Fame and Hollywood
Bungalows. Do you like your milkshake: Chocolate. Do you like the pier,
Oh, yes. What is a Wyoming memory and a few stand up moments for
Reruns and Perry Mason and the guy who did it as The BountyHunter:
Dead of a magical mystery tour towards survival and another ride on a
Motorcycle like a movie star in a sports car race of Paul Newman Skill.
The child actor still lives, though Make Room for Daddy's little boy
Is gone and the remembrance of Sunset Strip and the foo foo is still
Yet to come, even to the likes of Broadway and comfortable seats of
Writer's Guild screenings on a summer's night with Billy from Superman
And the pretty girls who never stop coming to visit: Ah, stardom the
Lot man let's us in and the walk along the route is always a game of
Waiting and using a Royal Typewriter to hear the bell ring to bring in
The money in Guild time, residual after residual after residual so that
The Shadow Knows, oh yes Kimo Sabe Tonto is the masked man's friend.
