Columbia College



Genesis Project: A Translation Ethan PlaueWhy has religion, for many, become a site of foreclosed debate where one’s faith matters more than an impartial meditation on religious texts and ideas? Why after millennia of editing and amending has the Bible, a text once fluid and mutable, congealed into a doctrine that discounts alternative interpretations? Why do so many see religion as an unrelatable vestige of pre-enlightenment irrationality? Why has Genesis, a word that denotes the beginning, become synonymous with the authoritarian termination of religious and interpretive difference???Rather than answering these questions, my submission has appropriated, plagiarized, and “translated” the stories of Genesis in order to reclaim some the text’s original mutability. By disorientating the characters and events that have become woven into the fabric of American culture, I hope to discover different ways of discussing the all-to-familiar text. Wrestling with some of the same themes as the Bible (like cataclysm, memory, and pleasure), these poems attempt to re-malleate Genesis so that we can dip our hands back into the text in order to remold the stories with a set of new words.These poems, however, have also tried to historicize Genesis in its now unavoidable religious, political, and literary contexts as one of the most interpreted, most fought-over, and most profitable books ever written. In addition, many of these poems were composed under the sign of modern poets, writers, and film directors. In doing so, I hope to show the interpenetration of what I understand are the themes of Genesis and contemporary poetic and visual language. As the consequences of Adam and Eve’s actions reveal, we are still coping with the sins of our collective past by in part questioning, reevaluating, and meditating on our history in order to resolve the issues of the present. The past is not fixed – it’s not even over.Creation with Woodchippersafter Samuel Becketthere it is approaching in a dream here my end here looking so much like the beginning so much like looking even if my insides are all big & yellow devils carve their cutlery out of breath & the horizon only a panting bugle born of a decaying egg reads out the dying round & round the dark globe say King Adonai Hu say who now like a brass band a wooden block & backbones carrots a spider throwing away its nets for summer coming in a cut of light in an old man bobbing like a scallop in the fishing boats in a rumpled body unbolting cells & nomads minds manners fractions tubas falling from the sky with moons embossed & the words it was not midnight it was my end it was silence slurping cold ramen from a styrofoam cup & suddenly understanding was violent moving violently disappointingExpulsionafter Michael Palmer Back from forth: through us yet done or undone, these two newly skinned and never us from us, sifting, cleaving, to one of scar or syllable like lifting the carpet to find what doesn’t exist fleshing out what does regret wasn’t a fillet of light, a lack of glow but brittle red, half-one, splitting bone from ash and hatching black-featheredfigments that need end, need to be filled untilthey shrill with enchantment for now we also shadow newer longer trees that smile like dice over water, never cheered, never but this flesh a circle notched, a praxis of eyelids, of breath, cold and distinguished as us as these now too. C to A*after Sergio LeoneWhen a field opens and swings shutit must go on opening and swinging shutsince that’s when dust gets up in silence, a balled-up dollar thrown at the table, where she, the dark-eyed barista with tattoos of boxes on her arm points a gun at your brotherbefore it all outweighs itself,violently like glass.Under the eyes, a goatish and choleric yellowaccumulates. At the kneecap, a restless bitof green, melancholic, a mouthful of spring splattered on the floor and from it a death so slick and suddencrouches, all too clear, and smells of smokea bullet passing, its storystill warm in your ear* Cain and Abel are having erotic dreams they don’t understand. Cain is marrying his twin sister and they are settling in the land of Nod. He has a son and names him Enoch. He builds a city and also names it Enoch. Cain is remembering those dreams. Cain is remembering his brother. Rabbi Yehuda ben Babbai says Cain’s nephew, born blind, mistook his uncle for a deer. Rabbi Yossi the Greater says the house Cain built collapsed on him. Descendants When Adam had lived years, he had a son in his own likeness, in his own image; and he named him Seth. After Seth was born, Adam lived years and had other sons and daughters.?Altogether, Adam lived a total of years, and then he died.When had lived years, he became the father of After he became the father of lived years and had other sons and daughters.?Altogether, lived a total of years, and then he died.When lived years, he became the father of After he became the father of lived years and had sons and daughters. Altogether, lived a total of years, and then he died.When years, he the father of After he the father of years and sons and daughters. Altogether, a total of years, and then he When years, the father of After the father of and sons and daughters. Altogether, a total of years, and then When the of After the of and and Altogether, a total of and then the of After the of and and a of and the the and and a no more, because andandandandBabel, from the Perspective of a Platypus Hung by Its Footafter Brigit Pegeen KellyWhat’s the point of being more than a tumescent maw producing a sharp winged sound between a word and almost a word? Why language like seasons? The esoterica coiled in a bed of gardenias, tonguing in its dragonish logic at the legs coming to collect the fine yellowy powder fastened to spring. Instead, think of them as patterns of walnuts or reeds raised like knives about to sing. A tower was slapped into The Tower of Icicles, dark with opinions and only part icicle –like a silver spoon hanging as I do in the selva of selves, striking fire with the hyphen fixed to the first word now churned to liquid. Wouldn’t it be breathtaking if every command came in giftwrap? For the bodies give themselves to February’s raw, the wind rolling back winter to reveal the distended heart before all is returned to a mumble that will blossom in the most lavish ways. Gallery of the Flood I was steady, say the table or the tail, sounding like closure or a chimney choking a cloud.It, not me, clogged, no-desired the quiver of discolor when the storm at the windowwas not the storm, daring to drag inits watery hair. Such a world, the cat, not the storm, cries, her nose, darkening on the face of the water. The storm dizzy from making love to a third man or a thief at the window pointing to the cat, our lives, them rowing out too far, a flash, say of lighting, says chop it up! Space it up! Over the face of the water, thundering the tide of lightingthat bore an image over the things I wanted,which was desire, The Desire of Undoing, the shelter and the sound of the catwith her nose moving over the waterwondering who she’d be tomorrow. A Song of Praise after Ilya Kaminsky Now, I sing for the deepest parts in space Pass my song across their testicles, and kiss them, The last resort for me born from the ejaculate Of my father’s right nostril. Space, you are the most excellent of pigs, The big whodunit even if it tastes like hot-dog water And sets the stage for everything very usual. I was fifteen when the cows wept in the forest. They wept, Ate some grass, and then looked at the stars. Their moos Defended the council of elders and their plotAgainst the godhead-monster. What is the godhead Monster? Although you’re still a farting bacon machine, I was an ape clasping at the light of a gaslamp, Three days passed since I saw it, and I continued to grasp What effluvium meant before jumping into the void, if I was radioing for backup, the lampglow, the cows Weeping a discourse on love, and when I’m standing At your door and you ask, Were you kind? Did you give back? I’ll massage your inflorescent godfeet and describe where to find The unwanted people who liked to beat up cows. The Covenant of Pieces or The Foreskin A baby asked the rabbi before the entire congregation,Why did Hashem, perfect in all his ways, create man?The rabbi smiled at the baby and saidTo cut the flesh of his foreskin, of course!And in one stroke, the rabbi presented the babyTo the world. Sodomafter Catherine Barnettmy scar, hairless like a pear,catalogues everythingwhere sight glints inside an eyeballmy scar, weary in seclusion, will not appall you. View from the Cave Above Sodomafter John Ashberyangels alright, can it be over the years Ifold our clotheswho eat nothing “Enjoy your time together.” He threw a potato chiplatched and leaving us to accumulateHow dull the moon can be, sometimesWhat’s your earthe observed world amountswhere two people sit on a couch one eveningand clink glasses. Maybe wine is also at passageAt night, the wind, the door, or am I wrong altogetherforks onto his lapthe page is quiet enoughSarah Remembering after Sharon OldsThe morning after you told me was another meeting outside light, the slumpedfaces in a deep-consumed air like heights that outstare the difference in me today and me yesterday. How after you said it would be ok then fell asleep, I went to the desk as if nothing had happened and quietly watched as your forehead was being ironed out, your mouthvoiding a pale, watery whistle, and your thumb-printblack as a shovel rising to your eyes. Then every reflection of light grew hot and convergedinto what could have been irresolvable as a vanishing point or a pause, beautiful and symmetrical. He must have also seen your eyes while you, you were waiting, filing downsunlight. You, composed without doubtafter untying him, telling him to run home orhe’d be late for breakfast. When I saw you fresh in the morning after, all I had was the short fuck you that flashed like tulips for another death was induced when you told me, and I found myself wanting an eye for an eye, a son for a son, the relief it took years to all but come.Kissing Cemeteries on the Lips: The Cave at Hebronafter Rebecca LiuIts mouth stalked the bluebird’s gizzard and sungthe first threads of tribute From the wind’s hard hands, the earth is pressedand its fragrance awakening with each dropped flowerwho abandon their heads for a scintilla of more gruesome faces. A call goes up, a hat rollswhen she, like a doorstop holding back discovery, performs the dance of needs,speaks love’s grievances, and sets her kiss in a vase on the lectern with these new kinds of decayRebecca at the Wellafter Charles OlsonThe well, the monster, ormaybe it’s your camels. I cometo your camels (camels!) with a bucket of water and you and your camels are accidental, the sort of well where tambourinesare mistaken for rats and your words are mine, but very far away (the well is the place to meet men who shake their small butts so obscurelyso much like the chupacabra Who do you want? Is he a man or is she a woman or are they taking you apartslowly Your name is Pat. Or is it Camel. You might believe in souls. You went to Paris by yourself and looked cold in the rain. I wanted to lie, say, the well? The monster? Butit is. Hand on my heart, the candle blown out, one two threeBut isn’t that an insane thing to do? Isn’t itmore likely that I would be buried in a copse of almond treesIn a coffin built like a zucchini?No matter I am the brooding hippopotamus who replaces the sun,who punches the behemoth in his fat kidneysburies the meat and listens to the sinews in a stone, the wind frozen right through the stonesAnd you (and your camels) better shut upYou, your camels, and the wellall better shut up, so pretty,pretty like rinsing starsA forest, in the middle of nowhere,a child is born. A forest,also in the middle of nowhere, a child is not born We called him Pat. At breakfast, he used to sing Pat a pat a pat a butta a pat a butta for Pat it’s winter in Paris so here take my coat Talk into my earBeside the well, a person, probably a man, one who does not love himself, a man, probably, who, after a thousand days of being unsure, of being unsure, slaps his palms together and rubs them, but he is still unhappy, he or possibly she is still rubbing his (or her) palms, is about to describe a room he’s never been inside, had heard about only a thousand days ago. You (and the camels) wanted to go on adventure So I said How about the diner?So you said That’s not an adventure. So I said We can go to the diner and then go on an adventure.So you said But I’m not hungry.So I said You’re not hungry?I’m at the well, drawing up water. I’m at the wellso stop moving becauseI’m trying to name you.The wall, or the well, the camels And also the stones are the wells out which they come,and is the monsterPat has toast in his mouth. The well is on TV! Everythingis the well because the well is the well of the world. I drew the water a thousand days ago I coughed at the window a lungbuoyed in air What a pretty afternoonWhen you’ve been showering for over an hourI picture you dying, but I don’t knock, why don’t you knockstop washing your ankles and talk to me. Is it because your hand is on the wall, because you’re staringat a bar of soap Is it because the well and the forestand the stones and the rinsing stars, and the bottles all lined up like the rinsing stars andin the well, there is a second smaller wellsince there must be somewhere left to askWhere does desire come from?How about that yellow towel the one with the birds on it, where does that come from?A Song of Grief I burn my hair and boil my heartYou are a bucket of eelsBut they are but cloth.You are a bleeding gullet I lash the sea and the sea ripplesYou are preserved in formaldehydeBut it makes no sound.You are abounding in gookYou died and were buriedYou are abounding in lunch meat Before I was born.You are giving chocolate to my dogYou died and your handsYou are forgiving of deathWere nothing but ocher.You are wearing of glassesWhen should I mourn?You are wearing your hair wrongI carved helixes into a rockYou are dreaming of breakfastBecause I haven’t your name.You are puking up fish gutsBut when do I mourn?You are kissing the gunmanHow do stones go on being stonesYou are a long grinAnd birds not turn into snakesYou are one gross fuckNow that you have goneYou are knuckled footAnd left me with nothing. You are a fissure in my anus Now I am the clayYou are as fun as a suicideAnd the potterYou are very stupidThe judgeYou are mold on a sandwichAnd the condemned. You are never coming back here.Esau and the Battle of the SoupsSomewhere soup is being reheated.A dish of red lentils is a type served up elsewhere – not here now despised. Bless me, me also,like you liked to do.Oh me! I don’t feel my mouth. The discrepancy of soupsand a sudden delicate feeling. Drink, rise up and gono bitterness, not alchemized,the clouds were not red.Sing rise for the dead. Jacob Dreams of the Ladder The grocer is the first to speak, arguing thatthe ladder is the soul, and the angels, his mercy down to lift us up. The farmer’s wife pushesher husband who intones the accidents of fate, the up and downs, offers to remember Esau, how he cried bitterly at the turn of fortune, but the surgeon disagrees, she argues it is proof of reincarnation, a second life to keep things clear while the mailman who only a week ago was the milkman, shakes his head, shouts that it anticipates the theotokos who crosses heaven and earth in her womb. The dentist, his arms crossed, tells the girl scouts that it’s nothingbut the Prophet’s night journey. At the podium, the mayor tries to compromise, saying we all know it’s the path of succor but that’s when the old cowboy rises slowly like a mist and the crowd goes silent as he rasps at the boy, You who had the dreams will be like Job, the gravedigger, with all that you will losea wife, a son. Dinahafter Richard SikenNow it’s all pretty much the same now every poem the cinema now every morning the sound of glasswhen not so suddenly it begins the sun washing up like a dead crab and this toofeels like invasion your hands your mouth your legsyour knees please, erase me, please, speak Joseph’s Dreams Tell Allafter Aram SaroyanhuumI will go down into Sheol, mourningBodies are simple; they make noise ---- ?A body, after falling for years, will often land near home ---- A body, after being caught in barbed-wire, will try to ungrasp itself ---- ?If they can, shades of the body will pass. They will gloam like evening ?---- ?Don’t call after them because they will stare and pass ----? And if you are a mute, there is always painting, sports, and business ---- ?It is obvious to mock limbs rising in logical-space and finally enjoying themselves. ----?Bodies in crowds will rarely grasp for you, a hand, then something sharp ?----?To enjoy yourself at parties by getting drunk in liquor-space otherwise the host maywant to put something sharp in your hand ---- ?The front door often sighs with pleasure when you pass through it You’re a mint, it whispers ----? Gravity, like front doors, will punish you in the end ---- ?Though it is a mute, gravity would flower in painting and business ----? If gravity could speak, it would give the same answers to different questions ----?What seems like nothing expands into anyone ?---- ?What seems like nothing laughs so hard ----Canaan Console the earth, who would want to be like him? He cannot feel through the ideal, how books bound in autumn should only be read when it rains,how the soul is a bird with a man's head or the whole thing is a ram. Ha. In heaven, an angel’s hand curdles into a rosehow deeply does he want to reclaim its paperiness. But for him, the past is over.Never mind, the past impinges, it leaves inscriptions and worries through the homelesswho are buildings. Here, I'll explain with a coiled rope. When the Egyptians saw such a rope, they said, Totality!A Song of Supplication all it is is a codeof lightfallingin placeshereand not hereloveglueda flickerto therain ................
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