Rabbi
James Cohn received his B.A. in Humanities at New College of Sarasota, and his
Master's Degree and Ordination at Hebrew Union College – Jewish Institute of
Religion. He is a graduate of the Diversity Leadership Academy and offers
diversity training programs for congregations, schools, businesses and
communities. Rabbi Cohn has taught classes open to the public on Jewish
subjects, as well as on multidisciplinary views of the points of contact
between religion and law, philosophy, psychology and medicine.” Aldus luidt
zijn biografie op de site van de uitgever van zijn boekje
Rabbi
James Cohn, The Minds of the Bible:
Speculations on the Cultural Evolution of Human Consciousness. Julian
Jaynes Society, November 20, 2013 - 78 pages
Op
zijn website heeft hij één gedicht, Spinoza sur la Mer, dat hij ook als prozatekst brengt. Uiteraard hoort het te worden opgenomen in 't Corpus Poeticum Spinozanum
Spinoza sur la Mer
The stretch of beach was his, the ocean, too.
The sky and sea were calm eternity.
In place of waves there was a murmured lapping
But only at the shoreline, nowhere else.
The rhythm of the day announced itself.
The sky and sea were calm eternity.
In place of waves there was a murmured lapping
But only at the shoreline, nowhere else.
The rhythm of the day announced itself.
The water’s smooth, it’s smooth as glass, he
thought,
But through this thought he drew a line of red.
Not only a cliché, but also backwards.
The sea can’t be like glass, the sea came first.
It’s glass whose smoothness recapitulates the sea’s.
But through this thought he drew a line of red.
Not only a cliché, but also backwards.
The sea can’t be like glass, the sea came first.
It’s glass whose smoothness recapitulates the sea’s.
The notion was a source of satisfaction.
The curving surface of the earth was clear here,
And not from east to west but north to south,
The line of the horizon straight before him,
Now dipping on the left, now on the right.
He had a sense of ancient secret wisdom:
The sailors knew before they ever knew.
And not from east to west but north to south,
The line of the horizon straight before him,
Now dipping on the left, now on the right.
He had a sense of ancient secret wisdom:
The sailors knew before they ever knew.
“We feel and know ourselves to be eternal.”
Five centuries ago Spinoza said it,
This man of reason who in spite of reason
Selected “feel” and only after, “know.”
We feel eternity before we know it.
Five centuries ago Spinoza said it,
This man of reason who in spite of reason
Selected “feel” and only after, “know.”
We feel eternity before we know it.
Rhythm, rhythm everywhere, and many drops to
drink.
Eternal rhythms hammer out their message.
Hello there little boy, and welcome home.
Eternal rhythms hammer out their message.
Hello there little boy, and welcome home.
He stood and straightened, walked along the
shore.
The shells were few and mostly uniform.
The dawn was breaking, sunrise on the way.
He stopped and bent and focused his attention.
A bit of rose-red glass peeked out at him.
He picked it up and ran his thumb across it.
Uneven contours, polished smooth by tides.
The shells were few and mostly uniform.
The dawn was breaking, sunrise on the way.
He stopped and bent and focused his attention.
A bit of rose-red glass peeked out at him.
He picked it up and ran his thumb across it.
Uneven contours, polished smooth by tides.
Sand and glass, and glass and sand, and water.
“Eternity’s a bitch,” he once had said.
There was a course he’d taught about Spinoza,
The man who ground glass lenses for a living.
Spinoza knew the nexus, sand and glass,
And water too, these tools of his design.
He polished them into eternity.
He felt and knew the simple truth of things.
He was a sympathetic character.
There was a course he’d taught about Spinoza,
The man who ground glass lenses for a living.
Spinoza knew the nexus, sand and glass,
And water too, these tools of his design.
He polished them into eternity.
He felt and knew the simple truth of things.
He was a sympathetic character.
Spinoza died before his time, they said,
And it seemed funny, saying this of him.
He died at forty-four and right on time.
Eternity’s not infinite duration.
Eternity is always right on time.
And it seemed funny, saying this of him.
He died at forty-four and right on time.
Eternity’s not infinite duration.
Eternity is always right on time.
He put the glass into his fanny pack,
That vestige and revival of his youth.
He zipped it shut and then resumed his path.
That vestige and revival of his youth.
He zipped it shut and then resumed his path.
His path was curved, he knew, though it seemed
straight.
Curved on this sphere that time and space curved, too,
Into a curvature of curving curves.
All things curved round into themselves,
Spinoza waiting round the curve to greet him.
Curved on this sphere that time and space curved, too,
Into a curvature of curving curves.
All things curved round into themselves,
Spinoza waiting round the curve to greet him.
Spinoza was no beach bum but he knew things,
The things revealed by stabs of intuition.
He ground the glass whose dust would one day kill him,
Inhaled into his lungs with every breath.
He wrote in Latin as did those before him,
In Euclid’s style to make his meaning clear.
He knew exactly what he meant, God bless him,
The blessed Benedictus called Baruch.
The things revealed by stabs of intuition.
He ground the glass whose dust would one day kill him,
Inhaled into his lungs with every breath.
He wrote in Latin as did those before him,
In Euclid’s style to make his meaning clear.
He knew exactly what he meant, God bless him,
The blessed Benedictus called Baruch.
He walked and walked, and as he walked he
thought,
I’ll walk the continent along the beachline.
I’ll walk it ‘til I circle back to here.
The universe curves back upon itself,
This was the thrust of Einstein’s contribution.
As I curve back upon myself, he thought.
I’ll walk the continent along the beachline.
I’ll walk it ‘til I circle back to here.
The universe curves back upon itself,
This was the thrust of Einstein’s contribution.
As I curve back upon myself, he thought.
The sea is not eternal, nor the sand,
Nor me here least of all, as Joni sang.
Eternity will claim us all one day.
This day, perhaps, for one can never know.
Nor me here least of all, as Joni sang.
Eternity will claim us all one day.
This day, perhaps, for one can never know.
Spinoza understood, that’s why he said it.
“We feel and know ourselves to be eternal.”
One never knows a thing, one only feels it.
“We feel and know ourselves to be eternal.”
One never knows a thing, one only feels it.
© James David
Cohn
[This is the poem version. For the
prose version click here.]
Geen opmerkingen:
Een reactie posten