Philippians 2:6-11
Posted: January 24, 2011 Filed under: Religion, Translation | Tags: bible, koine greek, paul, philippians 2, translation 2 Comments »In an effort to get my Koine Greek up to par again, with the hopes that I can move into Attic and Ionic soon, I’ll be posting my personal translations on here for all to see and comment on. Since my goal in learning Attic is so that I can translate poetry, I’ll begin with one of the most poetic Koine passages: Paul’s recitation of a hymnic formula in Philippians 2:6-11. Since I’m doing one verse a day, I’ll be editing this every day.
(6Gr) ὃς ἐν μορφῇ θεοῦ ὑπάρχων οὐχ ἁρπαγμὸν ἡγήσατο τὸ εἶναι ἴσα θεῷ
(6En) who, possessing1 the nature2 of God, did not consider it robbery3 to be equal4 with God,
1I chose this wording, eschewing the ἐν that naturally occurs, in order to bring out the meaning of ὑπάρχων. This word (Strong 5255) connects to (Strong 5223) ὕπαρξις, which is the term for a possession or property.
2Hotly debated word throughout the ages, I translated it as “nature” in order to avoid the theological slipperiness of “form.” Though both meanings are possible, Paul’s use of “equal with God” makes it clear that “form does not get across the whole story.
3The use of “robbery” here makes tons more sense when contrasted with Paul’s use of “possession” earlier.
4The word here is is-os, meaning “equal,” which you might remember from the math term isosceles, meaning “equal legs.”
Clutch
Posted: October 5, 2010 Filed under: Poetry | Tags: birds, clutch, ornithology, Poetry, W.B. Hurst Leave a comment »In late October when
the wrens nest and watch
their brothers
leave, my mother and I walked
along the rim of the lake,
my two-inch fingers wrapped
tightly around hers.
That’s covered in germs. Don’t touch
it, she said when
I looked down,
found the glimmering
brown feather, the hawk’s flight suspended
in the grass.
I did not ask
questions like, Why
does the wind push
birds to the earth? or
How does a child lose
its feathers?
No; I touched the edge
of my lips to keep
the words from flying
away. The feather lay suspended
in my eye,
fingers curling around my mother’s,
dull talons on a nest.
Plowed Under
Posted: October 2, 2010 Filed under: Poetry | Tags: haiku, plowed under, Poetry, tanka, W.B. Hurst, William Hurst Leave a comment »The harvest moon rests
in the palm of the brown sky;
my days lie, furrowed.
I turn earth over your face,
hoping seeds sprout in autumn.
Honeymooners
Posted: July 13, 2010 Filed under: Poetry | Tags: honeymooners, mankind, nature, Poetry, W.B. Hurst, William Hurst Leave a comment »Mankind is the jewel
on Mother Nature’s back,
the wart she tries
to shake off, the crown,
the overgrowth, the curl,
the dancing partner,
the interlocutor,
the houseguest, the punchdrunk
husband,
all the bribery, care,
and old-world brutish love
rolled into one.
The habit she can’t lose,
the drug she can’t quit,
the one who holds her
from behind,
stroking her hair
and pulling it.
Theodicy
Posted: June 29, 2010 Filed under: Poetry, Religion | Tags: blink, Poetry, W.B. Hurst, William Hurst Leave a comment »God is the lightning
bug that I forget
about until He
blinks.
Blind Faith
Posted: June 24, 2010 Filed under: Poetry, Religion Leave a comment »Tiresias taps
his cane, a prophet
singing his way
into old Jerusalem.
Blues ooze from
the gash of his mouth;
he can’t wade out
into the swirling pool.
He’s devout
as far as
he can feel
with a three
foot pole and legions
of eyes nailing
him to the soiled tile wall of the
subway.
Souvenirs
Posted: June 6, 2010 Filed under: Poetry, Religion 1 Comment »I wonder if He keeps
the wood around his neck,
splintered and red, pried
from the tree He died on,
like we do.
Does He keep mementos
of His moment in death,
pulling them out of a
splintered box each week,
like we do?
Perhaps it doesn’t
bug Him, like spots on a
mirror He keeps close.
Or does it remain like a
hurricane on a spindle,
turning slowly, once and always?
Summer
Posted: May 16, 2010 Filed under: Poetry, Uncategorized Leave a comment »When I draw up my life
in from the clouded sea,
like wrinkled burlap that lay
on the threshing floor
in the winter,
I will wring it out,
tying it up at one end
so that it holds the brass
baubles with my marks
on them.
And God, that hoary
head that rises from the
stones, will strap it to
His belt loop, holding
me by the shoulders
in the warm moon
of eternal summer.
World History 101
Posted: May 2, 2010 Filed under: Poetry | Tags: holocaust, Poetry, W.B. Hurst, William Hurst, word history 101 Leave a comment »Tourists show up at my doorstep
at five on Tuesdays, filed in
from Fresno, Sussex, Mombassa,
and the slums of Moscow.
They wield cameras, newspaper
clippings with my face etched
in their cover, and a curious
amazement at my frame.
I take them around the compound,
pointing out bits of import:
here the mother clutched her child
while they were both shot,
by the rusty gate I vomited
green that came from my soul.
Some snap
pictures, a few
weep, others take
notes lazily,
half-awake
in the lecture hall.
The main attraction, the Jew
who knew the hiding place
of fifty more but said not
a word, taking his mustard
like a man and lying
on the grating with a crooked smile.
More weep, more
take pictures,
some hang
their heads.
The tour complete, I wander,
starved, into a furnace, pushed
by a man with blonde hair
and a t-shirt, half-awake.
I’ll be up again in a week
for another tour.
Class dismissed.
Identity Quilt
Posted: April 13, 2010 Filed under: Poetry | Tags: identity quilt, Poetry, W.B. Hurst, William Hurst Leave a comment »I walk, a feast
of ribs jingl-
ing.
I pilfer strips of flesh
from the backs of those
who wander near.
I sew each fresh skin-
piece over the bleached
knobs and cracks.
I fill up the holes,
building a towering chest
out of my brothers.
I build organs, a heart,
from the slices I snatch
from the sides of my sisters.
I pick out shards of my father,
clumping together the sharp
and the dull, shoving
them inside.
I accept every patch of my mother,
weaving them through my toes,
tying them at the end with knots,
stringing them up on a rafter
after I’m done.
The cells stick together and cling
like fire to a broken bough.
My blanket holds me, shields me
from the ice-marrow wind.
Throbbing with whispers of future
and friendship, swelled with blood
that seeps out in conversation
and clinking glasses, I am threaded.
