Resurrection of the Word : Song of Circumcision

ABRAHAM: I went to Egypt, the land of slavery, prompted by an interior movement directly opposed to Pharaoh. Pharaoh said of his sister: "She is my wife". I say of my wife: "She is my sister". Thus will Israel be the conqueror of God: an interior movement of birth, the exact opposite of recurrence.

OEDIPUS: Israel is my opposite. He docs not kill the father, he begets him in the son. He does not marry the mother, he wrests her from her generation; he causes her to be taken into time again, he transfigures her into a young girl.

ABRAHAM: The sky is the sail of a drunken ship. The Israelian tempest will tear it to pieces. The sky will be engulfed in a vast breach of the flesh and will come to life again in each passer-by who passes on without stopping.

VOICES OF ISRAEL: Such is your circumcision, O Abraham.

ABRAHAM: The present will murder the future, the future will engender the past; the father will be the son, the son will die in his resurrection. VOICES OF ISRAEL: Such is your circumcision, O Abraham. ABRAHAM: Bodies are divided in two. But I have driven away the birds of prey: they are the sons of the clouds, usurpers of the father, lording it on their thrones. Woe to the sons who succeed to the thrones. Israel drove them away . . . After that succeed to the thrones; Israel drove them away. . I slept, I saw my sons in captivity ... . Israel, it is too late, too late now, nothing wliatevcr will stand still, the seal of YH\VH is in your flesh, whether or not it pleases you, you are seized, caught by the great mad passion of YHWH incarnated in you!

VOICES OF ISRAEL: It is too late, too late now, everything has taken place, is taking place now . . . ecstasy . . . the passion of my ecstasy . . . Eternal madness in my blood . . . To be total, absolute! Clashes, contrast, violence, life, life, life! Holy frenzy! Dancing above hell! Heaven taken by force!


Heaven that springs from the earth! And the beatitudes are
nothing; union with God is nothing, for God is vanquished by
my flesh. Nourishment, resurrection, living light, living
light . . . in perpetual dubious battle! . . .

The Word: Yes, such is circumcision. Such is Israel and
ewerything realising itself in Israel. I will speak of that again,
I will sing of this mystery and its revelation, the movement of
the dialectical flesh.

In your flesh be resurrection, O Israel,
Haven't you consumed me for it?
I have killed the shepherd within you, O Israel,
You will never be a herd.
What are you up to as a motorised army?
Israelis, everything pertaining to Israel
Is for you
And as always you will refuse it,
As always you dismiss the Intemporal.
YHWH loathes you,
Because you are the shadow of his love.
If you are not the Word you are naught.
If your body is not movement it is nothing.
If your women are not the living Eve,
But women in uniform,
Women in drudgery,
They are slaves of the Father's corpse.
What about that! In every one of your circumcised males,
In each one of these bodies is the path,
The way Of vanquished God
The course of transformation,
And in each virgin body,
In every one of them is the way,
The way of resurrection
As it was before the transgression,
The kiss of light,
Light restored,


The Word before creation
In the accepted multitude
In the flesh that can be transfigured,
In its marrow excited as though with an electric shock! .
What of it! It's been going on for centuries,
It's the secret of the world,
And the unfolding of the great wings of love,
The wings enclosed within your bosom,
Which quiver at the summons of the spirit,
And the spirit gazes on itself dispassionately,
Contemplating itself during its terrible birth,
The giddy whirl of daybreak,
Mirroring the evaporated sperm,
Where nations are overthrown in dismay
And thrones reel with madness,
Where prophets dance above hell,
Where man, a new solar system
Is turning round and round!
Behold then! YHWH is contemplating himself there,
And his eye is the principle,
It is this shoot, yes this very one
That drank the blood eager for light,
And in this new brilliant reflection,
Silvery glowing luminosity of the Word,
Philosophers' silver, secret gold and fire,
It is there with all its harvests!
The whole of llumanity and all peoples,
The rescue and the open doors,
The gateways through the bowels of the guardians!
The portals not for flight, but to rip away idle fancies,
Not the gates of faith but of real becoming,
The doorways for the vast masses of humanity!
And what have you done with the Intemporal?
What have you done with this fire
With this power Of devastation?
What have you done with my mighty anger?


What have you done?
Ah, weep! What have you done?
What have you done to me, Israel?
My temple is in each of your bodies,
Light is in your marrow,
Light which has no need of sun
To give light to my body!
Israel! May every one of your cells shed tears,
Each cell that has not known how to beget me,
May it bewail its treachery!
It would not know how to weep enough
How to shed tears enough in its torture
Of not being what it is!
Jews, what have you done to me?
In the great cities
I see them hobbling along
Or disguised as national VIPs . . .
They mix with patriots,
Worship at the false altars of fatherlands . . .
Israel, what have you done to me?
What have you done to the Intemporal
Which lays claim to its rights?
And which rights have you accorded me?
The tedious right of listening to you invoking my Name?
But all of your invocations are blasphemous.
The right to say that you keep a covenant with Me?
But each of the circumcised
Is seized by the dead stock, deprived
Of all the beauty it ought to have.
The right to say: "These Jews, my shadow, are always there"?
May the shadow bc destroyed in my conflagration!
Jews, the right you grant me,
The only right, understand, that I have
Is my vengeance. And this right I grasp,
I seize it furiously,
I shall be implacable!


You are acquainted, you say, with this small-talk,
This rigmarole. Some among you do not believe it,
Others have buried my voice in the past.
Some say: "Of course we are Jews,
But VHWH is a myth". And others:
"YHWH spoke to Israel a long time ago,
But there are no more prophets".
You are firm, rigid liars!
YHWH is herc and alive,
Not a myth, an aspiration, or an entreaty,
But flesh and blood, a conviction of the heart.
His covenant is not through supplications,
Nor regulations, nor synagogues, nor rabbis,
But concurrence of flesh and spirit.
You lie, Shadow which disowns its light,
Bone which denies its marrow!
Where would you be without me?
Why are you there? Who are you?
Not onc of your convictions justifies your existence!
Die! I strike your rabbis blind,
Your temples are prayer-mills.
In my words you recite sing-song
I hear the female sniggering,
Not One Of you hears my voice.
Some repeat: "The Intemporal? Never heard of it".
Others turn back to the past,
Looking for me where I am not, so as not to find me,
Pillars Of salt that melt away in storms.
Ah, where are you, my eternal seed?
Everywhere except in them! Everywhere!
Behold, I gather my harvests,
In every refractory mind,
In every heart whose wings are unfolded,
Everywhere am I my Son and my Temple,
Everywhere is my light
Behold, I am human born, Israel is destroyed.


Carlo Suares, Resurrection of the Word, Shambhala, 1974, pp.104-108 Contents