Seven Distant Chantings

Joe Tuwemi

Description

“Seven Distant Chantings” by Joe Tuwemi is a collection of seven free verse poems of varying length and subject matter drawn from fifty years of literary works exploring the human condition.

Seven Distant Chantings presents a collection of seven poems of various length written in free verse over a period of fifty years. The poems are essentially distilled selections from previous works of poetry and poetic stories, revised to varying degrees to accommodate their condensing in their re-presentation. The dates of original publication appear at the conclusion of each work, along with the current date of the revised shorter form of the texts. Several of the poems involve historical figures whose stories are presented with poetic license rather like the degree of fictionalization one encounters in a historical novel.

The common ground of these highly varied works—their underlying spiritual theme—is human dignity hallowed by the presence of the divine throughout all the struggles, aspirations, and vicissitudes attendant on the experience of life and love, good and evil, seeking fulfillment and facing death. Humans are remarkable beings; we precariously carry immortal dreams like treasure within the journey of our mortal limitations.

Sujets

• Adventure (Guyana)
• Spirituality
• Poetry
• Humanitas
• Adventure
• History
• Love

Informations

• Publié par: Archway Publishing
• Date de parution: 22 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781665728737
• Langue: English

Extrait

Seven Distant Chantings
 
 
 
 
 
JOE TUWEMI
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
Copyright © 2022 Joe Tuwemi.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
 
 
Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views
expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6657-2872-0 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-2873-7 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022915171
 
 
 
Archway Publishing rev. date: 09/21/2022
 
 
 
 
 
Ni Yanoalani
Indian paintbrush
in a field of winter wheat
my flower, Mary
Contents
Were You There?
Son of Sunlight
Ancient Wedding Chant
Heart of an Eagle
Ghosts of History in an Old House
She Feels Her Way
Their Seasons in the Song of Songs
Were You There?

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there?
Yes, I was there
Were you at the cross with John and Mary?
No, but I was there
Were you in the crowd reviling him?
Did you revile my Lord?
No, but I was there
Don’t ask me where, but I was there
I was … there
Were you the soldier gambling, gambling for his robe?
Did you drive the nails in his hands and feet?
Did you crucify my Lord?
No, but I was there
In heaven’s name, don’t ask me where
but I was there, I was there
Oh Lord, I was there
Tell me then,
You say you were there
Tell me where
Where were you?
Do you even know Golgotha?
Did you see the darkness that came over the earth,
when he said, “It’s done, I’m through”?
Did you feel the earth shake
when his head fell on his breast?
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there?
I was there
I saw the darkness at his death
I felt the earth tremble…more than you know
I heard the last ragged breath leave his lips
when he died
I saw John fall on his knees and smite the earth
beneath the cross on which the Rabbi died
I heard his mother when she cried
a sound that haunts me still
the cries of Mary weeping
her soul pierced with a sword of heart-rending grief
And I saw John get up from his knees to support her
supporting Mary when the young Rabbi gave up the ghost
and the temple curtain ripped from top to bottom
torn in two
and the sound of Heaven’s host groaning in deep sorrow
Why, you may not believe me,
but the Father himself wept and groaned
when his Son, his only one, died for our sins
Yes, I was there
I, who robbed and killed
those who rob and kill us
until I was no different than they
I was there, don’t ask me where,
but I was there…
Where?
In his very name, I ask you, where?
Have you ever even been to Calvary?
Were you really there?
Who are you?
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there?
Where?—
I was there—I’ll tell you where,
since you must know
Where?
If you were there,
Then tell me—
Where?
On the cross
beside the cross
on which the Rabbi hung
I died on the cross beside the cross
on which the Rabbi died
I am the thief
who stole his way into heaven
with a kind word to a dying Jew
“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom”
1972, 2022
Son of Sunlight

The blind man sits in his chains on the floor of the old mill just before the sun is rising
All is quiet in the city and if he listens carefully he can hear the sound of the distant sea
“Thank you, child, for the bread and water. You are very kind to me”
You are welcome, Shimshon.”
The boy speaks respectfully to the blind man in his tattered robe
“I can tell you have stolen an extra piece of bread
beyond my allotted daily portion again, Padi
I am grateful, but you must be careful, for if they catch you,
your master would punish you severely,
and that would trouble me, my child”
The boy touches the man’s strong arm with a sense of the honor
“I am a slave from my birth, great warrior,
I learned long past through bitter experience to be careful of my cruel master
Do not be concerned for me”
“Good, my child (taking up his bread to eat)
Now what story would you like me to tell you today,
until the guards come to take this blinded ox to push the turnstile beam?”
“Tell me, Shimshon, is the legend I heard true, that when you were a still a nursling,
a deadly snake came into your crib by night,
and your parents awoke from the sounds of your laughter
to find that you had strangled it?”
“Ah, child, so my mother always told the story
I was so young—honestly, I don’t remember—
(The blind man reaches for his water cup—the boy guides his hand)
But now, my child, I also have an inquiry of you today—
I would like you to describe to me carefully in close detail
the interior of the great temple of Dagon, the Peleshet god
for I that is where I will be taken before too many days have passed,
and I would like to know the place where I will die”
The boy looks sadly at his friend, but he says, “Yes, Shimshon”
and he begins to describe the inside of the famous temple of the city of Gaza
to the man who somehow still looks powerful sitting in the dirt on the floor
of the old mill, blinded and wearing his iron chains
The man and the boy have common ground for their friendship,
for the man is a blinded captive, enslaved to do the daily task of six oxen in the mill
while the child was born a slave and has spent his twelve years of life in enforced servitude
Neither one has any hope in mind to cherish of ever being free
Turning, circling, turning, in the city mill a blind man toils,
pushing forward and around against the heavy wooden beam
in unremitting effort, treading, turning, circling,
the creaking of the wheel,
the sound of the sea in a near distance resounding
like the waves of his pain,
as bright sparks fall nearby on the white marble steps of the temple
from the torches kept always burning
in honor of the fish-man god who brought these warriors from the sea
who the Peleshet say has delivered this great enemy of their people
into their hands, helpless now they think,
as step upon labored step, barefoot in the soft cool dirt,
the blind man leans toiling against the wooden turnstile beam,
his long black hair streaked with white and hanging down,
tangled in the rusting chains which bind him to the wheel,
heavy iron chains which jingle with each muffled step in the dust,
yet no expression betrays his dark, almost unlined face
as down his dusty cheeks the clear beads of sweat roll
like tears of sorrow falling from his blinded eyes, scarred white,
and staring downward with a curiously inflected detachment,
as he walks an ever-circle in the dust,
turning, circling, turning,
and the grist mill groans softly as the blind man toils on and on,
step upon laboring step, leaning hard into the beam,
puffs of dust and powdered chaff rising to punctuate each step
of his bare-foot endless journey in the half-light of the mill,
leaning into the turn-style beam to grind the grain of his enemies
taking their bitter revenge on him for all his victories against them,
before the presumed treachery of his own beloved
brought him to this seeming end, Shimshon the invincible,
now betrayed and brought low, blinded and chained,
circling, treading, turning his unending path in a circle of pain and sorrow,
so the blind man toils on and on in the hours of his darkness
as great beads of sweat roll down his dusty, impassive face like tears,
like her own tears fell in the night of his blinding,
realizing what she had done, realizing too late he was not invincible,
and an odor of musty chaff and dust floats in the air
of the old stone building
It was then another better time, early in the golden days of Spring,
when all the world was living and nothing it seemed could be dying,
and he was young and the world seemed young
and she awaited him in her parents’ house,
so as he was returning to her then,
he is returning to her now in the memories which still sing in his soul,
memories like music sounding faint and far away at first,
then stronger as he draws closer and enters into the realm of memory,
coming now as then down into the green fields of Beth-Shemesh
in the late afternoon of the red sun’s declining
beneath the darkening white clouds,
the shepherds bringing in the sheep in the early evening’s breeze,
moist winds only ever so slightly chilled by night’s still faint approachin