Seven Distant Chantings

By Joe Tuwemi

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Sep 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665728737

Joe Tuwemi

Joe Tuwemi is the author of The Seventh Song, published by Archway in 2021. Joe Tuwemi is a nom de plume.

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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

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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?

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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

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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 approaching,

as he descends the last rocky hill above the verdant valley below

white flocks flowing toward safe folds

and birds seeking roost among green trees to sing their evensongs

singing in the house of the Sun where Shimshon was born,

where his tribe of Dawn and the Peleshet had lived among one another

in an oft uneasy liminal habitation

The toiling blind man’s pain is great and elemental in its flow,

like a narrow river raging throughout his body and soul

yet his suffering does not overcome him, finds no place to pool and rise,

for he does not resist its harsh flow and lets the pain run feely through him,

diffusing the flow, letting it go,

like run-off from autumnal rains flowing into deep ravines,

into the deep ravines of his broken heart, pain running off

diluted in its scattering,

flowing out his fingertips and the bare soles of his dusty feet,

as he treads an ever-circle in the dust, treading and turning,

breathes deeply, slow breaths,

rushing in and out of his constant exertion

as he steps and presses against the beam,

the great muscles in his legs rising and falling,

his sweat descending drop by drop into the dust

which puffs with each step in little clouds of his opaque sorrow

amid the groaning of the mill stone crying misery in its slow turning,

as the grain is ground fine for his enemies’ nourishment,

and he leans forward chained and pushing round and round

in each circling step unending on the long journey of his death struggle,

for he has one last thing to do and he will endure until it is done,

going on, hours upon hours, day after day, step upon labored step

blind and chained, suffering greatly, yet still in his memories free

He saw the black tents and the green grass a little distance from the house

something about this place felt very good to him, something familiar,

and he always wanted to be in such a place where she was

and he felt good, though he was weary

and his fresh scars from his slaying of a lion ached in the chill of evening

Then he saw her running through the mottled flocks of grazing sheep

running toward the hill as he slowly descended through rocky terrain

He could smell wood smoke and wild berries from the camps now

as her voice floated up to him like a birdsong on the evening breeze,

he heard her calling him, Shem-shon, my Shem-shon,

in the way she alone said his name, crying out his name as she ran,

running through a field of yellow and blue wild flowers with the grace of a dancer

and her hair was very thick and very long and as black as the tents of Kedar

He watched her running toward him and strong happiness flowed in him

and his heart was warmed and softened to see her run

and to hear her call his name as she came to him on the wings of her joy,

her voice rising on the winds of dusk to meet him in his descent into her arms,

and he thought that truly she ran as beautifully as the finest desert mare

almost ungainly for the length of her legs yet all the more beautiful,

moving free in the loose robe of many colors like the leaves of autumn,

whose hem she had tucked up in her belt as she ran

He could see her face clearly now as he neared the bottom of the hill

for she was very close now, the decline of the sun red upon her dark face,

smiling at him with such an honest smile, and her eyes were brown and beautiful,

her life and her joy in him glowing in her eyes,

as it had been when they were children when no one told them

not to play together so much because their people were enemies,

for then they were only children

and there had been a lull in all the hostilities,

a season of uneasy peace, the years passing,

so that their youth came to them quietly,

and they made a secret pledge of love,

before he went away and became the enemy of her people,

beginning the conflicts of Shimshon of the Dawn and Dagon’s Peleshets,

to the violent death of many of his people’s oppressors

but also to the tragedy of their love in unintended