To listen to an audio recital of the poem, click here
 |
" Jacob Wrestling with the Angel" at Penuel
by Eugène Delacroix.
|
The notion of "struggle", of "wrestling", runs through all my work, rooted in the epic of Biblical Jacob and particularly the tale of his night-long wrestling until stalemate with the "man" of Penu-El. Whether in love or art or politics, or simply the banalities of our daily lives, it is this which truly distinguishes humankind from the animals, but Man from man and Woman from woman as well. Two ironies emerge from this
poem, neither of which I was aware of when I wrote it. The first is the
inference of the necessity of exterior struggle to complement the inner
struggle: the inevitability and inexorability of armed conflict when the exterior
struggle is about geography, tribal rivalry, political disagreement, economics.
The second is the translation of both the word and the concept of “struggle”,
complete with the above inference, into Arabic; for in Arabic the word is
Jihad.
Apotheosis
They
carried me to Egypt and made a slave of me,
squared
my beard, curved the fringes of my hair,
dressed
me in the clothes of an Egyptian -
till
I was nothing more than wood and stone,
incense
on an altar, fire in an olive tree,
a
drunken feast, a brother’s love for sister,
a
timid shackle and a foul abomination.
See
how they cowered before some human face,
calling
it my face, naming it my name,
horror
in their hearts and bowels mingling
with
my own horror at such vile degradation,
my
humiliation in their midst, a slave of slaves,
proud
nakedness reduced to clothed indignity,
my
loins bound with cord, my blood sapped by labour,
my
will tethered like a rooster in its chains.
But
will will be done, and done will be proven.
For
their sakes I threw down the puny idols,
threw
off the human mask, threw back the chains,
tormented
my tormentors with some easy plagues,
cast
some simple miracles into their midst,
bent
back my wings and soared into the freedom
of
the desert - for their sakes, not for mine.
Come,
my children -
now,
at last, to live and grow,
now
to forge a will of iron
stronger
than any shackle.
What
of the sea - I who have turned back
whole
firmaments? The sea parted like a harlot’s
thighs
submitting to my rod of iron.
What
of the desert - I who have made
worlds
out of voids? The desert is already dust.
What
of the hordes pursuing? Come, my children!
Could
Sodom or Gomorrah stand against me?
Desert
of blistering heat, waterless, foodless;
desert
of ice cold night, woodless for a fire;
desert
of endless space, caveless for a refuge -
come,
my children, I shall feed you,
my
blood shall quench your thirst,
my
love shall nourish you,
my
body light your journey,
my
spirit be for you a sanctuary.
Each
of you with my own hand
I
shall smuggle out of bondage -
tell
it to your children,
how
with my own hand I warmed and nourished you,
lit
your way,
made
of my spirit a sanctuary for your spirits.
Though
others tried to supersede me,
none
had forged a will like mine,
and
one by one they fell before me,
melting
in the sun like golden calves.
Enemies
I brushed aside.
Rivals
were crushed beneath my fist.
Fear
lit up my children’s eyes - fear and reverence.
How
they longed to learn the secrets of the fire!
Do
not look at me - I burn.
Do
not touch me - I consume.
Do
not question me -
I
too have learned to fear the fire.
Faceless,
my flesh assumed the spirit of the fire,
flame
by day, ember smouldering by night,
lighting
the journey like a reflection of my will.
In
stone I carved a law so harsh and so implacable
that
only such as I could possibly obey it.
In
sand I forged my children,
turning
slaves to soldiers, peasants into priests.
Who
would dare to know me?
Who
would dare to stand before me?
Are
you strong enough, bold enough, vigorous enough?
I
too would fear to stand before me.
Then
will you wrestle with me, Israel,
here
on this high mountain
where
Israel wrestled with me?
Those
who come cowering I blow away like chaff,
those
who come snivelling I spit upon,
those
who come kneeling I make to grovel.
Will
you wrestle with me, Israel,
here
on this broken ladder
where
Israel wrestled with me?
I
too would fear the iron in the fist.
Strong
enough to survive my desert,
to
endure my fire;
arrogant
enough to pierce my cloak invisible;
man
enough to look and touch and live;
ready
enough to fight or be consumed.
Why
are you limping, Israel? I have not yet
touched
the hollow of your thigh,
I
have not yet put it out of joint.
Come,
my children, wrestle with me,
thigh
for thigh, ladder for ladder, fear for fear.
At
the edge of the abyss I made judges
out
of prisoners, lawyers out of liars, warriors
out
of snivelling children. In the craters
of
volcanoes I forged giants out of dwarves.
In
the trembling of an earthquake
my
own voice trembled,
and
I shattered every idol who contended with me.
Come,
my children, answer - are you worthy of me?
Which
of you is capable of envisaging Paradise,
of
marching towards it sword in hand,
conquering
it, inhabiting it,
building
my palace for eternity?
What
- did you expect me to take you by the hand
and
lead you over Jordan like some shepherd?
Where
are your swords, my children?
Where
are your teeth, sharpened on paschal lamb?
Where
is your will of iron,
wrought
in the desert fire and in my iron will?
Must
I destroy the sheep as I destroyed the calf?
Climb
to the fiery summit of your soul
and
wrestle with me, Israel, will to will.
I
have made my children strong enough to wrestle,
I
have taught my children the arrogance of fire,
I
have formed my children in my own likeness,
limping
not from the chains they drag behind,
but
from the undefeated agony of a dislocated thigh.
I
am a rod of flaming iron,
a
lion who leaves the sheep-pen bloody,
a
flame invisible searing the dark night,
a
white moon gleaming out of deepest nothingness.
I
am, as this desert made me.
I
am - that I am.
Come,
my children.
Children,
Israel, wrestle.
"Apotheosis" is published in "Welcome To My World, Selected Poems 1973-2013", The Argaman Press. Click here to purchase the book.
You can find David Prashker at:
Copyright © 2014 David Prashker
All rights reserved
The Argaman Press
No comments:
Post a Comment