Weakly Devotional

The men of Nineveh shall rise in judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it:
because they repented at the preaching of Jonas; and, behold, a greater than Jonas is here.
The queen of the south shall rise up in the judgment with this generation,and shall condemn it:
for she came from the uttermost parts of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon;
and, behold, a greater than Solomon is here.

Christ’s words from Matthew 12:41,42

It’s Sunday again for you cloistered patricians
aloof from the madness, the magic and myth;
who trust in your wisdom, investments, physicians
unready to answer forthwith:

Why bother with worship—in church or the zoo—
why weaken the links with a dull set of tools ?
you ask yourself over your high-end Tarrazu,
bemused at the fables of fools.

You’ve bartered salvation for New York Times articles,
sipping on bitterness (shade-grown organic).
You settle for molecules, atoms and particles
unfairly-traded, satanic—

while you celebrate emptiness, general futility
musing on nothingness, sure of specifics
ensconced in your kitchen of pampered gentility
flirting with atheist physics.

Those simple plebeians: you’d love to enlighten them
help them, like you, to become a free-thinker
but you remain tasteful, for boldness might frighten them
reeling in fairy tales: hook, line and sinker.

Yet somebody, somewhere has uttered your sentence
(though you abhor judgement, let’s read it again).
Sheba and Nineveh, versed in repentance
await you—not whether but when.

The darkness is brewing unholy filtration;
the wine of the harlot approaches the rim;
your guilt is augmenting in slow percolation;
you shrug it all off on a whim.

The souls of Assyria rise from your paper
they watch in amazement, prepare your abyss.
Your coffee now brims a more sulfurous vapor;
oh sinner —there’s something amiss:

The crypts of Marib and the tombs of the Axumites
shudder and groan while you’re reading the Times…
(immune to the words that some Christarded poet writes
mixing psychosis with rhymes.)

Royal Sheba will chastise your erudite unbelief,
smug self-importance and cynical talk.
Then she’ll sigh with immense Ethiopian grief
and her Highness Queen Bilqis will balk—

It is Sunday in Babylon. What if your sunlight ends . . .
why are there mobs in the streets of the nation?
Shall you have breakfast ? —or calculate dividends;
what would you pay for salvation?

Baal improved

IMAGE CREDITS: faithofthefathersreadings.blogspot
faithcrc.net

Kushitic Closure

Mar27

This poem is inspired by memories of a lovely and kind-hearted Ethiopian university student who lived with my family when I was ten. She introduced us to berbere and doro wat, and taught me to appreciate gastronomy from Africa’s horn. She had a beautiful smile, she had a Wilson Pickett record and she initiated me into the mysteries of pop music and the radio. Her name was Adeye. This was in the mid-70’s just before the Marxist coup which brought in Haile Mengistu Mariam. We lost touch with her long ago. The poem is also inspired by times I have been offered coffee among Ethiopian people, who have a beautiful ceremony involving frankincense when they partake.

One last Kushitic dream—be patient: once I was at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, in the Egyptian mummy room (a Coptic one-liner there for you). I was chatting with a beautiful Eritrean security guard among the crypts. Mysteriously, everyone cleared out and for a short while it was only the two of us, surrounded by opened sarcophagi in the dimly-lit room. For a moment I thought I was speaking with the eternal spirit of some princess who had just climbed out of one of them !

Kaffa-Coffee

Abyssinia

I long to know that land in spirit
where the highlands meet the desert.
Where there’s faith and coffee served
with ceremony still observed.

The white-robed land, where priests intone
in levite ritual ‘round the ark.
A land in clouds of frankincense,
whose past is bitter, strong and dark.

meroe02

I’ll enter where the rock is carved
in cruciform epiphany;
where Midian’s curtains hide the starved
whose hunger feeds conspiracy.

I’ll walk the wilds of Meroë
all ruined in the desert sands, ethiop cross
where beauty wails and ululates
as silver gleams on amber strands.

Her kings and peasants come to naught
when princes’ plots are overthrown.
Her blameless name was never bought;
her faith in Christ is scribed in stone.

lalibela04

Queen Sheba’s golden sepulcher –
your modern guises can’t suffice
to quench the fire of God and spice.

Davidic land—like calvary
your power purifies the heart
through struggle, prayer, and ancient art.

Kublai Khan: Yaitopya

Mar26

…A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ‘twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

From: Kubla Khan by Coleridge ( 1772- 1834)

Princes shall come out of Egypt;
Ethiopia shall soon stretch out her hands unto God.

Sing unto God, ye kingdoms of the earth;
O sing praises unto the Lord; Selah:

To him that rideth upon the heavens of heavens,
which were of old; lo, he doth send out his voice,
and that a mighty voice.

Ascribe ye strength unto God:
his excellency is over Israel,
and his strength is in the clouds.

O God, thou art terrible out of thy holy places:
the God of Israel is he that giveth strength and power
unto his people. Blessed be God.

Psalm 68:31-36 (KJV)

Inhuman Rites: Animal Husbandry

Mar26

Oh Kushite muses, open wide my lips
Regardless whether blood or honey drips,
To speak against the backwardness of those
Who progress, light, and liberty oppose.
To clarify a theme of clannish wrong
While nomads move the camel-herds along.
Animal husbandry takes on new meaning:
Their brides sewn shut; their pasturelands are greening;
Sheba’s daughters cheated of their pleasure,
Despoiled through painful plunder of their treasure.

Filthy blade in hand, the crone bears witness.
The girl in terror, clueless, cut, then clitless.
As if this weren’t enough, infibulation
Ensures the bridegroom’s bloody domination.
The honeymoon brings every husband joy:
Reopening the wrapping on his toy.
Where knife or horse-whip place their gentle kiss,
There, Kushite swains deliver nights of bliss.
And nine moons later, motherhood, grown mild,
Is opened yet again by blade for child.

From Kush to Punt, on Afric’s burning horn,
Sadistic ways cause modern minds to mourn.
We wonder how this barbary was born . . .
Many Bantus, and Ishmaelites as well
Consign their birth-machines to living hell.
Explain to me how Satan sold this rite
To those who dwell in bio-sexual night?
Veiled in flesh, her godhead cast aside
Subjected to some herdsman’s wounded pride . . .
Let Kush and Punt, their glory days recall;
Their daughters drink the wormwood and the gall.

Old scars, reopened, threaten to infect
What multi-culti feminists protect.
(But no one ought to talk about such things
because of all the prejudice it brings.)