Jonah, Nineveh, Poetry and Prejudice

Nineveh

He sees me, but with eyes unbrotherly
And blind. I want to reach beyond the wall—
Now shrouded with corroded, twisted vines—
And show him we are one. Will God not call

Another reluctant prophet to go
Beyond the city walls and through the streets,
Preaching repentance (like Jonah of old),
Teaching them our hearts like theirs also beats?

Me perhaps? Why? For the hated object
To teach love and equality seems strange,
So for the shores of Tarshish travel I …
Nineveh must teach Nineveh to change.

—jwm


Nineveh was an Assyrian city that thrived in ancient Mesopotamia’s northern region, near modern-day Mosul, Iraq. At one point it was the largest city of the ancient world—until it violently fell in 612.

This city was held in deep antipathy by Israel as a result of the perpetual and bitter conflict they had with the Assyrian empire, as can be seen by Jonah’s (almost comedic) response to the Lord’s call:

Now the word of the Lord came to Jonah the son of Amittai, saying, “Arise, go to Nineveh, that great city, and cry out against it; for their wickedness has come up before me.” But Jonah arose to flee to Tarshish from the presence of the Lord. ~ Jonah 1:1,2 

Jonah, as the story continues, boarded a ship at the port of Joppa and was off for Tarshish. His plans, however, were thwarted when the Lord intercepted the ship with a violent tempest. It was revealed to the crew that the cause of the storm was Jonah, and Jonah was eventually thrown overboard.

As many know, Jonah was then swallowed by a great fish, and while in the belly of that fish gave a prayer of repentance and the Lord heard him. The fish vomited Jonah out on dry land and Jonah proceeded to Nineveh where he would deliver God’s message and ultimately His salvation to that city.

It is clear from the story that Jonah resented the fact that God wanted to bring salvation to a city of people who Jonah (and Israel) considered an enemy nation. This is also clearly a story about prejudice and the need for repentance. Nineveh hated Israel, and Israel along with Jonah hated Nineveh. God, however, loved them both, and wanted nothing more than to bring salvation to them and any of His other children abroad.

In the above poem, Nineveh is symbolic for the antagonist who has a deep hatred for the narrator. For whatever reason it is—homophobia, racism, xenophobia, whatever—the antagonist is blinded by the hatred that governs his disposition and perspective.

Unlike Jonah, the narrator (uncalled by God) desires to reach past this barrier of hatred with the hope of showing the antagonist that there is more that unites them than divides them, to show him how alike they are and that they are even deemed kindred and one in the eyes of God. The narrator, unlike his self-made foe, is looking through brotherly eyes.

But hatred is sometimes too much of a barrier, and in this poem it is a wall that has been there a long time: choked and covered with dying vines. The image of a walled city comes to mind, and the narrator wonders if God will call someone, a prophet perhaps, to go beyond these walls and to encourage, indeed, to warn its inhabitants to repent and change their ways for fear that they die in that state of hatred. If only they could see that the lives of those they hated mattered, or that their hearts like theirs also beats, perhaps this would facilitate for them a desire or motive to see things differently, and to change.

As if being asked, the narrator declines being such a messenger, believing it to be strange that the responsibility of teaching love and equality should lie on the shoulders of those being held in antipathy. If anyone ought to coax the inhabitants of that city to change their ways, it ought to be the people living within it. Any change that is not from within will be a show of pretense and therefore meaningless. Ultimately, it is Nineveh that must change Nineveh.

And so, like Jonah, the narrator’s attention is fixed not on Nineveh, but on Tarshish.

Hope's Epoch

Hope’s Epoch

How amazing to me the dawning light

Gilding with rosy flames the purple clouds

As His children below head out in crowds

To front another day with renewed might.

Fairer still, there below that amber height,

My varied kin wandering to and fro,

Blessed with many joys but besieged by woe:

These I love who conquer their daily plight …

These people my brothers and sisters are,
Whether known or unknown, or near or far.
May our common enemy, hate and fear,
Slip into oblivion’s lasting state

Til alas we with love will deem each dear,

And finally take hold of a noble fate.

-jwm

Of the Poem

Inspired by the poet Edward Robeson Taylor, and the many beautiful sonnets of his that I have recently come to know and appreciate (his classical style is for me refreshing beyond expression), I thought that I might humbly attempt one myself.

To my regret, I believe I may have written no more than a handful of sonnets over the last decade, and of these the poetic form that I chose was that of an English sonnet—otherwise known as a Shakespearean sonnet.

Taylor, who arduously experimented with the sonnet form, seems to have favored the Petrarchan model as typified by the French poets—a form whose poetic parameters seem to have been largely overlooked here in the United States. If you are visiting this page and have any interest, there is a recent article I posted which talks about the unique parameters of a French sonnet (other major sonnet forms are also highlighted there).

Inasmuch as my attempt at a French sonnet was concerned, and the subject of it, I initially began the first half of the octave praising the beauty of the sunrise as it occurs in my hometown of Aurora, Colorado. The second half of the octave was supposed to elaborate on the grunginess and beauty and diversity of the people of Aurora—all of whom I love and wanted to boast about.

My initial endeavor was to personify Aurora as a sort of mother’s beauty brooding carefully over her children as a new and renewed day approached them.

How amazing to me your dawning light,

Gilding with rosy flames the the purple clouds,

As your children below head out in crowds

To front another day with renewed might …

… children “bedeviled about by so many cares” and just desiring happiness. But the poem took a turn as a result of other things I was studying.

I was reading a powerful poem written by Jamaican poet, Claude McKay. The poem, which is a sonnet and a must needs read, is called If We Must Die. It is a poem about brutal oppression, the inability to tolerate it anymore, and an invocation to fight violently against it. The poem was essentially a response to a series of violent racest riots that occurred in 1919, a period known historically as the Red Summer.

After having read about these terrible events a sort of hopelessness and grief lingered with me, a sadness within me that we humans have it in us to be so hateful—murderously hateful—toward one another. It never seems to end, and when I begin to believe that humanity is progressing toward some higher goodness, invariably it seems that some next-level, monumental evil comes in and eclipses that hope. Still, I had to remind myself, if any of us wants to see change we cannot stop hoping for it, and the only way of effecting change is to change ourselves.

It was on this thinking that I began to edit the octave of the poem I began about my hometown and the diversity of its people, and began to ‘universalize’ it. I had the poem open with a new day, a new dawning light as the world (His children) sets out to face and make something of it.

Note the human condition as laid out in the octave: ‘fronting existence’, wandering to and fro (as if lost), besieged by woe, and yet still having within ourselves many joys. Note also how the narrator deems the diversity of the human race (my varied kin) as more beautiful (fairer still) than even that of the dawning morning sky—he especially has love for those who endeavor to overcome their plight (i.e. the human condition).

In a French sonnet the volta or turn in the poem occurs in lines 9 and 10 where a rhyming couplet is employed. In the case of this poem, the volta is an open acknowledgement that all people, whether known or unknown, are as close family to the narrator, and that this perspective must be held if effective and meaningful change is to occur in the world (as the following lines indicate).

The quatrain which then follows concludes with the idea that the enemy we face is not one another, it is xenophobia (fear) and prejudice (hate), and that these must of necessity be lifted if there is to be any hope for humanity. Indeed, the narrator suggests, it is only by banishing these in ourselves that one can even engender the kind of disposition that can love others as if they were our closest kin and family.

Imagine if this were the general disposition or creed of the American population of 1919, one could hardly imagine that the race-hating atrocities which occurred that year would have happened as it did, or at least not to the scale that it did. Imagine, what if this were the general disposition of people globally? What a difference it would make … we might even be able to change our fate.

If you are visiting this page and read this article, I would love to know your thoughts. How did you come to find interest in poetry? Have you written a French sonnet (or any other sonnet types)? How do you like the poem posted in this particular post? Any views on xenophobia and/or prejudice that you might have seen? If you are from another country, what kind of racial issues occur where you are from, and what solutions are being employed there to reduce it? I could go on and on. Nevertheless, I would love to hear from you. Thanks for stopping by.

Another Walcott Poem- Blues

WARNING: Another poem of Walcott's that stuck with me was one where he describes himself getting jumped by some racist kids- some of the language is a little sharp, and some of the imagery used to describe the assault a bit dreadful, so be warned … still, it’s a powerful piece.


Blues

Those five or six young guys
lunched on the stoop
that oven-hot summer night
whistled me over. Nice
and friendly. So, I stop.
MacDougal or Christopher
Street in chains of light.

A summer festival. Or some
saint’s. I wasn’t too far from
home, but not too bright
for a nigger, and not too dark.
I figured we were all
one, wop, nigger, jew,
besides, this wasn’t Central Park.
I’m coming on too strong? You figure
right! They beat this yellow nigger
black and blue.

Yeah. During all this, scared
on case one used a knife,
I hung my olive-green, just-bought
sports coat on a fire plug.
I did nothing. They fought
each other, really. Life
gives them a few kicks,
that’s all. The spades, the spicks.

My face smashed in, my bloddy mug
pouring, my olive-branch jacket saved
from cuts and tears,
I crawled four flights upstairs.
Sprawled in the gutter, I
remember a few watchers waved
loudly, and one kid’s mother shouting
like “Jackie” or “Terry,”
“now that’s enough!”
It’s nothing really.
They don’t get enough love.

You know they wouldn’t kill
you. Just playing rough,
like young Americans will.
Still it taught me something
about love. If it’s so tough,
forget it.

Happy B-Day, DW

I dig, dig, dig this poet! Derek Walcott, a contemporary poet of ours (born 23 January 1930), was of the first poets I read who touched deeply on race and the struggle of ethnic identity. I did a commentary on a poem of his a couple years ago titled, A Far Cry from Africa- a poem riddled with utter intensity, one that contemplates the hideous act of genocide, and to date my favorite of his. I’ll leave a link below if you think you can handle the read- seriously, brace yourself …

Happy birthday, DW …