The Trials of TobitBy Joseph Lisowski
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DIVISION/PRELUDE
I am Tobit.
My father is called "God is Good,"
my grandfather, "God is Merciful."
How can I not be blessed?
I have a story, even a song—it rises
like evening smoke—the crackle
of roasted lamb turning on the spit—gentle
wind, a ticking of grains of sand
brushing cheek, forehead, tip of tongue.
My story, of course, is of family--
Of how I do and do not belong.
***
ORIGINS
When my father died,
he left me an orphan.
I offered first fruits,
first shearings of my sheep,
firstlings of my flock
to no avail.
The priests took my tithes,
drank my wine, ate
my figs, pomegranates—my
brothers ate the food of heathens.
I reaped the wind.
Changes occurred. I married.
Roads became unsafe.
A new king flogged
the desert, overturning stones--
the dead had no place to rest.
I listened long to their conversations.
And then girded my loins.
***
EXCESS
Everywhere I turn the dead lay.
a feast for insects, vermin,
some ignored, stiff as leather.
I return at night, shovel in hand,
wildly displace sand.
The bodies sink to a level of light
becoming dark, night.
Enough of a crypt for passage.
The king hears of my treachery,
clangs the death-knell,
begins confiscating my land, furniture, food,
servants, clothes, precious gems, all
but my wife and son.
I flee on a manna wind
where locusts are sweet, plenty.
The king dies at the hands of his sons,
who now scour the desert,
looking for me
seeking solace from one
whose father has died.
***
LEGACY
Patricides are forever lost.
A new king reigns—I'm
welcomed back, reunited
with wife and son.
At the feast of weeks,
fifty days from Passover,
I am feted with sweetest meats,
wine, bread, fruits.
I send my son to find a poor man,
someone to share our wealth.
He returns alarmed—"Father, one
of our people has been murdered.
He lies in the marketplace
where he had been strangled."
I rush out, gather the body,
take him home, to my room
to wait for night and burial.
I wash and with sadness return to
the empty banquet hall.
I think of the prophet Amos, widely heralded
As the prophet of love who said,
"Your festivals shall be turned into mourning
and all your songs into lamentation."
My son is gone.
I weep. At sunset, I will go out
and dig a grave, bury my guest.
***
SLEEP OF THE JUST
"What is wrong with you!" my neighbors
complain. "For this, you were hunted down,
almost executed. For this you escaped?
To bury the dead again?"
It is hot. I am tired.
What is done is done.
I doze, my face uncovered.
I wake easy from a sleep of the just,
my eyes heavy, I think, with sand.
No, my wife says. Bird droppings have
Filled my eyes. She takes me
to doctors. Their salves
seal my vision. My kinsmen
stay a while, but then none remain.
My wife goes out looking for work.
***
WOMAN'S WORK
My wife weaves, “the kind of work
women do.” The owners
are always pleased; they pay
well, more than feels right.
One night she brings
a young goat back with her.
"Return this," I demand. "Why
are you now a thief!"
"A bonus, a bonus!" she insists.
A bone, a bone is what I hear.
And with this I must contend.
"See, Your true character
is finally showing itself!" she screams.
***
LIKE A PEACOCK
I hate this life,
the parts I play,
now begging God
with praise to do my bidding,
to take away my life
or the insults of others.
How dumb do I think he is?
my sincerity sweet
As undigested cud.
How dumb does he think
I am to pray so transparently?
When I lost sight,
I lost vision.
Courage, too.
Shamelessly, I preen
like a peacock, flaunting
my humility.
***
THE FOLLY OF PRIVILEGE
I am a rich man,
treasured in another country.
I have hidden wealth
that my son must retrieve.
He must hire a guide—his spirit
is young, judgment not quite
of a piece—a man tested, unbroken,
a true kinsman, loyal friend
to love not money.
Who but an angel?
It must be "God who heals."
***
GOOD FORTUNE
Raphael broods like high mountain fire,
licks grass, sticks, embers to rise
merely a tenth of an inch,
the precise distance between heaven and earth.
Barely enough to ignite imagination.
He agrees to serve Tobiah, luckless son
Of a blind prophet born of shadows, snakes.
***
AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT
A boy and his dog leave home,
Followed by the angel.
The travelers walk until nightfall
and make camp at the Tigris River
where the boy washes his feet.
A large fish suddenly leaps
from the water, tries to swallow his foot.
The angel tells him to seize the fish,
which he does and hauls upon shore.
"Cut the fish open and take out
its gall, heart, and liver. Keep them
with you but throw away the entrails."
The boy does as bid. "But why?" he asks.
"Burn heart and liver—its smoke purges any demons
nearby, banishes them forever. Gall, when rubbed
on the eyes of a man with cataracts, restores sight.
Believe and obey. Trust and obey."
And the boy, nothing but his father's son, obeys.
***
A MATTER OF HOPE
The boy marries a girl
and her secrets, which
he only partially understands.
First marriages are always
a matter of hope.
Hers is a lovely story,
left for another time.
***
UNKNOWN HEART-ACHE
It's a dream world,
fancy fed, love directed,
if the boy charmed, blessed,
follows good advice, respects
elders and angels.
It is easy for him to obey.
Great wealth, ease is promised.
He is not tempted to turn away.
Darkness has no appeal.
Death holds no beguiling veil,
which he is driven to lift.
And women are nothing to fear.
***
AT END, A BEGINNING
He enters her arms
And does not die.
Earlier, he prepared a spell
to cast out her death demon.
His life in balance, no tremors,
no fears, he believes himself safe.
And so he is.
A boy who lives by faith
or one that gives little thought?
Perhaps he is the son
as imagined by the father--
easy, ready, unable to break.
I am Tobit.
My father is called "God is Good,"
my grandfather, "God is Merciful."
How can I not be blessed?
I have a story, even a song—it rises
like evening smoke—the crackle
of roasted lamb turning on the spit—gentle
wind, a ticking of grains of sand
brushing cheek, forehead, tip of tongue.
My story, of course, is of family--
Of how I do and do not belong.
***
ORIGINS
When my father died,
he left me an orphan.
I offered first fruits,
first shearings of my sheep,
firstlings of my flock
to no avail.
The priests took my tithes,
drank my wine, ate
my figs, pomegranates—my
brothers ate the food of heathens.
I reaped the wind.
Changes occurred. I married.
Roads became unsafe.
A new king flogged
the desert, overturning stones--
the dead had no place to rest.
I listened long to their conversations.
And then girded my loins.
***
EXCESS
Everywhere I turn the dead lay.
a feast for insects, vermin,
some ignored, stiff as leather.
I return at night, shovel in hand,
wildly displace sand.
The bodies sink to a level of light
becoming dark, night.
Enough of a crypt for passage.
The king hears of my treachery,
clangs the death-knell,
begins confiscating my land, furniture, food,
servants, clothes, precious gems, all
but my wife and son.
I flee on a manna wind
where locusts are sweet, plenty.
The king dies at the hands of his sons,
who now scour the desert,
looking for me
seeking solace from one
whose father has died.
***
LEGACY
Patricides are forever lost.
A new king reigns—I'm
welcomed back, reunited
with wife and son.
At the feast of weeks,
fifty days from Passover,
I am feted with sweetest meats,
wine, bread, fruits.
I send my son to find a poor man,
someone to share our wealth.
He returns alarmed—"Father, one
of our people has been murdered.
He lies in the marketplace
where he had been strangled."
I rush out, gather the body,
take him home, to my room
to wait for night and burial.
I wash and with sadness return to
the empty banquet hall.
I think of the prophet Amos, widely heralded
As the prophet of love who said,
"Your festivals shall be turned into mourning
and all your songs into lamentation."
My son is gone.
I weep. At sunset, I will go out
and dig a grave, bury my guest.
***
SLEEP OF THE JUST
"What is wrong with you!" my neighbors
complain. "For this, you were hunted down,
almost executed. For this you escaped?
To bury the dead again?"
It is hot. I am tired.
What is done is done.
I doze, my face uncovered.
I wake easy from a sleep of the just,
my eyes heavy, I think, with sand.
No, my wife says. Bird droppings have
Filled my eyes. She takes me
to doctors. Their salves
seal my vision. My kinsmen
stay a while, but then none remain.
My wife goes out looking for work.
***
WOMAN'S WORK
My wife weaves, “the kind of work
women do.” The owners
are always pleased; they pay
well, more than feels right.
One night she brings
a young goat back with her.
"Return this," I demand. "Why
are you now a thief!"
"A bonus, a bonus!" she insists.
A bone, a bone is what I hear.
And with this I must contend.
"See, Your true character
is finally showing itself!" she screams.
***
LIKE A PEACOCK
I hate this life,
the parts I play,
now begging God
with praise to do my bidding,
to take away my life
or the insults of others.
How dumb do I think he is?
my sincerity sweet
As undigested cud.
How dumb does he think
I am to pray so transparently?
When I lost sight,
I lost vision.
Courage, too.
Shamelessly, I preen
like a peacock, flaunting
my humility.
***
THE FOLLY OF PRIVILEGE
I am a rich man,
treasured in another country.
I have hidden wealth
that my son must retrieve.
He must hire a guide—his spirit
is young, judgment not quite
of a piece—a man tested, unbroken,
a true kinsman, loyal friend
to love not money.
Who but an angel?
It must be "God who heals."
***
GOOD FORTUNE
Raphael broods like high mountain fire,
licks grass, sticks, embers to rise
merely a tenth of an inch,
the precise distance between heaven and earth.
Barely enough to ignite imagination.
He agrees to serve Tobiah, luckless son
Of a blind prophet born of shadows, snakes.
***
AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT
A boy and his dog leave home,
Followed by the angel.
The travelers walk until nightfall
and make camp at the Tigris River
where the boy washes his feet.
A large fish suddenly leaps
from the water, tries to swallow his foot.
The angel tells him to seize the fish,
which he does and hauls upon shore.
"Cut the fish open and take out
its gall, heart, and liver. Keep them
with you but throw away the entrails."
The boy does as bid. "But why?" he asks.
"Burn heart and liver—its smoke purges any demons
nearby, banishes them forever. Gall, when rubbed
on the eyes of a man with cataracts, restores sight.
Believe and obey. Trust and obey."
And the boy, nothing but his father's son, obeys.
***
A MATTER OF HOPE
The boy marries a girl
and her secrets, which
he only partially understands.
First marriages are always
a matter of hope.
Hers is a lovely story,
left for another time.
***
UNKNOWN HEART-ACHE
It's a dream world,
fancy fed, love directed,
if the boy charmed, blessed,
follows good advice, respects
elders and angels.
It is easy for him to obey.
Great wealth, ease is promised.
He is not tempted to turn away.
Darkness has no appeal.
Death holds no beguiling veil,
which he is driven to lift.
And women are nothing to fear.
***
AT END, A BEGINNING
He enters her arms
And does not die.
Earlier, he prepared a spell
to cast out her death demon.
His life in balance, no tremors,
no fears, he believes himself safe.
And so he is.
A boy who lives by faith
or one that gives little thought?
Perhaps he is the son
as imagined by the father--
easy, ready, unable to break.
Joseph Lisowski was Professor of English at the University of the Virgin Islands and at Elizabeth City State University in North Carolina. Some poetry chapbooks include Stashu Kapinski Strikes Out (Rank Stranger Press), Fatherhood at Fifty (Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry), Sketches of an Island Life (dpi press), Art Lessons (Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry), Letters to Wang Wei (Pudding House Press), and Stashu Kapinski Looks for Love (erbacce-press, UK).
After growing up under the shadow of Heppenstall Steel Mill in Pittsburgh, Pa., Joseph Lisowski has spent much of his life near the sea, including 10 years in the Caribbean, which serves as the setting for his three published mystery novels, FULL BODY RUB, LOOKING FOR LISA, and LOOKING FOR LAUREN.
Joseph Lisowski won the University of North Carolina Board of Governors Teacher of the Year Award (2013-2014). His most recent poetry book publications are STASHU KAPINSKI DREAMS OF GLORY (full length, Sweatshoppe Publications, 2013) and BLUE SEASON (with Steve Klepetar, chapbook, mgv2>publishing, 2013).