Ann Arbor writer Zilka Joseph shares two poems and an excerpt from her new book, "In Our Beautiful Bones"
Zilka Joseph resides in Ann Arbor, but the poet's work is inspired by her Indian and Bene Israel roots and traversing Eastern and Western cultures.
Her latest book, In Our Beautiful Bones, was published this fall by Mayapple Press. It was nominated for a PEN America award and a Pushcart, and it's been entered for a Michigan Notable Book award:
In Our Beautiful Bones traces various stages in the poet’s journey as an immigrant from India who makes a new life in the US, and her encounters with racism and otherness. In it she explores her Bene Israel roots, the origins of her ancestors, her life in Kolkata, the influences of British rule and a missionary education, her growing knowledge of what racism and marginalization means, how Indians and Indian culture is perceived and represented. While delving unflinchingly into the violence and global impact of colonialism, the weaponization of the English Language, the evils of tyranny and white supremacy, and the struggles of oppressed peoples everywhere, she creates powerful collages from mythology, folklore, fairy tales, Scripture, world cultures, literature, music, food, and current events. Traditional and experimental forms, historical information, sensory riches, wit and word play, and an unwavering and clear voice make this book a compelling read. In Our Beautiful Bones is a multi-layered, sharply ironic and sometimes pathos-filled critique of the world, and at the same time it is visionary and a triumph of the human spirit.
We asked Joseph if we could publish a poem from In Our Beautiful Bones and she was kind enough to send us two poems and "two short extracts from a long and significant collage poem. I chose these three as I think they offer a glimpse of various complex aspects of my book," she said in an email.
Also, Joseph spoke with Nancy Naomi Carlson and Nawaaz Ahmed (who we interviewed recently) about In Our Beautiful Bones on October 6 as part of Literati's At Home series and we've included that video below as well as three previous Pulp pieces on the poet.
Voyage
--The Upanisads explain how wisdom can be absorbed through sound, how the ear is a vessel –the receiver of divine messages
The lightning fell, and I only knew
that it entered my eyes, and thunder
repeated words in my ears
I could not understand
in the grey-blue light of evening.
A sheet of silver drew itself
like a shroud over my car –
its engine an animal thrashing
in the hold, my heartbeat
like oars slamming hard
against every climbing wave,
my hands on the steering wheel
clawing at it as if it were
a raft. At sixteen, my father sailed
the Bombay steamships, nearly
deafened by their sound;
gales, ice, St. Elmo’s fire striking
on the high seas, then sailed diesel
vessels through squalls
when the sky was black and the water
black, and the sailor’s hearts
shrunk from fear –
all listening, on deck and on the bridge
and in the bowels
of the engine room,
to what the thunder said. And turning
into a vacant lot on Opdyke
near Pontiac, the storm
washed me clean
off the road. Wipers swept leaves
and yellow-black sky into sea
foam. I watched the windshield bulge
like a goatskin. It strained,
but held. Then a dam of white
light broke, the wall of water
shattering it’s cargo, and me
inside it like a seed
giving itself up to water
and to wind. In the west,
the sunlight crashing
in the broken branches
of oaks, burned a tunnel
of sienna through
which the bow
of my ship rose
to meet the horizon,
and my father, the Chief,
roared to his engineers,
their faces streaked with oil
and boiler suits sweat drenched;
men whose torn lips
bled as another peal shook
the flailing vessel, and we turned
our faces to the upper
deck. Like our Jewish
ancestors wrecked on the
Konkan coast thousands
of years ago, we waited
but no calm came
until the wind suddenly
fell. My car almost shoved
on to its side, now only swayed,
a metal cradle
spat from the mouth
of thunder. I smelled its breath,
its teeth left bloodless marks
on my skin, my bones
shook, and though it was gone
I felt its pull, a lift,
a nameless terror,
and my deafened ears
received every word it said –
what it had said
to my ancestors
what it had said
to my father
to his men
as it had let the sailors go,
as it had let my father go
and let us all go home.
O Say Can You See
look into my eyes America
how easy it is
to dream in techni-color
o say white say red say blue
and every color
we who made and make you still
we have built
your towers
your tracks your bridges
with our bones
from sea to shining sea this is our home
home is where the heart is
yes all the broken ones
we pick your fruit sing hosanna
we build our hearths here
we bake bread that we break together
we give thanks for each grain
we feed the hungry
for we have known hunger
see this mouth it sings peace
in every language
watch my face shine it will light up
your pavements your alleys
your castles your shacks
your thirsty fields
like a harvest moon
after blight and famine
and give back to us
the dollars like shekels
you have stolen forever
study then the maps inside my eyes
see the world
yes feel my heartbeat
touch my human skin
it is real
and see our scars they are the same
our scars we carry them thick and ugly
we are no stranger to dust and ashes
here is my war-torn hand
here are my lips let me kiss your cheek
where do we end
where do we begin
when I say love I mean you
when I say home I mean you
when I say to you
we are so beautiful do not turn away
do not shatter America America
for richer for poorer
we are your beautiful bones
your heart
your veins
are made of us
why are you afraid our blood is the same color
our skin so easy to dissolve
frail border between this world and the next
oh sing with me sing with me what is made one
should not be pulled asunder
we who are embraced
by sweet Lady Liberty
we who are made so beautiful
so varied
so new
so whole again
inside the harbor
of your arms oh America
we are you do you not see
do not lead us into darkness
do not
hate our gods our children
throw us not into camps prisons ghettos
smash your jackboots into us
but deliver yourself
from that dagger
the dagger you can become
Two excerpts from the collage poem “Whose Voices Were Heard”
Mother, mother. mother
there's too many of you crying
will you say why have you forsaken me
will you say forgive them for they know not what they do
will you shoot will you put your hands up and still be shot
will your neck be knelt upon till your breath is gone
will you say this is all illusion maya O maya
will you say I am not my body
will you say what’s going on
Brother, brother, brother
will there be a time for us a place for us
still I rise still I rise
O sing in our own myriad tongues
in our own voices
stir it up little darlin’
the goddess dances on the head of the demon
the Madonna crushes the snake with her foot
Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya
from darkness unto light
we know where we’re going
yes we know where we’re from
may we move freely
through the passage between lives
can you see us dancing in the dark and in the rain
and in the moonlight the firelight the lamplight
dancing in the sun
in our own shining skin
in our beautiful bones
Visit zilkajoseph.com for more information.
Related:
➥ "Zilka Joseph's new chapbook, 'Sparrows and Dust,' finds parallels between humans and birds" [Pulp, July 12, 2021]
➥ "Zilka Joseph on Michigan poets and her favorite Ann Arbor literary haunts" [Pulp, September 7, 2019]
➥ "Review: Zilka Joseph Poetry at Ann Arbor Book Festival" [Pulp, June 30, 2016]