Monday, 18 September 2017

The Man With The Hoe by Edwin Markham

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans 
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, 
The emptiness of ages in his face, 
And on his back the burden of the world. 
Who made him dead to rapture and despair, 
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes. 
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? 
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? 
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow? 
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain? 
Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave 
To have dominion over sea and land; 
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; 
To feel the passion of Eternity? 
Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns 
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep? 
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf 
There is no shape more terrible than this 
More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed 
More filled with signs and portents for the soul  
More fraught with menace to the universe. 
What gulfs between him and the seraphim! 
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him 
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? 
What the long reaches of the peaks of song, 
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? 
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; 
Time’s tragedy is in the aching stoop; 
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, 
Plundered, profaned, and disinherited, 
Cries protest to the Powers that made the world. 
A protest that is also a prophecy.
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, 
Is this the handiwork you give to God, 
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? 
How will you ever straighten up this shape; 
Touch it again with immortality; 
Give back the upward looking and the light; 
Rebuild in it the music and the dream, 
Make right the immemorial infamies, 
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? 
O masters, lords and rulers in all lands 
How will the Future reckon with this Man? 
How answer his brute question in that hour 
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores? 
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings  
With those who shaped him to the thing he is  
When this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world. 
After the silence of the centuries?
Inspired by the painting L’homme à la houe by Jean-François Millet.
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*Untitled

Chima! Chima o! I hear mummy's voice sounding like she is calling from three blocks away, faint and hollow, or is it just me? I drag myself off my bed from the room that has provided a form of solace and comfort from the world beyond. "Chima, you want me to shout my lungs sore abi! I have been calling you, later you will say you didn't hear". I greeted, "why do u look like you were pounded in your sleep? You have been looking like this since you came back from school" Only if she knew. "You will have to sweep round the compound today, you know your sister is  preparing for her jamb and I want her to pass and go to the university like you", she beamed a smile at me. Only if she knew.
    I pick up the longer of the two brooms and began to sweep the compound mechanically, sweeping away the fallen leaves from the guava tree at the front of the house. I remember Father sitting on his favourite rocking chair "Chima my son, you know you are my only son, my joy and my pride, you have to make me proud, you are going to go to the university and become a medical doctor and bring development to this community" he will say often. Now Father is no more and I feel like a failure, life has dealt me a heavy blow, I feel trapped, like my life is being taken away from me in bits, I feel hollow, empty, I feel a heart wrenching pain. Can't anyone see that I am dying? I thought to no one in particular. Tears well up in my eyes. "Men don't cry, we are strong, we do not behave like sissies, we face life head on" Uncle Maxwell said to me during Father's Funeral when he saw a tear drop from my eye.
  5Hours later...
Amara is yet to get back from Jamb Lessons. Mummy is at her shop. The house feels empty just like me. She says she is going to buy me some drugs because she thinks I'm coming down with malaria. Only if she knew.
   My pain seems to have doubled, as memories come rushing back to me, I feel like I'm drowning, flailing helplessly, thoughts come rushing "Depressed Kwa, that is just another story the whites are trying to use to keep us under subjection, black people don't get depressed. Just come to church regularly o", Mrs Chimezie said when I tried to confide in her about my feelings. There will be no next session for me as I am a failure, a disgrace to the family, unworthy of love, how do I tell mummy I have been asked to withdraw from the college, what will she say to her friends when they come asking about "our Doctor" like they will always call me. I need to put myself out of this mystery, someone once said there is peace and quiet on the other side.
  I stagger into mummy's room, lying on her bed is her satchet of Plaquenin, like it's calling on to me. I take all the tablets and toss the empty satchet underneath her bed.
This should be painless, as I pull my blanket properly over myself and allow myself float. At least she will receive sympathy and pity rather than scornful look and sneers from having a failure as a son. This is really peaceful, I say to no one in particular as I drift, surely to the other side.
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