IN PHARAOH’S COURT
Background: Recently I’ve been studying theology for personal development at the Kings’ University (Edmonton Alberta). Last semester I took “Theology of Creation”, which looked at environmental issues from a Christian perspective. In a survey on environmental themes in the Old Testament, we covered the story of Joseph in Egypt. I was particularly struck by the confluence of the environment, political power, and the urge to ally with power during crises.
Artistic statement: In this poem, I aspired to draw out the themes of environmental crisis and how powerful institutions exploit them for their own end (abusing the land and the people in the process). Due to his great foresight, Joseph, able to discern the nature of the dream, is brought into the inner circle of power. However, his same talents contribute to the development of an empire that ultimately enslaves his family’s descendants. In our world, I see a desire to ally with power amongst Christians, without regarding justice and without regard for how it sows the seeds of our own destruction and imprisonment. Ultimately, I think this biblical story is incredibly timely and wanted to explore it through an artistic response.
The Nile winds through fields of green,
a slow-moving mirror for the sky.
Papyrus sways, reaching against the current,
while beyond the banks, stone rises—
temples, palaces, the weight of rule
pressed into the land like a seal.
Joseph walks Pharaoh’s halls,
his hands still calloused from younger days,
but now they carry ledgers, not grain.
He speaks of famine before it comes,
of gathering when plenty still hums
through the stalks, through the markets,
through the hands of men who have not yet begged.
The king listens, his brow smooth,
for he has dreamed of lean cattle,
of empty fields whispering hunger.
A story of royal opportunity.
And so the storehouses rise,
filled with the work of forgotten hands,
the sweat of those who will not feast.
Then the drought arrives, slow as prophecy,
a sun that does not blink,
a sky that will not break.
They come, first in twos, then in droves,
offering coins, then cattle, then land,
until only their bodies remain—
a final trade, written in the dust.
Joseph does not flinch.
The kingdom swells,
stretching like the stomach of a beast
that never stops eating.
Men bend their backs in fields
that no longer bear their names.
They cut the stone, shape the walls,
lay brick upon brick for temples
that reach into the sky of Pharaoh’s gods.
Perhaps he thought it wise—
to save the land, to feed the mouths,
to make a kingdom strong enough to stand.
But what is wisdom,
when the grain you store
becomes the yoke upon another’s neck?
The pastures turn to brickyards,
Under an all-consuming sun.
The children of those once saved
now labour beneath the lash,
stacking stones for temples
that will never hold their God.
The river does not judge.
It carries the boats of kings
as easily as it carries the forgotten.
It carves the land, smooths the rock, and
whispers to the reeds all things to come to pass.
