The Jewish Background of Christianity in God’s Plan of Salvation by Marianne Ivany, D. Min.
This book is a study of the Old Testament in the Bible. Ms. Ivany has written this book to show how the Old Testament leads into the New Testament. She also explains how Jesus is not only Christian but Jewish by birth. Jesus was raised as a Jew and ministered how the Old Testament prophesied of his coming and how important it is to live by God’s laws. I enjoyed this book very much and learned a lot from it. When you read this, you will want your highlighters and pen and paper to take notes. She also includes study questions at the end of each chapter. This is an excellent book as an aid in Bible Studies. This is great not only for Catholics but for Protestants as well.
ihuman by Othmar A. Brunner is a nonfiction political essay. This is an interesting book that would be great for politically motivated discussion groups. I personally agree with some and not agree with other points. For example, I agree that if a minor commits a heinous crime then they should definitely be identified. If they are old enough to commit the crime they are old enough to be called out for it and not have their identity protected.
It’s the time to close
the book of negativity
Stop flipping over the
pages of wasted years
and stand in front of
-waves of confidence
It’s the time to close
the book of remorse
Start creating a place
for satisfaction above
-some dark thoughts
of attempting suicides
It’s the time to close
the book of long isolation
I want to feel like I am loved
to my country, back to my life
Smile again without wearing an
emotional smile that lasts forever
Be Stronger
Stronger than before
I’m here under rainfall
Getting stronger than
before, because of you
Stronger than feelings
I’m wiser, and faster than
the curious heart breaker
We’re stronger than love
You once made me happy
I melted my heart into steel
Just to always remember you
Harder, better than memories
Your friendship made me
-stronger than the old times
When I hear your voice alone
I become stronger than death
No more castles and empires
Together we are stronger than
greater, higher than old figures
You make the heart grow healthier
But the wind of your sweet scent
-were stronger than a drunk soul
Between us there is no intimacy
we strongly keep on shining respect
I Am Human
I am human
from all races
I am looking
for respect,
condition
-attitude
and good
behaviours
I am human
dancing with
no silky touch
but on my own
for no reason
sometimes, I
am trying to
live like a human
My name is
human being
My age is the
numbers of
days of the
dead fighter
My soul is
already taken
Another human
I once met her;
she is the reason
why the night is
sad, no matter
what I do aside
from writing a
poem or a song
Can someone
walk me home
I am blind to
trust strangers
I am a silent
human listening
to dreamers talking
to machine believers
Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq. His work has appeared in print and online journals globally and has poems translated into several languages. He has been nominated for Best of the Net 2018. He is the author of The Bleeding Heart Poet, Love On The War’s Frontline, Gas Chamber, Wounds from Iraq, Roofs of Dreams, and The Grey Revolution. He lives in Montreal, Canada.
Michael Robinson (right) and fellow contributor Joan Beebe
Beginnings I sit by the door, Feeling empty. Looking for your smile, Wanting to hear your voice.
Looking out the window, I see the raindrop by drop. Each drop reminds me of my birth, A drop for each hug you gave me, A drop for each kiss on my cheek, And a drop for every time you held my hand.
Yesterday I count each day, Each day I come to visit you. Praying that we have more tomorrows. There’s a mixture of emotions inside of me. A sadness when I watch you sleep, Hoping you will wake and we could talk, Then there are thoughts of all the time, Before tomorrow comes. Blues Shall I sing the blues when I visit you? Or would you prefer a gospel song: Maybe a tune from your childhood. Shall I sing the blues when I visit you, Cause my heart is singing the blues all the time.
Gentle Times There’s a gentle tone in your voice, A tone I recognize when I was a child. There’s a tone in your voice, Reminding me of the fallen snow, And the tears in my eyes. Gentle times, as we talk in the nursing home.
Remembering So, many thoughts of what I will do, When I no longer have you to visit. Empty days ahead and quiet reflections. I will remember those moments of love.
Existence I see it in your eyes, There’s a shine that I have not seen before, It’s in your voice, In the way you watch me, In time, I will fade, But you will always exist in my soul.
Touching the Sky The sky is always gentle in my mind, Touching the clouds remind me of Angel’s wings. Holding you for the last time, Keeps my soul warm.
Rejoice Flowers remind me of God, As the dandelion that blows in the wind. Among the skies in my dream, I think of you as you blow in the wind.
Sadness II Midnight the moon glistens, I watch the moon. There seems a brightness tonight, The brightness of my soul looking for you.
The world is made up with the magnetic
touch of love
Where the two- gladness and pathos
Like the birth and death
A reaction in mind
We want or not
Flowers bloom and glorify the space
Enjoy the beauty of leaves and the sky
Fills the heart, a blissful joy
Beside the garden the cows and the goats
The lambs and the buffalos
We are the cowboys and the garden keepers
We build up civilization side by side but
When it burns the California Wildlife
People and animals rampages to save the
lives
Helpless life
When wind swells up the sea
Firing causes death
On the other side we stand before the
glass
In the dressing table
A mindset to love
See the birth
Just like the red crabs in Kuakata Sea
Beach early in the morning
Our eyes dancing in joy
Crying loud and deep to see the lives
passing away
Just at the time of rising the sun.
Chapainawabganj,
Bangladesh
14/01/2019
Feeling
The more it warms outside
The more it cools inside
Because it loses all the power
To move an inch
It’s my burning body
It’s my burning heart
Switching on the AC
Get back my heart
Wrap up my limbs
With you
In a body
Nothing to hide
After a blissful fight
Spent the cool, full of oxygen night.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
24/05/2019
Crying Deep
I have already lost my sense
Whether you talk with me or turn back
I cry myself within deep
O my love
I would not like to be without you
But I am in dead of mind
Lie aside
Would you please hold my hand
And embrace with a sigh
And the water filtered
And I can flow or fly….
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
24/05/2019
On The Auspicious Moment of Eid
When we taste the foods one after another on the Eid
morning
The hands of them spread for beg yet
Beg for alms
I say and can’t find out the meaning of the hands
Hanging in the air
The hands should rise in
soft to the Almighty
For all peace and happiness
O my dear, you are invited
Come and sit by me
Let’s enjoy the moments in full merriment
Stop for a while to make the day holy and joyous.
“And as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing; a local habitation and a name.”
William Shakespeare
Blood Will Call is a beautiful book that promises the planting of the seasons faded out with the elegant winter, complex, and complicated summer, spring, and autumns, escapism, hurting, and wounded lives.
People who have to take stock of the exit route out. There’s abuse, there’s mediocrity, there’s average, there’s people living on the edge, addicted to the void of waiting, the darkness of existentialism, the apron strings of the kitchen, the reincarnation of ghost, illusion, and apparition. Don’t think of me as volcano, the woman seems to say, the girl child, clouds wherever they fix their eyes. There is legacy.
But there are also proponents for change, grief-stricken hearts, impoverished, disadvantaged, and marginalized circumstances. There is forgiveness, tenderness, vertigo, karmic accounts, and debts that have to be paid, and the analysis of scandal, and love story. Rituals of innocence, and wisdom to keep them company. I always wonder about the writer’s routine. Just the thought of this writer hurt me.
I thought of the writer’s anguish, in much the same way I thought of all the characters in the book, their anguish. It played a major role for me. Then came their sadness in a supporting role. Is the writer a morning person, an afternoon person, or an evening person? Do they write into the lonely hours of early morning? What was the object of the writer’s affection, the subjects they framed so imaginatively?
For not the first time in my life, when it came to reviewing a book, I ran away. I danced away from the writer’s vision for his book. This book was a crazy love, and the people in this book didn’t often obey the laws of human nature, or the rules of the game, or know when to say please, or thank you. This book was a boat journey into fire, a river of fire, the flames licking at the canvas of my bare feet. Invoking me to stay.
It was a crossing into the divide of sleeping and dreaming, thought and meditation, prayer and vision. You see the writer’s mind at work, a filmmaker’s vision, a poet’s meditation, a short story writer dreaming away. So, the book is acrobatic, intense, hectic, and there’s conflict, and drama that never leaves the page, but you get taken from point to principle, from one identity crisis to the next.
The women have an uninhibited desire for courage, savvy, sass, even when they are at their most vulnerable. They are armed with intuition, persuasion, greatness, supernatural memory, and desire. I paid critical attention to these women, these mothers with their large haunting eyes. They’re not party people, they’re not beach people. They’re people who go off to war every day of their lives.
Yet, there’s something beautiful about them. In their pain, their humiliation, the drudgery of their lives, they take you from the beginning of this book of short stories to the end, and you are wanting them to overcome their circumstances through any means necessary. And I think to myself, this is a Frantz Fanon, Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, Ben Okri writing here. What now of the valley we’re in.
We’re dreaming that our books, our pen, our sword if you will, will hit the mark, will hit the ground running, and there’s the belief that our books will fascinate audiences, and we dream as Africans from the east to the west in poetry. We write our novels, and short stories in poetry. We envision that now is the time for that. The plausible time for the possible, and impossible, the time for Africans not to be soft targets.
It is difficult for African novelists, and short story writers to publish their books. The world has gone gaga over Nigerian female writers, but where are the male writers. They’re there. It’s just that favor, and increase has yet to work for them in the same way that it has for someone like Chimamanda Adichie. Sola Osofisan, I don’t think that you really understand what you’ve done. You’ve changed everything. I see Africa on the screen of my mind. I see Nigeria on the screen of my mind.
The writer taught me that God will put entities in your path either to obstruct you, destroy you, sabotage you, or uplift, empower you, and make you selfless, giving, gifted visionary. The book is a journey. The book is a spiritual journey. Sola Osofisan has a destiny, a kingdom, and in these pages, I took a knowledge from, lessons from my father, stories from my mother. There’s personal fulfillment here on these pages.
There were chapters from my childhood. Things I didn’t want to remember, but I remembered the lesson. Don’t waste the pain. Kill your enemies with kindness. Things happen in life. Things happen in Africa. Mostly negative things happen to women, and girl children in Africa. But they wake up in the morning, the country is still there. There’s a truly wonderful feeling in the air for me right now. Sola Osofisan is Herculean, an Aristotle-in-the-making.
Anybody who writes is creative, but few writers, creatives are historians, researchers, perfect illustrators at interpreting the past injustices of their country. I don’t need the world to love me after eight books. I have the same message for Sola Osofisan. Go on, comrade. Don’t quit, compatriot. Write as if you are living on the edge of the world, as if it’s the end times. Don’t give up your passion.
I’ve discovered the African Renaissance in Sola Osofisan, his brave world, his artistry, his flawless writing, profound technique, and style, and there’s chaos, hysteria, spiritual sensitivity that he brings to his writing. It is dazzling, and sure, hectic and pure, as he describes the landscape of life. Of what matters, mapping it all out for the reader, and it seems as if I have waited forever to read a book like this. There’s conditioned thinking, church, indoctrinated religion, theologians that are still there.
From the first page the characters hover in plain sight like the music of the night. They are anointed, and enigmatic (nurturers, caretakers, products of neo-colonialism that awaken others to insight, loneliness, curbing their enthusiasm for the disgruntled, the downtrodden, miserable pain of their lives). There is something frightening about the reality and non-reality of these stories.
How these people are blessed by their enemies even. The stories are filled with movement like dance, moving rhetoric that represents the unseen system, and a country that is as captivating as a symphony orchestra. I think of the aspects of almost prophetic vision that the people in these stories have. Forgive them. Forgive Sola Osofisan for taking you there. When you’re exhausted, take a break, inhale the aromas of the food cooking on the fire, exhale the happy days that these people will never have.
You just know that you are in the hands of a master-storyteller. More than imprint burned on brain, more like a ghost. I miss you more than most on some days, just thinking of the very thought of you. The book came to me in blooming flowers, in energetic silhouettes, in evolving waves, in vibrations, marking its intelligence in rotation in fulltime observation, great expectations of greatness in study.
Yes, the awareness of something evil is also out there asking for the taking. We live our lives in denial. That denial has become a pastime whenever we are figuring out the hurting in our lives, who was involved with the hurt, why’d it has to impact us so, hit us so hard. I love this writer who displays in one heart the fugitive spirit of humanity, in one soul survival and endurance, and fear and anxiety in the rural wilderness of the countryside in Africa. This is not an African book by far. It is a Nigerian book.
Nigerian creatives are using every story that they’ve heard from childhood, that has doors that lead to intimacy and frustration, that navigate you towards health, and homesickness, a basket case, and the decay found in the wild. Camp out in ‘Blood Will Call’ but don’t get too comfortable. Soon a force-field will hit you. The man you don’t want to marry, risk, adventure, and radiance. You can never predict the direction in which this writer goes. It is not the weather.
This writer eats the crumbs from our masters’ table, the dust of the colonial masters’ until it feels like home, with his angel tongue. I am a writer who understands the anatomy of loneliness, and the explicit, controversial, seed-language of blood. The book will grant you a revolutionary kiss on the lips, it is intellectual-magic, on so many levels political, breaking and un-breaking diplomacy, negotiation, and reconciliation.
Now a few words about Sola Osofisan, the writer of Blood Will Call. In Africa, in tales of folklore, in the tradition, culture, background, heritage of oral storytelling, passing stories from one generation to the next, there is always a woman involved. Now we have a man. Not just any man. We have a maverick-extraordinaire who knows when to make a gracious exit in-and-out of these relationships. He’s conscientizing an entire generation.
