(א) וַיְהִ֕י מִקֵּ֖ץ שְׁנָתַ֣יִם יָמִ֑ים וּפַרְעֹ֣ה חֹלֵ֔ם וְהִנֵּ֖ה עֹמֵ֥ד עַל־הַיְאֹֽר׃ (ב) וְהִנֵּ֣ה מִן־הַיְאֹ֗ר עֹלֹת֙ שֶׁ֣בַע פָּר֔וֹת יְפ֥וֹת מַרְאֶ֖ה וּבְרִיאֹ֣ת בָּשָׂ֑ר וַתִּרְעֶ֖ינָה בָּאָֽחוּ׃ (ג) וְהִנֵּ֞ה שֶׁ֧בַע פָּר֣וֹת אֲחֵר֗וֹת עֹל֤וֹת אַחֲרֵיהֶן֙ מִן־הַיְאֹ֔ר רָע֥וֹת מַרְאֶ֖ה וְדַקּ֣וֹת בָּשָׂ֑ר וַֽתַּעֲמֹ֛דְנָה אֵ֥צֶל הַפָּר֖וֹת עַל־שְׂפַ֥ת הַיְאֹֽר׃ (ד) וַתֹּאכַ֣לְנָה הַפָּר֗וֹת רָע֤וֹת הַמַּרְאֶה֙ וְדַקֹּ֣ת הַבָּשָׂ֔ר אֵ֚ת שֶׁ֣בַע הַפָּר֔וֹת יְפֹ֥ת הַמַּרְאֶ֖ה וְהַבְּרִיאֹ֑ת וַיִּיקַ֖ץ פַּרְעֹֽה׃ (ה) וַיִּישָׁ֕ן וַֽיַּחֲלֹ֖ם שֵׁנִ֑ית וְהִנֵּ֣ה ׀ שֶׁ֣בַע שִׁבֳּלִ֗ים עֹל֛וֹת בְּקָנֶ֥ה אֶחָ֖ד בְּרִיא֥וֹת וְטֹבֽוֹת׃ (ו) וְהִנֵּה֙ שֶׁ֣בַע שִׁבֳּלִ֔ים דַּקּ֖וֹת וּשְׁדוּפֹ֣ת קָדִ֑ים צֹמְח֖וֹת אַחֲרֵיהֶֽן׃ (ז) וַתִּבְלַ֙עְנָה֙ הַשִּׁבֳּלִ֣ים הַדַּקּ֔וֹת אֵ֚ת שֶׁ֣בַע הַֽשִּׁבֳּלִ֔ים הַבְּרִיא֖וֹת וְהַמְּלֵא֑וֹת וַיִּיקַ֥ץ פַּרְעֹ֖ה וְהִנֵּ֥ה חֲלֽוֹם׃ (ח) וַיְהִ֤י בַבֹּ֙קֶר֙ וַתִּפָּ֣עֶם רוּח֔וֹ וַיִּשְׁלַ֗ח וַיִּקְרָ֛א אֶת־כׇּל־חַרְטֻמֵּ֥י מִצְרַ֖יִם וְאֶת־כׇּל־חֲכָמֶ֑יהָ וַיְסַפֵּ֨ר פַּרְעֹ֤ה לָהֶם֙ אֶת־חֲלֹמ֔וֹ וְאֵין־פּוֹתֵ֥ר אוֹתָ֖ם לְפַרְעֹֽה׃
(1) After two years’ time, Pharaoh dreamed that he was standing by the Nile, (2) when out of the Nile there came up seven cows, handsome and sturdy, and they grazed in the reed grass. (3) But presently, seven other cows came up from the Nile close behind them, ugly and gaunt, and stood beside the cows on the bank of the Nile; (4) and the ugly gaunt cows ate up the seven handsome sturdy cows. And Pharaoh awoke. (5) He fell asleep and dreamed a second time: Seven ears of grain, solid and healthy, grew on a single stalk. (6) But close behind them sprouted seven ears, thin and scorched by the east wind. (7) And the thin ears swallowed up the seven solid and full ears. Then Pharaoh awoke: it was a dream! (8) Next morning, his spirit was agitated, and he sent for all the magician-priests of Egypt, and all its sages; and Pharaoh told them his dreams, but none could interpret them for Pharaoh.
Miketz: Dreams by Elizabeth Topper
When he awakes
from indelible dreams
he senses they are true:
the portent of importance
cannot be ignored.
Able to decipher
the auguries of others –
the lowly and the king,
he has learned he speaks the vision
of the One Who dreams us all.
When he awakes
from indelible dreams
he senses they are true:
the portent of importance
cannot be ignored.
Able to decipher
the auguries of others –
the lowly and the king,
he has learned he speaks the vision
of the One Who dreams us all.
(מח) וַיִּקְבֹּ֞ץ אֶת־כׇּל־אֹ֣כֶל ׀ שֶׁ֣בַע שָׁנִ֗ים אֲשֶׁ֤ר הָיוּ֙ בְּאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרַ֔יִם וַיִּתֶּן־אֹ֖כֶל בֶּעָרִ֑ים אֹ֧כֶל שְׂדֵה־הָעִ֛יר אֲשֶׁ֥ר סְבִיבֹתֶ֖יהָ נָתַ֥ן בְּתוֹכָֽהּ׃ (מט) וַיִּצְבֹּ֨ר יוֹסֵ֥ף בָּ֛ר כְּח֥וֹל הַיָּ֖ם הַרְבֵּ֣ה מְאֹ֑ד עַ֛ד כִּי־חָדַ֥ל לִסְפֹּ֖ר כִּי־אֵ֥ין מִסְפָּֽר׃
(48) And he gathered all the grain of the seven years that the land of Egypt was enjoying, and stored the grain in the cities; he put in each city the grain of the fields around it. (49) So Joseph collected produce in very large quantity, like the sands of the sea, until he ceased to measure it, for it could not be measured.
Ledger of Joseph by Kevin Thomason
“…he left numbering; for it was without number.” Genesis 41:49
Forget how ears and kine were counted
to seven plenties and seven famines:
we always worry what might happen—
wind-raw stalks and pecks of drought,
a blackleg and a bloated herd.
What skill can solve a scry of dreams?
He couldn’t conjure from slain sheep,
augured no clutters of blackbirds.
The mean of true and false, he learned
was miracle. In ledgers dreamt,
he tallied pharaoh, god, and myth,
foretold how lack blooms the yields
abundance blinds us to. Remember,
his brothers bound the boy away.
He’d slept and seen their sheaves lain,
seen them dimmed among the splendor
of heaven. From the pit that gaped
his family’s lie, certain now the art
of being right, he summed the stars
until a figure took its shape.
“…he left numbering; for it was without number.” Genesis 41:49
Forget how ears and kine were counted
to seven plenties and seven famines:
we always worry what might happen—
wind-raw stalks and pecks of drought,
a blackleg and a bloated herd.
What skill can solve a scry of dreams?
He couldn’t conjure from slain sheep,
augured no clutters of blackbirds.
The mean of true and false, he learned
was miracle. In ledgers dreamt,
he tallied pharaoh, god, and myth,
foretold how lack blooms the yields
abundance blinds us to. Remember,
his brothers bound the boy away.
He’d slept and seen their sheaves lain,
seen them dimmed among the splendor
of heaven. From the pit that gaped
his family’s lie, certain now the art
of being right, he summed the stars
until a figure took its shape.
DREAM AS CANVAS
Contributor’s Marginalia: Jordan Windholz on “Ledger of Joseph” by Kevin Thomason
I love a poem that has me sliding along language’s surfaces of sound, and so I love Kevin Thomason’s “Ledger of Joseph.” I can read this poem again and again just to feel its syllables in my mouth, to hear them knock around in my ear.
The poem’s sensual pleasures would be enough for me; I can linger in the enveloping consonance and recursive logic of how Joseph’s dreams “foretold how lack blooms the yields / abundance blinds us to.” But I also love the storytelling of this poem, the way Thomason stages a kind of selective memory to reimagine biblical myth. The tension between remembering, forgetting, and the political purposes of selective memory animate the poem from the outset. Just after invoking the textual source of the poem’s topic—Genesis 41:49—via epigraph, Thomason asks the reader to “forget” the familiar story: “how ears and kine were counted / to seven plenties and seven famines.” But not everything must be forgotten, for near the poem’s end, we are told to “remember” the great violence and betrayal that catalyzes Joseph’s rise as exile in Egypt, how “his brothers bound the boy away.”
In the biblical account, Joseph’s dreams are more or less easily interpreted, clearly allegorical. But Thomason subverts the logic of the biblical dream, that which prophesies and thus weds to the present the guarantee of a god’s providential hand. His Joseph does not extract meaning from his dreams, for “He couldn’t conjure from slain sheep, / augured no clutters of blackbirds.” Such visions are cold comfort. Instead, Thomason’s Joseph uses the providential dreams as a kind of canvas for his own self-making. Messages from a creator god, they serve as models for the creation of self.
Yet there is a dark undertone to this poem. Beneath its pleasurable sonorousness, or perhaps more rightly, within it, the rhetorical pyrotechnics of the consummate politician are sounded. Joseph arises at the end “certain now of the art / of being right.” The boy sold into slavery arises “From the pit that gaped his family’s lie” near Machiavellian. The real hole his brother’s threw him becomes a blank out of which a suitable origin story can be fabricated.
At the end of the poem, Thomason returns to Joseph the accountant, but he is no longer one who “tallied pharaoh, god, and myth.” Rather than merely taking account for the Egyptian polis, Joseph determines whom shall be held to account, and how. Turning to the heavens, he “summed the stars / until a figure took its shape,” auguring out of the random array of celestial light, it seems, a fiction useful for his purposes.
Thomason stops short of recounting the biblical story of Joseph’s decision final decision—forgiving his family, and providing for them refuge in Egypt—and so lends the story a productive qualification. He mines from a myth about providence—and even the horrors of fate—a figure who determines and is self-determining, a man more human and less heroic.
Contributor’s Marginalia: Jordan Windholz on “Ledger of Joseph” by Kevin Thomason
I love a poem that has me sliding along language’s surfaces of sound, and so I love Kevin Thomason’s “Ledger of Joseph.” I can read this poem again and again just to feel its syllables in my mouth, to hear them knock around in my ear.
The poem’s sensual pleasures would be enough for me; I can linger in the enveloping consonance and recursive logic of how Joseph’s dreams “foretold how lack blooms the yields / abundance blinds us to.” But I also love the storytelling of this poem, the way Thomason stages a kind of selective memory to reimagine biblical myth. The tension between remembering, forgetting, and the political purposes of selective memory animate the poem from the outset. Just after invoking the textual source of the poem’s topic—Genesis 41:49—via epigraph, Thomason asks the reader to “forget” the familiar story: “how ears and kine were counted / to seven plenties and seven famines.” But not everything must be forgotten, for near the poem’s end, we are told to “remember” the great violence and betrayal that catalyzes Joseph’s rise as exile in Egypt, how “his brothers bound the boy away.”
In the biblical account, Joseph’s dreams are more or less easily interpreted, clearly allegorical. But Thomason subverts the logic of the biblical dream, that which prophesies and thus weds to the present the guarantee of a god’s providential hand. His Joseph does not extract meaning from his dreams, for “He couldn’t conjure from slain sheep, / augured no clutters of blackbirds.” Such visions are cold comfort. Instead, Thomason’s Joseph uses the providential dreams as a kind of canvas for his own self-making. Messages from a creator god, they serve as models for the creation of self.
Yet there is a dark undertone to this poem. Beneath its pleasurable sonorousness, or perhaps more rightly, within it, the rhetorical pyrotechnics of the consummate politician are sounded. Joseph arises at the end “certain now of the art / of being right.” The boy sold into slavery arises “From the pit that gaped his family’s lie” near Machiavellian. The real hole his brother’s threw him becomes a blank out of which a suitable origin story can be fabricated.
At the end of the poem, Thomason returns to Joseph the accountant, but he is no longer one who “tallied pharaoh, god, and myth.” Rather than merely taking account for the Egyptian polis, Joseph determines whom shall be held to account, and how. Turning to the heavens, he “summed the stars / until a figure took its shape,” auguring out of the random array of celestial light, it seems, a fiction useful for his purposes.
Thomason stops short of recounting the biblical story of Joseph’s decision final decision—forgiving his family, and providing for them refuge in Egypt—and so lends the story a productive qualification. He mines from a myth about providence—and even the horrors of fate—a figure who determines and is self-determining, a man more human and less heroic.
Pharaoh’s Dream by Patricia Beer, London Review of Books 1992
In childhood I thought of cows and dreams together
Starting from Pharaoh’s dream of seven well-favoured kine
Followed by seven other kine, lean-fleshed,
That did eat them up.
Joseph the farmer, dressy as Pharaoh, told him
At once that throughout his many-coloured land
Famine would succeed plenty, seven years of each.
Pharaoh wrung his smooth
Hands, not having considered such a meaning.
Literal in eastern daylight he could not see
Cows eating each other or being real danger.
I thought he was stupid.
I knew the red cows of East Devon.
Our branch line ran through water-meadows and they
Were always getting on the track. We knew
The times of the trains
And shooed them off. Even a child could do it.
But they did not go far. Making red footprints
In the frail grass, they mooched a few yards then turned
To face the track again.
Pharaoh only dreamed of cows. In my case
They were the dreams themselves, bad dreams
That never quitted the field though you could scatter them
Simply by waking up.
Most of them left gently but one always looked
Round with the death-rattle of a moo,
Swinging a bright chain of spittle, a torturer
Who planned to be back.
In childhood I thought of cows and dreams together
Starting from Pharaoh’s dream of seven well-favoured kine
Followed by seven other kine, lean-fleshed,
That did eat them up.
Joseph the farmer, dressy as Pharaoh, told him
At once that throughout his many-coloured land
Famine would succeed plenty, seven years of each.
Pharaoh wrung his smooth
Hands, not having considered such a meaning.
Literal in eastern daylight he could not see
Cows eating each other or being real danger.
I thought he was stupid.
I knew the red cows of East Devon.
Our branch line ran through water-meadows and they
Were always getting on the track. We knew
The times of the trains
And shooed them off. Even a child could do it.
But they did not go far. Making red footprints
In the frail grass, they mooched a few yards then turned
To face the track again.
Pharaoh only dreamed of cows. In my case
They were the dreams themselves, bad dreams
That never quitted the field though you could scatter them
Simply by waking up.
Most of them left gently but one always looked
Round with the death-rattle of a moo,
Swinging a bright chain of spittle, a torturer
Who planned to be back.
Sweet Dreams - A Poem for Miketz by Rick Lupert
I have dreamed a dream, and
there is no interpreter for it
The one where you show up to work
naked
The one when you realize you’re at school
in your underwear
The one where you’re falling and you
wake up before you hit the ground
The one where you’re traveling the
perimeter of the country by covered wagon
The one where you can fly
The one where he really is the president
The one where you have all the money
but wake up before you can spend it
The one where you can’t pick things up
and objects keep falling over
The one where the ears of corn are healthy
but your son still won’t eat them
The one where the cows put up signs
that say chicken is healthier
The one where the king of all the land
puts you in charge of feeding everyone
The one where the doorbell rings while
you’re writing a poem and you forget
where you were going when you come back
The one where you come back
The one where you never left
I have dreamed a dream, and
there is no interpreter for it
The one where you show up to work
naked
The one when you realize you’re at school
in your underwear
The one where you’re falling and you
wake up before you hit the ground
The one where you’re traveling the
perimeter of the country by covered wagon
The one where you can fly
The one where he really is the president
The one where you have all the money
but wake up before you can spend it
The one where you can’t pick things up
and objects keep falling over
The one where the ears of corn are healthy
but your son still won’t eat them
The one where the cows put up signs
that say chicken is healthier
The one where the king of all the land
puts you in charge of feeding everyone
The one where the doorbell rings while
you’re writing a poem and you forget
where you were going when you come back
The one where you come back
The one where you never left