Colors of Dust- old poems by Anne Selden Annab

Saturday, January 22, 2022

Colors of Dust

Colors of Dust-

                   Wildflowers
                                       in a Desert Land


                    Poems by Anne Selden Annab

(Poems written during and after many visits to my husband Jaffar's family in Jordan, dedicated to his beloved father, our Baba )

       I am the texture
       on paper;
       the ink inked onto me
       clings
       here and there

       so much empty space.

       But all others see
       are symbols:
       Mere thimbles
       that think themselves
       something
       so much more.

Wander Gently

           Wander Gently

       Wander gently
       through a Spring meadow
        in a desert land.

       Cherish a brief blossoming
       from the brilliant red poppy
       to each tiny, delicate, sunlit star and
       Purple thistles, blue flax, pinkish roses, all
       come bursting from rock
       and earth
       and everywhere
       where a seed might stray
       there is bloom.

Absorbed

        People become places;
       moods and seasons sprinkle
       like salt, absorbed
       into stone.

       But structures shape
       the thoughts;
       An arch's key
       is the wedge between
       now and then
       I remember
       now and then
       walk down an alley
       and echo.

The Sea of Lot

       We started out from Amman.

       The road is a scant thread
       that follows the form
       of the mountains closely,
       swerving and veering
       on the edge of gravity
       as we skirt potholes,
       continuously fringed by chasms
       of every size and sort.
       Zoom past lorries
       and trucks brightly painted.
       Drive and drive
       in a lunar landscape as
       the terrain straightens and sinks.

       Check points slow us down,
       but mostly the young, serious soldiers,
       dressed in olive and armed,
       just wave us through.

       We arrived at the Dead Sea
       unexpectedly-
       Not at the Spa, where
       people go to float
       and read a paper
       as if lounging comfortably...
       No, not the Spa, but on past all people,
       just happenstance-
       bump off the road
       and bump down so close
       to what seems to be a cliff drop;
       but it wasn't an edge
       just a little stubble of a hill
       for feet to race down the shifting
       stone sand and arms to reach out
       into the warm breeze

       and skip stones in the buoyant Salt Sea.

       Take a stick and stir,
       the minerals come up like oil
       clinging to the surface
       following the path of the stick
       and elaborating on it's every motion.

       We had such a pleasant interlude
       Enshallah

       Let the children play.

       Back to the car;
       bump back to the road
       rumble jerk
       over what would be a meadow
       if it were green:
       It feels like driving
       over a plowed field,
       deeply furrowed
       and thrashing us about
       until we reach
       the smooth macadam
       of the new road
       along the Dead Sea

Wadi Mujib

       The road, like a Roman road,
       leading straight and level,
       brings us up over a sharply angled bridge
       that spans the deep gorge
       of the Grand Canyon, Wadi Mujib.

       A sleek modern bridge
       that cuts across the crumbling chasm.

       At first I see a suspension bridge,
       but the expected tangled web
       of metal has been supplanted.

       Instead, neatly etched into space,
       is the profile of two great triangles
       delineated by wide solid bases that soar up
       towards extreme narrowness-
       Geometric precision swiftly shaving girth,
       and the pinnacles seems to dissolve
       into the light air of deep sky.

       The chasm is the Grand Canyon
       of Jordan, Wadi Mujib.
       Deep red rock with stratum shades
       that flux and fuse into shadow-
       a fissure that holds a shallow river
       as it empties into the Dead Sea.

       We pull over-
       rush up to take pictures.
       Pictures of the chasm,
       that's been there to be gazed at
       since history itself.
       Pictures of each other,

       knowing we're a brief interlude
       on this astonishing landscape.
       Pictures of the exquisite bridge.
       Pictures of rock formations looming
       against blue sky. Pictures of the water
       way down below, the trickle
       that tickled these tall cliffs into place.
       Pictures of each other posing
       and pictures of each other
       taking pictures.

Water

       High up
       on the rocky, parched roadside
       we see the smooth dark shape
       of water, way, way below.

       There's no road really
       just dry rocky earth to follow down;
       like water that finds the easiest path
       we dribble down towards the stream, the river.

       The river that blasted through the rock,
       carved a channel deep, drop by drop
       flickered a shaft through stone
       and amplified it into an immense ravine.

       There's a bus being washed
       under the bridge,
       They use gravel too,
       enthusiastically scrubbing and splashing.

       We clamor about a bit.
       My husband touched by hawks
       as they hover on cliff currents high above.
       Nell enthralled by all the color and shape
       of sheer rock.
       The boys entranced by bugs,
       especially the beetle with long long legs
       to hold him up off the ground,
       the parching ground.

       Dust on my finger tips,
       my face,
       wind...

       Go down to wash in the river.
       ebb and flow with the sound
       of water wearing down rock
       and splashing on my feet.

To Our Right

       To our right, the Salt Sea
       shimmers smooth with spectrums of pink
       and lavender and blue light.
       Jerusalem is over there,
       beyond.
       In the gaseous glimmerings
       that rise above the fluent surface
       of the still sea.
       I think of the Dome of the Rock:

       An image I've seen from many angles,
       except with my own eyes.

       Less than 40 miles away, yet a world away
       a place we can't go to yet.

       Someday...
       in the gaseous glimmerings
       that rise
       to our right.

Jerusalem

        Jerusalem- (No turnoff from our lane
       as we drive on a desert road).

       All armies have invaded-
       no creed
       no holy word
       has been left unscathed
       in this exalted city
       of a thousand centuries.

       Perhaps if I had walked
       the Via Dolorosa,
       or if I had touched
       the Wailing Wall,
       or entered
       the Dome Of The Rock,
       perhaps I too
       would be imbued
       to thrash God's will
       about on others,
       to extol my ancestor's way-
       their course and curse.

       Perhaps if my husband
       were less a man
       less a lover
       less a friend
       less a father to our sons
       I'd turn to you and yell
       screaming all my own insanities
       arguing with all my angst
       about infidels
       barbarians
       filth...
       I'd soil your city
       with the expectations
       of jealous rage
       and zealotry
       and claim you
       as a narrow place;
       no room for anything but
       my own ideology.

       Perhaps if my childhood
       had been worse,
       I'd come quivering to you
       expecting God.

       But all I have
       are books to lead me
       through your streets,
       temples, chapels,
       even into a mosque...

       It's the wildflowers
       on the hills east
       of the river Jordan
       that claim my spirit's calm,
       swilling me with inspiration

       the open air
       and the bluest sky.

       The kindness of in-laws...

       Jerusalem
       perhaps some day
       I'll come to you,
       when the Holy Trinity shifts and settles
       and is equally of Moslem, Christian, Jew-
       And from that pinnacle,
       pierced by all our empathy,
       I'll be able to walk your streets...

       Perhaps someday
       Jerusalem,
       God's claim
       will barricade
       people's hearts
       from hate and bigotry:
       To make a place
       to abide in peace... Yerushalayim.

Picnic

       The Land Rover leaps up off the road
       lurch lunging up a cliff with all the bounce and bound
       of crashing down a cliff...

       Squeeze through an eroding pass
       with scarcely a thread breadth on both sides,
       scarcely a thread breadth between us and a
       steep tumble down bounce and crash
       precipice.

       Crunch up a landscape
       that leaves no trace of our passage,
       just tumbled rocks and dust
       that dance.

       Choose a spot-
       sameness spans all sight,
       its only distinction is
       that the Land Rover
       has stopped.

       Spill out to feast on pita bread
       and goat cheese sandwiches-
       Food that doesn't mind being squished.

       Step delicately among goat turd
       and minuscule wildflower;
       it's quite easy to twist an ankle
       on windswept rock.

       Eyes flit over the treacherous track
       it will take to return;
       a swig of cool water from a jar
       empowers
       and off we go.

Moab's Hills

       All the hills
       in a prophet's eye...

       In our Land Rover,
       we leave the low, flat landscape
       that holds the shimmering Salt Sea.

       The smooth straight road
       reaches up into the mountains,
       where it wraps itself tightly
       into curves following contours.
       Knolls rush up at us only to fall
       sharply away, arising as other hills
       farther on, farther up emerge,
       both steeper and softer.

       Eyes scan across yet another
       canyon as we careen,
       always on edge; and suddenly-
       huge faces in the rock emerge,
       like Mount Rushmore,
       but no man-made chisel carved
       the stunning contour of features
       set to emanate from the avalanche of time-
       the avalanche of fluent rock erosion,
       staring back at me.

       Craggy, weather worn, furrowed faces
       watching with eyes that are nimble shadows-
       shelves and slants and surface
       gnawed by time and tale.
       The road leaps sharply up and


       I look down deep rocky
       chasms, that approach
       with lurch and loom
       and sloping plateaus
       sprigged with stony pasture:

       Each relatively level patch
       bears one lone shepherd-
       Bedouin robes draping him
       with historical allusions.

       Black rocks become a tumble of goats.
       White stone stubble...browsing sheep.
       Height-depth-dark-light-
       nothing seems anything
       except ancient.

       Even recent excavations
       (crude surface mining)
       has the appearance
       of an archaeologist's mound
       divulging treasure;
       gnawed by time and tale.

Colors Of Dust

       Colors of Dust,
       of gloom and glow-
       Colors of dirt and rock
             and centuries
       of stumbling
       looking skyward.

       How the stars must
               have figured,
       sharply delineating direction
       amid these softly mounded
       mountains that
       crumble
       with pebbles
       and goat turd.

       The Bedouin tents are pitched
       Huge woolly rooms
       swaged to keep out
               sun
           wind
       eyes

       watching us
       zoom past.

Extending

       A girl on a hill;
       the wind sweeps up
       and her dark skirt swirls
       lifts slightly, modestly,
       to show her strong naked legs
       planted firmly-
       the color of flesh
       extending.