Kerak

        A Crusader's Castle.
        A great bastion of European design...
        
        We've come from the Dead Sea    
        where we skipped small flat stones
        that skimmed happily over towards Jerusalem.

        We've come through Moab's Hills;
        hills that seemed so gently round from far away
        until the road leapt up, leaving your heart
        skipping, skimming over towards Jerusalem,
        as the car ricocheted off in the opposite direction.

        Wildflowers are everywhere &
        sheep & goats & shepherds
        earth untouched by modern stuff,
        just landscape dramatically rising every which way.
 
        The Crusader's Castle dominates,
        claims the entire top of distant
        mountain we're heading towards,    
        as if it is the greatest thing in all this wonderful world,
        the most magnificent construction
        in all this incredible land
        and it seems omnipotent, irrepressible-
        until we come up to the summit and reach
        the crowded little town of Karaoke.
        
        Throngs of Arab Citizens
        are making their way about the bustle
        of everyday lives: Shopping. Chatting. Shuffling.
        Stopping to stare at the obvious strangers
        in the Land Rover bumbling slowly
        through the tight maze of streets.
        
        Low buildings block our view of the great castle.
        My fair-haired sons are like luggage tossed about
        in the back of the car, looking out as others look in.
        
        Curious.

        We've invaded the afternoon,
        come charging in with our strange ways
        and a shinny car and weird clothes
        and odd hair and pale flesh:
        Invaded this busy town's rhythms and patterns.
        Irrevocably disrupted both duty and leisure,
        in our reckless search for the Crusaders Castle.

        We struggle up and down
        narrow jammed streets
        that might (or might not) be
        the way leading to the our castle.
        
        A kindly stranger on the very crowded street
        who is armed with a word or two of our own
        odd language, takes pity on our obvious plight,
        steps gallantly forward, and politely directs us
        to our destination.

        Having eluded the town itself,
        we come to the castle…

        We step out of the warm swaddling of our familiar car,
        leaving its hot shelter to feel cool strong sunlight
        caught on light breezes that wash us with airs  
        and we enter the castle through its gate.
        We pass through thick walls of stone.
                                        

        Large blocks of stone laid neatly,
        tightly together to form the fortification
        that's now only good for
        intriguing and holding captive
        the occasional invasions of tourists,
        or sheltering a flock of nibbling goats.
        We scramble over and under
        and through the ruins
        that every which way overlook
        and command an impressive view.

        It's a large place
        with expanses of space underfoot
        that stretch like stadiums all around.
        Inside and out.
        Over there is a mound,
        closer it becomes a dark stair
        curling out of a rock that becomes a wall,
        and leads down to a cavernous hall
        lit by high narrow slit windows.

        Sound echoes in eerie ways:
        Footstep might be horse stomp.
        Dust shimmers in precise wedges
        of nebulous light
        let in by the slit windows.

        We walk in a duskiness of old stone
        surrounded by space paved
        below, beside, and high above- all long ago,
        walled and roofed, what did it hold?
        Who were they- as foolish as my own sensitive self
        imagining the glimmer of armor moving,
        the clink of a cup laid aside
        Imagining that only I have the wisdom
                                        
        to penetrate this experience
        and explain.
 
        For all the beauty of the day
        the perfect weather,
        pleasant companionship
        and intriguing history
        I find myself shuddering
        cringing
        not enjoying it as I should-
        
        These rocks emanate
        hostility.
        There seems a cruel touch
        within in the sheltering walls
        a corruption
        trying to taint me
        until
        we come to a chapel.

        Built with in the castle,
        almost central
        on its lofty plateau
        The far portion of its high roof,
        once arced with stone wedged tightly,
        has fallen to expose blue heaven above.
        
        Wild flowers sprig out of the rock
        up on the edge that's left
        in the tall stone wall.
        
        The altar is a small meadow
        where Queen Anne's Lace bloom
        and sparrows flit
        and sing.
                                        
        A chapel reclaimed,
        from a tortuous past.
        Karaoke reclaimed
        by light and air
        and wildflowers.

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab