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

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

Mosaics

 
        One hungry lion's roar
        echoes down this dark, domed tunnel.
        The percussion of his paws
        pounds through and out
        into the amphitheater:
        In Roman times.

        I am

        marveling
        at excavated images
        I've seen photographed,
        but never touched till now.

        Mosaics.

        I'm struck by the simplicity,
        the space between each tile;
        breath that flows into patterns        
        of leaping creatures
        and saints...

        I stand consumed.


 

 

 

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

The Citadel

        Walk through ruins
        antiquities...
        The earth underfoot
        includes rocks, rubble, and dust,
        pebbles and bits of pottery.
        Shards of archaic lives.
        I reach down
        and my finger's flesh feels
        the warm porous clay.
        I lift it up.
        Long ago this fragment
        was a whole
        hot from the kiln.
        Long ago another woman reached
        and her finger's flesh felt
        the warm porous clay,
        held the earth in her hand
        a vessel to fill...
        as fluid
        reflections
        flow.

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

 

Published National Library Of Poetry, Anthology- 1992

 

Amman

        The city is
        tightly packed
        with boxes- buildings
        stacked up on hills
        that rise every which way.

        Round hills holding
        cliffs of square white stone structures.

        A canvas of bluffs
        soon to cull colors
        preluding sunset.

        Each blanched building
        diverges with dark squares
        of windows

        where warm people patter
        about within
        everyday lives.

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

 

Published in River Run Review 2000

Of Amman

        There's an old house in the old city of Amman.
        An old house with a carved stone balcony.
        
        I noticed it-
        an unexpected flash
        a beacon above me
        bright with noon light caught
        by its limestone exterior.
        
        Up on a sharp hillside,
        precipitously wedged
        in time and place.
        
        A simple shape, the only clue
        to it's archaic heritage
        is the carved stone balcony
        a balustrade (often copied)
        that opens out    into carefully constructed stairs.                
        
        Steps systematically notched down the steep hillside.
        Built out of the rock itself, it seems...
        I have no sense of separate foundation,
        no sense of where brick might begin.
        It is as if eons of rain have washed away stone
        in rhythmic patterns, like the snowflake,
        to create the arabesque of the balcony.

        The house, the balustrade,
        and the steps so carefully sculpted
        systematically notched down
        the steep stony hillside-
        A flight methodically
        advancing that
        suddenly
        sharply     
                
                             erodes into air.

 

 

 

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

Downtown Amman

 
         
        Walking on the sidewalk,
        watching the orangey-red

        and yellow tiles alternating...

        Some squares are loose,
        my footing is still firm

        but a spell of clanking echoes

        as we make our way towards
        the narrow shops neatly
        crammed with goods.
        
        I feel like a coin tossed:

        What century  
        is falling all around
        encasing me

        with gold.

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab