Colors of Dust- old poems by Anne Selden Annab: Arabia

Showing posts with label Arabia. Show all posts

Saturday, January 22, 2022

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.

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.

Blond Bedouin

       Blond Bedouin child-
       is it the dust of ancient rock
       or a distant ancestor
       from the crumbling
       crusader castle...
       What has given you,
       sweet child wide eyed
       watching us
       zoom past,
       what has given you
       that halo?
       Wheat- gold
       like bread
       that's not been baked,
       still on the shaft
       growing
       like you...
       Will you be blond woman
       head covered to hide
       from strong sun,
       and strangers' eyes
       will never know
       of the angel's halo
       still round your head
       that's grown into a river
       of wheat falling
       down a brown back.
       Sweet child wide eyed
       sturdy like the soil,
       you stand
       like rock itself-
       your skin
       brown and dust,
       but all I see
       is halo
       wheat gold
       shimmer song.

Taybeh- Wadi Moussa, Jordan

       We arrive
       at sunset.
       Stretch out
       stiff limbs
       and open
       eyes to see
       the sandstone
       sculptures
       carved from
       cloud shape
       shifting
       above Petra.

Publsihed- Harrisburg Review 1998

Tahbeh Hotel's courtesy literature found in our rooms (several decades ago)... Uneven floor please watch your step

   The Souk at Taybet Zaman

embroidered garments
nabatean pottery and ceramics
handblown glass
petra sand bottles
weavings- rugs & wall hangings
hand carved olive wood
bras & copper
dead sea salts, mud, soap.

Have your photagraph taken in authentic Bedouin attire at Al-Mukhtar
       open daily 7:30- 11:00


           Map

[ a sketch of a jumble of odd little shapes tightly wedged together with free spaces as oddly shaped as each room, and little lines depicting steps occur at irregular and unexpected places- it is an old village that has been artfully rebuilt into a beautiful hotel.]

       Almashi- cafe
       Bustan- village square
       Diwan- lounge bar
       Dukan- gift shop
       Elbeer- bar
       Finjan- oriental snack
       Hammam- turkish bath
       Sahtain- main dining room
       Saraya- banquet hall
       Souk- handicraft center
       Tabolin- oriental bakery

   Uneven floor please watch your step.

* Note: This page is an exact copy of the Tahbeh Hotel's courtesy literature found in our rooms. It was written in a relaxed hand on thick brown paper. I have copied it verbatim.

Saraya

       I wrap myself
       in the strange words

       delicious sounds
       mostly mispronounced

       and reverberating
       with adventure

The Royal Suite

       The floor is uneven
           dingy slabs of smooth stone.
       The same soft drab color of the hills.
       The walls are irregular
           bumpy rocks mortared
             into odd places
       falling into pillars...
       Two straight columns
       step across the center
       of this immense low ceiling room,
       joined by arches that I suppose support the ceiling,
       but more importantly they give this wide open room
       a feeling of snug space.

       Along the walls are deep benches covered
       with soft pillow mattresses.
       Each bed being a long bench
       with a round bolster on each end,
       perfect as an elbow rest as you lean over to chat,
       or a pillow so you can sprawl out, half sleeping,
       but erect enough to watch
       as the children race from pillar to pillar,
       chasing themselves and each other and shadows
       of all the children who have played in this space,
       freed from chores or the strain of being a tourist,
       or whatever else compels them
       to act more than their age.

       We explore every numerous nook.

       Open up the carved wooden cupboard
       to find a large mirror,
       gaze at the room echoed behind,

       then glance to see a shimmering self,

       shinning with curiosity.
       Gently close the mirror back
       behind it's heavy ornate doors.
       Who wants to look at a reflection
       when so much real is to be touched:
       The silk pillows are stripped with rich reds
       and golds in random bands, tasseled-
       everything a princess could wish for comfort,
       including all my loved ones close.

       I go to the furthest room,
       the smallest room,
       and sit down at a narrow desk
       that's built into the wardrobe.
       I suppose some in my place
       would be attending to their face,
       brushing blush on a cheek,
       color on lips...
       but I scribble words.

       Let my face be whatever
       it wants to become
       as my mind surges with
       impressions, textures, scents,
       music all to my mind
       as my mind flits through
       all I've experienced
       in a very full day.

       Images, one after another
       careening up a road
       that curves sharply
       unexpectedly always up,
       or down.

       Dust on my fingertips,
       my face.

       Wind.

       Everything spills
       into itself
       and each other
       what order was it in?

       What does it matter...

The Craft's Souk

       There's a glass blower.
       The solid daub ledge
       holds a cotillion
       of green and blue glass-
       breakable shapes spun
       as he blows and pulls and dips
       and spills and whips and drops

and pulls

a
                              cobra

       from liquid glass dripping and twirled.

       The hot furnace
       is a nest of orange red
       in the dusky room.
       Night is outside
       and we stand near enough
       to be warmed by the stove.
       Desert nights can be colder
       than you think.

       I hold the youngest child,
       and feel him twitch and twist
       as the glass blower   moves
       with arms stretched up and out suspending
                               red glass

       that drops into a iridescent swan.

Published Harrisburg Review 1998

Sand Bottles

                             There are
                          more
                               colors
                               of sand
                               in little
                               dishes
                                than I
                               thought
                          possible. From
                         the white I know
                       so well through the
                       pinks and oranges
                      and reds I'm learning,
                    to the browns I believed
                 in before I came, to black.
              He takes a pinch of dark brown,
            drops it in a narrow necked bottle
         on a tan layer already poured on top
        of light brown one.    His dark head is
       bowed over his work and he reaches in
      the bottle with a wire, touches the sand
      pushes gently, pulls, releases and a camel
   prances on a desert landscape. It only took
      a few seconds and he repeats it all around
     etching a caravan of camels prancing. With
    dark fingers he tweaks up a color from a little
     dish, pours another shade and another, pokes
      with his thin wire patterns in the sand like
         a starry night- and he packs it tightly
            compressing the picture and plugs
             it shut with a soft waxy substance
          that hardens and we have a splendid
       little memento that fits firmly in my hand.

Calmly Cruising

   We're on our way to
   take a buggy ride:

   Calmly cruising,
   in our sport utility vehicle,
   on the edge of a mountain top road
   that will takes us down
               towards Petra...

   Jaffar catches the blast
   of sonic boom:
   He steers the Land Rover off
            onto the dusty berm,
   and thrusts the gear into park.
   He leaps up and out, detecting the trace
   of two gleaming gray jets as they pierce
   sound and sight chasing speed-

   A tilting metallic glimmer through
   the deep canyon of red rock at our feet.

   The two jets cut long swathes of space
   as straight as a Roman Road Airborne.
   Pitch and roll and flash past,
       dazzling my dazed husband
   who slumps back into the car
   muttering that he never thought
   he'd ever see
   a jet perform

           below his feet.