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

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Saturday, January 22, 2022

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...

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.

Evening's Drowse

       I am filled with-
       shaped by
       the hills.

       They smooth my thoughts
       as each rise leads
       to another
       stretching

       as I soar
       like the sparrow
       my mind capturing image
       after image
       of what we've seen.

       Old hills...

       Black specks become goats
       a stick a shepherd on watch.

       Stones take the shape of sheep
       and sheep take the shape of stones.

       Some hills haven't a speck of green
       just crevices
       that make them look like drapery
       sculpted mounds
       modern art

       then drive down
       and discover other hills
       with dark green conifers-

       old old trees with space underneath
       their lowest oldest branches
       primeval shelter...

       Would I see the land the same
       if my pace were constrained to what legs can do-

       how far the foot can stumble.

The Nook

       There is a nook,
       a small arced shape
       recessed in the stone wall,
       that holds a graceful urn
       from antiquity.

       A sparrow alights on the rim
       comes to sit in the sun,
       comes to sing
       and chatter
       and tell me,
       the shadow form,
       of other days
       when other sparrows
       came to bathe
       in a pitcher's warm wet water.

       Came to stir
       and sip
       and delight
       in my sleepiness
       as the sun stretches
       and the shadow becomes self.

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.

Petra

       Our little boys like
       camel rides
       and scramble climbing on ancient ruins.
       So many places to ramble...

       So beautiful, especially
       the spring flowers
       that grow everywhere,
       even out of rock and
       Roman ruins.

       History is everywhere you look
       and our little boys like
       fiddling with stones:
       They fill their pockets.

       Outside the Grand Treasury that rises
       from rosy shades of sandstone
       into a precisely carved edifice
       of aesthetic sensitivity unsurpassed...

       Our little boys glance up briefly
       and then browse back at the ground,
       eyes absorbed in the trove of little stones-
       eager little hands
       clutch
       all they can.

Sandstone

       We walk in a valley
       surrounded by cliff walls carved
       with Nabotean caves
       and Roman edifices...

        Incredible architecture all
       soaring far beyond the reach
       of my outstretched hand
       as my grappling mind
       climbs up sheer pink,
       red and purple cliff faces:
       tombs and temples
       a place of trade.

       Light air filled rock
       that makes our path pliant,
       and crumbles as I reach down into it-
       dissolves as I lift a small soft stone:

       I show our young sons
       how to make
       sand from stone...

       And the youngest
       spends the rest of the day
       in this spectacular expanse
       of carefully sculpted stone

       veering towards rocks to crunch.

Friday, January 21, 2022

To ride a camel

        To ride a camel
        is to smile and nod
        at the bedecked Bedouin
        and his equally bedecked beast:

You signal with a coin
        and he signals with a stick
        and the great beast bends his knees backwards
        settling to the ground in a most unsettling way.

        You reach up with your leg
            over the camel's steep back,
        and hurl yourself astride-

Hold on, eyes blaring and nose blinking
as the mountainous beast lunges forward

then back

and up

                                            and all at once and you are higher
                   than any head
                   and your heart is pounding
                   pounding pounding
                   from the unexpected shift
                   that seemed more like a spill-

        And what's most frightening
is knowing that getting down
        will be exceptionally more disconcerting.

Bumps

       Bumps
       hills
       mountains-
       all roll
       but some
       are ancient cities,
       civilizations
       buried
       thousands
       of years ago.
       Buildings
       that blazed
       in the desert sand

       becoming
       sand.

       Have I held a palace
       in my hand?

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.

Jordan

       Geometry rises
       out of rubble;
       The strength
       of a simple square-
       a home to how many?

       Geometry abruptly
       spills down
       a low round hill,
       recedes into erosion and air.

       Day break brings color
       to dust and rock,
       rolls each silhouette
       with reds.

Morning goes on to gild
this ancient land,

carves the stones
into embellished shapes,

chisels details
with daubs of pigment

       which noon bleaches out
       entirely
       until

evening shadows
come back to claim

line
& form.

Jerash

       Soft orange almost white
       limestone chiseled...

       Walk down an avenue of columns
       with curlicue crowns holding up the wide open sky.

       Lean over a wall and see a large mosaic floor
       creeping out of dust and earth.

       Trace the edges of crumbled walls,
       outlines of a structure:
       One of many contained in a city
       now pasture land
       for tourists and goats,
       who ever is nimble enough
       to find nourishment
       in this arid clime.

The Shrine

        To place a child
       in a niche,
       a smooth stone cradle
       and let him stand
       warm body on rigid rock:

       Be a sculpted creature
       of pink cheek and wind tossed hair
       let the Zephyr bend round your stance
       as it bent round an urn,
       spun centuries ago.

The Theater

       Stroll on an ancient walk,
       paved with thick flat stones
       puzzled into place.

       Step inside an amphitheater,
       listen as echo looms footsteps.

       Approach the curved span of seats
       that step up with narrow ledges-
       imagine sweat and smell and sound
       and no choice but to nudge
       and jostle with a crowd
       in this empty coliseum.

       But there must have been
       sometimes, in those long ago days,
       that this place was left empty.

       Empty enough for a dreamer...
       To rest on a narrow edge and watch
       the sunlight play against stone

       as a cloud shadow dances
       across the stage.

Little Nimble Goat

Little nimble goat
ruler of rock
as you scamper
             and climb
the cliffs.

Gently experiencing
each nimble new burst
   of leaf
creeping beside
an emerald-green spring.

Unicorn stance
sure-footed prance
as you dance
dance
    dance
      up on the rocks.