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

Showing posts with label blue. 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.

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.

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.

Wild Flowers

       Deep yellow mustard,
       bright red poppies, white daises,
       and much much more

       to entertain the fancy
       as they grow in quaint bouquets
       as if on purpose-

       Fragile fragrant little splays
       often underfoot
       as a short walk becomes constant pauses.

       Here as small gold burst of petal
       star shape
       as if dropped and planted from heaven.

There- another echoes the gold star
but it's contained in a soft mid blue flower.

There a thistle blends
with a cluster of possible roses.

       I think this is a pansy, that might be
       a lily.

       This delicate beauty of blossoming
       is a veritable encyclopedia
       of all the wild flowers I can't name...

       I can only enjoy
       as the sun flushes my white cheeks pink

       and the elevated air touches deep blue sky
       as zither breezes sweep down
       from centuries of sighs-

Exquisite wild flowers.

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.

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