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

Showing posts with label family. Show all posts

Saturday, January 22, 2022

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.

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.

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

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

On New Years Eve

       On New Years Eve
       we drove through the juxtaposition
       of ancient hills pouring
       into a valley holding
       a huge satellite dish.

We drove miles through nighttime
curves, dips, and rises.

We came to a farmhouse
on a rocky cliff.

       Inside; the architecture
       is air and space and sunlight
        geometry.

Lacy ironwork and square tiles.

       Cousins who kiss me on each cheek.
       Kids scamper all over.
       Arabic music and exotic dance
       mixes with rock and roll.

       My wrists are graced
       with gold bracelets-
       gifts given to me earlier today.

       On New Years Eve
       I danced with my blue eyed, blond
       Arab husband.

       Danced closely
       exchanging soft murmurs,
       arms around each other
       and our newborn child-
       a son...

On New Years Eve.

The Farm

       She holds a shy albino rabbit,
       cuddles him close,
       shielding him from the sun.

       We are a large group,
       mainly children- cousins all,
       as we step up the path that leads
       to the caged deer.
       On the way we discover so many
       small significant things that when
       finally we see the deer
       (shadows sheltered in a dark shed),
       they don't seem as important as
       the stone path we step on-

       One stone outside the deer pen
       has a particularly intriguing tile
       imbedded in it; A large chip
       of white porcelain shines
       binding an pretty butterfly
       painted mid-flight.

       We climb up steps and sloped
       paths that lead to a farm above,
       that is owned by an in-law's uncle.
       He has a small pet monkey, on a long leash,
       that leaps onto shoulders and teases us
       with chatter   and fingers our hair.

       All around us are rocks
       and the rocks are cradled
       and caressed by flourishing growth-
       flowers everywhere of every kind.

       Up on yet another rise
       is a pigeon coot fashioned
       like a enclosed beehive,
       with ceramic pots neatly stacked
       in concentric circles facing in,
       forming a complex
       of snug nest spots for pigeons.

       Along the road below,
       the Hejaz Rail Road ties
       have been preserved
       as thick straight fence posts
       neatly spaced around an olive tree grove.
       The uniform space between each tree
       mainly serves to extenuate the way each tree
       brandishes slow sure growth by twisting and
       thrusting and drifting in inimitable poses;
       gnarled and known for a smooth dark oil.

       Dip your wedge of warm
       flat bread, first in the bowl
       of smooth dark olive oil,
       next in the bowl of zatar-
       dried herbs cut and crushed and mixed
       with the expertise of ancient adaptations...

       Taste the ambrosia of a holiday-
       of Friday at the farm.