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

Showing posts with label history. Show all posts

Saturday, January 22, 2022

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.

Friday, January 21, 2022

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?

A Silhouette

       A man stood by a tree
       silhouetted by the setting sun:
       A background spun
       from the burning webs
       of some golden fleece
       once prized by legend
       but now left to glow
       among embers
       etching
       a silhouette.

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.

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.

Published National Library Of Poetry, Anthology- 1992

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.

Gold

       In the afternoon
       we go to the Gold Souq.

       It's a marketplace not far off.
       We make our way from our car
       adeptly parked several streets over:
       Step off the crowded curbs
       cross the crowded streets.
       Cars zip and lurch
       and we dodge them
       as they dodge us.

       The Gold Souq.
       Stroll on a wide sidewalk
       inundated on every edge
       by gold- exquisite glistening gold
       24 carat shimmering gold...

       We've come to buy some charms.
       Gold is gold- but when it lines all the shops,
       surrounds you on each and every side,
       glitters in polished windows,
       gleams down narrow passages...
       When it falls in light chains from your hands
       and bangles on your arms
       and pierces your ears
       and makes your fingers heavy...

       When gold is everywhere
       it is bedazzling, radiating brighter
       than when confined to a single case.
       Ounce by ounce, skillfully crafted, adds up
       from simple circlet to intricately worked necklace:
       It becomes a glorious magnitude
       and is absolutely
       Resplendent.

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.

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.