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.

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

 

Published Harrisburg Review 1998

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.

                                                                       poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

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.

 

 

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab