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

Showing posts with label red. 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.

Wadi Mujib

       The road, like a Roman road,
       leading straight and level,
       brings us up over a sharply angled bridge
       that spans the deep gorge
       of the Grand Canyon, Wadi Mujib.

       A sleek modern bridge
       that cuts across the crumbling chasm.

       At first I see a suspension bridge,
       but the expected tangled web
       of metal has been supplanted.

       Instead, neatly etched into space,
       is the profile of two great triangles
       delineated by wide solid bases that soar up
       towards extreme narrowness-
       Geometric precision swiftly shaving girth,
       and the pinnacles seems to dissolve
       into the light air of deep sky.

       The chasm is the Grand Canyon
       of Jordan, Wadi Mujib.
       Deep red rock with stratum shades
       that flux and fuse into shadow-
       a fissure that holds a shallow river
       as it empties into the Dead Sea.

       We pull over-
       rush up to take pictures.
       Pictures of the chasm,
       that's been there to be gazed at
       since history itself.
       Pictures of each other,

       knowing we're a brief interlude
       on this astonishing landscape.
       Pictures of the exquisite bridge.
       Pictures of rock formations looming
       against blue sky. Pictures of the water
       way down below, the trickle
       that tickled these tall cliffs into place.
       Pictures of each other posing
       and pictures of each other
       taking pictures.

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.

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...

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

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.

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.

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

Sunset

       The sun doesn't
           sink slowly.
       It drops suddenly
       as if pulled
       by an unseen hand.

       A grasping grip
       afraid to come up
       beyond the horizon

       waiting

       as the yellow disc
       up above comes
       closer,

       taking dusk
       and turning it
       into a passionate
       red-orange.

       When the edge
       of the round red sun
       has slipped past a certain
        point on the landscape's edge
       the unseen hand grabs it
       pulls-

        The sun plunges down
       immediately
       dropped
       away.

       Gray light lingers a bit longer
       fingering the last threads of dusk.

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.