People become places;
moods and seasons sprinkle
like salt, absorbed
into stone.
But structures shape
the thoughts;
An arch's key
is the wedge between
now and then
I remember
now and then
walk down an alley
and echo.
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
All the hills
in a prophet's eye...
In our Land Rover,
we leave the low, flat landscape
that holds the shimmering Salt Sea.
The smooth straight road
reaches up into the mountains,
where it wraps itself tightly
into curves following contours.
Knolls rush up at us only to fall
sharply away, arising as other hills
farther on, farther up emerge,
both steeper and softer.
Eyes scan across yet another
canyon as we careen,
always on edge; and suddenly-
huge faces in the rock emerge,
like Mount Rushmore,
but no man-made chisel carved
the stunning contour of features
set to emanate from the avalanche of time-
the avalanche of fluent rock erosion,
staring back at me.
Craggy, weather worn, furrowed faces
watching with eyes that are nimble shadows-
shelves and slants and surface
gnawed by time and tale.
The road leaps sharply up and
I look down deep rocky
chasms, that approach
with lurch and loom
and sloping plateaus
sprigged with stony pasture:
Each relatively level patch
bears one lone shepherd-
Bedouin robes draping him
with historical allusions.
Black rocks become a tumble of goats.
White stone stubble...browsing sheep.
Height-depth-dark-light-
nothing seems anything
except ancient.
Even recent excavations
(crude surface mining)
has the appearance
of an archaeologist's mound
divulging treasure;
gnawed by time and tale.
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
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.
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
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...
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
I am filled with-
shaped by
the hills.
They smooth my thoughts
as each rise leads
to another
stretching
as I soar
like the sparrow
my mind capturing image
after image
of what we've seen.
Old hills...
Black specks become goats
a stick a shepherd on watch.
Stones take the shape of sheep
and sheep take the shape of stones.
Some hills haven't a speck of green
just crevices
that make them look like drapery
sculpted mounds
modern art
then drive down
and discover other hills
with dark green conifers-
old old trees with space underneath
their lowest oldest branches
primeval shelter...
Would I see the land the same
if my pace were constrained to what legs can do-
how far the foot can stumble.
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
There is a nook,
a small arced shape
recessed in the stone wall,
that holds a graceful urn
from antiquity.
A sparrow alights on the rim
comes to sit in the sun,
comes to sing
and chatter
and tell me,
the shadow form,
of other days
when other sparrows
came to bathe
in a pitcher's warm wet water.
Came to stir
and sip
and delight
in my sleepiness
as the sun stretches
and the shadow becomes self.
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
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.
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
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.
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
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?
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
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.
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
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.
poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab
Shivering,
stand in wet snow
listening to thunder,
as sleet melts
into rainfall
The sun's glinting light
pulls forth a pretty posy
here and there
until barrages of bloom
rupture the earth.
Day after day of bloom bursting...
And the deep indigo
of an oriental night
is beautifully fragrant
with jasmine.
By day the desert heat
comes back
to claim all color,
washing the hills
with brown stubble
which the goats will graze to aught.
Presume, as you stand on barren stone
that soon enough, next spring-
En'Shallah...
This rock ledge will once again
brim
with flowers
and a crumbling castle
will be a thousand urns
of growth.
poem copyright © 2000 Anne Selden Annab
