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...



poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

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.


 

 

 

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

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.

 

 

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

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.

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

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.
                                     

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab

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.

 

 

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab