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
