Poems of Arab Andalusia
Turtles cavort
in their capes of green algae
—Ibn Sarah
I.
In one of these poems, the poet
writes, “Birds trill on the branches
like singing girls / bending
over their lutes,” and when I look up,
I see them outside my window,
on this last warm day of winter,
looking not lost but adrift.
“She is an immigrant,” I read,
“from other lands.”
On the table beside me, a teapot
of steaming water, a sachet of Ceylon,
a teddy bear of honey. My father
in the curling steam. “Inside
the palanquins on the camels’ backs
I saw their faces beautiful
as moons / behind veils
of gold cloth.” Tell me, Friend,
who is it who worries so much
about the turtles, wrapped in ribbons
of foam, lounging on the lonely
beaches of Andalusia?
II.
Once a student asked you
if it mattered, all this effort
and pain, losing sleep, your health,
all the loneliness it entailed,
to puzzle through the words of
dead poets. That night, you,
a young man too, opened up
this anthology, a gift from
a friend long forgotten, and found
the answer:
Look at me,
I dress myself in the white
of white hair
in mourning for youth.
Your pillow in the morning
was a turtle swimming in a sea
of tears, carrying another
load of words. What hatched
within the sand: the vocabulary
of wholeness taken slow.
III.
as the light of wakefulness
fills the body
as the whir of holiness
tunes the soul
as the aftermath of heartbreak
thimbles gratitude
into each passing hour
as the sweep of time
nuzzles its hot breath
against the embers
of a lived life
against spheres
of dalliance
and pleasure
IV.
Remembering: one evening, after school:
a peaceful blizzard: the chime-heavy
ruefulness of snow falling in great big clumps:
the snow falling in great big clumps:
the parking lot: a snowball fight: the snowballs
arcing through the pink sky: the snowballs
bursting open mid-flight: the snowballs
like shooting stars: the wishes
wished: the innocence of boyhood
reawakened: the perfection of it: the rest
of your life as untouched: then the morning,
years later, as you drove to school,
reminded of that evening by the white snow
of spring blossoms: how deeply you wept,
remembering that evening, the snow:
the warmth, the companionship, the unutterable
thing that waits on the other side of retirement:
the mathematics of clocks: the mathematics
of memory: the mercy of remembering,
of snowballs returning to snow.
V.
A book set on fire
provides a different kind
of warmth.
Our winged mothers taught us
to love ourselves. We are obedient
children. We are honest.
“She may not know
where the mosque is,” I read, “but she knows
the location / of all the taverns.”
Our hands hold the words
of dead poets. Time holds as still
as turtles asleep in the trees.
VI.
as the ghosts arrive along the shore
to sing their songs
to the sea
as we go from lost
to adrift
VII.
The tea has gone cold.
The student is somewhere else,
surprised by the depths
of his sadness.
Perhaps he now understands
this craving for poems.
Snow, even in June.
Snow, dusting every memory of Andalusia.
Our mothers, our fathers,
their voices
humming forever in the latticed history
of our bones.
Evening arrives, too soon.
The tree, again
a collection of vacancies.
The silences, nothings
readying for the next poem.
Let us turn the page together
and read: “There are splendors of such perfection
they all bring to mind
the beauty of absolute certainty,
the radiance of faith.”
VIII.
as we go from lost
to adrift
to dust
may it be
with the urgency
of turtles
First published in Prairie Schooner, Spring 2017
Turtles cavort
in their capes of green algae
—Ibn Sarah
I.
In one of these poems, the poet
writes, “Birds trill on the branches
like singing girls / bending
over their lutes,” and when I look up,
I see them outside my window,
on this last warm day of winter,
looking not lost but adrift.
“She is an immigrant,” I read,
“from other lands.”
On the table beside me, a teapot
of steaming water, a sachet of Ceylon,
a teddy bear of honey. My father
in the curling steam. “Inside
the palanquins on the camels’ backs
I saw their faces beautiful
as moons / behind veils
of gold cloth.” Tell me, Friend,
who is it who worries so much
about the turtles, wrapped in ribbons
of foam, lounging on the lonely
beaches of Andalusia?
II.
Once a student asked you
if it mattered, all this effort
and pain, losing sleep, your health,
all the loneliness it entailed,
to puzzle through the words of
dead poets. That night, you,
a young man too, opened up
this anthology, a gift from
a friend long forgotten, and found
the answer:
Look at me,
I dress myself in the white
of white hair
in mourning for youth.
Your pillow in the morning
was a turtle swimming in a sea
of tears, carrying another
load of words. What hatched
within the sand: the vocabulary
of wholeness taken slow.
III.
as the light of wakefulness
fills the body
as the whir of holiness
tunes the soul
as the aftermath of heartbreak
thimbles gratitude
into each passing hour
as the sweep of time
nuzzles its hot breath
against the embers
of a lived life
against spheres
of dalliance
and pleasure
IV.
Remembering: one evening, after school:
a peaceful blizzard: the chime-heavy
ruefulness of snow falling in great big clumps:
the snow falling in great big clumps:
the parking lot: a snowball fight: the snowballs
arcing through the pink sky: the snowballs
bursting open mid-flight: the snowballs
like shooting stars: the wishes
wished: the innocence of boyhood
reawakened: the perfection of it: the rest
of your life as untouched: then the morning,
years later, as you drove to school,
reminded of that evening by the white snow
of spring blossoms: how deeply you wept,
remembering that evening, the snow:
the warmth, the companionship, the unutterable
thing that waits on the other side of retirement:
the mathematics of clocks: the mathematics
of memory: the mercy of remembering,
of snowballs returning to snow.
V.
A book set on fire
provides a different kind
of warmth.
Our winged mothers taught us
to love ourselves. We are obedient
children. We are honest.
“She may not know
where the mosque is,” I read, “but she knows
the location / of all the taverns.”
Our hands hold the words
of dead poets. Time holds as still
as turtles asleep in the trees.
VI.
as the ghosts arrive along the shore
to sing their songs
to the sea
as we go from lost
to adrift
VII.
The tea has gone cold.
The student is somewhere else,
surprised by the depths
of his sadness.
Perhaps he now understands
this craving for poems.
Snow, even in June.
Snow, dusting every memory of Andalusia.
Our mothers, our fathers,
their voices
humming forever in the latticed history
of our bones.
Evening arrives, too soon.
The tree, again
a collection of vacancies.
The silences, nothings
readying for the next poem.
Let us turn the page together
and read: “There are splendors of such perfection
they all bring to mind
the beauty of absolute certainty,
the radiance of faith.”
VIII.
as we go from lost
to adrift
to dust
may it be
with the urgency
of turtles
First published in Prairie Schooner, Spring 2017