I am looking back a long way now:
will the circle close?
Why does the city this morning seem
so much like that other city,
its lines imposed upon its lines:
the same slow sweep of waves,
the same dust-haze,
the same crumbling buildings sinking into the salt sea,
the same sad, unstoppable malaise:
this garden I pause beside,
its dahlias sun-dried,
the nasturtiums neutered,
a solitary palm-tree bending towards Siwa,
begging its moisture
as little and as bitter as urine on the sand —
nothing dies:
all that I thought long-dead
is rising up again:
the little house where first they slapped me into life,
took off the tip of my manhood as the religion demands,
the red sand slipping into the blue Mediterranean,
the smell of incense on the khamsin wind —
so much remembered,
so many old lamps burning again —
lamps whose wicks I thought had long since charred —
and from the night beyond their light
a face is floating,
bending over mine —
its sweetness is effulgence,
its fragrance is of flowers . . .
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
-
Comments transferred from duplicated page
A very intense way to remember a place hat holds the roots of a life history. The words he used give a solid imagery, and yet they bring along a poetic feeling. I enjoyed it! (MariGoes)
~~~
I think the use of imagery here does convey a strong feeling, but it's also very ugly. I don't care at all for this style, though I suppose it gets its point across. However, after reading it, I only feel unfulfilled and wonder... what was the point? (Frodofan)
~~~
i think you have lived this poem over and over and each word is part of your life in every way... why care what others say or think........ i think you have beautifully drawn a true story that only seen through eyes... others at times are blind... to others worlds...
well written
Adding your comment:
