Saturday, July 26, 2008

Travel in a backyard

It's here. Finally.
late for its yearly date, but it made it, once more.
Once more, the slow, longed for spring has landed on our valley.
I became aware of it in the last few days when I step over my porch overlooking the backyard.
It's not the slow blooming, nor the few patches of color, nor the birdsongs,
that confirmed the long awaited good news,
but what my nostrils perceived as I stepped out in my town garden,
that has now just enough foliage grown to encase all the fragrances into an invisible cloche.
As I step out on the sideyard along the tall bamboos, it already assaults my nostrils,
as the air is barely warm enough, with just the right amount of moisture,
to allow the delicate scents to be liberated.
There are so many it's impossible to distinguish them,
it's just a subtle, perfect combination,
that the most world renowned perfumers will never be able to duplicate.
Some I can identify, like the unmistakable, insistent fragrance of the Jasmine that instantly transports me to the shores of Hamamet, Tunisia, then to the hilltop village of Sidi Bou,
its cobbled windind streets, reflecting the whitewashed walls.
You have to slowly trod those streets, for they don't like hurried visitors,
those irregular cobbles, and the heat, force you to slow down, watch your steps,
for you have to deserve what's awaiting for you at the top of the village.
As you walk up the narrow streets, with its whitewashed walls and indigo mucharrabieh,
its heavy wooden doors bolted with ancient, rusty knockers,
you bathe in the blue light and breathe in the scent of jasmine,
worn by men in a tight bouquet behing the ear,
and by women woven in necklaces.
As you stroll along uphill you pass craftsmen working on copper and pewter, the tin-tin noise of their hammer tirelessly shaping the metal.
You pass spice stalls displaying rich powders in shades of ocre, saffron, and earthly reds,
transporting you to the era of high walled, impenetrable caravanserails.
A you stroll up the hills of Sidi-Bou, you pass bougainvilleas overflowing the round, soft edges
of glaring white walls jealously keeping secret realms,
then you reach the Sidi-Chabaane cafe overlooking the bay of Carthage and the Punic harbor,
and sitting outside there with mint tea and pinon pines,
a narguileh and Maalouf music, you know you've reached one of the tops of the world.

The coat of the night

When the night spreads her dark coat over the deserted town,
when the human creatures drape themselves in their beds
and finally fall into oblivion,
Imperceptibly, another world awakens.
The doll houses, aligned in neat rows,
abandon their competition to show the same vague color,
only remain their jagged ridges, an uninterrupted lace festoon,
The street lights watch, like sentinels, their long stems carrying a unique faded flower,
and stetch their frail neck over the streeet shining from the last rain.
Then, then the frogs awaken in the ditches saturated with water
to celebrate the fertile rain,
tirelessly,
thousands of voices sing the blessing of the essence of life.

Backyard twilight

When the cars and motorbikes start receding,
when in between I can actually hear neighbors laughing in their yard,
as I lift my eyes I notice the sun is hidden,
and a strange, greyish yellow light announcing a storm
The Calla lilies are craning their graceful necks up,
glowing sentinels, like Art Deco lamps,
The roses I put eralier on in a vase on the graden table are opening up,
finally releasing their delicate, ephemereal aroma,
The clouds above, dark teal sponges that an invisible hand is about to press,
are holding their breath,
Everything is getting still with that almost palpable expectation,
Every now and then, a very slight breeze tries to agitate a branch or two,
but Hush! says the tree, something's coming up!

Here and There

In those early hours as you emerge back to the surface of this world,
after many journeys and visits in the other one,
cleansed and light,
As you emerge, stripped of your human self-consciousness,
small and light as a feather, your eyes opening, barely,
still sealed together with the sap that, at night, closes the gate of this world,
and takes you to your other life.
In those aerly hours, as your toes start moving,
and your limbs soon stretch that primitive, feline stretch,
as you feel the softness of your comforter, barely warm,
you awaken to the pleasure of the senses, touch, feel,
In those early hours you're a wanderer,
oscillating between this world and the other,
still draped in the shreds of dreams,
floating back and forth, gently, in that cloudy space
between this world and the other.
In those early hours, you may. for a while, close your eyes again,
not to go back to sleep, but to savor a little longer the pleasure of the voyage
between this world and the other,
till the early bird song coaxes you back here and now.
In those early hours, you know you have two lives,
in this world and the other,
and you may wonder, which one is real, but maybe both are,
and mabe that's what dreams teach you, if you listen,
messages from your other life and beyond...

The hand that has lived

This hand has lived a thousand lives,
it is thick, coarse, rugged as an old country road,
with crevices and ditches and potholes,
ridges and untamed streams bedded with river rocks,
It smells of sawdust and rusty tools,
its nails forever blackened with the soil they have dug
and the plants it has tirelessly grown year after year,
It harbors untold stories of battles in remote lands of memories,
of the lovers whose curves they have stroked and whose names are long forgotten,
And now here it is, dry and silent like a desert canyon,
but so warm I wish I were small enough to lie down in it.