The Muezzin's Song (1992)

Loose Leaves – Looking Back

 

This poem is about a summer spent sailing the River Nile, exploring the ruins of ancient Egypt. It was written when I was sixteen years old. Misr is the Arabic word for Egypt; a Felucca is a traditional sailing vessel on the Nile with a distinctive triangular-shaped sail; Baksheesh means tip, a request for money.

 

 

THE MUEZZIN’S SONG (1992)

 

Looking out once more

in looking back again.

 

Upon the River’s expanse,

the sunlight rising, slow.

 

Along the shore –

the date palms, begin to stir

with the gentle breeze.

 

Of a well-travelled journal, only

these rough jottings remain;

of smooth desert sands;

Mosques and Minarets,

shady streets and busy bazaars,

reds, purples and yellows;

saffron, spice and silver,

Egyptian cotton, perfumes,

lotus, musk – glass vials;

onyx and carved alabaster.

 

Blue scarabs and

silver cartouches.

 

All these things slow to fade;

all memories golden now,

reminding me of you.

 

With the warm sun under sail,

barefoot on the bowsprit

breaking the silvered waters,

crossing the Cataract

from Kitchener Island;

Ibis, Egret and Hoopoe.

 

The bustle of Aswan shores;

the bells of the Coptic Cathedral

clanging loud; the rattle of ox carts;

dirt roads, dried dung and

stiblo tears; the throng, all

its noise, its dust and hustle.

 

The heat – burning;

the bright, the yellow

and the blue.

 

Beyond the Elephantine rocks;

trailing a hand, your fingers rolling

through the glinting dance of the Nile.

 

Feluccas racing broadsides,

closing in battle, crossing bows;

white triangles, weaving

across the wide waters.

 

Laughing –

you push your hair

back in the wind,

tilting your face

to Akhenaten’s

golden sun.

 

Walking barefoot

through the temples.

 

I watch you – moving,

beneath the waters,

gliding in blue pools.

 

Spinning thoughts;

an eternal thread,

but transient in

its diminishing line:

 

(Grace and beauty

held in her form.

 

She is sure beauty

– beauty I have seen.)

 

Leaning together on

the riverboat’s rail.

 

Gazing along the green banks

where the children play;

the many pillared halls,

sacred lakes, lapis hue;

the pyramids, passages,

tombs and statues, the

obelisks and age worn altars.

 

Bats clinging beneath

the niches, chattering

shivers, swooping down

the ancient ante-room.

 

Such sights, such scenes.

 

A camel train, crossing

the curving desert levee.

 

The afternoon haze,

smudging the view;

a shimmering city spread

below a rough stone parapet,

and in the far distance,

three points ascending

beneath the desert blue.

 

Baksheesh clamour,

Baksheesh clamour!

 

Explorations and Arabesques;

Dervish flutes and tambourines,

swirling – turning – burning.

 

Upon the River’s expanse

– gliding.

 

I see you.

 

Smiling still – you push

your hair back in the

warm air’s gentle trace.

 

Dusk falling, its amber light

fading on the Muezzin’s song.

 

Glinting.

 

A golden sun,

caught in your eye.

 

Looking out together, over the

warm, North African Night.

 

This – the sweet, soft

Cairene Dream.

 

Time though stilled;

still passing, slow.

 

Misr, in memory, warmed

as burnished bronze,

though slowly changing

into softer, sepia tones.

 

The moon fills the space

where the sun once shone;

The stars above, continue to turn

in their spheres between us,

a celestial dance – serene.

 

That deep night sky, remains warm

with me; for grace and beauty,

such is its longevity;

wherein, this ancient land

I once did travel, so there remains

A face in time, your face sublime

– the sweet, soft dream.

 

Laughing,

you push your hair back

in the breeze.

 

 

Egypt, July 1992.

 

  

Illustrations first published by Thomas Cook & Son