Morocco is magic – the land, the people, the flora and fauna. To make it more exotic it is a kingdom, with its shores along two seas, the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. In the south are the Atlas Mountains. There is a romance of history and culture surrounding its cities of Casablanca, Marrakech, Fez and Tangiers. The weather along the coast is always clement with an abundance of blooms everywhere. Two races populate the land, the Arabs and the Berbers, both extraordinary in looks and hospitality. Marrakech at the edge of the Sahara desert and the foot of the Atlas Mountains is an exotic town that takes you back in history. My poem was composed as the atmosphere of the place gripped, enthralled and mesmerized me:
MARRAKECH
This Moroccan haunting
From the midst of Mamounia’s
Mystic groves and tallest palms’
Proud ochre candelabras’ date,
Three note trill
Invisible,
Pierces my soul
At dawn,
Plaintive, persisting
Pure
Secret and alone
With me.
Like risen lotus
Trademark fountains of bliss
Drip their watery ecstasy
Into shallow pools
Where the mosaic stirs
In shadow of ancient olives
And Jakaranda
And what holds it together,
Calls of a hidden dove –
Secret paradise
Locked from the crowds.
This quick music makes me sad
Though I do not follow its words
I almost know what it says
As I imagine the adolescent urge
Accurately, for it is about
The village lad who is going away,
Promising his mother he will soon be back
With a Green Card
But to his love, that she never
Loved him enough
To let go his hand,
Then I let go the words,
It doesn’t matter, as the drumming
And singing beat faster into me.
Attached to a dancer’s pointed cap
Whir, as he spins cockily
With a look to impress
At the Place El Fna
In the furious light of gas lamps.
How these Kilin carpets bewitch,
A Berber way of scribbling
Thoughts into squares
Of straight simple colours
You could never manage,
Like you cannot pronounce
Words without vowels,
Consonants joined together
Like they can (shno smitek)
And the patterns stay with you
Like something said permanently
To capture one look from you
Fishing delinquently for eye contact, careful,
Pull the purse strings tight
Over your eyes,
There are pickpockets here,
Pull down your veil,
Hang on to your soul.
We took the road
Past Taroudannt
Where the majestic Atlas stood
Up a steep hill of Fir trees
Thickly brushing my thoughts
Like a sponge of Mouley Ibrahim
Absorbing their residue wastes,
Miracle duster cleansing the slate
And the wooden barrier
At the tomb
Allowing in only the faithful
Could not keep me out
As I sought his grace
And received a psalm
Wrapped in bright green cloth,
As a token
That he had heard.