jaffa

Almaya, Jaffa

               for Ya'ir Dalal

I like to keep my doors open —
It is like sitting in the desert —

  Under studio's arched ceiling flutes,
roof-paint uncoats, peeling lime white.
  Reverberating invisible sounds —
oud and violin, and a lone desert voice.

  Outside, the sea picks up its waves
in harmony. Inside, there are red
  oriental rugs, an uncleared stage
with notes from a concert past,

  kettle for sage tea, Iraqi sweets,
bottles of various shapes, and chairs —
  lots of mismatched chairs
like relatives from different tribes.

I like to keep my doors open —
It is like sitting in the desert —

  'Two flaming loves can burn you,'
you say. A Japanese girl
  who once heard you at a womad
concert in Australia stumbles

  past your door, then stops
to look inside. 'Is that you —
  the one in the poster on your door',
she asks. You nod humbly

  in your oblique quiet way.
'Almaya' — the name of your space —
  is christened then — 'the universe
that embraces the waters'.

I like to keep my doors open —
It is like sitting in the desert —

  The calm of the desert,
the turbulence of the sea,
  the early whistling of winds
before a gathering storm,

  the Bedouin's elongated cry,
the brothers' lisping embrace,
  hand-woven cream pashmina
shawl — all score, the elements.

I like to keep my doors open —
It is like sitting in the desert —

from The Literary Review, Wolf , Red: An Anthology of Black British Poetry (Peepal Tree), and forthcoming in Blue Nude: New Selected Poems & Translations 1980-2010.