By
John W. Scott
In the Casbah at dusk
the children were playing, and moving about
like darting fish in a pond;
the Mediterranean
has been slowly graying,
as rain begins to drop from the heaven,
descending from ever-darkening skies,
yearning to cool
the heat of the day, mercifully falling
the summer heat swiftly away;
running as fast as he could, with a smile on his face,
the little boy's feet
striking the stones of the pavement,
worn-out and old
from centuries of criss-crossing labors,
from friends and from enemies,
from families and neighbors;
the barber had finished the little lad's haircut,
only minutes before
fresh like a newly trimmed lawn,
while nine or ten boys,
waited by his barbershop doors;
shafts of whispering sunlight shot this way and that
here lighting a corridor of the Casbah
and silently watching
the people who go and who come,
the corridor narrow and cracked,
winding onward to the top of the hill
dead ends a turned corner
in a pile of broken debris;
appearing at a make-shift tent-covered store, the face of a toothless old man,
appears through the Ottoman portals his face good-naturedly shines
as he tells you a make-believe story in poetic Arabic rhyme,
with paint drops of French,
in Monetic-poetic style;
the smells of the placid and gray-churning sea,
mix with the pungent-sweet colorful odors,
of fruits in the summer sun's heat;
like a beehive of wonder, it clings to the hill
while the souk rests below awaiting the traders
that noisily come and silently go;
shadows and dust and filtering light,
appear on the veiled faces
of women keeping out of the sight
of the peering-wandering eyes,
of any who might;
the sea laps continuously on the stones on the shore,
instinctively knowing
that in millenniums to come
they will be turned to sand
so they persist from the morning
till the next morning comes, from now until the time
when time no more will come;
while heaven strains and struggles like a woman giving birth,
to shine love and shine mercy like the summer cool rains;
an occasional crack of a loaded black gun,
and vitriolic speech like a whip
that burns as thorns and as refuse
in a dry rubbish heap
break through the laughs and the squeals
of children playing in the Casbah's outdoor, dusty halls;
the children not noticing such caustic attacks
play soccer in alleyways
between the walls and the cracks
of the Casbah's age-old,
dusty-brown and stone-paved half-streets
as the mothers of the Casbah
peer, staring through the window
to beckon their children for the evening's retreat;
the unveiled mother safe
in the comforts
of a room painted blue like the morning sky,
stares at the sun-shining face of her baby,
whose little eyes shine in reply,
as the baby looks wide-eyed in girlish delight,
while the Casbah's dusty dusk turns into a starry-skied night,
both oblivious to the struggling and unresolved questions
of political strife
the mother looks peacefully calm
wondrous and thankful
of the present of life.
End of poem
One note of interest, there are many countries such as the United States, which have become hosts to a great number of immigrants. Jersey City, New Jersey, where I was raised, has one of the largest immigrant communities in New Jersey, and hosts thousands of Algerians. The city is a humble working class community, whose Italian and Irish immigrants from who formed the greater part of the city, have proven to be receptive and friendly to the many foreigners who have settled here. So, today, there is a kaleidoscope of races that walk the streets of Jersey City, which makes for a most interesting change of pace whenever we visit.
the children were playing, and moving about
like darting fish in a pond;
the Mediterranean
has been slowly graying,
as rain begins to drop from the heaven,
descending from ever-darkening skies,
yearning to cool
the heat of the day, mercifully falling
the summer heat swiftly away;
running as fast as he could, with a smile on his face,
the little boy's feet
striking the stones of the pavement,
worn-out and old
from centuries of criss-crossing labors,
from friends and from enemies,
from families and neighbors;
the barber had finished the little lad's haircut,
only minutes before
fresh like a newly trimmed lawn,
while nine or ten boys,
waited by his barbershop doors;
shafts of whispering sunlight shot this way and that
here lighting a corridor of the Casbah
and silently watching
the people who go and who come,
the corridor narrow and cracked,
winding onward to the top of the hill
dead ends a turned corner
in a pile of broken debris;
appearing at a make-shift tent-covered store, the face of a toothless old man,
appears through the Ottoman portals his face good-naturedly shines
as he tells you a make-believe story in poetic Arabic rhyme,
with paint drops of French,
in Monetic-poetic style;
the smells of the placid and gray-churning sea,
mix with the pungent-sweet colorful odors,
of fruits in the summer sun's heat;
like a beehive of wonder, it clings to the hill
while the souk rests below awaiting the traders
that noisily come and silently go;
shadows and dust and filtering light,
appear on the veiled faces
of women keeping out of the sight
of the peering-wandering eyes,
of any who might;
the sea laps continuously on the stones on the shore,
instinctively knowing
that in millenniums to come
they will be turned to sand
so they persist from the morning
till the next morning comes, from now until the time
when time no more will come;
while heaven strains and struggles like a woman giving birth,
to shine love and shine mercy like the summer cool rains;
an occasional crack of a loaded black gun,
and vitriolic speech like a whip
that burns as thorns and as refuse
in a dry rubbish heap
break through the laughs and the squeals
of children playing in the Casbah's outdoor, dusty halls;
the children not noticing such caustic attacks
play soccer in alleyways
between the walls and the cracks
of the Casbah's age-old,
dusty-brown and stone-paved half-streets
as the mothers of the Casbah
peer, staring through the window
to beckon their children for the evening's retreat;
the unveiled mother safe
in the comforts
of a room painted blue like the morning sky,
stares at the sun-shining face of her baby,
whose little eyes shine in reply,
as the baby looks wide-eyed in girlish delight,
while the Casbah's dusty dusk turns into a starry-skied night,
both oblivious to the struggling and unresolved questions
of political strife
the mother looks peacefully calm
wondrous and thankful
of the present of life.
End of poem
One note of interest, there are many countries such as the United States, which have become hosts to a great number of immigrants. Jersey City, New Jersey, where I was raised, has one of the largest immigrant communities in New Jersey, and hosts thousands of Algerians. The city is a humble working class community, whose Italian and Irish immigrants from who formed the greater part of the city, have proven to be receptive and friendly to the many foreigners who have settled here. So, today, there is a kaleidoscope of races that walk the streets of Jersey City, which makes for a most interesting change of pace whenever we visit.
This poem was written by John Scott, who teaches science in Newark, NJ. The poem can be found in the book Dawn of a New Discovery and Beyond the Horizon..
Dawn of a New Discovery. 384 pages. Paperback. Over 20 poets represented, past and present. World Poetry.
Beyond the Horizon contains poems of Asia, North Africa, the Middle East, and other exotic places. World Poetry. 100 pages.
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Dawn of a New Discovery. 384 pages. Paperback. Over 20 poets represented, past and present. World Poetry.
Beyond the Horizon contains poems of Asia, North Africa, the Middle East, and other exotic places. World Poetry. 100 pages.
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