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Words on Robson
Poetry Contest Winner: Shulamit Joffre
The Marketplace
We spoke,
beneath the tentative morning light
behind the glistening minarets
in the exotic streets of the
marketplace, you and I no longer
the strangers we once believed
ourselves to be. All about us
the sights and sounds of sellers
of exotic merchandise, voices rising
to be heard, goods held high
to be seen, the call to prayer
the constant background chanting
adorning our conversation.
Your voice was a shimmering
sound accompanying the sounds,
yet more colorful than the wares
being hawked by the hungry
faithful. The sunlight caught the
gold-domed minaret in its embrace
giving a show of fiery sparks
like prayers being carried to
God. I watched your face,
really watched it to see what you
were seeing; it was in that moment
I understood how the world appeared
to you. Exotic. Exceptional.
Uncommon. A faceted diamond
casting so many colors
it leaves one breathless trying to
define them.
The conversation was mundane.
The look in your eyes was not.
Suddenly the smells of the market
became a musky tantalizing perfume,
the bolts of cotton, linen and
wool transformed into luscious silk,
the beverages nectars of the gods,
liquid gold on the lips of the drunk
as he spun on his toes, whirling to the
sounds of some inner song.
We spoke. Time stood still.
The sun rose high in the blue sky.
The muezzin's proclamation
became law. From every corner
of this tiny world, prayer rugs
were carefully laid down, hands and
faces cleansed, eyes turned inward
to face this dialogue. In the marketplace
we spoke, the tentative morning light
beneath the glistening minarets,
in the exotic streets of the marketplace.
You and I,
no longer the strangers we once
believed ourselves to be.
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