The Mandolin, the Bouzouki, and the Oud

 

As we mount the scaffold

(and when

have we not been climbing?

when?)

let there be 

the marvelous kiss of a lively mandolin.

the wry, sensual bouzouki

or

at least, 

the mournful deep pool of the oud.

Let the hangman arrive

on a plumed black Arabian,

the doula with her arms around his belly.

(and when

have they not been so entwined?

when?)

Let her feed him Greek Easter bread from her fingers

with blackberry jam

and churned butter.

There is no word for him 

or us

to say.

Allow him these joys before his task.

Let there be wags

irreverent, wearing bright smocks.

(and when

have they not appeared costumed this way?

when?)

let them tell jokes and ribald stories

so that we might forget our aching knees and hearts.

Let them tilt back their heads 

lifting geysers of Athiri wine up to God

alone in His white pagoda.

Let the blind boy in his dusty thawb 

hand us grapes 

as we ascend.

Let him strike the gong 

announcing our circular travels.

(and when

have we ever left these stairs, even in dreams?

when?)

Let a young woman lead a gray donkey

peacefully across the streets we leave behind.

Let the sky be almost clear and blue

but for one cloud, one bird,

and one sun unblinking.

Let the rope be strong and well tested.

Let the holy man sleep,

his book falling from his lap like a restless child.

Let our memories 

explode like confetti,

and sleep like lions.

Goodbye, the world will say

and then again, always again,

Hello.

_______

for Word Garden Word List--George Hitchcock

and The Sunday Muse #245.

Music: Zorba's Dance-Sirtaki