I have stood on the banks of the Nile
and stared into the eyes of the Sphinx,
wandered between the tumbled small pyramids
of the three queens, and watched the sun
change the colors of the three great pyramids:
Cheops, Khafre, Menkaure.
They all hoped for that divine sleep
that closed their eyes,
but kept their souls alive.
Each gold-framed jewel, each sarcophagus,
each mural painting, each ritual prayer,
a great preparation. The ka/soul
now wanders lost without its body,
their mummies now carted off to museums
for public display. All three tried to buy insurance –
Cheops had four solar boats to ferry his soul to the next life,
Tut’s three sarcophagi intended to hold and protect
his mummified remains, the innermost one of solid gold.
Oh, how the pyramids at Giza cry out for respect,
The most solemn prayers warn intruders away.
The size of the pyramids, a competition,
Each larger than the last, each one saying
Pick me! Pick me!
The grave robbers came almost before
the painted seals were dry, almost before
the closing rituals were complete,
before the concubine’s tears had dried.
Tourists wander this large complex,
ready with cameras to catch images of themselves,
standing in front of the Sphinx,
the ‘Horus of the Rising Sun,’
guardian at one with pharaohs and the gods.
Tourists line up to buy a memory of this moment:
postcards, a tabletop pyramid, calendars,
a bust of Nefertiti or Alexander the Great,
an Egyptian flute, its melody in minor key.
They line up to ride the Bedouin camels,
gaily decorated with tapestries
of green, red, and yellow yarns.
All this – even the tourist buses
which pull up in a great flurry of dust,
all this seems dwarfed by simple reality:
I sit on a giant stone block next to
Khafre’s temple. The nearby causeway, still flat,
reaches down to the Sphinx, the clouds
shift above the three great pyramids.
Even my tears dry in the wind
as black-hooded falcons fly, and
camels race awkwardly, their unshod feet smack
the pavement, and their drivers’ cries echo.
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| Pyramids of Khafre and Menkaure, Giza |
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| The Sphinx at Giza |
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| At the base of a pyramid, Giza |
Today's poetry prompt from
Writer's Digest poet
Robert Lee Brewer for National Poetry Month asks us to write -- an exotic poem. This could lead in so many directions. I chose to travel back in memory, to that wonderful month spent in Egypt doing research, when all seemed possible. This week, I'm starting a new writing project, a story set in Egypt, where once I saw the black-hooded falcons fly.
