Poetry by Robert Michell

"The Casting Down of Turquoise"

If it’s to the Land of Roses you’d aspire,
Know that all roads lead across a bridge of fire!

They told me it would be like Stillbirth to the expectant queen
To discard the fruit of well-established pride:
How could I, proud trader in precious stones and gems—
Opals and amethysts for in-lays, and rubies red as grapes,
Sapphires for rings, and nuggets of purest gold
Just…turn and walk away!?
By my beard! I had thought to purchase audience
With learned doctors of Islam
When, with great care I tied the drawstring up
around that Turquoise treasure;
it was quite enough
To fetch the favour of the Shah.
O, those precious stones possessed
the hue of Southern seas.
They warned me that the Promise in His Book was
Nothing more than camel breath
Dispersing on a frosty desert night,
Or rich chimèras that appear to soothe
a sun-addled brain.

They merely scorned:
We have all we need Of God—His eternal precepts
brought to us  In thrilling tales by
our very own hero-Prophet.
Is not your fortune proof enough?!
Why, why overturn the market-stall Pursuing rainbows?
Clad was I, when at last I joined them,
In scarlet turban’n silken sash,
And boots of jet that hugged the horse’s flanks.
With my cream aba flowing in the breeze,
I must have Cast a noble shadow over that motley band.

That satchel, brim with blue and green
At first hanging heavy on my breast
Beneath my cloak, strangely
Seemed to lighten with the miles.
When I hefted it one last time, it
Seemed but feather-full, not filled with stones at all;
And when in great surprise,
I peered into the sack, and
Drew them out and, as my habit was, rubbed them with
Apprising fingers, I saw their very
Brilliance turn to dun;
Their hardness to my hand felt cheap and hollow.

With the Mullah’s challenge still ringing in my ears,
I tossed it over my shoulder, lightly, with a laugh.
The band of true behind me, later
Said that, falling upon a paving stone
The seam split open wide,
Spilling turquoise like a sun-lit stream.
They lay untouched there for a while;
the call went out to the village poor
Who soon ran up to them.
Their clutching fists were like small and eager
Scoops, the kind so deftly wielded by the
Spice-merchants of Shiraz.
                 -rjm

Poetry by Robert Michell
rjmichell9@gmail.com