Sympathizing with an experiment, we yet need not venerate the result.
--Marianne Moore, The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore (Penguin, 1987), p. 586
For Marianne Levenstein Annur
[This poem arrived literally out of a shoe box. Experimenting with cut-up poetic technique as propounded by William Burroughs, in the mid-1970's in my little cabin on Huckleberry Mountain in the North Carolina mountains I cut up phrases from several dreams I'd had along with xeroxed (photo copied) essays from an encyclopedia on the history of bells and bell making, and one on the rituals and traditions of Henna night in Islamic countries. My choices of essays were random. I just opened the encyclopedia and these were the essays I opened to. I cut up phrases from each, added them to the shoe box along with my dream fragments, and thoroughly shaken (not stirred) pulled out phrase by phrase what became this poem. This was my most successful attempt of many with this technique. What I found was that, especially when seized up in writer's block, the 'accidental' or chance juxtaposition of images, phrases, caesuras in content, contexts and voicings along with disparity of logical connection between topics (bells, metalurgy, Henna rituals for women, wedding nights, sexual attraction and consumation) sometimes created not only astonishing images and poetry but re-tuned my own consciousness to function in this non-linear associative way as a poet and now, importantly, in my creative work as a psychotherapeutic counselor with others. I recommend this technique for all poets or aspiring poets for much is to be learned with perhaps the greatest discovery being that there is another Mind/Hand/Source involved in the craft of poetry, of all writing, guiding the quotidian course of our lives, paying attention first and foremost with a willingness to leave known territory while not devaluing that territory at all. Immediate and tangible foundations are supported by unseen and assumed greater, deeper, older and stronger ones. From this rich arche-techtonic structure, hold and mold our lives and our creativity rise.]
I will tell you of Fatima.
She is the bell,
The tintinabulum,
The veil and the will.
Then take me to her.
You can have the tapestry of streets,
The bowls of tint.
Shade the surface black
And she will emerge
The river,
The bead upon the throat,
The bread swelling,
Lifting up,
The Fertile Crescent...
1
Between the breasts and
Most of the moving parts
While she crossed the threshold
She was quite badly torn
Fatima had clusters
Mounted solidly of bronze
She said it hurt terribly
2
Fatima opened her dark eyes
...If they were with the tide
From top to lip...
She escorted me to an inner room
Where was an intricate carillon music
It is the inevitable accompaniment
She said pointing below
Come in here, my little eye
I did where she remembered, ululating
With plump cushions where it rotates
Of the tintinabulum
A change of waist
Iron or steel bars
To the edge of the lip
At the advent
I nibbled salted melon seeds
For this is the Lailet el Henna
3
In the towers are the reproducers
Within the clean bronze
Their walls were stood
Ready to receive her
And later became all
Of the intricate trills
She pushed her way through
The pivot points
A deep lactation
In the most ravishing shades
Simulate the Pleiades
The rich magenta
Running water is much the best
Whether she wept as she then drew out
Watering the date gardens
She stepped over warm spurting blood
You should have heard her cry
'Ya Ali' and her loud hell-hella
4
A sheep was slaughtered
The physical vibrating movements
For anything tinkling
On the palms and the fingernails
At the point of clapper impact
And on the pillow
She drew out
For the rhythmic accompaniment
And then put it while it was hot
Up inside
A folded piece of bread
5
What did she vow at the Saint's tomb?
6
The Henna Night was celebrated
Metal was added to the lip
Placenta and puella runs
And full harmony that are familiar to lovers
Before Fatima's face
A knife had been placed
Between the upper and
Lower big sprigs of myrtle
The waist almost became
Through the flattening of the crown
Similarly beautiful
And took out of the outside skin
Alone in thousands of towers
Between legs
A tiny triangle where several seams met
Variations in the walls thickness
When the bride's hands were hennaed
Had very slow pains
Prayers were said while the metal was
Poured into the molds
An opaque black veil over
The bells of Nimrud
This thickening of the lip
Straight and pot like
To the chanting
Gave it rhythm and balance
7
Fatima was propped up on pillows
On her big bed
She had a large round silver box
Heavily embossed
The shape of the bell
The same thickness
A push button that rings arpeggios
Carelessly she pulled out
Before I went into
...Joining in refrains...
Into the modern bell
Recast it for tuning again
Thick and ornamented with gold
Paint and Flowers
As it unfolded her pains
Hell-hella
Delicately through the dark and silent
Just as the rope that swings
Scarely noticed
8
Did you have a hard time of it, Fatima?
9
The large brass bedstead
Lighted candles
Their walls were
All primitive forms
Although she put on the veil
A delight to the senses
10
Mohammad came
As fast as the
Vibrating bars that
Generate blows
I kept on my ornaments
I rubbed her abdomen with a knife
Tore in two a flap of bread
Pink gauze curtains
Wheat and salt were scattered
None has been found
Fatima had donned the veil
Iron, steel, gold
Silver, zinc and lead
Which is formed by the squaring
Of the shoulders
Small bells began
Were shortened
Reduced the muscular effort
Needed to swing...
11
And then went in to his bride
With mounds of henna paste
All from silver containers
Plus hundreds of single bells and peals
A time indicator
Anything set with precious stones
I put this on his navel
All with small finger loops on top
The idea of the clapper
To fall back into position
To crack
The thickness of the lip
12
A call to worship was lost
When rings were cast around
The hinges and locks
The soles of her feet
A beehive in shape
Close to the vibrating
Enveloped in a black coat
And my dear whispered
It must be completely consumed
Must be in the open
From the top
There bury it face up
With votive rags
Of the Tigris and Euphrates
The opal and the navel
Watched with deep
Or Henna Night
13
The only remedy is to melt it down
Fatima to me as she lifted the heavy lid
A naked sword was laid
Evolved
Came into being
As a warning signal
There would be a loud burst of
The piercing, high pitched
Trilling ululation
Into tiny handle-less cups
A deep lactation
Fatima's milk
The gradually inward sloping sides
Fatima to me as she lifted the heavy box
Drink
It is the Henna Night
Drink
It is the parting of veils
She pointed downward,
Disrobing in the darkness,
The lantern light of the street
Rubbing against her
Fatima to me as she lifted the heavy box
...To dip your fingers in seven colors...
Fatima opened her dark eyes
Fatima to me
She lifted it up
The heavy hennaed night ringing
Hell-hella
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