A Poem (and a Photograph)

Sultanim Mazar, a photograph by Lisa Ross


by Sherisse Alvarez

The curtain of night parts to reveal
the women that have gathered to pray.

Their cupped hands, the oil lamps burning.

Sand makes music for their saints.
Holy site, desert that understands
the meaning of impermanence.

Where tombs are made of stone, branch, cloth,
language. The simplest and most dangerous
of desires. They pray with their knees

in earth, sand blurring the face
of a colonizer in the landscape.

They are here to honor the dead. To bathe
in rivers, to mend their shrines, to chant.

With needle and thread, they make
an offering, they mark their wish.

Sherisse Alvarez is currently an MFA candidate in the Creative Nonfiction program at Hunter College. Her work has appeared in Palimpsest: Yale Literary and Arts Magazine; Daylight Magazine; Becoming: Young Ideas on Gender, Identity, and Sexuality; Revolutionary Voices: A Multicultural Queer Youth Anthology, and other publications. Her one-act plays have been produced at the Clark Studio Theater at Lincoln Center and the Blue Heron Theater in New York City. Sherisse has been a resident at the National Book Foundation and the Fine Arts Work Center. She can be reached at sherisse@sherissealvarez.com

Image: Unrevealed, site 3 (landscape) © 2010 by Lisa Ross. Lisa Ross is an artist based in New York. This image is from a body of work titled UNREVEALED made in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, PRC over a 7 year period.
The work explores the landscape and its spiritual architecture of Sufi Saints, their tombs and the markers which surround them. You can view her work at lisaross.info

A Poem (and a Photograph)

Horses in Camargue  2009 by Lisa Ross
Horses in Camargue © 2009 by Lisa Ross | http://www.lisaross.info

White Horses

Where run your colts at pasture?
Where hide your mares to breed?
‘Mid bergs about the Ice-cap
Or wove Sargasso weed;
By chartless reef and channel,
Or crafty coastwise bars,
But most the ocean-meadows
All purple to the stars!

Who holds the rein upon you?
The latest gale let free.
What meat is in your mangers?
The glut of all the sea.
‘Twixt tide and tide’s returning
Great store of newly dead, —
The bones of those that faced us,
And the hearts of those that fled.
Afar, off-shore and single,
Some stallion, rearing swift,
Neighs hungry for new fodder,
And calls us to the drift:
Then down the cloven ridges —
A million hooves unshod —
Break forth the mad White Horses
To seek their meat from God!

Girth-deep in hissing water
Our furious vanguard strains —
Through mist of mighty tramplings
Roll up the fore-blown manes —
A hundred leagues to leeward,
Ere yet the deep is stirred,
The groaning rollers carry
The coming of the herd!

Whose hand may grip your nostrils —
Your forelock who may hold?
E’en they that use the broads with us —
The riders bred and bold,
That spy upon our matings,
That rope us where we run —
They know the strong White Horses
From father unto son.

We breathe about their cradles,
We race their babes ashore,
We snuff against their thresholds,
We nuzzle at their door;
By day with stamping squadrons,
By night in whinnying droves,
Creep up the wise White Horses,
To call them from their loves.

And come they for your calling?
No wit of man may save.
They hear the loosed White Horses
Above their fathers’ grave;
And, kin of those we crippled,
And, sons of those we slew,
Spur down the wild white riders
To school the herds anew.

What service have ye paid them,
Oh jealous steeds and strong?
Save we that throw their weaklings,
Is none dare work them wrong;
While thick around the homestead
Our snow-backed leaders graze —
A guard behind their plunder,
And a veil before their ways.

With march and countermarchings —
With weight of wheeling hosts —
Stray mob or bands embattled —
We ring the chosen coasts:
And, careless of our clamour
That bids the stranger fly,
At peace with our pickets
The wild white riders lie.

. . . .

Trust ye that curdled hollows —
Trust ye the neighing wind —
Trust ye the moaning groundswell —
Our herds are close behind!
To bray your foeman’s armies —
To chill and snap his sword —
Trust ye the wild White Horses,
The Horses of the Lord!

—Rudyard Kipling