Kabul & Standing there and here
by John Siddique
[ poetry - september 04 ]
Kabul
The Kabul cuts its angles while boys arch
their spines, talk and swim, hanging their feet
over the river walls. Cooling the sun and the dust
from their backs, soaking their shirts to stay fresh.
The brown walls of every building, the colour
of the mud, skitter arabesques. If I took a pen
to your maps, I could find every shape.
Black ink puzzling out swastikas for the sun
and moon. Every corner a curve in the name of god.
Camels camping next to apartment blocks.
Volkswagen Beatles dry chugging to cool
their engines. A Pashtun boy with the face
of a goddess, eyes lined with kohl, and a smile
for the eye of the heart. Bright carpets air
on the river wall. Small birds in cages
sing in the barbershop over men's talk.
Next door a Mongol child in red woollens,
red jacket, repairs shoes on an anvil
with tacks, and a hammer bigger than his hand.
Chickens are for sale. Mountain men
with their beards of stone come away
with their purchases. If beards could talk
there would be some stories. This is before
Russia, the Taliban or America close the books,
making fires of knowledge and truths.
A wedding party, pink, red and green on top
of a minibus, beating a drum.
Our orange 'Seddon Diesel' heads out of the city
onto the mountain road. We hold on tight,
so the van holds on tight to this sheer pathway
with tumbling death on each side. Into the snow
with hot hearts from the streets, heat and dust.
Between here and the pass our only company
are the goats finding something to live on.
We stop for a while to look back. I'm 5-years-old
Afghanistan kisses the eyes of my heart.
Standing there and here
Floor to Ceiling and wall to wall.
A single ended fish tank. The wet edge
of a pool. Sixteen floors up. An expanse
of curtain pulled back. I see the storms roll in
from Preston, making their way across the lands
of Lancashire. Clouds are white emulsion in water.
From this balcony the urge to leap
and fall. Dave downstairs plays his AC/DC loud.
Kat next door is doing the dishes, the cups chinking
on the drainer. Knoll hill. The kneecap of the horizon,
always my focal point, my hill beacon.
I see the fire that isn't there.
