"White Clouds," Poem, 1988

Abstract

"White Clouds," Poem, 1988 Peter Whitehead This poem first appeared in Arab News, October 16, 1988. Dedicated to Prince Khaled Al- Faisal One moment there is nothing there,The next, as if out of nowhere,There are white clouds over the Black Mountain.You try to fix the image, like a fleeting thought,Like a photograph, like an unexpected memory,Because afterward there will be nothing.How to avoid the coming, the going, the daily reminderOf the dying away of time,Measured by translucent shimmerings of imminent rain?You plant a seed in the red earth of the mountain,And watch a young tree grow,Nurtured by the rain,As a father plants a seed in a womb,To defeat his own dying of time,Nurturing the hope that a son will cultivate the land,When he is gone. White clouds. Black clouds.As lightning strikes a tree on a mountain,And kills without reason,Before it has born all its fruit,Once, a black cloud overshadowed the whole kingdom,From which lightning had struck,And a beloved King, still young, was felled, [End Page 770] Leaving a forest of bereaved sons.And in the soil were only the imprints of their knees,Blunted roots searching for a renewal of spirit,And of hope. Today, still emblazoned on the clouded skyOf our memories,Were white falcons with black wings,Hovering, still, over the Black Mountain,Poised outside of time,As in the gap between the clouds coming and going,Waiting the moment of their first lightning strike,Their first kill. Their sharp claws reflect the sun,As in men's minds.The sun reflects its own power,As passionate thought. But as that power can raise water from the ocean,And drop it on the land as rain,Its heat can raise the desire for false powerIn men's fertile hearts,And drop it on the faces of the people, as tears.In man's mind, the falcon's clawsHave become the curved scimitars of intellect,That carve out destiny and history. But sons try to fly too, to master the powerOf the untouchable, ungraspable father,And sometimes, blinded by that stronger light,As even lightning can blind the eye of the falcon,They stoop wildly, even amongst their own people,And strike a blow against themselves and against hope. Black clouds. White clouds.One moment there is nothing there,The next, as if out of nowhere,There are white clouds over the Black Mountain again,As in mere earth, another tree grows. So does the spirit causeThe red earth to swell and rupture and with mere mud,Sculpts the form of man,In which it lives its fleeting purpose,A day's flight on the great wings of eternity. But the Black Mountain has another name,Still remembered by the peopleWho grew from the mountains soil;The Mountain of Light,The Mountain of the Beacon, [End Page 771] From whose crown of black polished stones,Fires sent messages at the speed of light,Over the lakes of cloud, of smouldering rain,That will soon fall, and sucked from the red earth,Become sap and blood. Messages to warn shepherds on other mountain tops,Of the threat of an enemy,Or of blessings from Allah;Like the coming of a king's son,To govern in his memory,To plant trees and protect sons,To complete his father's unfinished work. Today there were white clouds, black clouds,Gray clouds, red clouds. And a voice, as of wind.A poetry of clouds. A painting of clouds.Nature mocking man's imagination. But around the gray clouds,An incandescent halo of burning white light,Reminded us of how the work of an inspired son,Can crown the graying head of a father,With further glory ... ... [End Page 772] Copyright © 2011 Wayne State University Press