"minaret" poems - Hello Poetry

The flag, a white crescent and single star on a field of crimson — kırmızı, not just 'red' — tells of Islam. The men drinking beer and rakı at pavement tables, even in Ramadan, and the short-skirted, bare-armed girls, parading with bare-faced confidence, tell of other influences; but at the appointed hour we hear the call to prayer from the marble minaret, a slim finger pointing to the sky beside shining domes reflecting the vault of heaven. At five a.m. we hear it faintly through hotel double-glazing, or at sunset, as a peaceful accompaniment to the spectacle, and we remember where we are. But especially at the midday hour, when the voice of the muezzin echoes over noisy street or market, and from another minaret and another the duet becomes a trio, a quartet of different melodies, out of tune with each other but never discordant (in these tones the word has no meaning), the faithful are reminded, however busy they may be, that their God requires something of them. Then, entering the cool calm of the mosque, entering the quiet forest of pillars, feeling through the soles of our bare feet marble polished by the tread of generations of worshippers, fine-grained wood, the rich softness of crimson carpet, we luxuriate in the textures as they combine with the formal floral patterns of the tiles, the ornate calligraphy of the inscriptions, the rich colours of the glass, and we realise that the builders of these mosques knew what they were doing, so many years ago, how peace can enter the soul through the senses.

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Aug 6, 2016

Aug 6, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC

paul-hansford

Inside the Mosque **

The flag, a white crescent and single star on a field of crimson — kırmızı, not just 'red' — tells of Islam. The men drinking beer and rakı at pavement tables, even in Ramadan, and the short-skirted, bare-armed girls, parading with bare-faced confidence, tell of other influences; but at the appointed hour we hear the call to prayer from the marble minaret, a slim finger pointing to the sky beside shining domes reflecting the vault of heaven. At five a.m. we hear it faintly through hotel double-glazing, or at sunset, as a peaceful accompaniment to the spectacle, and we remember where we are. But especially at the midday hour, when the voice of the muezzin echoes over noisy street or market, and from another minaret and another the duet becomes a trio, a quartet of different melodies, out of tune with each other but never discordant (in these tones the word has no meaning), the faithful are reminded, however busy they may be, that their God requires something of them. Then, entering the cool calm of the mosque, entering the quiet forest of pillars, feeling through the soles of our bare feet marble polished by the tread of generations of worshippers, fine-grained wood, the rich softness of crimson carpet, we luxuriate in the textures as they combine with the formal floral patterns of the tiles, the ornate calligraphy of the inscriptions, the rich colours of the glass, and we realise that the builders of these mosques knew what they were doing, so many years ago, how peace can enter the soul through the senses.