Turbe By Bob Whelan Poem by Bill Grace

Turbe By Bob Whelan



The sweet smell of sage in crisp air made me enter in,
Such a small room of tasaruff, wool cloaks and red fez next to nea and chanter,
Little of rank or status separated the order - only age and respect gilded this room
A portal to the hereafter with tea on their lips
They dress as God was the bride and they were the groom,
Life serenely lifts from their shoulders as they gyrate
One hand to God - one to gloom.
The nea sounds as screaming from being snatched from the soft reed bed
'To Allah come back you reflection
Of the divine and all will be as is said.'
The turbe sure dance to the filtering light
A place of hallowed bone yet celebrating life.




There is an umlaut over the 'u' in turbe and tasaruff.

POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
Bob wrote this poem for me for National Poetry Month and then literally threw it at me after presenting it over coffee. I would love to find it the readers it deserves. WAG
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