Samarkand Hotel
I once spent a few days in a hotel room in Samarkand, Uzbekistan. On the last evening before leaving for the border, a woman made me a pot of tea, and we had one of those chats you can only have when travelling. In the morning I got up from the sofa where I slept, left rolled up banknotes in her shoe, went downstairs for a coffee, and scribbled some lines…
I’m in the Samarkand Hotel
A knock on the door
High heels tapping in the hall
Long legs and haughty eyes
Hair curlers newly removed
Make up made up of defensive lines
Stepping uninvited into the room
In a hotel that is nobody’s home, facing empty dustbins across the road
A view anaesthised by the 10th floor
She
Was worried, confused, at first, when I turned the offer down
Her sweater already tossed carelessly behind
Had a lot to lose, I saw, in her frown
I asked her to make tea and she smiled a little, resigned
But put my hand on her heart to feel it dance
And then shrugged: “not being kissed is a nice romance
And when you get the chance…”
She watched me pick up her sweater from the chair
“I was nearly married, long ago
Well, before, someone from the Taliban”
She whispered, as she pulled herbs from her handbag, cheap copy Dior
And put the top back on the whiskey, while I
Slipped her top back on and she
Slipped off her shoes and sighed at the softness of the carpet
“And I had a father I never met, nor brothers, who did not survive the war
I was one child, maybe tonight I could be
Someone
I never was, a sister, not your lover,” she soothed, slowly
And this time I saw her eyes were deep, as the tea purred
From the full pot into the cup
And I spilled the biscuits and she sat opposite, her heels on my
Knees as I massaged her soles
And she smiled, a third time, at the memory she said she would have
Of the brother she had met, could remind herself of, when left behind
And was struck by that majestic, empty feeling of
Loneliness
(At this moment I paused
Before my morning coffee arrived
and put down my fearless
Pen, my mind at one with her Safi*)
I only know one place in Samarkand
A hotel room in which I sat
With a prostitute from the other side
Of a knock at the door, with whom I sipped
Tea fragranced of mountains in Afghanistan, from where she came
And when she walked away in the morning’s yawn
I realised
She had shown me that our wall was a door, after all
And the border to cross to Afghanistan
Was not the real border I crossed, then
*Safi —
(Arabic: صافي) is a name of Arabic origin meaning "purity," and is employed by many Pashtuns in Afghanistan and Pakistan as a "last name" to refer to their tribal lineage within the Safi tribe, based in north-eastern Afghanistan.
for dversepoets.com
“For today’s Poetics prompt I want you to write a poem that includes one line, and one line only, from ABBA’s only number-one hit, Dancing Queen. The lyrics are listed below. The poem can be any form, length, and about any topic….as long as you include, word for word, one line and one line only, from Dancing Queen! Here’s to you, Bjorn!”
