Here is my coverage of Volubilis International Festival, originally written for The View from Fes, Morocco’s foremost English language blog on cultural and current affairs.
Thanks to The View from Fes, the premier English language blog on cultural and current affairs, for having me as guest writer for the Fes Festival of Sacred Music, 2103
This is the third of four posts my coverage of one of the extraordinary free evening concerts held in Place Boujloud
Thanks to The View from Fes, the premier English language blog on Moroccan cultural and current affairs, for hosting me as guest writer for the the Fes Festival of Sacred Music, 2103. Here is the second of four posts with my coverage of the event
Covering the night shift along with the throng in the vast and booming Place Boujloud, learning on the run how to take photos in the full glare of smokey stage lighting, sorting and writing in dim late night coffee shops on deadline-beating all-nighters, lazy afternoons in the delicious sound garden of the Batha Museum… a grand assignment indeed.
Here’s the first of three posts linking to my coverage of the event
MORE photos in my Facebook album: Morocco
Thanks to Colleen Cassar of Roam like Queens for the connection 🙂
In Erachidia I said
Hassan, there are no women here!
It’s hot. The ladies maybe melt if they come out.
Softly spoke, his voice held pride
That ladies of his tribe
Are sensitive and worthy of protection.
Are not required to hit the street,
To meet the harsh demanding light,
like this one, melting to a new perception.
This desert is a feat of heat and wind.
People stay inside their tiny boxes on the rock
And do whatever they can find to do.
Weaving, sweeping, music, watching TV from Algeria.
So nobody will think it strange this lady,
blown in with her different skin,
is reading, writing, here behind the walls.
Cocooned and taking stock.
The sky here sings with light this dawn.
Glimpsing briefly, knowing all is well
I roll on back to sleep
to not responsible.
No action is required and life goes on.
And after travelling long hours through the dust,
I saw you jewelled sugar cube
charismatic white in this expanse of rust.
Crystalline; a fallen star
and travelled from how far
to be laid bare in this Moroccan bowl.
Delectable as hope, or trust;
so vulnerable to
just whoever fancied using you.
And though I don’t take sugar, thank you,
had to have you, suddenly, a lust,
I placed you surreptitiously,
(but secretly so urgently)
into my tea.
You softened to your destiny.
And softened me to sudden tears
to see you fall and disappear.