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Orbs

Susie Gharib

The Brontë sisters look out from a wooden frame on the wall.
Below poses Oscar Wilde in his aesthetic form.
To his left Poe is awaiting a raven called Nevermore.
And on the top Baudelaire looks irrevocably bored.

On the opposite wall, D.H. Lawrence and Virginia Woolf
seem to hold discourse in symbols and metaphors
beyond this ordinary world.

The Dome of the Rock with its shield of gold
sits next to the phantom of the opera, Mr. Michael Crawford,
the oriental and the western side by side in a rare accord.

With eyes of wonder, my students view these orbs
that deck the walls of a very humble abode
at work.
They know I dedicated long years to Lawrence’s ores,
then became enamored with the streams of consciousness of Mrs. Woolf,
Poe and Baudelaire, two mirrors of the afflicted soul,
with Wilde’s swallow nesting in this literary hole.
The Phantom of the Opera’s is the voice I had adored
when I was a research student in Caledonian Glasgow.
And through the gilded dome,
I am transported to Jerusalem every morn.

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