Gifts for the King

The men from the East see the star halting

Over the place where the Christ Child lies.

Their long journey seemingly at an end;

His just beginning.

They present their costly gifts

To the Child King.

“Look  at me!” Gold boldly proclaims,

“I am indeed a gift fit for a King”.

Frankincense speaks slowly and deliberately,
“To benefit from me you have to burn me:
You can’t keep me forever like my brother, Gold.
My scent, however, lingers much longer than my fire.”

Only Myrrh is left to speak.
She quietly whispers but three words:
“Suffering
And tears”.

Joseph takes a live ember from off the fire
And places it in a pot of clay.
Mary chooses a tear of golden frankincense
And sits it carefully on the red hot coal.

Thick curls of heavy smoke
Wind slowly from the glowing coal.
Sizzling, melting, boiling
Yet smelling exotically divine.

The Magi bow low
And withdraw from the sacred scene,
Taking the fragrance with them,
Their new assignment just beginning.

Ross Hayden © 2001 Salalah, Sultanate of Oman

High in the Dhofar Mountains (a poem about the khareef)

Some years ago I received an email after someone had come across my website on Dhofar (that website is no more). He had evidently enjoyed the couple of poems I had written on Dhofar, but he was disappointed that there weren’t any on the khareef (monsoon). I immediately got to work and wrote the following poem, sending the inquirer a copy. It wasn’t long before we met. He was none other than Dr Salim Bakhit Tabook, a very interesting local character, who wrote his PhD thesis on Dhofari tribal practices and folklore (Exeter University).

Here then is my poem…

High in the mountains – no sound…

Except for chirping sparrows, and clacking crickets,

Until the cadence of distant voices

Drifts towards me through the mist –

It lifts and, lo, a beautiful panorama unfolds:

Rolling green hills, trees and rocks growing through.

And across the next valley I spy the voices –

Picnickers perched on top of a little hill

No doubt thinking that they too were all alone…

High in the misty mountains.

As I sit and ponder the peaceful scene

‘Midst gently falling rain and friendly flies

I first hear the buzz then feel the nuzzling

Of a very hungry mosquito,

And, a few of its relatives!

Quickly I spray hands, feet and neck

With a liberal coating of anti-insect spray.

It does the trick

And I continue enjoying the pastoral setting…

High in the Dhofar mountains.

Clouds again descend

And cover the nearby hills,

And my face, with their wet kiss.

I sink into a reverie

And dream of friends and loved ones in distant places…

Only the shishing of passing vehicles on the damp road,

The gentle lowing of contented jebali cows heading home,

And the far off laughter of happy excursioners,

Tell me that I’m…

High in the green Dhofari mountains.

The peace and tranquillity of the rural scene

Soon settle the small worries of the day,

Clearing my thoughts

And reminding me of the One who made it all.

Just then a new sound enters the audio spectrum –

The distant cry of a muezzin in a mountain mosque

Calls the faithful to prayer

And I too bow my head…

High in the lush green Dhofar mountains.

© Ross Hayden, Salalah, Oman.  Khareef 2000.