Once upon a time, when I still had visions of becoming an archaeologist dancing in my head, I had the great fortune to Turkey and the greatest fortune of day trips to places beyond Instanbul or Ankara. Perge, as it is pronounced, but more commonly spelled as Perga, I’m told, used to be the capital of a long gone powerful civilization from the Bronze Age. The place is spectacular and the ruins were open, out for any shoe who ventured to set their soles upon its grounds. There were no fences, nothing cordoned off, just a few armed military guards on a hill overlooking the site. It was magical, particularly for a girl who not only wanted to know Indiana Jones, but perhaps wanted to be his female incarnation.
For today, I offer a rather long ode to the place I will always call Perge:
Perge
by Nicole Speulda
A dust-driven mosaic
of shell, rock and bone
city splintered as a rivulet
adorned with weeded twigs and leaves,
flowers stained by sunsets
tinted lavender on wooden vines.
A skeletal metropolis
unearthed by the wind.
We tread upon its shards
made precious in decay,
shoe-print exaltations of the past
marvel at the marble sarcophagus
tomb of Alexander’s bones.
Here the wind de-wishes dandelions
and boots tread the grooves of chariots
soon to smooth the very rivets
we come to admire.
Donned in sable mourning gowns
weeds creep through this stone ghost-town,
hinting of the wild unimportance
we occupy in time.
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