There are people who claim value in high art: ballet, opera, the finest works of most-lauded authors.
I agree, I do agree, that’s all important.
But if you ask me about poetry in motion, about where to find the art of life manifested,
I’ll point you towards the markets, the wilds of a city, like the souk of downtown Tunis.
You only know a place once you’ve learned its rugged streets, its funky corners,
the beauty it hides in small bites and in plain sight.
You know a place once you’ve engaged its most forthright ambassadors, its most plenipotentiary negotiators: market vendors.
You know a place when you’ve breathed it in, whatever olfactory sensations that affords you!
You come to know a place through the rhythm of footsteps on its pavement,
when the many aspects of culture, climate and locale culminate to produce a throbbing, artful chaos.
Greetings knock about as people slip past each other effortlessly,
and the sacred in the ordinary is evident, and unremarkable,
and breathtaking, all at once.