A Ghazal On Whether the Beloved Is Aloof Or Touchy-Feely

A ghazal, we are told, should be melancholy
with craving the Beloved. Heavens, what folly!

Who, then, is this elusive Beloved? Golly –
it seems that the longed-for one is the most holy.

Yes, God. And who's that? A Santa, roly-poly?
Or a Jehovah, much less cuddly and jolly?

People seem to see God as masculine wholly,
whether that figure is Almighty or lowly.

But let us consider this carefully and slowly.
Perhaps as Great Mother we perceive Her truly.

Then, do we crave hugs She might give to a dolly?
Do we hunger for the sweetness of a lolly?

I think She must be rather more than that, surely!
Nor would She separate Herself from us coolly.

OK, I'll tell you the truth of it. (Or shall I?
Who of us knows the truth of anything fully?)

Nevertheless, I can make a sortie or sally.
Know this: I was once with Hafiz. I was really.

A seer told me this – and he was not merely
a charlatan, I promise. So you must rally.

You must set your will to accept I see clearly.
Poor Hafiz. In that life he was off his trolley!

He got it wrong about God. Well, it was early
in our understanding. Now we guess more nearly.

It is true we've always known God loves us dearly.
Therefore She will never depart from you, silly!

She is not trivial or fickle or frilly.
Neither is the path to Her side steeply hilly.

The one who tells you this is speaking truthfully 
from deep Remembrance ... if not strictly ghazaly.


Written for dVerse "Meeting the Bar – The Ghazal".
I added a further constraint, rhyming every line rather than just every couplet. On the other hand, I ignored the refrain. However it's more un-ghazaly in mood than form. 

[Fellow-Aussies, please applaud me for having resisted working in "Up there, Cazaly!"]

After reading all the beautiful poems others have written to this prompt, I feel a bit ashamed. Perhaps I'll try a serious one too in the near future. (Though actually this one does have a serious message underneath the play.)

There's Nothing Now

There’s nothing now that I can do for you,

and how it hurts my heart that this is so.

My sky has darkened from its sunny blue

as I discern that yours is thick with snow.

I always held to what I knew was true –

only to wonder now if I did know.

We were each other’s shelters once; that’s gone.
Like swords: the cutting rain, the piercing sun.

A combined ottava rima / ghazal, for the Poetic Asides ottava rima challenge. (Or rather, a quasi-ghazal – since, among other things not present here, a ghazal should have at least five couplets ... whereas an ottava rima cannot have so many.)

Ghazal for —

Where shining joy was the most blended with piercing pain;

of many loves – all true, all lost – you are that one.

We meet in dreams, and in my memories, again

and yet again. It seems, briefly, death has not won.

‘Shall we meet once more in another life?’ I asked.

‘Nothing surer!’ declared my friend the magician.

With that I must be content as the slow years pass.

I was angry a long time that I must go on.

How full and rich life became for me after all.
Yet, still haunted, I never say your name, dear  —.

You owe me something. I will hold you to it, soul-

bound of old. I am your love. I claim reunion.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Reunions

She Writes Long Poems

She writes long poems which look calmly at pain

as though there is nothing wrong about feeling pain.

The night draws down cold after a day of cloud —

heavy cloud, formed to hold the painful threat of rain.

What night was it she wore that white flower? She forgets —

in any case has no power nor wish to call that pain back again.

Darkness is vast; words lengthen in silence, attenuate.

New shapes cast new meaning, pain slowly made plain.

(Note: I am not she who will write poems many pages long

so as to push back night, at once to confront and deaden pain.)


Playing with form; inspired by the 'quasi-ghazals' of John Calvin Rezmerski and the long poems of Judith Crispin. 

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #366

First Steps on a New Path

We four women, old friends and new,

drove to the Castle in Spring sunshine.

‘You are a Way Shower, aren’t you?’

said my newest friend, making me glad.

We stood in the smoke from a big pot

of burning eucalyptus leaves.

The Elders told us the true history

passed down through the grandmothers.

‘We came from the stars, but we were made

here, long ago, the first people.

‘This land is far more ancient than you know

because you have been told lies.’

The custodian of the land we stood on

declared us adopted.

Now we too have responsibilities
to the land and to the truth.

We all closed our eyes while Priscilla sang
the Song of the Beginning.

31 Poems in 31 Days (from Poewar / Writer's Resource Center). Prompt: syllabic verse.  Each verse of this poem is a 17-syllable 'American sentence' (a form devised by Allen Ginsberg) divided into two lines. I am also trying for something I call 'ghazal-type' in that it's somewhat discontinuous, with gaps in the narrative, like a ghazal (indeed a quasi-ghazal). Hence this is my 'ghazal-type 17-2' invention. (I already invented 'ghazal-type 17-3' — and yes, I know it's a cumbersome label, but at least it gives some indication of what it purports to describe.)