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.)

Respect (Argument)

Let's spread respect today. Let's show it and praise it and trouble it and mend it. – Susan Chast

1.

Let’s get real on Unconditional Love. How can we

spread it to all those we can never like, admire,

respect or approve? Look around – evil abounds.
Today the world is full of the mad and the hateful.

Let’s admit, the task is impossible. They hurt me! 

Show me how I can find love for those people.

It’s not a thing I can feel for them, not for them,

and you shouldn’t ask it. I must defend myself.

2.

Praise be, love is not a feeling; that’s a myth.

It is a choice, an attitude, a set of actions,

and we must not mistake it for softness of heart.

Trouble and hurt and evil will come. Nevertheless

it is possible to show respect, even kindness.

Then we do not ourselves grow hateful. We can

mend the broken, even though we must not yield.

It is respect which is the true Unconditional Love.

Written (simultaneously) for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Respect and dVerse's Meeting the Bar – the Acrostic. (This is a first word acrostic, using the words quoted.) It also grew out of a recent discussion in the local women's Wisdom Circle, on unconditional love.

Sonnet Written Upon a Tim Tam

As requested by my friend Jim 

Yesterday I posted on facebook my pleasure

at eating Tim Tams and reading sonnets 

simultaneously, whilst also sitting in the sun

with my sweet cat. This post got a lot of likes. 

Then one friend asked, intending jocularity, 

'When will you publish "Sonnet Written 

Upon a Tim Tam"?' Why not? I thought, 

and replied, 'Tomorrow' – which is now today.

The taste is something between chocolate

and honey, a blend, and the texture also mixed:

creamy soft outside, the centre crisp yet melting. 

It takes six bites – or sometimes only four –

to savour and devour one whole, from the first

burst of joy in the mouth to the last lingering lick.

Linked to Meeting the Bar: Neruda and the free verse sonnet 
at dVerse Poets Pub.

Also linking to dVerse's 2019 Sonnet Challenge.

I felt proud of myself in writing this one, both for rising to my friend's challenge and because I had some glee in using the sonnet form for such non-exalted subject matter. (I used to be intimidated by the idea of attempting a sonnet, but Samuel Peralta cured me of that when he was on the dVerse team of presenters. He taught us a variety of sonnet forms and made them all seem delightfully easy.)

Brain Dysfunctions

Going off alone into other worlds

among dreams and shadows, she seeks

light-bearing clouds, warmth, and the feeling

of feet touching earth squarely, firmly.

Reality is itself too ephemeral

for her, with her several illnesses, her lack

of power and autonomy. But she persists

and gradually makes a way, here and there.

No-one on earth can help, she decides. 

Elsewhere encounters the dark ones who promise

to lend their strength to her will. She permits.

Now she can make things happen, despite

limitations she was born with. Fails to see

she is in their power: not using, being used.

Linked to dVerse Meeting the Bar: Neruda and the free verse sonnet.

Think Positive

The TV shows me Kenyans dying of drought.

Cattle become skeletal; babies droop.

On facebook people chirrup:  'Life works out.’

The parents of the babes don’t scream or shout.

They weep, but are resigned. Their shoulders stoop.

The TV shows them close up, dying of drought.

Calm commentators tell what it’s about.

I pour myself another bowl of soup.

On facebook people burble: ‘Life works out.’

The self-help gurus urge us, 'Banish doubt!'

I sign a petition, join a spiritual group.

The TV shows me Kenyans dying of drought.

On facebook, though, we know that life works out.

Prompted by dVerse: How to Write a Villanelle (I have written this one a little bit 'wrong'; let's call it a modified villanelle.)

Prelude to a Romantic Weekend

Arriving on my doorstep suddenly

he thrust at me a bunch of roses, red

for passion, offered awkwardly,

suggesting now would be the time for bed.

My house-mate and her children, luckily,

were going out. I whispered what he’d said,

that he’d decided we should ‘break the ice’.

She winked and said she’d stay out longer. Nice!

We’d planned a beautiful weekend away

to change our new romance to an affair:

a seaside venue meant for holiday

where we could play, let down our hair …

but that was some time hence, he said – and hey,

we’d want to be relaxed then, free of care

about performance, revelation, trust,

and all those issues that might hinder lust.

And so we had our first time then and there

inside my double bed, too long unshared.

Now, understand, we were not young; we were

the later end of middle age. We bared

imperfect bodies to each other’s stare

and moved like adolescents newly paired –

like clumsy virgins! But we worked it out

quite soon. And yes, his bright idea was right.

                            ******

In twenty years of happy marriage, till

he left me when the angels called him home,

we loved each other thoroughly and well.

Reality was sweeter than a dream.

And memories can sweeten my heart still,

as if he never left – so it can seem.

He loved to give me roses. In my head

he still says: ‘Get yourself some roses – red!’

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Flowers, and simultaneously for dVerse Form for All – Ottava Rima.

In Defence of Weeds

(Make love not war)

Now the harsh sun

softens for Autumn,

the drenching rain 

becomes a trickle, a drizzle –

don’t begin a dirty war, 

don’t kill our thriving weeds!

They that grow

with hardy ease

are to cherish:

medicine plants.

Let them flourish! 
Let them nourish the bees.

Picture: Megan Stoyles, October 20, 1966. See this article in the Canberra Times for details. Photo used according to Fair Use principles. 

For Signs of the Times, Day 12 of April Poetry Month at 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are invited to let a protest sign inspire us to a non-political poem. This has always been my favourite – and the image was famous at the time.

This piece was simultaneously written for Quadrille #30 at dVerse: a 44-word poem containing the word 'drizzle'.

My Home River

Ah, river, river, silver river!

Island-born, I lived inland;

loved you, river,

even more than I did the foaming ocean.

Floated and swam in your slippery-smooth embrace: 

your delighted daughter

sunlit or shadowed, under trees overhanging the banks, or among reeds,

or out in the exposed middle.

Each patch of river had its own 

separate, boundaried temperature: shiver-chill

or warm in a way that relaxed and expanded the blood.

River, river, my childhood river,

winding through my years, the first fifteen,

before I was moved too far away – 

pouring down the gorge, erupting in rock-punctuated torrents

or else spread like a lake, underneath fleets of little boats ...

you are my home, my love, my heart, 

if only in memory, still forever –

real river, dream river,

never lost, 

never forgotten.

Tamar river (Tasmania) from Brady's lookout (near Exeter). 
Original uploader was Kyle sb at en.wikipedia - 

Transferred from en.wikipedia
Permission details GFDL-SELF-WITH-DISCLAIMERS;
Released under the GNU Free Documentation License.

Written in response to Poetics: The River at dVerse.
Also linking to Brendan's Weekend Mini-Challenge: Home at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. 

I set out to make this a descort, and it nearly is, but they're not supposed to have rhymes and in this one it was nice to do rhymy things with the word 'river'.

My New Sparkler

It wasn't my favourite ghost
who gave me this ring.

Yes, he does come with me shopping
(invisibly) saying, 'Get yourself roses,’
or, ‘That’d look good on you.’

This time I went on my own
deliberately; browsed, chose,
and bought me
a self-love token.

Written for Quadrille #26: ghost at dVerse.
Also linked to Tuesday Platform 14 Feb 2017 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'
and to Midweek Motif: Love at Poets United.

Tipsy Turvey

It was a rum do,

the way it all turned sour.

He thought it would be a tonic

to chaser round the desk

and finally tie one on her

straight up, or even

land her on her back

in a sudden tumbler -

but she damn well would twist,

proof against all the shots

he thought he was calling. 

It was such a spritzer

to imagine her 

thoroughly hammered.

'Wet your whistle,'

he thought to leer,

and her being stirred

by the dirty insinuation.

But it was his last call.

'Drown your sorrows,' she taunted 

before departing smartly,

leaving him severely shaken.

In her absinthe he obeys,

dejectedly gurgling the whiskey,

not even wondering what she meant 

by, 'Name your poison!'

Another one for dVerse Muse Mixology, using words from the following alcoholic list in a non-alcoholic way. (I'm happy to find out I wasn't restricted to 33 words after all.) But I missed the deadline so I'm sharing it at Open Link Night #189 instead.

shaken           stirred          rum          sour          whiskey        last call
elixir        on the rocks      straight up        twist        round         chaser
back        dirty          proof         tumbler           three sheets to the wind
tie one on         shots         hammered       tipsy           hair of the dog
absinthe          vesper        tonic          kamikaze         spritzer
tie one on       liquid courage       name your poison       drown your sorrows
wet your whistle

Succumbing

Sailing straight-up,
but caught
in stormy passion,
too soon tilted tipsy –
went hurtling three sheets to the wind
shaken, twisted, hammered
by dirty rain and whiskey-coloured ocean,
to crash on the rocks: kamikaze.

De Jackson at dVerse Poetics: Muse Mixocology asks for 33 words or less, some of which must be from this alcohol-related list – but we must use them in some other way/s:


shaken stirred rum sour whiskey last call
elixir on the rocks straight up twist round chaser
back dirty proof tumbler three sheets to the wind
tie one on shots hammered tipsy hair of the dog
absinthe vesper tonic kamikaze spritzer
tie one on liquid courage name your poison drown your sorrows
wet your whistle

Lovers' Morning

Dawn whispers curl,

so hot they scar the breath,

cue sparks.

Clouds and shadows open. 

We leave them ajar:

roses spill on the breeze.

Spring-green, scented

zephyrs skip and twist,

shimmer and melt. 

Our grins bubble 

into laughter without lull

as morning dances.

Written for Quadrille #25, dawn at dVerse. This one uses all the prompt words from Quadrille #1-25, in reverse order.

Seduction by Quadrille

I dance, even 

when music lulls –

I'm a bubble.

You grin, I melt,

we shimmer.

You twist, I skip.

Green breeze 

spills roses,

as from a jar;

leaves open.

A shadow

clouds our spark. 

Cue: breathe fire!

Old scars curl away –
whispers at dawn.

Written for Quadrille #25, dawn at dVerse – using all the prompt words from Quadrille #1 onwards, in order: dance, lull, bubble, grin, melt, shimmer, twist, skip, green, breeze, spill, rose, jar, leaves, open, shadow, cloud, spark, cue, breath, scar, curl, dawn.

Also linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #348

She Becomes an Indoor Cat

In heatwave, dawn and dusk 

are the times she likes to go out

into the cool, to her garden.

But these are the times forbidden –

mosquito hours. The allergy 

strips her rich fur.

She distrusts help, resists 

calendula cream or diluted 
lavender oil. Stalemate.

Denuded on belly; thinning on paws, eyebrows and behind ears


Actually she is being treated by tablets crushed in her food, which will help even without the topical calendula cream. But I must not let her out at all during her preferred hours – and without the lavender oil to discourage the mozzies, I can't let her out at any time.

Written for Quadrille #25, dawn at dVerse.

The Voices

I overhear fragments 

of conversations bypassing me – 

not whispers, not secretive; 

I'm simply irrelevant. 

They feel no obligation 

to address me directly 

or at all. Merely, my head 

is the space where they live, 

their context, background. They 
have their own lives going on.

Responding simultaneously to Quadrille #24: Whisper at dVerse and Mini-prompt: Voices at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. Also linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #337.

Mothers' Secrets

Without warning

time reels back, 

returning always 

over and over

to those fragments 

best forgotten – 

which of course 

we don't forget.

A half-revealed eyebrow

in a photo, the reminiscent

shape of a stranger's shoulder,

a stray curl on a forehead ...

our lost children.

Written for Quadrille #23: curl at dVerse.

Some Scars

Some scars I wear proudly 

on the surface, bold.

Others are deeper, 

unseen and untold,

buried under layers 

of thickening years.

The long-ago rivers 

of painful tears

at last stopped flowing

and finally dried.

Only I know the poison 

still infects my blood.

Another for Quadrille #22: scars, at dVerse

Stormscare

Or, The Play Of Scars

Now is wild summer.

Storms carve the sky

with sharp light; 

thunderous drumrolls

reverberate.

Small cat is careful, 

places herself underneath 

my big wooden table, 

folds herself smaller still.

Memories carry

two other cats

who crouched, gazing,

in the open doorway,
revelling in storms.

Another piece for dVerse's Quadrille #22. This time the obligatory word 'scar' is hidden – four times.

All His Life

From ten years old

twice daily

my Dad's injured shin,

open to the bone,

was dressed in red 

mercurochrome

and re-bandaged.

Above this gaudy wound –

more horrifying  

to child me –

on his smooth, pale knee

a dimpled scar

gouged  
(like a blinded eye).

For quadrille #22 at dVerse we are asked to include the word 'scar'. It brought back a vivid memory.

(Dad's legs were almost unnaturally smooth and pale, as he always wore long trousers to conceal the large bandage. Years of attempted skin grafts never took. The deep scar on the knee was from the same 10-year-old accident.)

The Mind an Astrolabe

After Dransfield

The night, cool green,

tastes of air.

The sea moves beneath;

waves wind and tide coordinate.

Sniff the bougainvillea:

the South Pacific, 

the purple islands.

A cloud ... a beach....

Something about wine – 

and already the stones 

of court and temple

different, mourning.

At dVerse Poetics – Covers we are asked to do a 'cover' of someone else's poem, using their words but in some way making them one's own. I wanted to pay tribute to Michael Dransfield, but it was hard – his poems are all so perfect just as they are. In the end I decided on an erasure poem taken from my favourite, 'Patricia's Raga', using part of its subtitle as my title. (And I slightly changed the last word.) It still feels rather sacrilegious! But I hope it leads you to the hauntingly beautiful original.