What deeds gave you a jeweled palace secured
In heaven by the lips of the Messenger?
You have a spacious grave attended by the kindest angels.
O Lady Khadijah, beloved of our Lord Mohammad, forever,
I pray my heart proves to be pure like yours.
Dearest Allah, Your love shines in my life forever,
But I struggle to be faithful. My sins obscure
My faith and my piety. My financial dealings have been
Fraught with temptation and sin. Our Lady Khadijah in her dealings remained so pure
Of usury and corruption. Please make me like her.
She fed the poor and hungry. She gave the ability to marry
To those who could not afford it. She deserved
The titles, Ameerat-Quraish, Princess of the Quaraish
Khadija Al-Kubra, Khadijah the Great, Al Tahir,
The Pure. Merciful Allah, conform me to her image.
When the Messenger would retreat to Mount Hira
To fast and pray she would feed him. Her wealth assured
The Messenger had time to cultivate his spirit. The birth of Islam relied
On her support. When the Prophet descended and shivered
She was the one to put a blanket around him and to comfort him.
She was the first Muslim. Without her the Prophet would have had no supporter,
And no way to establish our faith. Her riches succoured
The converts. Her faithfulness to the Blessed Message
Sanctified her for all time. What love and piety! I wonder
About how I could follow her example more.
What made her marriage to the Messenger’s so strong and sure?
Lady Aisha asked what made her worthy of his love like no other.
He replied: “She accepted me when people rejected me, she believed in me
When people doubted me, she shared her wealth with me when people deprived me,
And Allah granted me children only through her.” Beloved Allah, cast me in her mold!
O Lady Khadijah we know there are four women above all others
Khadijah bint Khuwaylid, Fatimah bint Muhammad, Mary bint Emran
and Asiya bint Muzahim, the wife of Pharaoh.
You were the perfect wife for the Seal of the Prophets and the most perfect mother.
O Allah, encourage me to strive harder! O Allah, help me be pure! O Allah, make me like her!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
the victim pleading innocence
Why does the conscience scream at the sight of natural disaster,
at the Big Problems that we all grieve.
Not everyone has this arrogance but I am certain
it lives like a sewer in a city, everywhere running
implied by the facts we know of our day to day lives.
Look at Hurricane Katrina. What
negligence of the Bush Presidency to send off
the Guard from the levies,
baring New Orleans to the Gulf-
Or the typhoon that swept across Asia, 2004:
orphans and widows left behind as people
washed out to sea, the dead victims of a
sudden pestilential rain. the sea gulls
were flying axial changes in Australia.
The Gulf Oil spill, the thick red drops
of oil and chemicals in the water
Barack Obama approved increased off shore drilling
just last year.
Seen in day light these must be the acts of God
at the most incomprehensible. Our ability to choose destruction
no cure for the tendency to be victims of God's will.
But how many people, like me, unwillingly opt
to cull from these evil moments- guilt,
that we pulled the trigger, in some way that we are connected
and culpable.
The attacks against us increase, we grovel and fend off
guilt and self-hate. Our thoughts within the confines of our hearts
connect us to the problems of the world.
A psychosis of responsibility or of power
created by lack of position or influence
and the tragedy of others becomes diminished to
our small mistakes we misconstrue as causes
and this travesty continues without ceasing
in the paranoid heat of our minds.
In response:
God cannot be that arbitrary.
The Creator and Sustainer of the Universe
is no unsteady adolescent.
The secret solution:
To cultivate the joyful moments
as a buffer from despair,
and the grandiose presumptions that
our death, or even human hate prompts.
Our true responsibility:
To bathe carefully, and notice the smell of azaleas after rain falls.
To chew our rice. To speak more softly than those who speak to us.
at the Big Problems that we all grieve.
Not everyone has this arrogance but I am certain
it lives like a sewer in a city, everywhere running
implied by the facts we know of our day to day lives.
Look at Hurricane Katrina. What
negligence of the Bush Presidency to send off
the Guard from the levies,
baring New Orleans to the Gulf-
Or the typhoon that swept across Asia, 2004:
orphans and widows left behind as people
washed out to sea, the dead victims of a
sudden pestilential rain. the sea gulls
were flying axial changes in Australia.
The Gulf Oil spill, the thick red drops
of oil and chemicals in the water
Barack Obama approved increased off shore drilling
just last year.
Seen in day light these must be the acts of God
at the most incomprehensible. Our ability to choose destruction
no cure for the tendency to be victims of God's will.
But how many people, like me, unwillingly opt
to cull from these evil moments- guilt,
that we pulled the trigger, in some way that we are connected
and culpable.
The attacks against us increase, we grovel and fend off
guilt and self-hate. Our thoughts within the confines of our hearts
connect us to the problems of the world.
A psychosis of responsibility or of power
created by lack of position or influence
and the tragedy of others becomes diminished to
our small mistakes we misconstrue as causes
and this travesty continues without ceasing
in the paranoid heat of our minds.
In response:
God cannot be that arbitrary.
The Creator and Sustainer of the Universe
is no unsteady adolescent.
The secret solution:
To cultivate the joyful moments
as a buffer from despair,
and the grandiose presumptions that
our death, or even human hate prompts.
Our true responsibility:
To bathe carefully, and notice the smell of azaleas after rain falls.
To chew our rice. To speak more softly than those who speak to us.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
2 short poems
The possibility of joy
On the Day of Judgement YOU! [weeping- will simultaneously be sending white horses to the forgiving,
Ushering each into their own gate, carefully shading those who love each other for your sake
From the fire.
Vast beyond my small dreamings, blessing me with each moment
Where I forgive, and repent.
Response to Denise Levertov
To write out what is spectacular and human and true
To be the voice of the vision of the revolution
Words lie like fossils in my mind
dead under amber dirt
A long dead treasure of stories and myths
WHERE to find SOUNDS that SING
to everything peaceful and conscious
On the Day of Judgement YOU! [weeping- will simultaneously be sending white horses to the forgiving,
Ushering each into their own gate, carefully shading those who love each other for your sake
From the fire.
Vast beyond my small dreamings, blessing me with each moment
Where I forgive, and repent.
Response to Denise Levertov
To write out what is spectacular and human and true
To be the voice of the vision of the revolution
Words lie like fossils in my mind
dead under amber dirt
A long dead treasure of stories and myths
WHERE to find SOUNDS that SING
to everything peaceful and conscious
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A sick heart
Send down a rain of Mercy
On my sick heart and wash it clean
Like a wash of foam in a once clear stream.
My world will be renewed and shine like the first day.
On my sick heart and wash it clean
Like a wash of foam in a once clear stream.
My world will be renewed and shine like the first day.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Ramadan 29, 1431
1.
My body is foam.
Underneath the marrow of my bones
You still call for me
2.
Hypocrisy fights sincerity
Competition for goodness wrapped in hatred
Success oiled with the many striving
People holding me down with their knees
As they press toward God they press my face into the ground
My mind and body are housebound
Wrapped in listless acceptance
Four weeks of happiness slipped a sedative
Four weeks of joy lacerated with a hammer
These women are trying to make jewelry out of my body,
They cut off pieces of my heart for coasters
They have vats of their food resting on my lungs
Eviscerated and silent, like a deerskin propped up on a frame
God exalted over the universe Divine Vision
Divine hearing could record the echo of a wave in the heart of a sleeping vagrant
No anguish this noisy and burning this silently enormous would remain unseen, inaudible
Without a notice. God sent angels to struggle with these curses
And beat them back for my sake, for the sake of my parents, for the sake of my son.
In the year ahead: mark my weeks with remembrance of a blessed month.
Each day I held myself like a kite in my hand, not working just resting on the air.
My body is foam.
Underneath the marrow of my bones
You still call for me
2.
Hypocrisy fights sincerity
Competition for goodness wrapped in hatred
Success oiled with the many striving
People holding me down with their knees
As they press toward God they press my face into the ground
My mind and body are housebound
Wrapped in listless acceptance
Four weeks of happiness slipped a sedative
Four weeks of joy lacerated with a hammer
These women are trying to make jewelry out of my body,
They cut off pieces of my heart for coasters
They have vats of their food resting on my lungs
Eviscerated and silent, like a deerskin propped up on a frame
God exalted over the universe Divine Vision
Divine hearing could record the echo of a wave in the heart of a sleeping vagrant
No anguish this noisy and burning this silently enormous would remain unseen, inaudible
Without a notice. God sent angels to struggle with these curses
And beat them back for my sake, for the sake of my parents, for the sake of my son.
In the year ahead: mark my weeks with remembrance of a blessed month.
Each day I held myself like a kite in my hand, not working just resting on the air.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
When I have just arisen
This body pulls me into sleep, like a slow drying beach, the boundary
where the water has been pulls at the tide.
I hover there on the overnight shift,
somewhat conscious somewhat evading life
In this between time between prayers
I hoist my heart with its poisons and jewelry
constructing gratitude: gigantic temporary shallow
My life has been slivered down just strung on a string
to amuse, broken no more garbage than it was before.
Above everything I turn my ego back on itself
confronting my own obsession my fond thoughts
the familiarity with You a deception
of ignorance: I can't know Your Vast Expanse.
I wrap my hands around prayer like a blanket
every time I sleep with You I become more attached
The time I spend talking myself into quiet
Suspended and useless: someone listens unmoved from another room.
Work, from midnight to day
quick effort thrown at poverty and isolation
marks my life with a structure like a cell
block upon block marking space
In these spaces I throw my gratitude at the sky
and to the East, and to my heart
Waiting for a new breath
a meditation for a peaceful life.
I can let go of all the pettiness
I can release all the hate
Let silence and joy fill me
As the wonder of night and quiet eases along.
My family sleeps, the quiet parks wait for daylight
The buildings rock their shadows
You give me a few words to tell myself
About all the blessings I possess.
where the water has been pulls at the tide.
I hover there on the overnight shift,
somewhat conscious somewhat evading life
In this between time between prayers
I hoist my heart with its poisons and jewelry
constructing gratitude: gigantic temporary shallow
My life has been slivered down just strung on a string
to amuse, broken no more garbage than it was before.
Above everything I turn my ego back on itself
confronting my own obsession my fond thoughts
the familiarity with You a deception
of ignorance: I can't know Your Vast Expanse.
I wrap my hands around prayer like a blanket
every time I sleep with You I become more attached
The time I spend talking myself into quiet
Suspended and useless: someone listens unmoved from another room.
Work, from midnight to day
quick effort thrown at poverty and isolation
marks my life with a structure like a cell
block upon block marking space
In these spaces I throw my gratitude at the sky
and to the East, and to my heart
Waiting for a new breath
a meditation for a peaceful life.
I can let go of all the pettiness
I can release all the hate
Let silence and joy fill me
As the wonder of night and quiet eases along.
My family sleeps, the quiet parks wait for daylight
The buildings rock their shadows
You give me a few words to tell myself
About all the blessings I possess.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Concord, California May 2010
As we pass near the playground:
Red roses, and glittering grass
Geraniums wet with light rain.
My son cries not be let down.
Red roses, and glittering grass
Geraniums wet with light rain.
My son cries not be let down.
I'll wait for you to let me wait more patiently
You left this silent body's voice where I listened and spoke to You
in comfort and friendship, honored with the Presence of Spirit
the sense of familiar love that embraces every fiber of the universe.
Quiet I strain for noise any tremor in the still noiseless
space where Your love used to dwell. Fast, pray, chant:
I keep sending out calls for Your return- disempowered
punches with no weight- no connection.
The call to prayer and the house cleaner ring at the same time-
Don't stop calling me to You!
Your grace remains in my devotion to Your memory.
in comfort and friendship, honored with the Presence of Spirit
the sense of familiar love that embraces every fiber of the universe.
Quiet I strain for noise any tremor in the still noiseless
space where Your love used to dwell. Fast, pray, chant:
I keep sending out calls for Your return- disempowered
punches with no weight- no connection.
The call to prayer and the house cleaner ring at the same time-
Don't stop calling me to You!
Your grace remains in my devotion to Your memory.
Thursday May 27,2010
I can sit and drum for twenty minutes
and you sing the same song the whole duration.
The same reverent chant to your mother,
dropping your hands to make a rhythmic beat that hovers.
When the song changes I think you have written this before
with another woman. A drummer or whore
who played on my instruments in my debt soaked house
foreclosure and her body on the wall sighing out.
You put hatred and anger into all the loving work
I set in paint and beats. Why my ego still hurts
my mind when I look at online spanish I don't understand.
Maybe the heated anxious fear of destruction
and the visions of the fire, consuming men in flaming collars in the deepest regions,
their noiseless screams across the pages of all religions.
and you sing the same song the whole duration.
The same reverent chant to your mother,
dropping your hands to make a rhythmic beat that hovers.
When the song changes I think you have written this before
with another woman. A drummer or whore
who played on my instruments in my debt soaked house
foreclosure and her body on the wall sighing out.
You put hatred and anger into all the loving work
I set in paint and beats. Why my ego still hurts
my mind when I look at online spanish I don't understand.
Maybe the heated anxious fear of destruction
and the visions of the fire, consuming men in flaming collars in the deepest regions,
their noiseless screams across the pages of all religions.
Back in the race
Feeling like a victim less and less
Every day striving to grow stronger
working to pray and fast
Enjoying the mercy and grace of Your love
Not friendship, not closeness, not consciousness
but less sleepy, less sedated and fat
All the people who resent me
have less power to violently intrude
constant mercy
constant grace
even far from Your face
You set my feet moving again at a steady pace.
Every day striving to grow stronger
working to pray and fast
Enjoying the mercy and grace of Your love
Not friendship, not closeness, not consciousness
but less sleepy, less sedated and fat
All the people who resent me
have less power to violently intrude
constant mercy
constant grace
even far from Your face
You set my feet moving again at a steady pace.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Disconnected
Homeless shelter in my dreams
My cat doing tricks
Shake lie down
Three men in suntan lotion
Screaming I want my clothes
Give me my clothes
Crying for my son
The breakfast room in the hotel
Music that gets stuck in my mind:
“It’s Saturday Night and I ain’t got nobody”
An overflowing coffee cup
Milk on the counter and the floor
Sitting alone in a full room
People taking the chairs from my table
Tennis on the TV above the fire.
My cat doing tricks
Shake lie down
Three men in suntan lotion
Screaming I want my clothes
Give me my clothes
Crying for my son
The breakfast room in the hotel
Music that gets stuck in my mind:
“It’s Saturday Night and I ain’t got nobody”
An overflowing coffee cup
Milk on the counter and the floor
Sitting alone in a full room
People taking the chairs from my table
Tennis on the TV above the fire.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Gene Doty on ghazals
"When I say 'ghazal,' I mean 'ghuzzle'"
Copyright © 1996, 1998 by Gene Doty. Most recent revision 12 November 1998.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This article and the accompanying poems first appeared in Lynx, XI:2, June 1996.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Visit The Ghazal Page for original ghazals in English, reviews of books of and about ghazals, essays on the ghazal in English, and a blog related to ghazals and poetry in general.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A ghazal with the radif roots
A ghazal with the radif weariness
As more poets use the ghazal form (pronounced "ghuzzle") in English, questions arise as to what an English ghazal will be. In an important and helpful article, Agha Shahid Ali argues for a strict adaptation of the Near Eastern form, including the monorhyme ("qafia") and refrain ("radif"). On the World-Wide Web, Abhya Avachat gives an almost identical definition, with examples in Hindi.
Based on Ali and Avachat, here are what I understand to be the basic features of a ghazal in Persian, Arabic, Urdu, Hindi, etc.:
A ghazal is a series of couplets. Each couplet is an independent poem, although a thematic continuity may develop. This feature leads to "jumps" between couplets, a discontinuity similar to the linking in a Japanese renga. According to Elizabeth T. Gray, Jr., what in English is a couplet is, in Persian, one long line with a strong caesura.
Traditional themes that focus on romantic love and mysticism.
Both lines of the first couplet (called the "matla") and the second line of each succeeding couplet have the same monorhyme ("qafia") and refrain ("radif").
The refrain (radif) is the same word or short phrase (or even syllable, according to Ali).
A. J. Arberry says that each couplet of the Persian ghazal ends in a monorhyme (words ending with the same vowel+consonant combination), but he does not mention the refrain.
All the couplets are in the same meter. (Ali does not mention meter.)
The poet "signs" the last couplet ("makhta") by including her/his name or pen name ("takhallus").
Poems published in English as ghazals usually have only the first feature. Agha Shahid Ali insists that a poem cannot be a ghazal without inclusion of all the features. He especially insists on the radif/refrain. Avachat says that sometimes the radif is omitted. John Drury's description of the form, like others I've seen, is not clear on these specifics, but does encourage experimentation.
It is clear that, in Persian, Urdu, Hindi, etc., the ghazal is a specific and demanding form. While I sympathize with Ali's impatience with American poets using the term for poems that don't fit the traditional definition, I have some questions and comments about the adaptation of the ghazal to English.
If the radif/refrain and qafia/monorhyme are so important, why are ghazals hardly ever translated into English with that form? Arberry's versions of Rumi and Elizabeth Gray's version of Hafiz only rarely end each couplet with the same word or phrase. Annmarie Schimmel's versions of Rumi do make some use of the refrain/radif. I also found an example in the Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics that does translate the radif/refrain and qafia/monorhyme. It's not a very good English poem.
Recently I acquired Arberry's Hafiz: Fifty Poems, which contains older translations of Hafiz's ghazals by several people. These translators render Hafiz in a number of English forms, but one of them, Walter Leaf, uses all three devices in his versions. (His versions aren't necessarily the best English poems in the collection). Leaf's tramslations were originally published in Versions from Hafiz, an essay in Persian metre, in 1898.
Agha Shahid Ali does not mention meter at all (even though he denounces "free verse" ghazals). Avachat's piece says that each couplet ("sher") must have the same meter. So does Arberry. With our long tradition of "free" verse in English, I can't see that anyone is in a position to insist that English ghazals conform to any metrical constraints. (Obviously, meter or rhythm is significant).
Avachat emphasizes more clearly than Ali that each couplet must be an independent poem. (He does allow for an overall thematic unity). Is this the core of the "ghazal perspective"? Can this independent linking of couplets be the basis for English ghazals outside the specifics of radif/refrain and qafia/monorhyme? In this connection, I don't understand Ali's gratuitous swipe at surrealism. Both the ghazal and surrealism seem to share discontinuity and unexpected juxtapositions. It seems only natural that American poets would frame ghazals in surrealist terms.
In his Hafiz: Fifty Poems, Arberry says that at the end of his life, Hafiz was "experimenting in a sort of surrealistic treatment of the ghazal" (32).
Traditionally, the last couplet of a ghazal contains the poet's "signature," the poet's name or pen-name.This couplet is called the makhta. Should poets writing in English incorporate the signature couplet? A signature sometimes seems precious to me, although it can also effectively conclude the poem.
Since writing the previous paragraph, I have found the signature couplet much more useful. It adds a completion to the ghazal that is very satisfactory. I've revised a few earlier ghazals by adding a makhta to them.
What about theme? Should English ghazals be limited to the traditional themes of wine, sexual love, and mystical love? While my own poems deal a lot with love and mysticism, I think the ghazal as an English form should have as wide a range of themes as possible.
I first read about ghazals in Lynx, in a short note which presented them as having "jumps" between couplets. I found the idea provocative; it lead me to write a number of poems which I have called ghazals. Perhaps that is not the best term for these poems, but it does indicate something about their intention. Another poet recognized a poem I read publicly as a ghazal (even though it lacked radif/refrain), which indicates that there is something already recognizable about the ghazal as an English form.
The German Romantics were interested in ghazals. Schlegel and Goethe wrote them. August, Graf Von Platen (1796-1835), published a collection, Ghaselen in 1821. Here is a couplet (matla) from one of his ghazels, with an English translation by Edwin Morgan.
Du bist der wahre Weise mir,
Dein Auge lispelt's leise mir;
Truest of sages are you to me,
Your eye speaks softly true to me;
Graf von Platen used both both monorhyme/qafia and refrain/radif, and the translator has replicated them in English.
In a recent collection of poems, The Country Without a Post Office, Agha Shahid Ali includes three ghazals. Two of these are original in English. Both use the radif/refrain and one of those, a qafia. Metrically, they are longish (six to seven feet) iambic lines. Both poems are good examples of what a traditional ghazal in English can be.
Hemant Kulkarni, M. D., from Nagpur in Central India, has also shown an interest in ghazals in English and a concern that English ghazals observe the form properly. His essay in Lynx, "The Philosophy of Ghazals," de-emphasizes the Discontinuity between couplets, stressing that there is "some thread of connection" between successive couplets. A study of the connections between links in traditional renga can suggest some of the ways couplets in a ghazal can connect. Dr. Kulkarni's essay hasvaluable information and insights.
Dr. Kulkarni's English ghazals show how the form can look in English. Here are the opening (matla) and closing (makhta) couplets of one of his ghazals:
I hate to think of the day that gives me pain at night
But I still recall the Sun that used to rain at night.
. . . . .
Not only have but live all your dreams dear 'Friend'
Did Kekule not observe the snakes in chain at night?
blockquote
Lynx publishes ghazals by several poets, notably William Dennis and Bruce Williams, among others exploring the form in productive ways. Jane and Werner Reichhold are also working with ghazals, as well as encouraging the form in Lynx.
Several well-known poets, including Adrienne Rich, Jim Harrison, and Denise Levertov, have worked at least briefly with ghazals. It seems to me, though, that the more recent poets working with ghazals are engaging the form more seriously than the earlier efforts in English.
The issue of Lynx with Dr. Kulkarni's essay and ghazals also has an essay by Harsangeet Kaur Bhullar which describes the place of ghazals in Indian and Pakistani popular culture, as well as describing the form.
Having read these various pieces on ghazals, I want to make the following suggestions about ghazals written in English:
Poets unfamiliar with traditional ghazals should learn as much as they can about the form in its original cultures and the poets who produced ghazals. I would like to see translations accompanied by literal versions with notes that would help those who don't know the original language to grasp the form better.
Let's refrain from establishing the definitive ghazal form in English prematurely. As poets writing in English learn more about the form in Persian, Urdu, Hindi, etc., let us experiment with as many possibilities as we can.
I would like to see a variety of English ghazals, using the monorhyme/qafia and refrain/radif, using other rhyme schemes, no rhyme schemes, using strict meters, loose meters, "free verse," and so on. Let's see what the form can do and become in English.
Placing the monorhyme/qafia directly before the refrain/radif can easily overload the line in English. Some poets writing English ghazals have experimented with other placements of the monorhyme. I suggest that we have a choice—using either the monorhyme or the refrain. In English, either will carry the ghazal form well. Also, the monorhyme can be placed in midline when there is a refrain, although this placement tends to obscure the monorhyme (which might not always be a bad thing). Translators tend to use monorhyme rather than refrain, which often isn't even mentioned in discussions of the form.
We should maintain the independence of each couplet. It seems to me that the "DisUnities" (Ali's term) define the stance of a ghazal as opposed to its form. Omit that jump from couplet to couplet and, however well the poet used the radif/refrain, the qafia/monorhyme, and the makhta/signature, I do not think the result would be a ghazal in any sense.
Apparently ghazals are not titled. Should English ghazals be titled? Untitled poems in English seem to bother some editors and readers. There is, however, the precedent of haiku and tanka.
Since writing the paragraph above, I hade decided on the following practice: identifying ghazals with a radif by the radif, much as untitled poems in English are identified by the first line; giving ghazals without a radif a fitting title. (In The Country Without a Post Office, the ghazals are identified only as "Ghazal" in the table of contents and by the first words of the first line in the acknowledgements.) I feel that some kind of title is merited because of the length and density of the ghazal, as opposed to haiku and tanka which are quite brief and have a much different perspective.
If it turns out that the English ghazal requires the radif/refrain, the qafia/monorhyme, and the makhta/signature, then perhaps we can devise another term for poems that have a sequence of independent couplets but lack those forms. (Avachat cites the Hindi term for such ghazals: "'gair-muraddaf Ghazel'"). Free ghazal is a possible term for ghazals without radif or qafia.
I would hate to see the English ghazal so confined by formal restrictions that it would be a minor form, used only for poets to demonstrate their technical cleverness (rather like sestinas or villanelles). I believe the ghazal promises to be a major form in English poetry if given room to sink its roots.
I have been experimenting with the form in a strict sense. I'm finding that selection of the radif/refrain sets an important tone/direction for the poem and helps engage my imagination.
AHA Books Online has just published a collection of 30 of my ghazals. Both free and traditional ghazals are included. There are also what I call "parasyntactic" ghazals, one or two with qafia and radif. The parasyntactic ghazals are composed of individual words selected for sound, rhythm, and connotation, but arranged so that no syntactical structures arise. These ghazals are intended to suggest, to supply the reader's imagination almost-meaningful (referential) patterns.
Copyright © 1996, 1998 by Gene Doty. Most recent revision 12 November 1998.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This article and the accompanying poems first appeared in Lynx, XI:2, June 1996.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Visit The Ghazal Page for original ghazals in English, reviews of books of and about ghazals, essays on the ghazal in English, and a blog related to ghazals and poetry in general.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A ghazal with the radif roots
A ghazal with the radif weariness
As more poets use the ghazal form (pronounced "ghuzzle") in English, questions arise as to what an English ghazal will be. In an important and helpful article, Agha Shahid Ali argues for a strict adaptation of the Near Eastern form, including the monorhyme ("qafia") and refrain ("radif"). On the World-Wide Web, Abhya Avachat gives an almost identical definition, with examples in Hindi.
Based on Ali and Avachat, here are what I understand to be the basic features of a ghazal in Persian, Arabic, Urdu, Hindi, etc.:
A ghazal is a series of couplets. Each couplet is an independent poem, although a thematic continuity may develop. This feature leads to "jumps" between couplets, a discontinuity similar to the linking in a Japanese renga. According to Elizabeth T. Gray, Jr., what in English is a couplet is, in Persian, one long line with a strong caesura.
Traditional themes that focus on romantic love and mysticism.
Both lines of the first couplet (called the "matla") and the second line of each succeeding couplet have the same monorhyme ("qafia") and refrain ("radif").
The refrain (radif) is the same word or short phrase (or even syllable, according to Ali).
A. J. Arberry says that each couplet of the Persian ghazal ends in a monorhyme (words ending with the same vowel+consonant combination), but he does not mention the refrain.
All the couplets are in the same meter. (Ali does not mention meter.)
The poet "signs" the last couplet ("makhta") by including her/his name or pen name ("takhallus").
Poems published in English as ghazals usually have only the first feature. Agha Shahid Ali insists that a poem cannot be a ghazal without inclusion of all the features. He especially insists on the radif/refrain. Avachat says that sometimes the radif is omitted. John Drury's description of the form, like others I've seen, is not clear on these specifics, but does encourage experimentation.
It is clear that, in Persian, Urdu, Hindi, etc., the ghazal is a specific and demanding form. While I sympathize with Ali's impatience with American poets using the term for poems that don't fit the traditional definition, I have some questions and comments about the adaptation of the ghazal to English.
If the radif/refrain and qafia/monorhyme are so important, why are ghazals hardly ever translated into English with that form? Arberry's versions of Rumi and Elizabeth Gray's version of Hafiz only rarely end each couplet with the same word or phrase. Annmarie Schimmel's versions of Rumi do make some use of the refrain/radif. I also found an example in the Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics that does translate the radif/refrain and qafia/monorhyme. It's not a very good English poem.
Recently I acquired Arberry's Hafiz: Fifty Poems, which contains older translations of Hafiz's ghazals by several people. These translators render Hafiz in a number of English forms, but one of them, Walter Leaf, uses all three devices in his versions. (His versions aren't necessarily the best English poems in the collection). Leaf's tramslations were originally published in Versions from Hafiz, an essay in Persian metre, in 1898.
Agha Shahid Ali does not mention meter at all (even though he denounces "free verse" ghazals). Avachat's piece says that each couplet ("sher") must have the same meter. So does Arberry. With our long tradition of "free" verse in English, I can't see that anyone is in a position to insist that English ghazals conform to any metrical constraints. (Obviously, meter or rhythm is significant).
Avachat emphasizes more clearly than Ali that each couplet must be an independent poem. (He does allow for an overall thematic unity). Is this the core of the "ghazal perspective"? Can this independent linking of couplets be the basis for English ghazals outside the specifics of radif/refrain and qafia/monorhyme? In this connection, I don't understand Ali's gratuitous swipe at surrealism. Both the ghazal and surrealism seem to share discontinuity and unexpected juxtapositions. It seems only natural that American poets would frame ghazals in surrealist terms.
In his Hafiz: Fifty Poems, Arberry says that at the end of his life, Hafiz was "experimenting in a sort of surrealistic treatment of the ghazal" (32).
Traditionally, the last couplet of a ghazal contains the poet's "signature," the poet's name or pen-name.This couplet is called the makhta. Should poets writing in English incorporate the signature couplet? A signature sometimes seems precious to me, although it can also effectively conclude the poem.
Since writing the previous paragraph, I have found the signature couplet much more useful. It adds a completion to the ghazal that is very satisfactory. I've revised a few earlier ghazals by adding a makhta to them.
What about theme? Should English ghazals be limited to the traditional themes of wine, sexual love, and mystical love? While my own poems deal a lot with love and mysticism, I think the ghazal as an English form should have as wide a range of themes as possible.
I first read about ghazals in Lynx, in a short note which presented them as having "jumps" between couplets. I found the idea provocative; it lead me to write a number of poems which I have called ghazals. Perhaps that is not the best term for these poems, but it does indicate something about their intention. Another poet recognized a poem I read publicly as a ghazal (even though it lacked radif/refrain), which indicates that there is something already recognizable about the ghazal as an English form.
The German Romantics were interested in ghazals. Schlegel and Goethe wrote them. August, Graf Von Platen (1796-1835), published a collection, Ghaselen in 1821. Here is a couplet (matla) from one of his ghazels, with an English translation by Edwin Morgan.
Du bist der wahre Weise mir,
Dein Auge lispelt's leise mir;
Truest of sages are you to me,
Your eye speaks softly true to me;
Graf von Platen used both both monorhyme/qafia and refrain/radif, and the translator has replicated them in English.
In a recent collection of poems, The Country Without a Post Office, Agha Shahid Ali includes three ghazals. Two of these are original in English. Both use the radif/refrain and one of those, a qafia. Metrically, they are longish (six to seven feet) iambic lines. Both poems are good examples of what a traditional ghazal in English can be.
Hemant Kulkarni, M. D., from Nagpur in Central India, has also shown an interest in ghazals in English and a concern that English ghazals observe the form properly. His essay in Lynx, "The Philosophy of Ghazals," de-emphasizes the Discontinuity between couplets, stressing that there is "some thread of connection" between successive couplets. A study of the connections between links in traditional renga can suggest some of the ways couplets in a ghazal can connect. Dr. Kulkarni's essay hasvaluable information and insights.
Dr. Kulkarni's English ghazals show how the form can look in English. Here are the opening (matla) and closing (makhta) couplets of one of his ghazals:
I hate to think of the day that gives me pain at night
But I still recall the Sun that used to rain at night.
. . . . .
Not only have but live all your dreams dear 'Friend'
Did Kekule not observe the snakes in chain at night?
blockquote
Lynx publishes ghazals by several poets, notably William Dennis and Bruce Williams, among others exploring the form in productive ways. Jane and Werner Reichhold are also working with ghazals, as well as encouraging the form in Lynx.
Several well-known poets, including Adrienne Rich, Jim Harrison, and Denise Levertov, have worked at least briefly with ghazals. It seems to me, though, that the more recent poets working with ghazals are engaging the form more seriously than the earlier efforts in English.
The issue of Lynx with Dr. Kulkarni's essay and ghazals also has an essay by Harsangeet Kaur Bhullar which describes the place of ghazals in Indian and Pakistani popular culture, as well as describing the form.
Having read these various pieces on ghazals, I want to make the following suggestions about ghazals written in English:
Poets unfamiliar with traditional ghazals should learn as much as they can about the form in its original cultures and the poets who produced ghazals. I would like to see translations accompanied by literal versions with notes that would help those who don't know the original language to grasp the form better.
Let's refrain from establishing the definitive ghazal form in English prematurely. As poets writing in English learn more about the form in Persian, Urdu, Hindi, etc., let us experiment with as many possibilities as we can.
I would like to see a variety of English ghazals, using the monorhyme/qafia and refrain/radif, using other rhyme schemes, no rhyme schemes, using strict meters, loose meters, "free verse," and so on. Let's see what the form can do and become in English.
Placing the monorhyme/qafia directly before the refrain/radif can easily overload the line in English. Some poets writing English ghazals have experimented with other placements of the monorhyme. I suggest that we have a choice—using either the monorhyme or the refrain. In English, either will carry the ghazal form well. Also, the monorhyme can be placed in midline when there is a refrain, although this placement tends to obscure the monorhyme (which might not always be a bad thing). Translators tend to use monorhyme rather than refrain, which often isn't even mentioned in discussions of the form.
We should maintain the independence of each couplet. It seems to me that the "DisUnities" (Ali's term) define the stance of a ghazal as opposed to its form. Omit that jump from couplet to couplet and, however well the poet used the radif/refrain, the qafia/monorhyme, and the makhta/signature, I do not think the result would be a ghazal in any sense.
Apparently ghazals are not titled. Should English ghazals be titled? Untitled poems in English seem to bother some editors and readers. There is, however, the precedent of haiku and tanka.
Since writing the paragraph above, I hade decided on the following practice: identifying ghazals with a radif by the radif, much as untitled poems in English are identified by the first line; giving ghazals without a radif a fitting title. (In The Country Without a Post Office, the ghazals are identified only as "Ghazal" in the table of contents and by the first words of the first line in the acknowledgements.) I feel that some kind of title is merited because of the length and density of the ghazal, as opposed to haiku and tanka which are quite brief and have a much different perspective.
If it turns out that the English ghazal requires the radif/refrain, the qafia/monorhyme, and the makhta/signature, then perhaps we can devise another term for poems that have a sequence of independent couplets but lack those forms. (Avachat cites the Hindi term for such ghazals: "'gair-muraddaf Ghazel'"). Free ghazal is a possible term for ghazals without radif or qafia.
I would hate to see the English ghazal so confined by formal restrictions that it would be a minor form, used only for poets to demonstrate their technical cleverness (rather like sestinas or villanelles). I believe the ghazal promises to be a major form in English poetry if given room to sink its roots.
I have been experimenting with the form in a strict sense. I'm finding that selection of the radif/refrain sets an important tone/direction for the poem and helps engage my imagination.
AHA Books Online has just published a collection of 30 of my ghazals. Both free and traditional ghazals are included. There are also what I call "parasyntactic" ghazals, one or two with qafia and radif. The parasyntactic ghazals are composed of individual words selected for sound, rhythm, and connotation, but arranged so that no syntactical structures arise. These ghazals are intended to suggest, to supply the reader's imagination almost-meaningful (referential) patterns.
Hard hearted and straightened
All my longing for Your presence is not enough, My heart is straightened.
Until I can offer more than I do and I give all I have, My heart is straightened.
Will I always remain here in unfeeling pain, wandering and weak.
Like wind on a rock my mind whines and whistles, rough. My heart is straightened.
Rest on my head as pure spirit and transform my hard heart.
The wonder of your presence flutters like the sound of dove. My heart is straightened.
The brusque way I see the world makes my dull mind flinch.
I wish you would awaken my heart with a Divine shove. My heart is straightened.
Hamidah's will lies between the rocks and the hills and the stars.
Now feel life's choices evolve as a gift of Your love. My heart is straightened.
Until I can offer more than I do and I give all I have, My heart is straightened.
Will I always remain here in unfeeling pain, wandering and weak.
Like wind on a rock my mind whines and whistles, rough. My heart is straightened.
Rest on my head as pure spirit and transform my hard heart.
The wonder of your presence flutters like the sound of dove. My heart is straightened.
The brusque way I see the world makes my dull mind flinch.
I wish you would awaken my heart with a Divine shove. My heart is straightened.
Hamidah's will lies between the rocks and the hills and the stars.
Now feel life's choices evolve as a gift of Your love. My heart is straightened.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
summer snow in the High Sierras
Driving down I80 at two o'clock
my mother looks out the window and comment
the snow on the mountains in summer
is beautiful isn't it.
Her poetic voice returns like a retinal image
flashing up like a sun spot
she says she received a rejection in the mail
my small stingy mind meditates without a stop.
listening to my mother is like bathing
it cleanses you from accumulated self-hating
rejection, trouble, the thin grimy layer of dirt
from touching railings and the grime from work
When I walk by the snow again
to notice 5 o'clock sun like an umbrella
yellow flowers on rabbit ears and robins in the sun
I hear her again and see the magic unravel
she creates with her words. I can
think again of the miracle of life
the microcosm of progress, where I build from
my mistakes and and scale the walls
of acceptability, success, and conformity.
all my bitterness subsides ebbing briefly
and I can breathe easily and watch
the snow shine in the summer sun.
my mother looks out the window and comment
the snow on the mountains in summer
is beautiful isn't it.
Her poetic voice returns like a retinal image
flashing up like a sun spot
she says she received a rejection in the mail
my small stingy mind meditates without a stop.
listening to my mother is like bathing
it cleanses you from accumulated self-hating
rejection, trouble, the thin grimy layer of dirt
from touching railings and the grime from work
When I walk by the snow again
to notice 5 o'clock sun like an umbrella
yellow flowers on rabbit ears and robins in the sun
I hear her again and see the magic unravel
she creates with her words. I can
think again of the miracle of life
the microcosm of progress, where I build from
my mistakes and and scale the walls
of acceptability, success, and conformity.
all my bitterness subsides ebbing briefly
and I can breathe easily and watch
the snow shine in the summer sun.
Monday, June 28, 2010
anger from silence
Sitting still anger traps my mind thought blockingg
my body sick hot nauseating fear exhaustion sadness and pain
God above, how can I question the way
each day unfolds even in the silence.
my anger should be something I release
as I strain with patience for peace.
God above, watching over me everyday
give me strength to keep my silence.
my anger could be something I deny
as I hold my tongue and become wise.
still angry: how do you calmly benefit from my suffering
how do you steal and lie and cheat while I pray
to God above someday someone will take
the time to teach you another way
that somebody will be when everything
turns and someone does to you what youve done to me
my body sick hot nauseating fear exhaustion sadness and pain
God above, how can I question the way
each day unfolds even in the silence.
my anger should be something I release
as I strain with patience for peace.
God above, watching over me everyday
give me strength to keep my silence.
my anger could be something I deny
as I hold my tongue and become wise.
still angry: how do you calmly benefit from my suffering
how do you steal and lie and cheat while I pray
to God above someday someone will take
the time to teach you another way
that somebody will be when everything
turns and someone does to you what youve done to me
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Punishment
In my mind hatred flies at me with unceasing frenzied fervor
The people who despise me join forces and tell me
how craven and worthless and useless I am-
lazy, disgusting, degraded, a series of mistakes and now fouled
God must hate you they keep saying to me.
They tell me often we hate you because God hates you.
They are explaining it is a random choice.
The whims of the Creator that killed Abel
and made Esau forfeit his place
the same mind that preferred Joseph
decided you were wretched and a waste.
I do not even want to defend myself.
I listen and try to be quiet, like
being beaten or kicked if I move
I am saying the job is not done.
I try to be calm- their hatred for me keeps running
through my mind- you are hated because you are so awful-
The times I turn to you must be your blessing
Being covered and in prayer I take some comfort
from your grace and blessing.
Your love has faded from my vision
like the light dying in the sky as the night deepens
all the brilliant blessed moments
fade and the smothering weakness
of darkness takes hold of every navigating point.
I remember sitting in the car and thinkingyou did not love me
and the answer was quiet. No- this is not hate-
this lack is not a feeling from God
it must be punishment being given to me
and gratitude must be the response I need.
Every sin washes off of me.
This isolation becomes more and more the scraping
clean of diseased life, life where my life
lvies without you. Live then I can tell myself,
the love I need is purifying me for
love or heaven. I can anticipate
less time spent in hell's isolation
if I do not resist this cleansing.
I look around at the love in other people's lives
and think of the blessings I have-
of a man who said he had no one we should call if he were sick
of people lying on the street wrapped in bags
of the childless, the penniless, all the homeless, the friendless
of all this lest I forget to thank you
and spendd time in worship and praise.
The people who despise me join forces and tell me
how craven and worthless and useless I am-
lazy, disgusting, degraded, a series of mistakes and now fouled
God must hate you they keep saying to me.
They tell me often we hate you because God hates you.
They are explaining it is a random choice.
The whims of the Creator that killed Abel
and made Esau forfeit his place
the same mind that preferred Joseph
decided you were wretched and a waste.
I do not even want to defend myself.
I listen and try to be quiet, like
being beaten or kicked if I move
I am saying the job is not done.
I try to be calm- their hatred for me keeps running
through my mind- you are hated because you are so awful-
The times I turn to you must be your blessing
Being covered and in prayer I take some comfort
from your grace and blessing.
Your love has faded from my vision
like the light dying in the sky as the night deepens
all the brilliant blessed moments
fade and the smothering weakness
of darkness takes hold of every navigating point.
I remember sitting in the car and thinkingyou did not love me
and the answer was quiet. No- this is not hate-
this lack is not a feeling from God
it must be punishment being given to me
and gratitude must be the response I need.
Every sin washes off of me.
This isolation becomes more and more the scraping
clean of diseased life, life where my life
lvies without you. Live then I can tell myself,
the love I need is purifying me for
love or heaven. I can anticipate
less time spent in hell's isolation
if I do not resist this cleansing.
I look around at the love in other people's lives
and think of the blessings I have-
of a man who said he had no one we should call if he were sick
of people lying on the street wrapped in bags
of the childless, the penniless, all the homeless, the friendless
of all this lest I forget to thank you
and spendd time in worship and praise.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
yesterday: today: tomorrow
yesterday: you hit me and we were impoverished
stripped of all the upright bones of our bodies
a need for curtained bedrooms
wrought iron beds
a minute standing on the hill looking over the Bay
stolen books and scarves housed bohemian unstructured
every day a woman outside of me stood
speaking surreal words mimicking me
today: this strangled conversation between our lives
with its own translator
has been reduced to back ground noise
Work and money in the space of wrecked cars and foreclosed houses
Everything is dry
my fingernails have been broken and my fingers are grey
tomorrow?: hope for a transformation
ceasing to hover and then veer into morning or night
frantic run to jump to throw itself on joy
unwrap and undo the cords that hold back the covers and blinds
possibilities of serene movement
body against body simple contract
love and children and light are free
stripped of all the upright bones of our bodies
a need for curtained bedrooms
wrought iron beds
a minute standing on the hill looking over the Bay
stolen books and scarves housed bohemian unstructured
every day a woman outside of me stood
speaking surreal words mimicking me
today: this strangled conversation between our lives
with its own translator
has been reduced to back ground noise
Work and money in the space of wrecked cars and foreclosed houses
Everything is dry
my fingernails have been broken and my fingers are grey
tomorrow?: hope for a transformation
ceasing to hover and then veer into morning or night
frantic run to jump to throw itself on joy
unwrap and undo the cords that hold back the covers and blinds
possibilities of serene movement
body against body simple contract
love and children and light are free
Thursday, May 6, 2010
what I did wrong
I need to remember
that I begged for mercy and received
this abundance of blessings
now thinking back how I regret not taking more time
to praise and worship You
and for spending too long grieving when the sun was shining
or the rain fell over the sound of the freeway
that I begged for mercy and received
this abundance of blessings
now thinking back how I regret not taking more time
to praise and worship You
and for spending too long grieving when the sun was shining
or the rain fell over the sound of the freeway
before the car accident
a beautiful poem
sailed over head, a vulture on an unusual flight over the city park
adrift in my unconscious
the shape of clouds or the colors of pale red light
still, from this moment to that moment on the playground
I can recall the feel of the poem
and the sounds of children playing
a poem that grew alongside
Forgiveness total forgiveness
peace total peace
Jesus' love washing over my life and unbinding
a thousand sins
sailed over head, a vulture on an unusual flight over the city park
adrift in my unconscious
the shape of clouds or the colors of pale red light
still, from this moment to that moment on the playground
I can recall the feel of the poem
and the sounds of children playing
a poem that grew alongside
Forgiveness total forgiveness
peace total peace
Jesus' love washing over my life and unbinding
a thousand sins
the arrogance of youth
There is something sudden about young people.
A rapid advance of thought- the quick grasping attention'
the startling innocence of perception-
They say something plainly- a lack of attention
becomes noticed- a slowness offends
my thick stiff mind takes light from each bright
moment and strains to feel summer arrive
a memory of the grass in the hills, the long low branch behind the mustard plants
the sound of the blackbirds and the change in the blueness of the sky
the clouds' absence
A rapid advance of thought- the quick grasping attention'
the startling innocence of perception-
They say something plainly- a lack of attention
becomes noticed- a slowness offends
my thick stiff mind takes light from each bright
moment and strains to feel summer arrive
a memory of the grass in the hills, the long low branch behind the mustard plants
the sound of the blackbirds and the change in the blueness of the sky
the clouds' absence
Dancing in Berkeley
a middle ground
between fearfuland beautiful
on the dance floor.
recovering from George W. Bush
bearing the guilt of the depression
reawakening and expanding
universes of music growing and collapsing
November 2009
between fearfuland beautiful
on the dance floor.
recovering from George W. Bush
bearing the guilt of the depression
reawakening and expanding
universes of music growing and collapsing
November 2009
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Pas assez
Je me leve ce matin and je n’ai rien dit a Dieu.
Je ne m’arrete pas pour louer Dieu
Peut etre a cause de sommeil
Ou peut etre a cause d’etourderie.
Avec la passage de la journee
Et la pleuve tombant
Je ne peut pas leve ma Coeur a Dieu
Assez d’exprime ma reconnaissance
Dieu me donne seulement uniquement des moments benit pour exprimer
m'amour
L’une soufflé que j’ecoute de chaque million que j’expire.
Je ne m’arrete pas pour louer Dieu
Peut etre a cause de sommeil
Ou peut etre a cause d’etourderie.
Avec la passage de la journee
Et la pleuve tombant
Je ne peut pas leve ma Coeur a Dieu
Assez d’exprime ma reconnaissance
Dieu me donne seulement uniquement des moments benit pour exprimer
m'amour
L’une soufflé que j’ecoute de chaque million que j’expire.
Monday, April 5, 2010
disease
All my life stretches down into sleep and defecation and filth
starting over with my life now
searching for renewal
heal the disease that pervades my life.
How is my heart diseased?
anger and worry
heat and burning pain
head aching
throat burning
eyes burning
If I relax I cry
fear
all this time worshiping and working to be good
still this dissolute person
trudging along through days
always improving but never getting farther ahead.
starting over with my life now
searching for renewal
heal the disease that pervades my life.
How is my heart diseased?
anger and worry
heat and burning pain
head aching
throat burning
eyes burning
If I relax I cry
fear
all this time worshiping and working to be good
still this dissolute person
trudging along through days
always improving but never getting farther ahead.
Monday, March 22, 2010
untitled
Fingers open the pea pods on my grandparents back porch
a mudra repeated year after year when combines pull up vines
and pour the peas into the tractors for baby food.
Now shelling peas at work for dinner I look at my nails.
Long. Dirty.
An hour later they are clean short and unchanged.
The shadowed hall way echoes the full silence of absent youth.
I look for the peas in the shells
they stay thick even empty
peas dried from too long in the shell
a mudra repeated year after year when combines pull up vines
and pour the peas into the tractors for baby food.
Now shelling peas at work for dinner I look at my nails.
Long. Dirty.
An hour later they are clean short and unchanged.
The shadowed hall way echoes the full silence of absent youth.
I look for the peas in the shells
they stay thick even empty
peas dried from too long in the shell
Trauma
Crying everyday and trying not to burst out laughing.
The insane mind claws at my throat in knots laughing.
Half dark, brown theatre with a brightly lit screen.
I sat near a man who could not stop laughing.
Sadness has stripped them of their sanity and their explanations.
They hear a blank joke, without humor, just caught laughing.
I try to think of family, love, bright sun and rain’s pure air.
Pinned now between grief and tears in the space without thought, laughing.
Oh God, tell this poor poet Hamidah how to write to inspire joy.
Show the path to honeyed humor, good tears, and an only child laughing.
The insane mind claws at my throat in knots laughing.
Half dark, brown theatre with a brightly lit screen.
I sat near a man who could not stop laughing.
Sadness has stripped them of their sanity and their explanations.
They hear a blank joke, without humor, just caught laughing.
I try to think of family, love, bright sun and rain’s pure air.
Pinned now between grief and tears in the space without thought, laughing.
Oh God, tell this poor poet Hamidah how to write to inspire joy.
Show the path to honeyed humor, good tears, and an only child laughing.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
An unfaithful moment
The day covers the chasing night although I cry.
My record of how I remember my sins will show I cry.
The beauty of nature surrounds me at times, the cherry blossoms bloom.
As my sadness overwhelms me and I shiver as they blow, I cry.
The cold rooms where I work fill with music.
While people make tracing lines and patterns of shadow, I cry.
The cala lilies bloom with their arching blossoms.
The daffodils come out again, yellow. I cry.
What mistakes I work out their inevitable conclusions.
The peace I once felt left nothing but an echo. I cry.
Forgive me my sadness and my misery in life.
“Death Thou art with me. My cup overflows, “ I cry.
The words a flock of birds that taunt and fall.
I watch my heart as it drops beneath each blow. I cry.
Oh LORD, Pardon another bitter Hamidah in this regrettable mood.
You are my only love. Tell no one how you know I cry.
My record of how I remember my sins will show I cry.
The beauty of nature surrounds me at times, the cherry blossoms bloom.
As my sadness overwhelms me and I shiver as they blow, I cry.
The cold rooms where I work fill with music.
While people make tracing lines and patterns of shadow, I cry.
The cala lilies bloom with their arching blossoms.
The daffodils come out again, yellow. I cry.
What mistakes I work out their inevitable conclusions.
The peace I once felt left nothing but an echo. I cry.
Forgive me my sadness and my misery in life.
“Death Thou art with me. My cup overflows, “ I cry.
The words a flock of birds that taunt and fall.
I watch my heart as it drops beneath each blow. I cry.
Oh LORD, Pardon another bitter Hamidah in this regrettable mood.
You are my only love. Tell no one how you know I cry.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Leaveing work I curse your girlfriend again.
Her sex life with you a constant trouble nagging
and pulling my energy off, a distraction, a drain.
She is in my mind laughing at me and bragging.
Your exwife is her friend and the child support
was an unnecessary effort at some point. Now,
something I will never be given any credit for.
I know she did not worry about it when she was in tow.
I am losing my mind by the time I make my way
through the freezing night, and sitting next
to me on the BART is a woman crying trying to say
to another woman,"He's mine!" What did she expect?
Adultery doesn't seem like a big issue any more,
a loyal wife and partner is just another score.
Her sex life with you a constant trouble nagging
and pulling my energy off, a distraction, a drain.
She is in my mind laughing at me and bragging.
Your exwife is her friend and the child support
was an unnecessary effort at some point. Now,
something I will never be given any credit for.
I know she did not worry about it when she was in tow.
I am losing my mind by the time I make my way
through the freezing night, and sitting next
to me on the BART is a woman crying trying to say
to another woman,"He's mine!" What did she expect?
Adultery doesn't seem like a big issue any more,
a loyal wife and partner is just another score.
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