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Ghazal to the Ghazal

This is a rewrite of a ghazal that was written many years ago, making this my 129th. The refrain and preceding rhyme are the same, though possibly more appropriately approached this time around. I also wanted to bring a little Hafez into it this time as well.

Ghazal to the Ghazal

The heart may break its silence with the amorous ghazal;
the soul may sound its depths within the dolorous ghazal.

An ancient tongue arose from the dust of ancient tribes
and bubbled blue oases from the vaporous ghazal.

Long ago the broad Euphrates, dismayed by silence,
nursed arid roots which blossomed forth the prosperous ghazal.

In earthen cities, mahogany eyes and coal black tresses
have played by fountain springs to taste the flavorous ghazal.

We’re living rivers of light, each and all. So come,
partake of dreams inspired by the generous ghazal.

A traveler lost amid the dunes discovered water
by following the cadence of a rapturous ghazal.

Still a desert blossom shades the Poet of Shiraz
to honor all he offered through the rigorous ghazal.

When you heed the call to prayer, close your eyes;
the dry wind tranquilly refrains a wondrous ghazal.

There is a garden where the full moon casts her song,
awakening the roses with her decorous ghazal.

The original, written in March of 2002, can be read under this title: “English Ghazal”.

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Without a Title

To begin anew, one must leave behind the old. This is at least the theory.

Without a Title

Perhaps I’ll start again
This time without a title

This time without the candle wax
the matted hair the long thin wire
all twisted and tangled into shapes
of desire and expectation

dangled from twine like a shrunken head
gouged full of pins and chanted words
until imago jerks and dances wincing
tortured steps of belonging

Maybe it’s time to forget all I dreamed
to tear free from voodoo strings
tendrils of blood wisped through the air
until the tired old spells are broken

to let go and plummet back through long
deep breaths and crushing gasps for air
through years of fear and foreboding back
to half-remembered moments of joy

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Creation

Self discovery implies the existence of a self to discover—something clearer than metaphor, more concrete than abstraction. Yet when we press our inward eye against the pane of our being, we find ourselves gaping into the unknown, seeing only the dust of time and culture that has accumulated there like soot.

We wave our hands and fidget our fingers as we strive to express it, “It’s like a mustard seed …”, “It’s like a reflection …”, “It’s that place from which all experience …”, and it goes on. Almost always it is “like”, it is “as”, it is simile and metaphor. It never just is. And after so many years with my face pressed flat against that pane, I can’t seem to figure out where or what it is. So I’ve let go of trying to answer that age old question of, “Who am I?” I’ve let go even of the asking.

I am. Or at least I think I am. Whatever I is, however it happened, it’s here—And it just is.

        Creation

        You are already all
                you have longed to be
close your eyes and breathe
        trust in the rhythm of inspiration

        The work is done
                all that remains now
is the clear crisp waters of faith
        on your sapling words

        They sprouted when your soul was new
                in dark brown soils where
confusion percolated down to nourish
        tiny roots of sentience

        Blind to all knowing they pushed
                cracked open the earth and spread
tremulous shoots
        glittering themes of light

        What could be eons passed
                bending with the sun
singing out to stars perhaps
        long since vanished

        All unwitting you kept
                your garden safe from saws
that would plane your understanding
        into signposts and billboards

        A garden not unlike perhaps
                the long ago Eden that once
rustled softly in morning winds
        yearning to the step of creation

        Now open your eyes
                and behold strong green sprays
swaying over streams of time
        they were always there

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paper

Once in a while I’ll feel as if I’ve been struck by new inspiration, that I can finally go forward with my work as a poet. This has yet to stick, however.

        paper

        I see you now
                as if for the very first time
            floating before my gaze
white—changeable as the clouds
                    full of reflection
    clear—deep as a canyon pond

        perhaps you’re a spring
    gushed from furthest mystery
                a taste—artesian

        I see you now
                    suddenly as if never before
    welling up on my eyes
            sparkling clarity
                bubbling hope

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Alchemy

In this poem, my 13th trisect, segment one depicts steel. Segment two depicts the skyscraper, in which steel is the most essential component. And segment three depicts the effects of modern industry upon earth and humanity, which includes mining for and smelting steel and the development and movement of all those resources that lead to the creation and maintenance of the skyscraper.

Alchemy

Ore

Forged by myriad million years of light,
        cast against eternities of night,
elemental embers collect amid the void,
    pooled in glowing clouds of dust and rock.

Particles accrete through time and motion,
        condensed to monumental orbs of molten
crystal moods, amassing alloys mid the darkness,
    cooled to form a rind of raw potential.

Fertile soils rise from ancient stone,
        animating shapes of wood and bone.
Nimble hands evolve and grope the ground for clues,
    scratching for a means to reach the sky.

Fires smelt a future from deposits
        quarried from a realm of veins and pockets,
charged into converters from out the depths of reason,
    hatching alloys cast as new potential.
 

Corpse

They rise as if from out the earth, a maze
        of beams and columns stretched against the haze,
looming like the relic frames of ancient beasts,
    massive specters moaning on the wind.

Reflections slowly seal each giant carcass,
        body bags of alloys mined from darkness
closed around the ribs of tall decaying monsters,
    ghastly shadows cast across the landscape.

They cantilever labyrinths of gloom
        hard against an ever present brume,
where wander human wraiths yet bound to living breath,
    faces filled to silence with dismay.

Like mausoleums raised to mark the open
        graves where hopes lie wasting in corrosion,
great facades reflect with every sunset whisper
    traces of the hollowness within them.
 

Course

Canyons wrought from concrete steel and glass
        soar above an ever seething mass,
heads and fenders tossed within a frantic flood
    swelled from centuries of strong desire.

Arteries of lava, veins of phosphor
        circulate through fields of psychic squalor,
where great malignant tumors feed upon the current,
    welled from out the heart of mass confusion.

Discolored patches stretch and fade from view—
        membranes taking on a sickly hue—
an ever growing quilt expanding abstract themes
    flung beyond the grasp of human thought.

Filaments of culture weave a madness
        shimmered from the dark side of a canvas
suspended deep in silence against abysmal backdrops
    clung forever to the soul’s awareness.

The prosody is pretty complex. If you’re curious about it let me know and I’ll respond with an explanation.

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Provision

If I have a child one day, where would he (bold assumption I know) come from? I think we rain from the void into awareness. I think we drift in a sort of sleep, locked in the watery depths of consciousness and are eventually lulled by the rhythmic sounds of promise into life. From dream to dream we sleep our way through eternity, connected by an ever expanding web of condition—or karma.

Provision

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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what is haiku

Though I don’t write many haiku, I do think I understand them. Quite well in fact, along with the tanka. Haiku and tanka represent a universal crowning point within the realm of poetry. And I firmly believe that he who takes the time to master haiku and/or tanka—not just “write” them en masse, anyone can do that—masters much of poetry itself.

In February 2005 someone asked me to write up an explanation of the haiku for her so she could write one. It seemed somehow counterproductive—wrong even—to explain the haiku using expository prose, so I offered the following.

what is haiku

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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reflections

Another meditation on the nature of self, something I’ve wondered and asked questions about since childhood.

reflections

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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shimmer

I had maybe five hours sleep over course of four days when I wrote this, and I had just come off a 20 minute break at work, which involved a fitful nap fraught with sleep paralysis and vivid “dreams” that I mistook for actual goings on. An interesting mix peculiar to the narcoleptic.

    shimmer

          footsteps fall
across scattered dreams
     i hear your voice
  but see no face

          a radio drones
in a nearby half-lit room
     a body stirs beneath
  light brown covers

          something moves
outside in the dark
     creaking almost silent
  above the ceiling

          i try to ask your name
my lips won’t move
     and my voice grants no expression
  to the wind

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subjectivity

Just did a little reading about an old Russian art movement called suprematism, manifesto and all. Kind of a curious thing. It was originated by an artist, Kazimir Malevich, around 1913, and he declared the movement ended in 1920. The only art movement I can think of whose originator eventually decided to end it. Never mind, though, Malevich was apparently charismatic enough to draw in a few adherents to suprematism, who continued creating supposedly suprematist artwork and writing (one Russian poet played with it) well after Malevich ended his movement. I guess if you don’t want something to take on a life of its own, don’t publicize it.

Anyway, Malevich was inspired by cubism and futurism to start this movement. In effect, suprematism is a sort of combination of the two. Cubism is basically artwork comprised of representational industrial shapes and angles like cubes and circles. Futurism is the extreme abstraction of the same.

Malevich, apparently, saw some metaphysical connections and called his attempt to bring them out ‘suprematism’.

So, here’s my stab at it, just for metaphysical cubist kicks.

subjectivity

clear your mind white
empty the canvas of thought

paint a black circle
a ring of smoke

outside is all the void
inside the void of self

scrape the inner edge
with a triangle’s black points

spirit thought and body
trapped within the void

now fill the black triangle
with questions feelings doubts

a snail crushed underfoot
a daughter crushed by steel

a spider’s shriveled figure
a mother’s crinkled corpse

a fly smashed by the swatter
a son smashed by debris

a red fox snared in iron
a father trapped in credit

it all lasts but a moment
the circle snaps and fades

and the triangle’s edges scatter
to join the canvas white

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Contrast

There are strange contrasts where I work. Inside it’s like a sort of grave—dingy, dark, dismal. Outside there is the Ukiah valley and the vibrant green hills nearby. There are cherry trees that grow just outside, and in the spring the contrast becomes even more pronounced.

Contrast

Sealed from the world
beside the drone of a dirty
ten gallon tank of goldfish
I look down the hall to hear
hidden in the splotchy half-dark
a cherry blossom breeze
and the twittering light refrains
of a yellow crested finch