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Release

Understanding comes without invitation and knocks at the door, and yet she’ll often elude a lifetime of the most sedulous efforts to find her. She is a mystery deeper than the Marinas Trench, darker than the void between galaxies. One can only put himself in the path of experience and knowledge, then hope for the best.

Release

When letting go of vain understanding,
One begins to attain understanding.

In the desert, a sea of sand stretches;
Wind bestows to each grain understanding.

If one will not wake from shifting dreams,
What good is it to gain understanding?

A rolling ocean of flourishing pines
Rose from earth to sustain understanding.

When one holds a whisk or a staff upright,
Speaking will only stain understanding.

When lightning flashes across a dry night,
The sky is soon to rain understanding.

What hinders the mind will hinder all else;
Why struggle to retain understanding?

Rivers can swell till, flooding, they burst
Banks not meant to contain understanding.

All seekers find the way in due time,
And then release inane understanding.

Gray grasses bend in myriad patterns;
They yield rather than strain, understanding.

The traveler on the road to heaven
Is filled with an arcane understanding.

The rosebud opens itself to the sky,
Not wanting to restrain understanding.

Be still, Zahhar, there is peace in the wind;
Never prize nor disdain understanding.

This is my 97th ghazal.

Publication History:

Muse Apprentice Guild (web-based) — Fall 2003

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Unusual Host

This was written for my friend, Alan, in December of 2002. I’ve made a couple of minor revisions before adding it here as a backlogged post.

Unusual Host

For Alan Polson

Much like his awakened and spherical host,
He is often a poised and ethical host.

An ordained Buddhist monk turned registered nurse,
He is both a mystic and clinical host.

Tea, pastries and cakes greet a visiting guest;
This preparedness marks him one practical host.

Walls hidden behind a banquet of reading
Propose he must be a most lexical host.

Undaunted in candidly sharing his views,
Conversing reveals him a critical host.

Long since disillusioned with man’s morbid ways,
His outlook reveals him a cynical host.

Trailing to snores in the middle of speech—
Fatigued, he is rarely a vertical host.

He may start to dream amid conversation,
But awake he remains a stoical host.

Zahhar has known many a host in his time,
But never quite such an atypical host.

This is my 94th ghazal.

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Fettered

This one came out of nowhere. But, then, if you think about it, so did we. I mean, just where were we before “this” happened? Where were we before we were somehow caught and trapped by the dreamcatcher web of forming veins and arteries? This ghazal asks a lot of questions. In fact, each sher is its own question, and each question probably doesn’t have an answer—Certainly not an easy one.

Fettered

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.

This is my 87th ghazal.

Publication History:

Candelabrum Poetry Magazine — Spring 2003

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Tillage

The title, though archaic, should hint at some of the meanings within the sher of this ghazal. Crops cannot be planted in untilled soil, for instance. This word has also been used in the past to denote the fruits of a cultured mind or spirit. Because there is no need for the sher of a ghazal to have continuity, a lot can be done to reflect back to a title such as this.

Tillage

Your words—They drift like drizzle down to bead me;
I stumble through the vacant ways you lead me.

Each night, beneath the shifting gaze of your eye,
I listen for the silent words you feed me.

How can my clay begin to learn its aspect
If your caress will never cease to knead me?

I am for you to harrow or abandon;
Just know my heart longs for your grace to weed me.

I never learned to fence with words like foils,
And so I feared that their misuse would bleed me.

A lone rose sways on arid desert breezes;
Each day it asks the sky, “why did you seed me?”

“Why torment me,” one day I asked, “with your song?”
“Zahhar”, I heard, “deep in your heart you heed me.”

This is my 78th ghazal.

Publication History:

Muse Apprentice Guild (web-based) — Fall 2003

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Destiny

Inspired by the notion that every thing in existence has a path, a calling, to follow. Not just people who realize a sense of personal purpose, but everything—From insects to sentients, pebbles to mountains, meres to oceans, clouds to nebula, asteroids to blue giants. I don’t mean predeterminism, but something else—Something much more subtle.

Destiny

Brooks are weeping gently on each stone, calling;
Soft the wind consoles with a light moan calling.

Autumn leaves float faintly to the ground;
They flitter along in the wind’s drone calling.

Deep in the forest, an ancient falls crashing;
Silent airs pursue its last, lone calling.

Seeds take to soil; clouds nest in tall canyons—
Each heeded the seat of its high throne calling.

Do you wonder where the falling stars land?
They go the way of their last known calling.

What is that sound so difficult to hear?
The silent sound of the heart’s own calling.

Zahhar hears again your delicate voice—
Sweet on the breeze, a subtle tone calling.

This is my 77th ghazal.

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Emanation

It seems to me that “memory” is a very natural radif for the ghazal form. It is something that emanates like light from the unconscious. It is abstract and indefinite, mysterious even.

Emanation

I am that visitor in your faded memory;
We’re threaded as ancient friends in braided memory.

Once, we strolled in talk on emerald hills;
They dried in drought, and have rarely bladed memory.

Together we work to weave this spanning tapestry;
Once more our gilded threads have aided memory.

Monuments of stone bear witness to ages past,
But only your words shine light on shaded memory.

To gain its home, a dove flies tossed in storm,
Its way home deeply locked in jaded memory.

My heart was crushed with anguish, but now you have come
To lift, with a longer past, my laded memory.

Zahhar is again a shuttle in the loom of time,
Yet not the weaver of his graded memory.

This is my 75th ghazal.

Publication History:

Muse Apprentice Guild (web-based) — Fall 2003

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Dilution

This attempts to metaphorize a friend’s passing. She died in July of 2002 from colon cancer. She often told me that I was the only one who would listen to her when she wanted to talk about her fear of dying. We would talk as lightheartedly about this taboo subject as if we were talking about poetry itself. This had apparently played an important role in helping her prepare emotionally and mentally for the inevitable. She was a good friend and I still miss her.

Dilution

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.

This is my 73rd ghazal.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — June 2005

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Thoroughfare

This ghazal manifested as I read The Shambhala Guide to Taoism by Eva Wong. There is more discontinuity, or disconnectedness, within this ghazal than is usual for me. At the time, this was also the longest I had written.

The word “way” appears on every line. While this is not a demand of the form, it was an enjoyable exercise, and it made for an interesting poem in the end.

Thoroughfare

Where fragrant lilies beautify the way,
Decaying corpses putrefy the way.

Brilliant sages point the way to heaven,
Yet we in bloodshed rubefy the way.

The way of peace was plain when life began,
Then darkness fell to mystify the way.

When harsh and arid places span the way,
How hard it is to ratify the way!

Rivers flow the way of least resistance—
This fact will ever signify the way.

A vagrant walks the way with dignity,
Yet speaks no words to dignify the way.

Crying skies are not the way of sorrow,
They only serve to pacify the way.

If to the empty center leads the way,
There is no need to simplify the way.

Wind demonstrates the way of roaming wide,
But never tries to justify the way.

Who taught the fowl the way to warmer skies?
How is it that they verify the way?

Compassion is the way within us all,
But we must act to reify the way.

Death cannot endorse the way of living,
Yet also cannot mortify the way.

This dream is but the way of dancing shades;
To trust in this will falsify the way.

Who can hear the way the stars are calling?
They wait for us to stellify the way.

Each time Zahhar collapsed upon the way;
Has been a means to clarify the way.

If you sense a lack of coherency, this is because there is very little of it. A ghazal is not necessarily supposed to be coherent. In fact, most aficionados of the form feel it should be entirely discordant, with qafiya (rhyme) and radif (refrain) serving to stitch the couplets into a sort of collage of verbal thought and imagery. The effect can be powerful, though it doesn’t always settle well with the Western ear.

This is my 74th ghazal.

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Evanescence

I met her because I took an interest in her daughter. She befriended me because she felt I was unique. I cultivated the friendship because no-one like her had ever bothered with me before. She died because the cancer finally won. For me, the loss was staggering. This ghazal was written shortly after her death.

Evanescence

In memory of Yvonne Sligh

In the place where I pay homage to the night
I pled your case to stars that strew the night.

From this mountaintop I prayed for you to heal,
In tandem fell two bold stars through the night.

I, too, had walked on that shadow’s edge before
And knew you as another who knew the night.

Your journey along the shadow’s edge was long,
Then your strength gave out and on you drew the night.

Maybe your soul was healed instead of your form
That we are left in your wake to rue the night.

Now in silence on that mountaintop I gaze
On blurring stars where long I view the night.

Stars reflect in the well-spring of my soul;
I sought a friend, but was left in lieu the night.

Was it your essence in the wind that whispered,
“I’m not lost, Zahhar,” as languid grew the night?

This is my 70th ghazal.

Publication History:

The Ghazal Page (web-based) — August 2003

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Reft

This was written as I reflected on the effects of parental alcoholism, and by extension drug addiction in general, on young children, especially infants and toddlers. I was one such infant and toddler, so I have some insight into these effects.

Reft

An amber liquid sapped her attention away,
And from her heart stripped loving intention away.

The lonesome wail of hunger competing in vain
Unleashed her rage and tore her abstention away.

It wasn’t desire denied with an angry glare,
But painful dearth closed up in detention away.

An oscillation between assurance and terror
Caused a distress that rent apprehension away.

Angels swept this fragmenting soul to safety
To lands where shadows shift a dimension away.

Smothered beneath resentment, bitter and fierce,
Any potential was locked from ascension away.

Wound in the Catherine wheel of her deception,
Spirit was ripped in morbid extension away.

Remove from your heart the demon’s claw, Zahhar,
Let pass the touch of its dark invention away.

This is my 69th ghazal.

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Displacement

She was one of the few good friends I’ve made in my adult life, someone who took me seriously as an individual and as a poet. Ten years later (It is October 27, 2012, and I’m posting this as a backlogged post), I still miss her and think about her. She had a positive impact on my life.

Displacement

In memory of Yvonne Sligh

You’ve left behind a nightmare of ripping loss,
And joy was sliced from the heart by this clipping loss.

Knowing you faded a little more each day,
We tried our best to ignore it, this nipping loss.

Together we shared in brimming abundance, but
We at the banquet only were sipping loss.

The empty space you filled is empty again;
Wind howls into the vacuum with whipping loss.

Will you now dream of us from that place of dreams,
And pray our hearts to heal from your stripping loss?

Will you with angel feathers we cannot see
Brush past in hopes to console our gripping loss?

Take heart, Zahhar, for your friend has but transformed,
Moving beyond this realm of slipping loss.

This is my 68th ghazal.