Posted on by EAT

Paradox

This is interesting, in a tortured, abstract sort of way. More than ten years after having written it, I’ve just rediscovered this old bit of writing and I feel compelled to share it here as a backlogged post, which should be the day on which it was written.

Paradox

The dream was touched by a protected soul,
And hearts were torn by a rejected soul.

The kindly soul is trampled down, and yet
Malice pervades the most respected soul.

Angry teeth flashed under eyes glazed over;
This face revealed a dark neglected soul.

A scalpel tongue sliced out such acrid words,
All life was bled from that dissected soul.

Rage born of terror broods a bitter bile,
Ruining the will of each subjected soul.

What holds no grief will also hold no joy,
A void that shatters the affected soul.

Mist cannot be marred while crystal fragments—
Both are aspects of the reflected soul.

That darker shadow in the depths of night
In time reveals its own directed soul.

A crazed ceramic pot containing naught
Represents, I hear, a perfected soul.

Patience, Zahhar, for it takes time to heal—
Angels tend to your deeply infected soul.

This is my 67th ghazal.

Posted on by EAT

Acorn

I have for years had a relationship with the spirit of the oak. Specifically the California Black Oak, but by extension all oaks. I don’t think of this relationship in the totemic sense of power animals and spirit guides, but in the animistic sense of a mutual connection.

Such connections can be guiding, and they can also be protective—but to my feeling, this is the decision of the spirits that I’ve connected with, not myself. This is one of the big differences between totemism and animism. The totemist seeks to control his or her spiritual relationships and force their wills. This, like any relationship where one member attempts to manipulate and control another, tends to sour and end badly. The animist seeks only to acknowledge and cultivate those spiritual relationships that sustain a mutual benefit. This benefit can be emotional, mental, psychic, influential, and other. I’m sure the spectrum of mutual benefit is as varied as the spectrum of light itself, and that much of it is beyond the grasp of both participants. For it to remain healthy and unspoiled, it must be cultivated and not controlled.

In this poem, Zahhar (the pen name my screen name here is based upon) receives a gift, a blessing, an unknown—a seed. A treasure. It need not be interpreted or understood, only felt and acknowledged. Such is the nature of those gifts—blessings—offered by our spirit companions. The minute you try to make sense of them, they’ll wither and die, and sometimes even transmogrify into a curse.

Acorn

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. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

This is my 63rd ghazal.

Publication History:

Muse Apprentice Guild (web-based) — Fall 2003

Posted on by EAT

Offering

There are many things driving me to study and write poetry, not the least of which is this sense or belief that I have something important and tangible to offer through the medium. I later rewrote this ghazal entirely under the revised title, “Offerings” (pluralized).

Offering

I trudge now back through this grime for you
Because it may ease the climb for you.

Because you just might learn from my pain,
I re-walk that bitter rime for you.

I’m told there are riches deep within,
So I search this fetid slime for you.

I seek rubies in the cave of loss,
Yet I’m glad to spend the time for you.

The earth and stars all could have been mine,
But I’ve passed these chances prime for you.

I’ll peel the rind and my soul expose,
Then wait as a silent mime for you.

Pearls were buried with my heart, you see,
So I dig back through the lime for you.

If in your depths these words resonate,
Zahhar is sounding a chime for you.

This is my 61st ghazal.

Posted on by EAT

Path

I later rewrote this poem under the title, “The Path” (with article).

Path

With breaking dawn, there rose a bright destiny,
Where only the blind could never sight destiny.

Before these atoms even formed the flesh,
This heart was gripped within a tight destiny.

Sloshing in the womb that cursed this life,
I never had the power to fight destiny.

Mid this storm are strikes of realization,
But thunder rattles into flight destiny.

Beating drums mete out a promise within
Until I strain to meet this light destiny.

This dream is battered in the raging rush,
Crashing in rapid rocky white destiny.

The broad and beaten way is trampled bare
By those who from their lives smite destiny.

Don’t lament on how this way’s obscured;
Not even all the winds can write destiny.

Proud slaves of Mammon scoff at those with little,
Yet they are weighed with woe who spite destiny.

Though we may rip from all the earth her beauty,
This sin is not enough to blight destiny.

Braced for the pending break, Zahhar, your tense;
Still you must wait; you cannot cite destiny.

This is my 60th ghazal.

Posted on by EAT

Blasphemy

War is itself a form of blasphemy, and yet wars are waged over blasphemies perceived. Strange, isn’t it? Somehow I doubt that any fundamentalist really grasps whatever “truth” there is to be found within their dogma or sees the ridiculous irony in attempting to force those around them into adhering to their convictions.

Blasphemy

Bold, near-sighted fools bray, “Sacrilege!”;
and yet, is not their own way sacrilege?

Fortress prisons seal the heart from love
‘till light itself becomes gray sacrilege.

When men in high position lose their faith,
they then make of their faith a sacrilege.

How can we feathers grow to soar in flight
when we must deem our own clay sacrilege?

The judging stones that crush a hidden face
create within their own fray sacrilege.

If there is One that language can’t define,
then how does but a word say sacrilege?

Around the world brave guns and sabers flash.
But think! How does their rage slay sacrilege?

Both doves and ravens dance upon the winds;
who calls the way that these pray sacrilege?

And you Zahhar are not above the rest;
dare not believe that men stay sacrilege.

This is my 56th ghazal.

Publication History:

Muse Apprentice Guild (web-based) — Fall 2003

Posted on by EAT

anchored

Even as a child it seemed clear to me that the only way for humanity to realize its potential would be to go to the stars. If we don’t, then everything we have or will accomplish is for nothing. Meanwhile we steadily burn and poison the one place we have to live.

anchored

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 49th ghazal.

Posted on by EAT

Whispers

A truly random piece of writing, yet one that turned out surprisingly well.

Whispers

The silent moon grows strong, my friend,
And yet I hear her song, my friend.

Stars fall in glory through the dark,
Freed from the pressing throng, my friend.

The lightly scented night wind blows;
It heals the soul of wrong, my friend.

A gentle arc holds all our dreams
Bound in a stardust thong, my friend.

Soft feathered and unseen, one tolls
The heart of nature’s gong, my friend.

Can lone Zahhar, atop the hill,
Ever be there too long, my friend?

This is my 48th ghazal.

Posted on by EAT

Left Barren

Few things disturb me more than the sight and impact of a clear cut. Not when I wrote this, and not now.

Left Barren

Once tall homes in blossom, now dead fallen;
They lay by the spinning blade’s head fallen.

Men sweep, like mighty scythe, life from the Earth,
Cathedral columns of old spread fallen.

Hewn from dawn through the blazing broad of day—
Always more, as the sun sets red, fallen.

By the grisly hand of a heartless race
Are the living spires of Earth shred fallen.

Strong men make their living mid plunging boughs,
But their souls are, as they break bread, fallen.

Verdant pillars holding the sky at bay
Are by a destructive greed sped fallen.

Wastelands expand where mystic mist once formed,
Lush realms, where life diversely tread, fallen.

“Where went the life that flourished here?” asked One;
Wailing with the wind, a voice said, “Fallen…”

Zahhar’s last hopes with steady pace collapse,
Deep ravaged by a cutting dread, fallen.

This is my 47th ghazal.

Posted on by EAT

Sleep

The subject of death came to plague my thoughts at a very early age, probably around four or five. And so I spent the greater part of my childhood in livid terror of death. The fault could be my father’s, but there’s no real telling. It’s possible this fear rode a thread of spirit into my manifest being from some place, time, or realm before.

I vaguely recall asking my father what happens after we die, probably as a five year old, and he proceeded to explain to me with all the concrete believability that only one’s hallowed father could possess, that it all just ends, that it’s like going to sleep and never waking up again. He was an atheist. For some reason this thought terrified me more, at the time, than the worst possible hells the Catholics could think up for my young brain.

Yet, as an adult… Where does time go when we sleep, between the dreams. It seems to me that there truly is an aspect of our being that is beyond the touch of time, and that we only realize it, unconsciously, in the depths of sleep.

It was as I pondered such thoughts when I sat down to write this ghazal.

Sleep

Who can remember their race between dreams?
Nothing ever holds its pace between dreams.

A mighty river thunders on its way,
An endless quest for the place between dreams.

Though predators fiercely hunt for your soul,
Know they can never give chase between dreams.

Cloudscapes of splendor vanish in the wind;
Their existence bears no trace between dreams.

This depthless farness mid the burning stars
Is but the motionless space between dreams.

Light ventures through and beyond the abyss,
Yet will never show its face between dreams.

Our pains and sorrows gather fold on fold,
But who can carry their case between dreams?

Your freedom flutters far in flight, Zahhar,
For limitless is the grace between dreams.

This is my 45th ghazal.

Publication History:

The Ghazal Page (web-based) — June 2002

Posted on by EAT

Noise

Inspired no doubt by much of what we hear in politics, the news, and from “experts” in the arts.

Noise

Meaningless words accrete relentlessly,
Growing in their conceit relentlessly.

Bright words with meaning, swallowed in the storm,
Simply cannot compete relentlessly.

Like sands on thrusting winds that pelt and tear,
These empty words entreat relentlessly.

Weeds grow enmasse throughout the spanning fields
And glowing words delete relentlessly.

Are truthless proclamations reified
Because the words repeat relentlessly?

Zahhar’s own words, though lost in rolling din,
Will not stay in defeat relentlessly.

This is my 42nd ghazal.

Posted on by EAT

English Ghazal

I later rewrote this ghazal under a new title, “Ghazal to the Ghazal”.

English Ghazal

The soul its depths may know within the amorous ghazal
So poignant as it may within the dolorous ghazal.

What forms with simple ease in languages of the East
Stands impervious to English, the onerous ghazal.

Dare not disgrace the history and beauty of its form
With bold attempts to reinvent the canorous ghazal.

Well before the very first of English words were formed,
A wonder spread by poets was the prosperous ghazal.

This heart had lost its aspect in the dismal realms of grief
But found its shape anew within the rapturous ghazal.

In time a stone shapes well within the sculptors mindful care;
As such, the mind is honed that works the rigorous ghazal.

Blessed profoundly is the heart and all its depths fulfilled
That strives to form in English mold the decorous ghazal.

The ghazal’s essence flows within the spirit of Zahhar;
Let this be an example of the flavorous ghazal.

This is my 41st ghazal.