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the past

It has been many, many, many moons since I wrote my last ghazal poem. In fact, seeing as this blog serves as an archive/portfolio of my poetry, it’s easy to discover just when that was, exactly—December of 2012. Just about one month shy of 10 years.

Well, here it is:

the past

Once again these haggard bones and thews relive the past.
It seems no matter where I roam, I’ll never leave the past.

Your words, they still reecho up ravines and canyon walls
where aspirations reach like peaks, but not above the past.

However far our dreams may sprawl—however high they rise—
they come and go. And in the end, we merely weave the past.

A belching mire—hidden deep in mist—gave birth to all,
so everything that lives and grows is forced to grieve the past.

I found an alpine vale where I could fill my lungs with peace,
still shadows rise unwelcome guests—and I receive the past.

The road behind me stretches back and fades into a storm
that rumbles such uncertainty I scarce believe the past.

A soul fragmented by neglect, abuse, and bitterness
may find a way to live awhile, but won’t survive the past.

Unearthing ruins from memory may lead to understanding—
Yet you may also raise a corpse if you revive the past.

I know I’m owed a debt that even lifetimes can’t repay.
But, if I’ll ever thrive today, I must forgive the past.

Put down the seats and open up the moon roof—breathe a while.
The stars are out with yet another message, “Waive the past.”

So, yes, “the past.” It’s been doing a bit of haunting the last few months. I suppose it would be more accurate to say it’s been doing a lot of haunting all my life. So much of it is lost to me, hidden somewhere beyond my powers of recall. And yet it continues to bear influence on my daily life, my state of mind, my approach to relationships, everything.

As I contemplated this reality, a few lines came to mind that I felt could work within the ghazal structure, and so I finally had something to start tapping into this document that’s been sitting open on my last 3 laptops for the past 8 years. Yes, as in opened every single time I restarted the system, and without content that entire time—until now, that is. This is now my 135th ghazal.

There’s a lot of writing I would like to be doing—a lot of ideas I’d like to explore. But finding the time and energy for this has been difficult. A few months ago I bought a laptop that seems to be helping. I’ve gone through a few laptops and tablets over the past several years in search of the right writing and research tool. Turns out that—aside from dealing with sleep apnea, wonky biochemistry, my wife’s cancer, raising a kid, and working a full-time job—one big challenge I’ve struggled with is the ergonomics of typing and research, just sitting at and using a computer.

This laptop has an eraser mouse, which I thought had vanished from the earth close to 2 decades ago. And having a laptop with an eraser mouse I think has helped bring back a little inspiration and drive to write over the past few months because there’s so much less ergonomic strain involved. Still, time and energy are ever at a premium.

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The Two Gods

The idea for this poem goes back to my early 20s—more than half a lifetime ago. I guess it took me a while to find the brain-space to flush it out.

The Two Gods

The Concrete God and the Abstract God sat down one day for tea
to talk about affairs of fate and solemn mysteries.

“They named this city after me,” The Concrete God began.
“There rising at its center looms my monument by man.

“Night and day they praise my name within the vaulted hall,
beseeching after every kind of blessing great and small.”

The Abstract God was unimpressed by what was said, yet smiled,
“This tea is quite delicious, and the evening air is mild.”

“And what of you,” the Concrete God went on, “Who praises you?
Where are your names reechoed up by altar, mat or pew?”

The Abstract God drank down another sip of tea and gazed
across the sprawling cityscape where spires loomed in haze,

the ones to which the Concrete God referred wherein his name
reverberates from ancient walls of stone with high acclaim.

The Concrete God raised prying eyes, still waiting for reply;
the Abstract God took in a breath and started with a sigh,

“Those who know me also know there is no name for me.
I am the breeze that bends the grass and moves the canopy;

I am the light that shimmers through between the shifting leaves,
the rumpling sound that rises up where wandering waters weave.”

The Concrete God now took a sip and pondered what was said;
And then, “No name! It seems to me the nameless are the dead.”

“Perhaps,” the Abstract God replied, “if you are bound to name,
its absence may induce a state that’s very much the same.

“But I have been since long before the conscious thought occurred
to name each thing the mind perceives or manifests with words.”

“But surely there’s a name for you,” the Concrete God appealed,
“for humankind is wont to name whatever is revealed.”

“They name the things they see and feel,” the Abstract God returned,
“but I exist beyond the reach of what can be discerned.

“They name the grass; they name the leaf; they name the brook and breeze;
they name the very thoughts they think; but I am none of these.”

The Concrete God looked down his nose, “And yet I heard you say
that there are those who know you here among the living clay.”

“Indeed,” the Abstract God again, “but as I said before,
they also know I have no name to worship and adore.”

“And so the ones who come to know me simply let it rest,
an understanding freed from nouns embedded in the breast.”

The Concrete God threw up his hands, “This makes no sense at all—
to be an entity that’s known but none can ever call.”

“Indeed,” the Abstract God agreed, “for reason cannot name
a thing beyond the reach of thought to give it form and frame.”

“Alright,” the Concrete God again, “but surely there are those
who bind their understanding to a name they can depose.”

“There are, my Friend,” the Abstract God said gently. “But, you see,
this is precisely just the way it is you came to be.”

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One for Each

After learning about the mass killings in Newtown, CT, we are keeping vigil tonight. I think we all are.

One for Each

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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to rest

This is a complete rewrite of a ghazal written in November of 2002. For some reason, I titled that original ghazal “*poof*”. Yes, with the asterisks. Having entered every title of every poem I’ve written in my adult life into a database, I can safely point out that this is the only poem I have ever titled in such a manner. I must have been feeling apathetic the day I completed the original. I’m not making “*poof*” available here because it’s really not worth sharing.

This rewrite extends the ghazal by one more couplet and the meter by two feet. It extends the rhyme to include partial consonance while keeping the radiff (or refrain) and it trades the use of my pen-name for allusion to one of its meanings in the final couplet. And, of course, it is now something I feel more comfortable sharing with my readers.

to rest

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.

Since the original has been completely rewritten, this becomes my 134th ghazal.

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Default

This began as a pregnant note, jotted down in one of my composition books as I sat in a fast food joint reflecting on the pangs of a friend’s recent betrayal of my loyalty and trust. This note eventually became the second couplet. My friend of many years turned on me quite unexpectedly and I was left stunned, numb, and pensive. I didn’t know at the time that the two lines I jotted down would later expand out into a ghazal that explored a broader spectrum of circumstances involving trust and betrayal.

Default

A field of dreams was sown by the hand of a spoken promise,
but they withered, for your words were merely a token promise.

The light outside is the veil of my great uncertainty;
inside, alone in the dark, I dream of your broken promise.

Your words were fuel for a blaze that warded off the darkness,
but soon the night fell back on embers of smoking promise.

Conviction was a spring that vanished as I neared it;
I was a fool, allured by hints of unspoken promise.

A single hope became the wellspring of all deception,
seeping a saccharine poison, its scent evoking promise.

For years the dreamer wandered through realms of loss and fortune;
adrift on phasing currents, he never woke in promise.

Delusion is a bright-eyed mistress assuring passion,
but time reveals her treacherous ways, revoking promise.

Potential rises like a fog, illumed by a half-moon,
and leaves the unsteady path before us cloaked in promise.

This is my 133rd ghazal.

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The Path

This is a rewrite of a ghazal written many years ago, making this my 132nd. The original ghazal used the closest equivalent in English of qaafiyaa, or that rhyme which recurs directly before the radif, which is the refrain. The rewrite uses another device entirely, primary alliteration (on the accented syllable) before the radif. Everything else is different, too.

Years ago, I wanted the poem to metaphorize that quiet calling that leads one away from common pursuits to something more personal, lasting, and perhaps even contributive. The rewrite is more focused on depicting this idea than was the original.

The Path

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.

The original, written in June of 2002, can be found under this title: “Path” (no article).

Publication History:

LYNX (web-based) — September 2012

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Reforming Words

This is a rewrite of a ghazal written many years ago, making this my 131st. The title, refrain, and preceding rhyme are the same, but everything else is different. Also, rather than using my takhallus (pen-name) directly in the final couplet, as I did in the original version, I just allude to it using one of its many meanings.

Reforming Words

We built this ivory dome on founding words;
its dream of hope sustained with grounding words.

Our Lady braves the darkness, torch in hand,
her call reechoed with resounding words.

In wisdom there is depth that can’t be measured
with just the simple plumb of sounding words.

Our elders gathered long ago and signed
a justice poignant with expounding words.

The multitude would never have been heard
without the glimmer of propounding words.

The graybeard mystic gained the truth of language,
and ever since has aired confounding words.

A wounded soldier presses to his brow
an old book full of most astounding words.

The shape of liberty has changed; the stars
are witness to the force of bounding words.

The original, written in February of 2002, can be read under the same title: “Reforming Words”.

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the misty sun

Beyond the elementary description of a scene and some personal feelings common to most people, nature poetry is actually not the easiest thing to write. The main challenge comes upon attempting remove oneself from the scene along with any personal feelings, using only imagery itself to convey such feelings through depiction. This poem was written to exemplify this process, so far as my abilities permitted, for someone who had asked me to critique one of her nature poems.

the misty sun

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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Offerings

This is a rewrite of a ghazal written several years ago, making this my 130th. The refrain and preceding rhyme are the same, though possibly more appropriately approached this time around.

Offerings

I’ll walk through tattered corridors of time for you;
I’ll pick through rooms dilapidate with grime for you.

I almost didn’t make it through yon craggy pass,
but I’ll go back and map that deadly climb for you.

Because the great flood covered riches deep in mud,
I dredge destruction from the fetid slime for you.

A legend tells of treasure sunk where memory dims;
I’ll find those depths and search that watery clime for you.

Since priceless pearls were buried with the fractured years,
I dig amongst these bones beneath the lime for you.

A thief once entered in the night and took all hope;
I’ve striven ever since to solve this crime for you.

We lean against a storm of sharp discordant words;
I’ll try to harmonize them into rhyme for you.

The soft wind carries voices from translucent skies
which whisper meaning on the garden chime for you.

The original, written in June of 2002, can be read under this title: “Offering” (not pluralized).

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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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Midwinter on Huffaker Lookout

Huffaker Hills is 251 acres of treeless, desert public land in south Reno set aside for pedestrian use. From there, Huffaker Lookout—a pair of lower hills—spurs out into Washoe Valley, separating an industrial park from the residential area in which I live. On its way south, Hwy 395, a six lane freeway, bends out and around the westernmost hill, just scraping its base.

Midwinter on Huffaker Lookout

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.

Desert hills have always had a way of luring me up to their stony crests.