Tumbleweeds roll,
a dusty screen door
screams in the dusk,
a line of rust marks
the horizon.
A red gingham oilcloth
gaily covers a kitchen table,
his mother’s favourite,
rosemary in a jar
gives a homely touch,
he stands by the sink
peeling potatoes,
a half drunk beer
on the draining board,
a question mark
furrows his brow
at the screech,
his reverie broken.
She enters,
with a comma
on each cheek,
framing his heart.
The street runs like a dark mist,
rain swiftly catches cold,
streetlights grab the sidewalk,
an embrace of stone necessity.
A hooded faceless figure
throws a still glowing cigarette
into the flowing gutter – phssst
– extinguished now
they ride the pipes together
to the underworld.
A lonely rat sniffs a roller-door,
whiskers slick against his cheeks,
I step aside and find the moon
on the other side of my umbrella.
Strains of cheerful chatter
beckon from just around the corner,
with purpose now, I stride afresh
towards the harbour of my love’s face.
You walked into the room – a ray of light,
your masquerade costume, my ray of light.
You whispered, “my beloved”, my heart soared,
Your face, a precious bloom – a ray of light.
Unworthy feelings banished, I flew high
Above the deepest gloom, your ray of light.
We lightly tripped together, love’s pavanne,
Breathless; into my womb, new ray of light.
And those who doubt love’s transforming magic,
Sweep them clean with a broom, heart’s ray of light.
And if dark days descend on you, my love,
Then I would expel your doom, dear ray of light.
My soul is bound with crimson threads to yours,
Many summers on life’s loom – love’s ray of light.
Do visit dVerse for Samuel Peralta’s (aka Semaphore) wonderful post on the Ghazal as a form. This is the first time I have attempted to write a ghazal. It was very challenging to say the least.
Here is an extract from Samuel’s explanation of the form:
“Ghazals are beautiful poems, originating in Arabic verse from the sixth century, written traditionally about poetically physical or spiritual love, with a melancholic air of separation or longing.
Made famous in the Western world by the modern translations of works by Rumi and Hafiz, these translations unfortunately have been the source of much confusion over what a ghazal is.
Classic ghazals have a strict form and structure – similar to a Petrarchan sonnet. In trying to be faithful to the ancient poet’s words and expression, translators had to forego the structural framework of the classical ghazal in English.”
A slight
frisson
ripples almost
imperceptibly
deep beneath
the river’s skin
forlorn
she skips a stone
across the water
hoping it won’t sink
into the slime
where fat eels lurk
stars glisten
in the warm sky
as he farewells
a floating lotus lantern
hoping for a true love
to appear
she sees a bright flame
floating in a lotus
lantern
she walks back
along the riverbank
a chance encounter
she bumps into him
and so wheels turn
again…
With brash bravura
she puts on her Asian face,
and spruiks her authenticity,
her home a tiny island
with a bustling city,
her face shows traces
of curious seafarers, Portugese
who sailed east and south
and east beyond the rim,
they did not fall,her heart
bleeds dreams of red and gold,
untold riches found
in shopping malls …
She speaks only English,
with clipped end consonants,
her ancestral tongues
are silenced with her full
acquiescence …
and she searches for
her identity in cinema
and sitcoms.
Tangerine spiders
trapped in amber
walls of the maze,
passages slide
slick under
my fingers.
I tread barefoot
on soft anthracite
wending my way
stepping out
a mother’s prayers
to the heart
where a waterfall
tinkles with
the dreams
of a young bride
seeking a true love
in her groom
that remains
long after the last
rose petal falls;
that reveres
fecund hips
with ripening seeds
and sees beauty
in bare branches
and thorns.
Ochre envelope
stuffed
into
my post box;
I pull it
eager,
a spider runs
on my hand.
I shake the spider
onto a shrub.
The postmark
from USA
promises
a wish
fulfilled.
I carefully
slide
a paper knife
draw out
a broadsheet
lit journal
with my poems
inside
in excellent
company
(even Bukowski
once published
there).
I look
for my poems,
with hands
trembling
carefully turning
fragile
newspaper pages
too easily torn.
At last
I find my words
then read them
somehow
they seem strange,
who wrote them?
I smell
heady
newsprint ink.
For OneShotWednesday
Perfect Right Here
Apricot light, through floral lace,
dappled flowers cast bold shadows,
she looks.
The sharp chin of her old cat rests
in the crook of her bent elbow,
they sit.
Red cushions pulled close to keep out
the fading twilight, a light is
switched on.
In the kitchen a casserole
bubbles, a smell of India
spreads out.
The dog is waiting for his walk,
impatiently pawing his lead,
he barks.
The doorbell rings, a door-to-door
salesman selling the Internet,
sent off.
She squints at the quinachrome gold
stream over her clouds, a counter
to cold.
The glaze is working, changing light
a perfect warm atmosphere
right here.
Milady,
you are dressed
in flowing robes of jade
crowned by the moon;
your heart’s a cup filled
with gratitude
that flows
without end…
NaPoWriMo 28
Dearest Max,
You are old beyond cat years;
born in a monsoon last century,
once a silly kitten
dressed in bonnets
and frilly smocks, you forbore
the love of a little girl.
Then you became
the great blue hunter
vanishing in dappled light
between the orchids
and the rubber trees
stalking parrots and skinks.
Then a plane flight
to the southern parts
where you claimed
your territory and learned
the wiles of urban alley cats
fighting bravely
for your stake.
Now you sleep contently,
find the sunny spots
when the days grow shorter,
and snuggle in soft laps
on long cold nights.
You need arthritis shots
and steps to climb
to reach your favourite couch;
you still show flashes
of your intuition,
I wish you would last forever.
NaPoWriMo #18
Jingle Pot Luck Monday http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/
Marousia 