0008 A Ghazal about Ghazals
A poet friend spoke of a poetic form called a ghazal
and said, why don’t you try to write a poem like a ghazal?
They’ve been revived in recent years in English, in fact
there’s even a periodical devoted to the ghazal…
and you’re rather keen on that mystical poetry stuff?
and love and such? Why don’t you try the ghazal?
My usual reaction to suggestions like that is, no..
but I googled Wikipedia out of curiosity, on ghazal
which told me everything about it except
why anyone should choose to write a ghazal..
which as you see, is such a restrictive poetic form..
And then I found a passing mention about the word ghazal
it said that the name came from the cry of the gazelle…
and that, told me more than anything about the ghazal…
since a gazelle, like any animal, bereft of the power of speech
and thus of poetry, is the very essence of the ghazal
in that, whether from pain, from danger, from love
- or visited by God - cries the same cry of the gazelle – the ghazal;
as poets, seeking to express the inexpressible, are as limited
in their success, as crying animals, in their way – the ghazal
may thus be seen as every poem that ever poet wrote;
crying within itself, one cry alone...So the ghazal
must choose the human word for its repeated call
with care... ah! yearning heart! ... for One or All! ... Ghazal!
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
Kake-Jisku Ghazal
Nature’s seams of seasons en plein air sur terre
orbit of harmony en plain air sur terre
Primavera, our eyes rise for your coming
long distance traveler en plein air sur terre
dallying with each stroll through the country side
genesis/life’s rebirth en plein air sur terre
Summer you burn away our sins of passion
fire dances hovering en plein air sur terre
vaporizing our dreaming/hazy vision
twisting, rising prayers en plein air sur terre
Autumn shedding all our leaves multicolored
final ashen harvest en plein air sur terre
Mother Earth’s savoring charms ceasing to flow
all the seasons sucked dry en plein air sur terre
sun laying its head on a cold snow pillow
hiding all the seasons en plein air sur terre
Winter/what better time/tell us your secrets
in white we will be clothed en plein air sur terre
petal offerings/revolving festivals
kaki-jiku hanging en plein sur terre
that we be cleansed in your blanket of meanings
purifying rituals en plein air sur terre
- Nov.5,2007
* This is a Ghazal. The following explanation is quoted from poets.org from the Academy of American Poets. “A Ghazal is composed of at least five couplets - - and typically no more than fifteen - - that are structurally, thematically, and emotionally autonomous.. Each line of the poem must be of the same length, though meter in not imposed in English. The first couplet introduces a scheme, made up of a rhyme followed by a refrain. Subsequent couplets pick up the same scheme in the second line only, repeating the refrain and rhyme in the second line with both lines of the first stanza. The final couplet usually includes the poet’s signature, referring to the author in the first or third person, and frequently including the poet’s own name or a derivation of its meaning.”
“Traditionally invoking melancholy, love, longing, and metaphysical questions, ghazals are often sung by Iranian, Indian, and Pakistani musicians. The form has roots in seventh-century Arabia, and gained prominence in the thirteenth-and fourteenth-century thanks to such Persian poets as Rumi and Hafiz. In the eighteenth-century, the ghazal was used by poets writing in Urdu, a mix of the medieval languages of Northern India, including Persian. Among these pots, Ghalib is the recognized master.
Pulished on-line by The Ghazal Page, March Issue - 2008
Go To: www.ghazalpage.net/2008/2008_march.html
poem by Ben Gieske
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I'm not a company man.
Ghazal format
Some men strive hard chasing success
Whilst other men are content with less.
It all depends I must suppose.
On whom they're trying to impress.
I value self sufficiency
And use my time efficiently.
I choose to please myself.
There is no reason I can see.
For me to use my energy
Concentrating constantly.
Pursuing riches I don't need.
It simply makes no sense to me.
I understand that some will choose
To store up wealth they cannot use,
But that does not apply to me.
Because I know I can refuse.
To work for sixteen hours a day
I live my life a different way.
The company does not own me.
Though I work hard to earn my pay.
I spend time with my family.
Which I regard importantly.
There is much more to life than work.
I can state quite confidently.
I am contented with my lot.
I need no more than what I've got.
That is what success means to me.
My family first no matter what.
Wednesday,26 September 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Poem For Aniqa
What indeed is your patrimony
My sweet child, Aniqa!
A few 'ghazal' compositions, a handful of
poems
Which are but treasures
Of broken hearts, given for safekeeping
To your dad?
These are tales
Of days bygone
Lived before your time
Narratives written in blood
Prophecies of better seasons to come!
Somewhere, if at all
You suffer under the tyranny
Of moments sad and forlorn
Must read these poems, my child
For, I'm sure
They will reveal
My philosophy of sorrow and happiness
A moment, indeed
My sweet child, Aniqa
And your eyes
Will bloom forth in roses of tears
Your lips
Will soften with dreamlike smiles.
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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Pain did not become grateful to medicine
Pain did not become grateful to medicine
I didn't get well; [but it] wasn't bad either
Why are you gathering the Rivals?
[It was just] a mere spectacle [that] took place, no complaint was made
Where would we go to test our fate/ destiny?
When you yourself did not put your dagger to test
How sweet are your lips, that the rival
[after] receiving abuse, did not lack pleasure
Recent/ hot news is that she is coming
Only today, in the house there was not a straw mat!
Does the divinity belonged to Namrood'?
[cause] in your servitude, my wellbeing did not happen
[God] gave life- the given [life] was His alone
The truth is; that the responsibility was not fulfilled [by us]
If the wound was pressed, the blood did not stop
[though] the task was halted, [but the bleeding still] set out
Is it highway robbery, or is it heart-theft?
Having taken the heart, the heart-thief set out [to depart]
Recite something, for people are saying
Today "Ghalib" was not a ghazal-reciter
poem by Mirza Ghalib
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Chiragh-e-Muhabbat
Ghazal
Halaat badalne lage hain unhe dekh kar
Khushi ab chhupaye chhupai na jati
Batein hain dilon ki, badi hi purani
Jo har ek mehfil mein sunai na jati
Hai kashish Jo Tum mein woh aur kahan
Teri yadein iss dil se bhulai na jati
Chiragh-e-muhabbat yun hi jalaye rakhna
Yeh woh roshni hai jo bujhai na jati
Parwah na kar zamane ki kar de izhhar ‘deep'
Yeh aag dil mein ab dabai na jati
Written by
Deepak kumar deep
29.11.2012
poem by Deepak Kumar deep
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That Fellow Moon (Ghazal)
When I first saw you, I felt a hello-moon,
Like I was phasing into a tallow moon,
Sitting in a chair/hands moving/crocheting,
And I longed only for your allow-me moon.
A sweater, scarf – I really didn’t notice.
My eyes were still hazy with a sallow moon.
Watching your fingers back and forth back and forth.
My swaying and shimmering with a jello-moon,
Wanting to learn the warp of your creating,
Caught up in the glowing of a halo-moon.
Teach me teach me how your Christmas fingers fly.
I’m ripe for learning/spring in this fallow moon.
Drawn into your eyes I feel their allure.
Ben, said I, it’s time/forget that fellow moon.
- Oct.26,2007
This was published online by The Ghazal Page in April,2008.
Go to: www.ghazalpage.net/2008/2008_april.html
poem by Ben Gieske
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Cheesy Moon (Ghazal)
Look up and gaze at craters on the cheesy moon.
A cow, a spoon jumping over the cheesy moon.
Opening the refrigerator, what cheese now?
How about more of tasty, crusty, cheesy moon?
Dare I taste the zesty tang of pepper-jack cheese,
Mix and dance with the tango of a cheesy moon?
My office cloudy, loveless, lifeless gray
Could use some life-giving zest of a cheesy moon.
Brie and Camenbert, Ben loves soft and crusty cheese,
Swiss and Gruyère with wide eyes opened, cheesy moon.
- April 8,2008
This was published online by The Ghazal Page in July of 2008.
See:
http: //www.ghazalpage.net/2008/moon_challenge/2008_moo n_radif.html
poem by Ben Gieske
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Living in Bowling Green (Ghazal)
Excuse me, but my favorite color isn’t green
Even though I live in the city of Bowling Green.
In its history the people played such lively games.
On many sunny days their fun was bowling on the Green.
In his boyhood here there lived a man named Duncan Hines.
One day you might find his colored cakes in Irish green.
Oh yes, this city is the home of the car Corvette.
If it pleases you, you can own one painted blue green.
The school my son attended here was Bowling Green High.
His closest friend in French class was Emily Green.
About once a week I visit our Bowling Green Mall.
There you can plainly see its signs printed all in green.
With pollution and economy the way they are,
I am happy to see the city still going green.
- October 3,2009
Published online Dec.21,2009 by The Ghazal Page in the Color Radif Challenge Issue. Go to: http: //www.ghazalpage.net/
poem by Ben Gieske
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Poet’s Death-wish
My poetic pen ruptured
the petite pink hymen
of the onion-skinned virgin paper
and an ink-stained poem lies
naked, without her fig leaf…
I’m about to be put to death for
my inadvertent insanity!
Anyway, before my execution,
let me stalk death that has haunted me
in the fearful emerald jungles!
Before I am hanged in the endless early hours of dawn.
permit me to -
poison a petite poetry
crush a creative couplet,
slay a stylish sonnet,
exterminate an emotional elegy,
hara-kiri a humble haiku,
burn a boisterous ballad
kill a kaleidoscopic kavita,
slaughter a simple shayari,
guillotine a graceful ghazal…
Or fulfill my death wish and
let me scrawl a poignant parting poem
on the stone-walls of my death cell
with my tortured bloody fingers,
before the executioner pulls the rope of my gallows
chocking my black clothed sweaty face
till my eyes bulge out,
till my panting tongue put to rest.
My immobile body will vanish
under the blanket of incense-filled velvety nights,
while my soul will lie awake
dreaming those aquamarine dreams
on heavenly blue satin sheets of the sky
embedded with zillion twinkling stars…
Copyright ©2008 Bharat B. Trivedi
poem by Bharat Trivedi
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Hungry Moon (Ghazal)
It slowly creeps across the sky prowling for escapades, that hungry moon.
Darling, come with me, flirt with the night, I’ll protect you from that hungry moon.
We’ll dance the habanera and let it have its way with us all the night.
Then we’ll slip into the darkness under the shadow of that hungry moon.
With the conversation of the dance we’ll outshout cries from that hungry moon.
Together we’ll evade the ever-watching eyes of evry hungry moon.
We’ll outrun the loneliness that has stalked us throughout the slow-turning day.
A long day awaited, gobbled up during the night by a hungry moon.
We’ll look into the dream-lit stars until we’re dizzy, remember this night.
We’ll head for the shadows where it is darkest, away from the hungry moon.
With the swooping and snatching of an owl as it seizes its frozen prey,
I will not leave you in the shadows of the night or prey to that hungry moon.
Like a yelping dog, with the name of Ben, we’ll be racing across the ridge.
Encircled in my arms I’ll protect you then from that ever-hungry moon.
- April 4, ’08
Pulbished by The Ghazal Page online
Go to: www.ghazalpage.net/2008/moon_challenge/2008_moon_ radif.html
poem by Ben Gieske
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Love Poem Without Commas
Like twin ghazal of origin co-eval
each a brandish bound and confessional
falling satellite-like through the seven rings
of very little I quit balking to recall
futility of anything's everything:
the this-new-old-world-agricultural
all-clinging mache of meaning
dependable and workable
until until until
crossing the rainbow-constellation of you
then with a secret smile
space lit all its candles occultly colorful
as old crystal prompting an indefinite while.
Now I'm a cat up the tree of your good will
firemen circle the base-breath-taking some;
soon they'll try to fetch me. What a pill!
Over there's a truck red as the sun
I watch all through my diamond slits-
axes axe. Ladders climb-ascend
reaching clear to a heartthrob big as the Ritz
that pennants flapping, even I cannot defend.
Heart you're a billibong
ringed by a fetid strand
wider than long
on whose reeking rand
chuck themselves up more-or-less prehistoric fish
that gasp themselves out-melt into the sand,
fuming a stinking nimbus
that rising wick-like covers all the land.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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0008 A Ghazal
I lie awake as the light night-rain falls, listening
to its irregularities, listening
as the breeze blows it now and then
against the window and the curtain flutters; listening
and wondering if I can hear
the rain listening
to itself, as if – I sometimes think I hear this –
there’s a moment just before it stops as if listening
to its own decision to stop, as if it sighs,
thinks, that’s enough; it could be listening
to the gratitude of the closed flowers, the wet earth,
the ecstasy of roots which are themselves listening
to the flowers sleeping, sighing in their sleep.
But do you wonder why I’m listening
instead of sleeping, this warm rainy night?
What’s so important that it needs my listening?
It was the rain that woke me; and as I turned, sighed,
it was the thought of you last night here next to me, listening
not to me, but to your own dreams – which I may never share;
though I may share you in my listening
to your sweet sleep’s breath, felt faintly on my shoulder;
and so, there’s a question in my listening –
did you awake at the same night rain, you so far away,
awake, sigh, and in your half-awakened listening
know that I too, thought of you?
Sighed that sweet thought, of our shared, single listening? …
As the perfume of a rose may be more evocative than the rose,
So sweeter, steadier than thought, dream, memory – the listening!
[A ghazal has a rhyme scheme aa ba ca da >]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sing a song of Tajmahal
Sing a song of Tajmahal
a fine rhyme or a ghazal
Of this landmark for lovers
ah, a lover's edifice
Complete with medieval bowers
It's a Mecca for tourists!
Tis sensational, tis exceptional
tis truly a touristy place.
Watch the shimmer of its magnificent marbled dome
Moonlight or sunlight, it glimmers of imperial chrome
It's ironical then
that though Indian I am
I haven't yet been to this touristy place
It is truly as they must say, a lover's shrine
a place where hearts duly incline
They find it steamy
I find it dreamy
Oh, I've got to see for myself this touristy place
Each of the marbled minarets
conceal such romantic secrets
for lovers to silently explore
to admire and to adore
A place human lovebirds couldn't ignore.
Ah you've got to visit this touristy place!
Two famed lovers lie in the legendary vault below
and the stream too it has a romantic flow
It's a lovers haven and paradise on earth
Even dead passions there undergo a rebirth
Ah, rekindle my love for you in this touristy place!
Extol I may this awesome imposing edifice
A greed for pure love is perhaps better than avarice
Löng live the legend of Shah jahan and Mumtaz mahal
Long live love and love like a Moghul
so forever we have this touristy grace!
Yeah take me my luv to this touristy place!
poem by S.zaynub Kamoonpuri
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A Spirit Of Poetry!
when a spirit of poetry decent,
it came
In a form of dove
When it came
Jesus became first poet under sun
And Almighty God
Was already, first poet over sun?
Using Poetry in poetic foam
Almighty GOD spoke through poetry
And he is a poet himself
Now his poetry is everywhere, and anywhere
We interact with poets
Words are like soil, are everywhere
Brighter that Sun
His poetic lights lead the way
When he likes
He will come
He will be in poetic foam
To Re-arrange poems
Schedule them in a poetic manner
On a judgment, He will met poets first
And secondly meet
Those who haven't written a poem
To Discuss similes, metaphors and personifications
Future of poetry is in heaven
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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Ghazal (2)
Ghazal (2)
For Dawn Upshaw
O water, be the string to my guitar.
The land's encircled? Follow the evening star.
The flight attendant heads for her hotel—
The fossil of a bird rising through the tar.
Another photo-shoot for the pregnant model
We met in Andalusia, in a bar!
The way the sun burned through the morning fog—
Blood from a white-tailed deer struck by a car.
The soldier at the checkpoint waved us through,
While the mendicant examined his cigar.
A plague of locusts and a partial eclipse
Of the sun: send a virgin to the altar.
The neurologist at his retirement party
Thanked everyone for gauging him from afar.
The sun, the mountains, and the sea: these framed
The tragedy born of the scimitar.
Bored? Seeking love? Adventure? The divine?
It's a good time to go to Zanzibar.
The emperor dismissed the courtier
Who had prepared for famine instead of war.
And so they charged into an ancient land,
Like cattle herded into an abattoir.
The scholar's parting gift to the defrocked priest:
The fetus of an ape, preserved in a jar.
Take the reins, please. Now. I can't see the road,
Thanks to the blows I received from that hussar.
The naturalist bitten by a rattlesnake
Wore a black leather glove to hide his scar.
Steer clear of the volcano rising from the sea
Or else you'll lose that load of cinnebar.
They entertained the spirits of their marriage—
A turning of the bones in Madagascar.
A plume of smoke and ashes on the deck:
The startled lookout dangles from the spar.
Again they rose at dawn to sing hosannas:
If you're a Romanov, then I'm the czar.
poem by Christopher Merrill
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A Not a Poem Poem
A Not a Poem Poem
I will not write a poem
For I am not a poet
I cannot makes things rhyme
I’ve tried for quite some time
So will I write a poem?
NO!
I can’t write poetry
I’ve tried to all my life
Once, I tried to write a poem
About a husband and his wife
It sounded really silly
So I crumbled it up into a ball
That’s why I decided
That I couldn’t write poetry at all
Am I gonna write a poem?
NO!
Well, I’ll try to write a poem
But it will be really bad
It will be absolutely lousy
It will be completely horrible
It won’t be up to snuff
People will say, “Who wrote this stuff? ”
Will my poem be good?
NO!
Can I write a poem?
NO!
Will I write a poem?
NO!
Well, what do you know! ? !
I wrote a poem!
And it’s a pretty good poem, too!
I guess I can write poetry if I try
The next time I’m asked to write a poem,
Will I say no?
NO!
Egoism of Poets
We don’t write poetry,
Poetry writes us.
How can we make poetry,
If we are part of poetry.
The world around us is poetry.
Poetry is already defined.
Calling ourselves poets.
Selfishness in every line.
Egoism in every word.
Stealing poetry from the world.
That already exists in every form.
It’s written in every mist,
Every tree, every bliss.
Who are we to write?
Calling ourselves masterminds.
Trapping ourselves in believe
That we are creating something unique
The world at our feet.
Just too full fill our need.
Even this poem is an act
of a selfish deed.
Every letter in ink.
Created through love and sin.
Writing on a paper
But it’s the world’s skin.
Pressing on the surface.
To see blue blood is our purpose.
Thinking poetry is ours.
Poetry devoured
By poets every hour.
Poems all around us.
Turning grey to dust.
Turning brown to rust.
We have captured the most
But there is still so much.
Bleeding away in disaster, poverty
And war.
Ink to us all.
A poet’s only lord.
His only norm, his only home.
His precious and beloved poem.
We should be ashamed.
poem by Nadim Lost Soul
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Did Your Love For Him Last?
i am just wondering why you do not
write poetry anymore. I am asking myself
if your having jumped over the fence
yielded the bliss on the other side of things.
Are you too happy to forget the sad refrains
of poetry?
or Are you too sad
mourning over another
love lost
that your hands are too weary
to write another love poem for this
valentine's day?
whatever happened, please write me a love poem
sad or happy, please do write me one
i just want to know what a love poem should be all about
after all those years
when we think we really found the true one.
write me, please a love poem, show me the color
and scent of each word, show me the texture of each line,
show me whether the heart is bleeding
or leaping with joy like the one we used to write before together
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0026 To live in poetry
So often, poets
with their poetic eyes,
ears, minds, hearts, souls,
record actions that
are already poetry or poetic
in themselves
or so it seems
which makes it easy
for poetic poets to write
poetic poetry
as when I watch you
poised so still, sitting there,
your face against the light,
painting meeting sculpture,
still as any animal,
still as any goddess
roaming the cosmos in your mind
seeking, ballpoint poised,
the answer to some hidden
crossword clue
living in poetry
poem by Michael Shepherd
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All Poetry... All The Time
All Poetry … All The Time
I Love To Read In Rhythm & Rhyme
I Love To Write Of Wistful Wishes
And Lips Speak Of Love Like Bold Kisses
All Poetry … All The Time
Poetry, Is A Medication For My Mind
Poetry, Has A Power To Overthrow Pain
Poetry, Should Be Spoken, Again and Again
All Poetry … All The Time
I Am Really Thrilled To Find
More Poet Lovers, and Their Word Artistry
All The Time … All Poetry
All Poetry … All The Time
May Each Poetic Puff, Rise & Climb
Into The Clouds, Up To The Stars
(Or Maybe Just Linger, Where You Are) …
All Poetry … For All Of Time
Written & ©: 5/24/10
By: MoonBee
poem by MoonBee Canady
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