a poem
This, from the Dish, a poem by Hafiz which I think is quite lovely:
I
Have
Learned
So much from God
That I can no longer
Call
Myself
A Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim
A Buddhist, a Jew.
The Truth has shared so much of Itself
With me
That I can no longer call myself
A man, a woman, and angel
Or even pure
Soul.
Love has
Befriended Hafiz so completely
It has turned to ash
And freed
Me
Of every concept and image
My mind has ever known.
***
Is this a Ghazal? Any poets out there know? The use of the poet’s name at the end there would suggest that it is, but I’m rusty…
Not really — this is a Ghazal:
Ghazal by Gene Doty
The silver maple’s new green holds weariness:
under the redbud, in clean dirt, only weariness.
Closing the window against thunder-laden air,
I see through the screen a passerby’s weariness.
Qoheleth in his bitter book complains against the wind
and finds in all that’s seen or heard endless weariness.
Come, wife, and settle your head on my shoulder;
on the pillows we lean and seek to dispell our weariness.
Gino, why did you write these tiresome lines?
Don’t you know that verses only mean weariness?
Plus there is not radif, or refrain, and the lines are not of similar length or meter. It would be straining to call them couplets.Report
This is a mini-Ghazal (not)
Princes, no longer born, have no god
or gold, or blood to mask a common fault,
They preen, posture, self-proclaim, but fall —
they have to – princes no longer born.Report
Very true, Mike. Like I said – very rusty. Thanks!Report
to write a poem
and have it contain
every phrase
every drop of blood
every midichlorian
and then to see one’s poem
categorized
the poet
dies
inside
like porkins
in the trenchReport
Not true, jaybird. Not when discussing forms. If you write in form than you are already accepting the categorization ahead of time. If I write a Sonnet or a Villanelle how can I die inside when someone recognizes it as such?Report
I dunno, I read that (at Andrew’s first) and I thought, intellectually, how over the top and sentimental it was… while, inside, I felt fingers to my lips telling me to hush hush.Report
In the heart of my pain
and on the lips are
from your poljupca
table, give me the last
farewell, O Ana O Ana heart
my days
I still dream your character
your hair and in my breast
hands, O Ana O Ana, heart
my day …Report