Poets
Online Archive
Ghazal
September 1999
If you have been pronouncing
the term as gay-zaal (as I did), it's wrong - the actual Arabic is supposed
to sound more like ghuzzle. Ghazal originated in Iran in the 10th century A.D.
The ghazal seldom exceeded twelve stanzas, and generally has five to eight
in its modern form. It is a short poem made up of long-lined couplets in
the same meter.
The opening couplet of the ghazal is always a representative
couplet: it sets the mood and tone of the poem and prepares us for its
proper appreciation. The last couplet of the ghazal sometimes includes
the name of the poet, and is more personal than general in its tone and
intent. Here the poet may express his own state of mind. The different
couplets of the ghazal are not bound by the unity and consistency of thought.
Each couplet is a self-sufficient unit, detachable and quotable, generally
containing the complete expression of an idea. The couplets may be united
by meter and rhyme, or by a subtle theme and content; thus each couplet
is intended to constitute a discrete entity - like a pearl in a necklace
or a flower in a garland. ( for example, the star references that run
through both poems by Adrienne
Rich that were originally used to illustrate
this prompt.)
They are often titled simply ghazal or the word ghazal appears
as part of the title - such as "Ghazal for a Dry Season", "Green Ghazal."
Although the ghazal deals with the whole spectrum of human experience,
its central concern is love. Ghazal is an Arabic word which literally means
talking to women & is sometimes translated as "the talk of boys &
girls."
You'll notice that some poets have chosen to be faithful to the
"rules" (ending each stanza with the same word, or including their name
- perhaps in lower case - in the final stanza and others have taken a freer
approach to the form. Letter of the law, spirit of the law...
Further Reading: read more
about the form in The
Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry.
Adrienne
Rich translated a series of these poems in her book Delos (out of print), as
did Robert Bly in Night
and Sleep and
Coleman
Barks' in his translations of Rumi.
More information on
the classical ghazal form.
Ghazal
Late summer an unexpected
crop: beans veiled by hand-shaped leaves.
I lift one veil: green
leaves, green vine, the bean a hidden lover.
Around me, threat of storm.
Drums rattle the car stereo:
thunderous. A tenor
sings angrily to his lover.
When the pond is full, a
tranquil surface. Empty these long weeks,
it absorbs each drop of
rain hungrily, as a lover.
It is raining where you
are. Here damp air lies against my skin,
a veil of moisture.
Its touch is not unlike a lovers.
How am I like the mist?
I am more tangible than air, yet
I might evaporate in the
warm arms of a lover.
Take away my garden and
the air and I am a woman
gasping only for ordinary
things, not for her lover.
This is how it is:
my car, my house, my son, myself, our pace
slow on this long road.
You are the destination, my lover.
Laura
Shovan
Parent Versus Child Ghazal
If wisdom comes with aging,
why are we so bad
at passing it to children,
now so madly sad?
We drink and smoke away
our leisure-time as couch-
potatoes; and we wonder
why our children slouch.
We all have learned of power
behind the wheel, but youth -
uncouth - has also learned
of death, its other truth.
We have known - while cause
is right - that war is hell;
But still we train all
willing lads in killing well.
Though Catherine M. knows
many ways to get to heaven,
she wonders in what ways
she has prepared her seven.
Catherine
M. LeGault
Ghazal for a Hard Heart
The stone that beats beneath
my breast feeds me.
I breathe in air, breathe
out lies that circle around me like halos.
Every autumn, ladybugs,
red and winged, infest the house.
I close all doors to too
much luck and vacuum them to death.
Sometimes the music disappears,
drowned out by the sopranos.
I press my hands to my
ears to keep the melody out.
The chameleon confuses both
predators and lovers;
It is caught in a trap,
doesn't know the color of its own skin.
The curtain is too heavy
now to see outside.
I am taunted by breeze
that pushes at the fabric's edge.
Susan
Kaye
Ghazal
Inside a black Jeep S.U.V
She smiles into her cell
phone.
Who is your daughter wired
to when
She keys e-mail to "cyberboy"?
A chorus of strangers laughs
to hear
The punch line just before
it comes.
Why go to see the Broadway
Show?
Reviews exhaust the possible.
Over the lake I hear my
voice
Coming back in paraphrase.
Jim
O'Rourke
GHAZAL FOR A PITTSBURGH
WEDDING
You could be the girl at
the Pittsburgh wedding,
the Beer Barrel Polka an
afterthought -- gloomy burp,
or you could be the other
girl: Miss Sun Bronze Bikini
adjusting her glittery
thong in the afterglow. Mirror.
If he wears Old Spice, does
this make it better?
Will he sail after you
more discreetly than ever?
He weighs so much -- a hard
ton, and his shoes are undignified.
Everything hampers him,
his own tongue, the words it laps.
The waiter serves salt,
nothing libatious.
It's all there in the photograph:
your crown.
When the days come at you,
you'll have to understand.
The crickets do what they
know to be the best bright thing.
Or you could almost be sad.
Patience could strangle you with her delicate glove.
Or you could write harder,
harder, until it is.
Mary
DeBow
Ghazal
Dead blazes simmer beneath
the skin of the city.
Icy air numbs the sidewalk
there-- I number my steps.
In a wooden kitchen bowl
butter and sugar cream
together. How long
must I wait for sweet surrender?
Once you lived in the heart
of heat. A cold pilgrim,
I begged your eyes to burn
me, and they did, they did.
I study sycamore, quaking
aspen, and tulip oak;
deciduous all. Not
thinking to end, they blurt out green.
The ground shall come to
muffle me, cover me, quiet me.
I splash my laughter over
you and weave you a crown of daisies.
We build a bonfire out of
days and glances. It dances
and flares, threatens to
purify us, grows to consume us.
Margaret
Valentine
Melting Ghazal
Water from the spring runoff
tasting like childhood snow,
I fill my metal Sierra
cup again and again.
She said," I miss you,"
and all I could do
was stare into the ice
in her glass.
Sweating a copper pipe with
the blue flame,
the solder rushes to fill
the gap and join.
The votive candle in its
red glass cup consumes the wax,
leaving a soft skin and
charred center of sorrow or guilt.
From the treeline on Kilimanjaro,
my home is beyond
the ken of my vision and
of my understanding.
Ken
Ronkowitz
Ghazal at the Equinox
At the waterline, the taste
of salt, sound of water,
feel of cold autumn, the
sight of my daughter.
The shortening daylight
makes me think
that the plant's turning
sunward is even sadder.
The church bell rings at
noon and I am home
to hear it and stop talking
on the phone.
The blue chambray shirt
was lying in the sun.
When I put it on I could
smell you around me.
At dinner, the seasonings
overpower me, I fall
into you, I awaken with
my tongue parched.
Lianna Wright
Ghazal for Apples
On Mott Street the apples
are unwaveringly sincere.
Their believable rows against
the green tissue in the pine box: a clough bleed.
Outside the girls gather
apples to wear below their hearts.
The fruit labors in preparation
for the rough bleed.
My heart, my heart, you
are against me again!
The moon is on fire. The
night translates the sough: bleed.
The sun is thatch plaited
into flame. Again: flame.
Doctors, like priests,
transfigure the tough bleed.
The cardinal flames and
shakes into the dappled green.
All must be riven thus.
To cope is not enough. Bleed.
Mary
DeBow
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