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You've stumbled upon an old house: now go inside the ghazal.
Persian rugs adorn the floor thrown down astride the ghazal.
A skein of incense winds its scent around an inner courtyard;
it signals guests to leave egos with shoes outside the ghazal.
Each blood-red rose rubs like a nose upon the window pane:
they are old loves from beyond the grave, so replied the ghazal.
The neck of Saqi's wine jug and the mini-skirted candle
are pouring out old grief and pain. Love-wax has dyed the ghazal.
Hyperbole and slapstick start to donkey-bray a hazal;
the party animals sober up, then mount and ride the ghazal.
The opening matla emcee-spiel says, welcome to this mehfil;
then the closing maqta's parting shot must cast aside the ghazal.
The beher is the ceiling fan with metred speed-control.
Qafia rhymes are silk designs, radif has tied the ghazal.
The AA, BA, CA, . . . code means: two misras make one sher;
it was emailed to the Web - it's gone worldwide - the ghazal.
Now a post-modern albatross hangs around the ghazal's neck.
Grand ghazal days and newbie ways need not divide the ghazal.
Ghazals show how hope and fear stroll helpless by her house.
Up on the roof, her back is turned: ah, she's denied the ghazal.
Madmen, winos, lovers, rivals tell different points with passion,
then a confidential friend turns up to spiritually chide the ghazal.
A ghazalkar just loves to hear he's penned the ghazal of ghazals.
Wah-wah! is the wine we quaff as he sells with pride, the ghazal.
Although this Aussie writer doubts he's really cried his ghazal,
Bonehead in the backroom toils to make bone-fide the ghazal.
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The system sucks: can't click, can't knit with it.
Round peg, square slot. I'm quite unfit for it.
The family tree that let me branch away
has split its trunk. No one can sit in it.
The yellow cab and Asia jet-trail said:
go look, then make some literature from it.
Is life is a tour, a cure, or comic skit
and where's the script, the wit who's written it?
Do the fate-lines lead, or does the brain send mice
to run the maze, these dimwit days in it?
Still banging hard on Heaven's Gate, Bonehead?
Your door's the floor. Sit still, submit . . . to it.
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So long the chase. You could not meet her,
nor strike her name out to delete her.
Now see the bird on the conifer:
its neck fluffs up, replete with her.
From soft to loud, the voices purr.
As if in tongues they say: repeat her.
Obsession is the accelerator.
It is your one-way street to her.
You've done your time with mental puja.
Pen and pad cannot complete her.
You want to meet her? Smash the altar.
No face should share the love-seat with her.
She has not called. Please, cap your anger.
Time will keep her. Don't hot-seat her.
Ascension, Bonehead—how much further?
One day, you'll make white-heat with her.
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(After Ghalib)
The shopping crowds are floors of walls and doors.
Keep tracking her through stores of walls and doors.
Long hair, slow walk, quick hands, firm gaze, gold purse:
my breathing stops, then roars through walls and doors.
How did she come here and where can you both go?
The air is diaphanous drawers and walls and doors.
Her eyes say no as the lobby-lift doors close.
I whine and scratch my paws at walls and doors.
The days, undone through love in department stores
are wrecks on ocean floors with walls and doors.
Hey, don't pull down the love-talk shutter yet.
I've banged for years on scores of walls and doors.
Where will it lead me, scratching my chic lines?
I'm on all fours before word-walls and trapdoors.
The golden ghazal-gate was locked by Ghalib,
yet the hardcore bard implores to walls and doors.
Now, Bonehead asks: moving in soon next door?
His doors and walls adore your walls and doors.
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There is a Silk Road hamlet known as Ishq.
My words can't clone the gong's long drone at Ishq.
I've wasted time on donkey trails to where?
I should have called on the ghazal-phone to Ishq.
Don't wilt, don't wait for that private line to ring.
Your own fast pulse is the dial-up tone to Ishq.
I've stepped inside a roadside mirror maze.
Each face proclaims: I am on loan from Ishq.
The lips I kissed and left were casual trails.
They've led to you . . . hey, let's postpone this Ishq.
I should not groan at slaps, pot shots, sharp jibes.
It's just those wake-up! fir-cones thrown from Ishq.
Sticks and bricks may smash my rival's bones,
yet anger is no stepping stone to Ishq.
This Ishq-ness is HQ beneath the breast,
and the tranquil eye of the lust-cyclone is Ishq.
I crave the turning word, the high head-tone,
to dervish-whirl and be 'in the zone' at Ishq.
Try all the trails, Bonehead, don't risk your Ishq.
You climb alone through pine-cologne to Ishq.
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Tue Dec 27 16:09:53 2005
I will begin these comments by quoting a recent email from Chris. His comments give some background for Begum Ghazal and her blog and touch on some of the important research Chris is doing.
The Ghazal Page has inspired me to start a ghazal blog also. . . . I'm
sure you realized that Begum Ghazal is a fictional character created to
soften the blow of the 'ghazal wisdom' that follows and to entertain in an
unstuffy way. What I sent you earlier was dashed off within hours of
writing. The next day, I saw further possiblities and I thought the persona
of Begum Ghazal was a fun thing to work with.
Some of it (with the inspiration of The Begum) is being worked out there for
a book about the ghazal. I think there is still a lot of work to do to
transfer traditional ghazal knowledge from its sources to help nurture and
enrich our new English efforts in the same way that Persian ghazal
conventions, symbols and language-borrowings have helped to build the
Turkish and Urdu traditions. Some may feel that they have the
'ghazal-template' and that's enough—let's rock n roll, let's ghazal! I'm
okay with that, but being a greedy fellow—I want to have the whole
smorgasbord of possibilities available Eastern and Western to 'ghazal' with.
This can only enrich and sustain what we all want - a long future for this
form we all love.
The Ghazal of the Ghazal
This ghazal stands as a manifesto, but appropriately to our times, an ironic and self-questioning manifesto. None of Ezra Pound's ex cathedra pronouncements. The unfamiliar terms in italics are defined in Chris's Ghazal Notes.
Ghazal of the Puzzle
Those of use for whom "the system sucks" have trouble finding a "slot" designed for our dimensions. Here's the puzzle: what's the answer?
Ghazal of the Chase
It's natural that the hopeful chase follows the puzzle. The radif, "her" rings throughout the poem; the rhymes ending each first line reinforce "here" elusive attraction. The technique expresses the depth of "Bonehead's" fascination. And, appropriately, the "her" can be read as having both human and divine reference.
Ghazal of Walls and Doors
My response to this poem is visual: a collage, a montage of walls and doors, doors that allow passage, doors that are locked, walls the separate, walls that enclose.
Ghazal to Ishq
If you haven't read the Ghazal Notes or followed the link in the title of this ghazal, please do so. The information will deepen your grasp of the poem—and widen your ghazal understanding as well.
Each of these ghazals will repay careful reading. Enjoy!
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