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They were two days hitching, Halifax to Montreal
Got to Foufounes Electriques just in time for the show
"I've got something to tell you before we get married"
He yelled in her ear while she ignored the metal show
She replied en Français that he'd never understand
He went to get drinks and she disappeared from the show
Jimmy lost his virginity behind a warehouse
And to think he hadn't planned on going to that show
Flipping through the channels, alone in the apartment
Falling asleep before you can find one worthwhile show
They gobbled mushrooms and went to Cinema Du Parc
Cannibal Holocaust was that Friday's midnight show
They left the call centre early that Tuesday morning
The towers fell repeatedly on every news show
"Are you guys from New Brunswick" she asks, looking appalled.
Who does she expect to see at a Tav Falco show?
They slipped into Super Sexe coming home from Bar Fly
All were too drunk, broke and sodden to lap up the show
Called her around dinner time to see if she wants breakfast
Her roommate took down the message, wonder if she'll show
Slouching into your thirties, you're bored out of your tree
You can't stand the thought of going to one more rock show
They barely got home to Fredericton in one piece
Matt sifts through these images for the right ones to show
My Lyric who Breathes, be that I lack judgment?
To give you glances, granted hope's judgment?
That my face be rough, ruined in sunburned days
look upon your fairness, for that I lack judgment?
My words be echo thunder, though as to wake the night,
so address your shyness, should that I lack judgment?
My countenance rough, rolling voice uncultured,
though to you I speak, so thus I have judgment.
For you are as the sun, mirrored I see myself
blazen featureless, forgone of all judgment.
My agéd face is youth, in thunder voice is song
if you may feel their love, lo' — make your own judgment!
For the princely faces, forged they insincere songs
Shall turn you to the night, novice to harsh judgment.
Yet the Foreigner shall carry all judgment
and surrender Him, having your kind judgment.
The deep pain of a broken heart turned into a lonely tear
That dwells in silence, for which it became a pearly tear
From her separation, emerged the flowers of my grief
With a touch of her memory they bloom in a lovely tear
The colours I have lost in loneliness, have begun to glow
As you illuminated with brilliant rays of your lively tear
As you are my bliss in a pleasant moment of your smile
You also lift the spirit of people with your friendly tear
When I was burning within the embrace of my sorrows
Even my own shadow left me alone within a lonely tear
Just as the falling raindrops cool the smoldering desert
you abate my flaming pain with mist of your earthly tear
As 'Darshan' surrenders his reflections of mind to God
This spiritual moment brought in his eye a heavenly tear.
If my eyes were pebbles, would water smooth them to milky quartz,
opaque orbs reflecting only the faintest shadow of the Friend?
If my eyes were awash in the sea, would time bring them clarity,
carnelians that burn with joy as they learn to see the Friend?
Each wave makes the stones dance and whisper a gravel song:
"Praise sand that wears away opacity and reveals to us the Friend."
Rough agate, I roll under the weight of winter storm surf,
ever finer grains abrade me, all for the sake of the Friend.
Tumble me, ocean, grind me with grit, polish me to brilliance.
Let me shine, fit ornament for the hand of the Friend.
One of the things I like about this quartet of ghazals is the range of theme, diction, and tone in them. That range sustains some reflections of theme or attitude. If you read the four through in order, you may find they progress like chords in a piece of music. Matthew Stranach opens in a blues key, with effectively flatted ("blues") notes. (Maybe it can be seen as a 7-7th chord.) The ghazal's form is apt for the type of experience Stranach presents: experience that jumps from fragment to fragment, experience in which continuity is elusive.
Robert Maxwell's ghazal stays in the same minor key, with its questioning of judgment in a variety of contexts. The differences in diction, however, parallel (to my ear) a shift in chord — not yet the tonic; the subdominant instead. It moves the sequence forward but doesn't resolve it.
Sukhdarshan Dhaliwal's ghazal is very traditional in theme and diction; in the musical metaphor I'm using, it can be analogous to the dominant chord. Sukhdarshan's ghazal continues the theme of the "pain of a broken heart," modulating to a spiritual joy that is tinged with longing.
Tiel Aisha Ansari's ghazal brings us, metaphorically, to the tonic chord, the chord that closes the melody, brings the melody to a conclusion satisfactory to the ear attuned to the Western diatonic scale. Loss becomes questioning and refinement ("abrasion") orbiting the Friend as music orbits the tonic chord.
This musical metaphor jumped out at me as I was thinking about these comments. If the metaphor doesn't make sense to you, please remember that the poems are more important than the comments.