The Ghazal Page
June Solstice Issue, Page 1
- My Home, Eric Torgersen
- Longing Ghazal, Ruth Foley
- To You, Eric Torgersen
- Ghazal After the Flood, Ruth Foley
- Forsythia Ghazal, Ruth Foley
- Paris Ghazal, Marian Brown St. Onge
My Home
Eric Torgersen
A proud wayfaring stranger, I've not known my home.
I call this fate, to walk the earth alone, my home.
Dream on, great America, without me.
What I have I with which to own my home?
In my next life, delivered safe from this,
I'd live by music, make each lucid tone my home.
Loving seed and blossom, branch and fruit,
I'd make each garden I have sown my home.
God me no Gods, saint me no saints, who'd have me
embrace the dying, make each mortal groan my home.
Would you expect me, loving so the flesh,
to make this sorry cage of bone my home?
At times I think it will not be so hard
to make that small space underneath a stone my home.
Farewell, E.T. bids you; you must bid
E.T. farewell. You cannot hope to phone my home.
Longing Ghazal
Ruth Foley
I'm reduced to hollow truths, to clichés, without you.
The minutes turn to hours turn to days without you.
Planets still move. Snow still melts. Rivers fill, run to sea.
The shock of forsythia: it displays without you.
I am dandelion wind across unweeded plots.
I am waste without us. Let me rephrase: without you.
I prop my eaten-empty body against the wall,
list betrayals, all that stands or decays without you.
I have closed curtains, dimmed lights, tossed popcorn with butter.
And the film we once made rewinds, replays without you.
A boat rocks against the pier. A fish breaks the surface.
The shaded hammock finds a breeze. It sways without you.
How easy it is to choose, how irreversible.
How heavy each reckless decision weighs without you.
And Ruth is bee, is honey, is hive built in the eaves.
She seeks nectar from exhausted bouquets without you.
To You
Eric Torgersen
Forgive me, that I write this little note to you.
It will be the last I ever wrote to you.
Once there was a girl who loved too much
and paid the price. I send this anecdote to you.
O save me from my cell in this dark castle!
You mustn't dream that I would swim the moat to you.
Our interlude was brief, how brief! How many
pages did you think I would devote to you?
The gods have shone their sun on me, and mooned you;
you mustn't think that I would ever gloat to you.
It pains me still to think that on occasion
I may have seemed uncaring or remote to you.
What mad hours I have spent assembling
irrefutable texts that I must quote to you.
Though fate has so far chosen to forbid,
how madly, given the chance, I might emote to you.
Now Eric seals his message in this bottle;
he drops it in, and prays that it will float to you.
Ghazal After the Flood
Ruth Foley
We don’t want to believe water feels nothing.
It should howl, roar, spit, grieve. Water feels nothing.
The basement fills. We float, struggle, disappear.
Here. Hold on to my sleeve. Water feels nothing.
Rain in the walls, across floors, defining down.
Wet roof, wet beams, wet eaves. Water feels nothing.
You say you want help interpreting your dreams.
Ask permission to leave what hurts, feel nothing.
Blackout. We fumble for matches, candles.
A faltering reprieve. Water feels nothing.
We duck the chains to investigate the dam.
The buckling river heaves water, feels nothing.
Ruth waits out the deluge, practices patience.
Rain is slow to deceive. Water feels nothing.
Forsythia Ghazal
Ruth Foley
for Julie
We spent the afternoon clipping forsythia.
Branches were bending low, dripping forsythia.
My favorite day breaks in the middle of April
When cold Massachusetts lips sing /Forsythia/!
Look to the sun, then close your eyes to see flashes
Like early fireworks in spring — forsythia.
I can reliably name a few spring flowers:
Crocus, daffodil, tulip and forsythia.
My vase for these yellow tendrils is cobalt blue.
Is contrast my reason for keeping forsythia?
A child leans out of his stroller at the corner,
Reaching for candy but gripping forsythia.
When I die, I hope it is outside in April.
My last vision: spinning, slipping forsythia.
Flexible, ethereal, foliage and root —
I need no delicate rose. Bring forsythia.
Paris Ghazal
Marian Brown St. Onge
They’d often said they’d have their days in Paris.
They had three almost perfect days in Paris.
Art was everywhere — gaiety of surface.
Two never tasted tartes aux fraises in Paris.
L’Origine du Monde and Bonnard’s crazy cat.
They sipped citron pressés and lazed in Paris.
They were closest as they smoked and prowled the streets,
Or rested entwined legs ablaze in Paris.
She showed him tombs in Montparnasse — and her heart.
Her secret fancies and morés in Paris.
A tenor Job jostled with God in Saint Chapelle.
They struggled, too, and knew malaise in Paris.
But her moon-strung mind silkened inside his sighs,
And wanderlust adorned their maze in Paris.
When you’re bad, you’re even better! He’d tease her.
Desire fired by paraphrase in Paris.
Night was day and day was night and day again.
Then — when dawn came she found them dazed in Paris.
So dawn in her cotton blouse comforted them,
And rocked them through the morning haze in Paris.
When the sun had brought them to themselves once more,
They kissed — and shared their last cafés in Paris.
From her terrace she waved once — and he was gone.
And they were gone to separate ways in Paris.
Oh, You! He purred to her from another world,
Insouciant as his tender gaze in Paris.
Do you still want to kill me? He implored once more,
To lure her back into their craze in Paris.
One blithe whispered No! One quickened Persian sigh:
Two lullabies to temps passés in Paris.
Nothing but a light last coup de téléphone,
Smooth as stone, gentil as our phase in Paris.