Since sleeplessness has befriended me I have begun to admire the stars—
The patterned silver stitches in the blue coat my Beloved wears.
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Poets are queer fellows who go to a lot of trouble
Trying to describe to us their particular bubble.
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How can you even think of yourself as a poet
Unless when the banjos ring you can heel-and-toe it?
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To love is something other than what the word-mongers say.
Their words are cries of pigeons as the guns blaze away.
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A poet is a man condemned to exile
Because within his heart there is no guile;
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Being in mid-ocean it’s no good bleating like a ruddy goat;
After all, no one made you get on the ruddy boat.
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How easy was wayfaring with the crackling fire mocking
The rising wind outside, and glinting on a silk stocking.
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Seeing us downcast the Master said, Twelve years of depression isn’t much of a price to pay
For the glance of my mood that will reveal to you the beginning of the way.
Click here to read the full ghazal #17 and commentary.
How simple was this matter of love in the beginning—
Glad night, sweet sleep and awaking to the magpies’ singing.
Click here to read the full ghazal #18 and commentary.