Put a pig in a drawing-room, they say, and it remains a swine;
And a ‘metho’ drinker’s palate is dead to vintage wine.
Click here to read the full ghazal #64 and commentary.
It’s a queer lot that fortune has brought together round this camp fire
From different walks in life in a common quest and desire.
Click here to read the full ghazal #65 and commentary.
In the Street of Barefoot Lovers there are peddlers of song, clowns.
Dancers and acrobats who have come in from the surrounding towns.
Click here to read the full ghazal #66 and commentary.
In the matter of love and art I have never been a niggard:
That the woman was loved, the poem written, was my reward.
Click here to read the full ghazal #67 and commentary.
In this game of love don’t think that you can take a trick.
To begin with, the cards are stacked, then the play is slick.
Click here to read the full ghazal #68 and commentary.
These are mature men gathered round the camp-fire tonight,
Men with discriminating palates, trained ears and love-sight.
Click here to read the full ghazal #69 and commentary.
In this drought all has died except our crop of griefs;
And it flourishes, each day putting on new leaves.
Click here to read the full ghazal #70 and commentary.
Now am I a resident in the street called Love Street,
That river of dust which flows around the Beloved’s feet.
Click here to read the full ghazal #71 and commentary.
When, one day, the Master looked at me sideways I saw
Compassion and mercy and forgiveness and—oh, so much more.
Click here to read the full ghazal #72 and commentary.