Above upon this summer night, I see the moon.
You see the moon, but cannot see it dying.
On this hard bed upon the ground, I ache.
You feel the pain, but cannot feel it move.
Before I reach Beersheba, I will dream you.
You dream in vain, my image turns to smoke.
I will scale your turrets, batter down your walls.
You will rot before the siege, beside the stones.
Upon this summer night I see the stars.
You see the stars, but cannot hear them falling.
I call out in all my love to touch your face.
You touch the earth, but never hold my heart.
Then I, the son of smiths, lie on your anvil.
Lie still, for you shall surely kiss the hammer.
Author notes
A ghazal of sorts, a encounter with the beloved.
A contest entry
- In Conversation with by NurseChilly.
1400 points, ended June 15, 2008, 18 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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Ghazals are traditionally a conversation between two lovers, aren't they? I hear that in your piece - it sounds like a dialogue of active listening and confirmation. Plus the erotic element is there, which, if you're going to write a ghazal, you might as well have.
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ea you are correct. Ghazals use the conceit of a dialogue between lovers -- to covey the deeper and more cosmic relationship of humankind to God/Allah. The passionate yearning of lovers is but a pale intimation of the encounter with the union of pure love which results in the annihilation of all things known and knowable. I attempted this effect in this poem. The last bit is called the envoy which identifies the poet. My surname translated into English means "Smith's son". Thanks for you comment.
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my only niggle with this small-ish snippet of a ghazal... is that it is a bit top heavy with pronouns..
with some small editing, it could turn this into a really strong piece.
well done and many thanks for entering this contest
G.x
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This is a lovely ghazal, such rich imagery, and longing for the presence. You were very clever with the working in of your name, and the final line is one of which Rumi could be proud. I love particularly /You dream in vain, my image turns to smoke/
Beersheba was important to NZ soldiers in WW1; the wells there have inspired many poets as the font, and the surrounding desert is the place where the beloved loves to walk. Your poem is a fitting tribute.
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