Better Than Truth
after Ghalib
By William Dennis
(Page 2)
Till Doomsday!Arif! With us you could not wait. Alone you went, alone you’ll wait. Leaving, you called, "Till Doomsday!" Could that be some other date? At home you were our full moon; How unsettled is my estate. You made no leisure to watch Your children grow. Was that hate? Fools ask me, why gasp on? When Living with death is my fate. |
The Tale in the CarpetNo embroidered rose, no scene wove on a harp, I am the tale worn in the carpet. You, perfecting each ringlet of laughter; Me, seeking the point where parallels meet. As a simple mind may boast of insight, Secrets of an affable heart draw me. As you have appeared, be blessed By a forehead borne to the earth with love. That you call out my name is no wonder; You, who search by-ways for sick and the lame. |
Done!Done, our meetings and partings: And done, those hours and days. And who has the leisure for love? Done, delight in kind ways. A vision from somebody’s youth: Done, the young man with his lays. So wearing to pass blood as tears: Done, the heart’s swollen phase. Ghalib! I’m slight of hand: Done, grace given shape in a vase. |
Winter BudsLeft by the tide, sand wings are lost first to the drying wind; This Pegasus, otherwise, lacks strength to fly or stay put. What marigold aspect of Eden approaches, That no grain of sand is swept up in the floral impression? They must be drunk with hope of winter buds before pruning; In the dust of the cellar, there’s nothing to make them brave. I miss-strike with my own love, standing about with bent neck. But for the wish to have built, this house holds not even dust. Even you, Bill, must see that your script is mere calligraphy, Profitless exercise of manual dexterity. |
That Lonesome PitchThe plum and cherry, really, bring back no one in the spring; What blushing and kissing has hidden there beneath dust’s wing! I, too, have reveled in the grotto and been rouged by queens; But by the mote felt forms on bindings where these verses sing. See, the last, smallest Pleiades keeps mourning on through night; What stirs her sisters’ hearts, who speak to sailors with their brightening? The poet’s love brought Maude less joy than did her rival’s love Of all her swan-voiced lover’s lays, dismissed as paltering. Fickle tyrants leave me looking for revenge in Heaven, Where they could never be, worse luck, nor me with bare sword showing. To his arm comes sleep, to his mind comes rest, who owns the night, Over whom you spread your hair’s dark carpet of silk rings. Stepping from beneath your tent, I join the choir of stars; My long complaint has woke the sky and made its chorus sing. If I keep my appointment, how to explain my lateness? The clerk just shook her head through hours of my best explaining. Hands that crush wine of Shiraz gain life and strength in measure; So too, cupping palms, which years draw thick with lines of shirring. You are the spirit women, breaking out of our houses, Building your paradise now, instead of the Eden we’ll bring. After long in hardship’s harness, the galls all grow like friends; So many loads I draw, I want one now for balancing. If poor, skinny Frankie-Bill whines on at this lonesome pitch, Your cities will lose their stars to constant neon lighting. |
That Child, My HeartPlaced in your care, why won’t the cries of that child, my heart, quit? Lacking him to move the blood, what propels the tongue and wit? She won’t give up her little habit; why should I then change? Why ask why she might be mad? Why try to change one bit? The ear I groaned in told...just one; the shame consume us! When need needs confidants and calls, the grave may answer it. Love like this and faith from where? One need but drum one’s fingers; Why wave a waiter over to have a card with your name set? This gauntry-work gazebo keeps one’s confidences, friend; And, breath of my breathing, all bad news is not of me...yet. And yet, this trying does to end my line, my library; Desiring you, I envy Atlas both his sky and wit. Tried by fire, queried on the rack, what will punishment be? While my rival’s love over-fills your cup, why test my wit? Blame is plenty for my heart; look what part of this is yours. Resolve the conflict in you heart; our conflict will be quit. A labor of sarcasm opens no doors, Mister Bill; How might a soft response come to your sharp attacks of wit? |
Candy HeartGreat grief is tedious, but you thought you’d share mine; Listen, lacking experience, youth may decline. To hurry behind a gravestone for fear of scorn! Love’s famous timidity– something in that line. Love’s pet name drags itself through dust to be with you; Holding hands is dead tradition by this design. The ear is blind to form; the eye is deaf to tone. My hollow, candy heart squirts sickly, sweet carmine. Frank, your lover’s bruise is not yet fully purple; Your reputation as a fool, we can’t resign. |
BouquetsCome, I can not lie down without you; Only old men find the strength to wait. Afterlife, they offer in exchange; That whistle isn’t worth the nickel. My tears over-savor your banquet; My appetite for weeping runs wild. Their hearts give meaning to other’s lives; For me there are bouquets, but no spring. That’s not a real drink, Bill, you swore off, With all the oaths we’re glad you don’t keep. |
Mazed VisionTreadmill days, trampoline nights, the slow-boat to nowhere; Tramping toward the bows, I’m always first in the wrong place. In my solitude, the intensity of my search Light causes even dark-skinned night to glide down the stair. Blisters light the outbound strokes, which buoy my dark, mad sea: Piercing gauds, a penetrating jewelry memory wears. The gold goblet, which easily holds my tears, is yours; The glittering coin of mazed vision is mine to spend. A molten glance spills between flinching eyelids, William, Illuminating the seascape and making it steam. |
Recognize SignsAstonished, amazed, O God, I recognize signs; Digging a well, don’t I uncover a mirror? Face to the glass, each sigh clouds my reflection more; As sight is a snare, so depth of perception is prey. St. Christopher’s medals swing with the first dewfall; Polishing the mirror where I look back at youth. Wear no short skirt to St. Valentine’s Cathedral; Impatient draperies stir on ikons of the saint. Country singer! Twelve bars to build on at home, First grief of need for poetry upon me. |