Ghazal poetry sings the ache. For a lover, yes. But also, at times, for simple loss.
Poetry Prompt
Think of a childhood space that has since been lost, to time or ruin, to geography or housing-development. Sing the ache of what cannot be reclaimed, except, perhaps, in your ghazal poem. (Need a reminder for how to write a ghazal? Go here.)
Thanks to our participants in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s a ghazal we enjoyed from Grace Marcella Brodhurst-Davis…
On Recapturing Childhood Creativity
The child who’s lost her hold as age deludes her skeptic girl
Fate knows, and her dreams for you behold optimistic, girl
Where, pray tell, have you misplaced your wildly budding mind’s eye?
Where dreams no longer blossom and betray eccentric, girl
Never ordinary at play any given young day
Reaps older, though rounded spirit -the altruistic girl
The blaze of Life’s to-do lists lets Time’s miser furl its fists
Bares a soul who’s lost her magic –a veiled artistic girl
And I, Marcella, need just stop and look beyond the glare
It’s always been in your child’s eyes to be prolific, girl!
—Grace Marcella Brodhurst-Davis
Photo by thejbird, Creative Commons, via Flickr.
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Monica Sharman says
I have been singing the ache and singing the childhood loss lately. “Singing” because it’s usually triggered by a hit oldies song that I hear while grocery shopping or running errands (because the store plays it on their muzak). The songs triggering the most powerful nostalgia/ache are from the late 1970s/early 1980s. Yikes. I think I need to do this prompt.
L. L. Barkat says
Literally singing the ache… I can see you doing that. And maybe, at some point, dancing it too.
Biggest nostalgia song for you?
Monica Sharman says
Well, one morning I woke up with “Celebrate Me Home” (1977) playing in my head, and it did me in for several days. The one I heard in the store last week was “What a Fool Believes” (1979). It has the words “He came from somewhere back in her long ago,” which fascinated me, and which I used in my ghazal for this prompt. Here it is:
From her unbroken days the music, a song,
played in Motown sound—a bruising song.
In the rhythm and blues of blue-eyed soul
she mishears the words. She confuses the song.
The catch of a phrase progressing the chord,
repeating to find the clues the song.
Loose syncopations tighten the driving
beat, a nostalgic noose of a song.
From somewhere back in her long-ago
she finds the lyric. She won’t lose the song.
Monica Sharman says
And now that I’m reading it again I’m wishing I had typed “she mishears the words, confuses the song.”
Dolly@Soulstops says
So hopeful the ending, Monica…she won’t lose the song…like how your words have a lyric all their own
Ann Kroeker says
Love that song….and I found a YouTube video that includes the lyrics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g0_FvK51wOQ And then I realized, how about that? I’ve misheard the lyrics, as well.
Love your ghazal. Not brave enough to try it myself! 🙂
Monica Sharman says
and of course that should be “the clues in the song.” 😛
Donna says
Monica, this is great.
“Nostalgic noose of a song”… whoa. My favorite line I think. 🙂
Nancy Franson says
I’ve been reading these poems this month, and I’ve been enjoying them, but I didn’t wander over here until you said you’d posted a bonus class assignment here, Monica. So glad you did that, because know I get what’s going on.
I’m still very much in a learning phase 🙂
And, I’m so glad you were inspired by What a Fool Believes. One of the best songs ever.
Charity Craig says
Monica – It’s like you’ve been writing ghazals forever. This is wonderful. I tend to like form poetry more than free-style poetry (I may be getting the words mixed up there), primarily because I like the rules and the repetition and the way they drive the sound and tone of the poem. I really like the ghazal, though I had never heard of it before this series. I definitely want to go back and try my hand. I think it would be a wonderful exercise to take a few hours one Saturday and work through all of the TS Poetry prompts.
Donna says
Marcella,, I really really like your ghazal!! Still trying to follow your lead and live inside a poem!
Monica…. I hear that. Me, too.
Grace Marcella Brodhurst-Davis says
Thanks, Donna!
Donna says
My first born son will be 21 on Thursday. Of course, I am filled with longing. Mother’s have rites of passage too, yes? And so, A Mother’s Om
A Mother’s Om
I look at you and then at my self… hands on my belly, once your home
For precious 9 months I could say (and be certain) “When I’m home, You’re home”
Your heart beat as quickly as fluttering wings– warning of flight I suppose
9 months suspended beneath my own skin- nestled beneath Mama’s dome
I always wanted grand wings for you. Strong wings to carry you far
But my arms are aching with emptiness now…. Now that you have flown
Your grand wings carry you up toward the sun. I holler “Come BACK DOWN!”
But you can’t hear me, you fly higher still… too high, then drop like a stone
I, Donna, ache with helplessness, watching you fly… watching you fall.
With a tear in my eye I pray breezes will lift you. I sing a mother’s Om.
Grace Marcella Brodhurst-Davis says
Nice one, Donna! Oh, I can certainly relate, having adult children and all 🙂
Dolly@Soulstops says
Wow, Donna…I can hear you in your ghazal.
Grace Marcella Brodhurst-Davis says
Wow! Thanks for featuring my poem!! I really appreciate it 🙂
Maureen Doallas says
Mash up a few phrases from children’s songs, add some filler, and throw in true love lost:
Charming Billy: A Mash-up Ghazal
Oh, where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy?
Write a letter to me, love, don’t be coy, Billy boy.
The cat’s in the cupboard and he can’t see us.
And Daddy’s gone a hunting. Jump for joy, Billy boy.
Mid pleasures and palaces, bells are sweetly ringing.
We are floating in sunshine. Yes, attaboy, Billy boy!
Sixty minutes make an hour. My babe to sleep he goes.
O fiddle-de-dee, O baby dearest, I can’t enjoy Billy boy.
The skies with storms are laden. Nature calls but calls in vain.
Softly sighs the voice of evening, you me annoy, Billy boy.
Bobby Shafto’s gone to sea now; his training’s just begun.
And when the drumbeats call to war, you’ll too deploy, Billy boy.
Oh, diddle, diddle dumpling, my Highland laddie’s gone.
And if a frog he would a wooing, I would destroy Billy boy.
All is still in sweetest rest, Maureen. Thou needst no longer weep.
A ship, his ship’s a sailing. So bid ahoy, Billy boy.
Donna says
Oh that’s really clever and fun! 🙂 Love it!
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you, Donna.
Richard Maxson says
If Wishes Were Ghazals
Scattered far, the gray horses
of my yearning, the way horses
galloping are free from the earth
for a moment. We can’t say horses
fly though. Can’t say sprightly seeds
will bloom bright, when May horses
on their plodding wings run wild
across my wishes where they lay, horses
that kick and splay the Rick of wood,
with Spring abandon as do horses play.
Maureen Doallas says
Nice one, Richard!
Richard Maxson says
I’ve been reading these Ghazals the last two weeks and marveled at the huge response and great poems. This form is something I’ve never tried. Having so may to read from was encouraging.
Richard Maxson says
Thanks, Maureen.
Richard Maxson says
My Father’s Hat
—for Richard Clayton Maxson, 1922-2006
For you now, a paper hat—in a way,
from me the child, though I’ve been away,
two sides it has with points and folded flat,
to let you know with age I’ve seen a way
not to play the sad boy, who saves himself
by caring less for those he’s leaned away
from. My voice is different now, so is yours;
years have seen to that. This seems a way
to say, I understand, you were so young,
and change was miles and many dreams away.