No, we are not become companions to no end

No, we are not become companions to no end.
My hand does not grow cold touching you to no end.

Evil swims the outermost shallow of our love,
A glistening thing revealing depths to no end.

Truth is, we do not exist, except the way wind,
Unheeded, never stops transpiring to no end.

Wait a moment. Only impossibility
Of guarantee consoles, gives one hope to no end.

Without our invisible smiles and unwept tears
Life was pathetic circus boring to no end.

Willy-nilly, the heart breaks this prison to be
An unseen anemone singing to no end.

Hide Nicola so far away from his blindness
That he forever perceives beauty to no end.

This heart, only one to face the impossible

This heart, only one to face the impossible.
No other hunter to chase the impossible.

Poetry wants nothing, only emptiest words,
Passing pen and ink to trace the impossible.

Friendship, found by happenstance only haptically,
Is never one to abase the impossible.

Count me among the living only if my breath
Continually lays waste the impossible.

Real tombs are only full of creeds. All else decays
By special descent of grace, the impossible.

Reality? We only ignore illusion
At peril, risking to race the impossible.

Tell Nicola why he only scapegoats himself,
Tragically fails to embrace the impossible.

Hear divinity in the corpse’s every pore

Hear divinity in the corpse’s every pore,
A live, hideous gnosis for which you are for.

Inside towers of silence is not what you think,
More like the final understanding of all lore.

Real voice is breathing, ingesting another breath,
Eating the inner child that from a cold mouth soars.

Speculative realism, still dating its desire,
Knows not yet the chimerical wedding in store.

Alpine ibex face off above our first ascent,
Trading poetry impossible to explore.

From the black pit a bleaching, skin-wrapped skeleton
Explains there is never any such thing as more.

Hard to see what mirror-cleaning Nicola’s mind
Reveals, to say the clarity that we ignore.

Fifty Poems of Attar by Kenneth Avery and Ali Alizadeh

Full text at Googlebooks. Click pic.

In the madness of my love

Sukhdarshan Dhaliwal generously shares the following ghazal:

In the madness of my love, I only dance for you, my dear,
I long to dissolve myself into your majestic hue, my dear.

Your joyous passion for which I want to die to live for you,
It arouses me with its bliss that is eternal and true, my dear.

Splendors of your majesty that shine even beyond my sight,
Elate my poor soul with their magic as they imbue, my dear.

I can still feel your sweet warmth on my lips, even though,
You have not yet revealed your captivating view, my dear.

Sacred melodies of your essence make every moment dance,
As in intoxication of scent, flower dances with dew, my dear.

It was your precious gift of love and the power of its touch,
Made me able to behold beyond the world I knew, my dear.

With this hope, ‘Darshan’ wrote this Ghazal in your honor,
Maybe one day, in your soul its rhythm will ensue, my dear.

newness

maybe all that's left of originality is ours
paths cleared before us, but unfathomable towers

negative should attract positive or so I was told
and instant gratification now winds up taking hours

so many nights we sip, invoking muses and missteps
a hundred test runs for a magic mix that empowers

oh! that contrived humor doesn't work so well
the more you disrupt the bed, the less it flowers

force. deliberate, deceptive and decadent.
scream at the toughest of dogs? he still cowers.

shouldn't we all experience one moment of true joy?
eudaemonia isn't found in mental prison showers

that which is untread upon, that which is virgin, novel,
is something Samantha hungers for, but time soon devours

The Next Ghazalville

Another Ghazalville is coming up soon!

Join us once again at Freddy's on

Tuesday, October 20th from 8-10 PM.

Freddy's Bar & Backroom.

Located at 485 Dean Street

Brooklyn, NY

Feeling lost? Here's a map!

More details as the date approaches.